Brandon Evans and Spencer Whitman stand on jagged rocks where the wind bites, one gripping a man’s hips while his tongue traces the tight ring of his asshole. The bearded man kneels behind the clean-shaven one, fingers already slick with spit as he works the hole open, while the green-sleeved man watches, stroking himself slow. The cliffside frames them in, unfiltered heat, no barriers, just the sharp edge of rock and the rough press of bodies.
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