Riley Mitchel Bottoms For Steve Arcturus
Riley Mitchel’s backyard stroll takes a hard detour the second he spots Steve Arcturus—hairy, hung, and hand-deep in a solo session under the sun. Jockstrap? Useless. Riley’s on his knees faster than a sinner in church, lips locked around Steve’s thick, throbbing cock like it’s his last meal.
No “hello,” no small talk—just spit, sweat, and Riley gagging on that daddy dick like a pro. Steve’s grip tightens in Riley’s hair, growling approval as the jockstrap-clad twink slurps him to full mast. But Riley’s not here for a snack—he’s here for the main course.
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Bend over the patio table? Done. Steve rams in bareback, no lube, no mercy, turning Riley’s bubble butt into a crimson target. Each thrust’s a jackhammer—Riley’s face mashed against the wood, drooling as Steve’s balls slap his taint. The neighbors? Probably dialing 911, but who cares when you’re getting split open by a beast like Steve?
Riley’s howling, clawing at the table, as Steve drills a load so deep it’s practically in his spleen. Steve pulls out, cock glistening, while Riley’s hole winks like a busted faucet. Moral of the story? Never underestimate a twink in a jockstrap—or a daddy with a backyard and zero shame. Code red: orgasm achieved.
