Blain O’Connor Bottoms For Justin Cross

Bunker’s teeth sink into Nikolai Lazaro’s shoulder like a pitbull mauling a steak, blood mixing with sweat as Nikolai rips Bunker’s jeans off with a seam-splitting tear. “Fuck your foreplay,” Nikolai growls, slamming Bunker’s face into the couch armrest, spit dripping onto his hole before spearing him raw. Bunker’s scream cracks—half pain, half euphoria—as Nikolai’s uncut monster reams him open, balls slapping against his trembling thighs.

“Gape for it,” Nikolai snarls, yanking Bunker’s hair to arch his spine, drilling his prostate with jackhammer precision. Bunker’s cock leaks precum onto the upholstery, fingers clawing at Nikolai’s tattooed thighs. “Break me—” he chokes, met with a fistful of Nikolai’s hand around his throat, thrusts turning brutal.

They flip—Bunker mounting Nikolai’s cock like a rodeo bull, slamming down until his ass swallows every inch. “Ruin me,” he hisses, bouncing until Nikolai’s grunts turn feral, hands mauling Bunker’s hips. Nikolai flips him again, pounding his wrecked hole in a pronebone assault, Bunker’s face grinding into the cum-stained cushions.