Sam Syron and Axel Abysse grip Hugh Hunter’s hips, stretching his hole with thick, knuckled fists while Joey D kneels behind, his tongue deep in Hunter’s ass. The table’s edge cuts into Hunter’s back as Syron’s bearded jaw works his throat, fingers probing his tight passage. Two sets of hands, one rough with ink, one calloused from muscle, pull and stretch, the air thick with the wet sounds of mouths and fingers.
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