Scott Davis kneels over Tyler Peters, his tongue tracing whipped cream from the can while Tyler lies still beneath him, the wooden surface cool against his back. Davis licks and sucks, his tattooed arm flexing as he works Tyler’s mouth open with deliberate precision, fingers slipping inside while the sweet, creamy residue glistens on both their lips. Tyler takes it all, licking, spitting, letting Davis rim him with slow, deliberate strokes before the can’s last drips are wiped away between them.
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