Colin Bryant’s fist stretches Hugh Hunter’s asshole wide as he kneels, his olive skin slick with sweat, while the fair-skinned, lean Hugh takes it without a sound. The wooden crate stays between them, one man’s grip tightens, the other’s hole burns under the slow, deliberate stretch, their tattoos glinting in the light. Military uniforms hang loose as the fisting deepens, fingers probing deeper than any cock could.
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