Stany Falcone’s shaved head and corded arms grip Martin Claus’s hips as he kneels behind him, tongue pressing deep into his asshole while fingers stretch him open. The yellow lockers behind them mark the edge of the locker room, where Claus arches into Falcone’s mouth, swallowing his moans as he’s rimmed and fucked. Falcone’s grip never loosens, his cock buried to the hilt while Claus’s hands brace against the metal, his breath ragged with every thrust.
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