Johnny Ford’s gloved fingers probe Quin Quire’s tight hole while the muscular, tattooed man lies spread-eagled on the blue exam table, his back and legs already mapped by Ford’s careful, probing touch. The stethoscope pressed to Quin’s ribs marks the start, but Ford’s focus shifts fast, palming his inner thigh, then circling the puckered ring with deliberate precision, all while the room stays silent except for the faint sound of latex against skin. No barrier holds them back, and the only thing that matters is how deep Ford’s touch goes.
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