Tj Hawke’s gloved fingers stretch Dominic Pacifico’s hole open while his tongue traces the tight ring, the bowl waiting below for every drop. Pacifico grips a cold metal object against his ass, his body arched as Hawke’s mouth seals around his puckered entrance, fingers probing deep. The air hums with the wet slap of tongue and the slow, deliberate pull of a gloved hand.
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