Dan Hilfiger lies spread-eagled, his hole wet and open as Kirk Gauguin kneels between his thighs, tongue deep inside. The stocky one’s dark hair is slick with spit, his fingers already working the other’s tight ring while his mouth seals over the asshole, swallowing the slick sounds. The muscular one’s lips part for a rough kiss, his tongue tangled with the bearded one’s as fingers probe deeper. No barrier, just raw, unprotected thrusts and the wet, greedy sounds of two men lost in each other.
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