Micah Martinez grips the table edge as Johnny B kneels behind him, fingers already probing his tight asshole with slick precision. The bearded man’s muscular arms flex as he guides a lubed fist inside, while Nathan Daniels stands nearby, stroking himself with deliberate strokes. Their bodies move in controlled rhythm, one stretching, the other filling, until the tabletop bears only the sound of skin on skin and the wet, deliberate thrust of a fist buried deep.
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