Sly Conon and Santino Fausto

Sly Conon’s bearded jaw grips Santino Fausto’s hips as he slams into him on the bench, the yellow tape marking the edge of the locker room floor. Santino’s tattooed back arches under his grip, fingers digging into the bench while Conon’s cock slides in and out, thick and relentless. His hand wraps around his own shaft, pumping in time with the thrusts, while Santino’s mouth seals around the head of his fist, swallowing him deep. The air hums with the wet sound of lips and the slap of flesh against wood.