Paul Canon strips down in the damp underbrush, his dark hair slick with sweat as he kneels over a fallen log, gripping the bark with calloused hands. The thicket presses in around him, muffling the sound of his breath as he works his mouth over the fat cock thrusting into it, fingers digging into the rough wood for leverage. His jaw locks tight around the shaft, swallowing deep with every thrust, the air thick with the scent of pine and musk.
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