Jacob Peterson and Brian Bonds grip the gym equipment, their muscles straining as Seamus O’Reilly kneels between them, fingers already probing deep into a tight asshole before the strap secures the first thick fist. The bearded one holds on, his jaw set, while the blond braces against the bench, his hole stretched wide as the fist slides in slow, deliberate thrusts. Between strokes, lips crash together in rough kisses, tongues tangling as the other’s fingers work the second asshole, slick with spit and need. The strap bites into their skin, the weight of the equipment turning every movement into a controlled, brutal rhythm.
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