Line Up

Dean Campbell ambushes Park Wiley in the dim glow of the safehouse, his grip iron on Wiley's wrists. Surprise flickers in Wiley's eyes, but Dean doesn't pause—he spins him around, yanks down those tight jeans, exposing the firm curve of his ass. Dean's tongue dives in first, rimming with hungry precision, circling the tight ring before probing deep, tasting the salt and heat. Wiley gasps, body arching, but Dean holds him steady, working him open with slick, insistent laps. He flips Wiley onto his back, spreads those legs wide, and swallows his cock whole—sucking hard, tongue swirling the head, drawing out moans that echo like confessions. Wiley's hips buck, but Dean pins him down, relentless. Then he rises, lubes up, and thrusts in—fucking him with raw power, each slam building the rhythm, pounding that sweet spot until Wiley shatters, spent and surrendered in the frenzy.