James Oakleigh’s fist stretches Brian Bonds’ hole open, fingers digging deep while the other man’s beard brushes his jaw in a kiss that cuts off mid-suck as the first thick knuckle slams home. The workshop’s rusted pipes and half-dismantled machinery frame them, Bonds’ pants pooled at his ankles, chest heaving as Oakleigh’s grip tightens, pulling him back onto the fist with every thrust.
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