Joaquin Arrenas lies spread-eagled beneath Kirk Gauguin, who grips his hips with a leather strap as he drives in deep with rough, unprotected thrusts. Gauguin’s dark hair falls forward while his fingers dig into Arrenas’ thighs, his tongue tracing the tight ring before his cock buries itself again. The air fills with the wet sounds of slapping flesh and desperate gasps as Arrenas arches up, his hands clutching the sheets.
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