Tanner struts in—defined abs, primal gaze, that infamous fur trail—and the Maverick Men combust. His throat isn’t a throat. It’s a glory hole from hell, sucking them down like they’re fucking oblivion. They double-team him, thrusts brutal, but he’s arching for more, ass clenching like it’s trying to erase their dicks. The bed’s buckling, sweat pooling, Tanner’s growls drowning their grunts. Post-nut clarity hits like a brick: Basic fucking? Obsolete.
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