Hunter Marx pins Hans Berlin’s wrists with a strap while the bearded man arches his back, his dark hair slick with sweat, as Marx drives into him hard. Hans grips the sheets, his muscular frame trembling as Marx’s tattooed chest presses down, fingers tracing his hole before the first deep thrust. The clean-shaven man licks his way up Hans’s spine, his tongue leaving a wet trail as Marx’s cock slams home, each stroke pulling a choked gasp. The air fills with the sound of skin hitting skin, the only restraint the strap keeping Hans from pushing back.
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