Michal Christan’s muscular frame grips James Holt’s thighs, spreading them wide over a locker-room bench as the red shorts-clad man delivers sharp, controlled spanks to his ass. Holt bends low, his dark hair framing a tight, flexed backside as Christan’s hand cracks against the exposed flesh, each strike precise and deliberate. A basketball rests forgotten beside them, the only trace of the locker room’s purpose, just two men locked in the, physical rhythm of punishment and submission.
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