Kamil Banek’s beard scrapes against Filip Onalek’s smooth chest as he grips his hips, fingers probing deep while the other leans over the wooden bench, his dark hair falling forward. Onalek’s asshole is already slick with saliva as Banek’s tongue presses hard, the outdoor garden air thick with the sound of wet suction. One hand braces the bench, the other pulls him back, exposing every inch for the slow, deliberate work of a mouth that knows exactly how to make him beg.
