Tristan Jaxx grips Michael Jackman’s hips, his fingers slick with spit as they finger him raw, no barrier, no hesitation, while the orange prison stripes of his uniform cling to his thighs. Michael Jackman takes it all, his mouth sealed around Tristan’s cock as the chair creaks under their weight, the bedframe groaning when he finally flips him onto his back. The hairy chest presses against bare skin, the air thick with the sounds of wet suction and the slap of flesh meeting flesh.
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