Beno Eker’s blond, smooth body stretches out on his back, wrist bound with a blue strap as he grips himself tight, fingers working fast over his cock. David Mannix watches, close enough to see the way his own hand moves, no hesitation, just the thrust of his palm against skin. The air hums with the sound of skin slapping flesh, each stroke deliberate, the other man’s presence a silent counterpoint to the rhythm.
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