Mafia Escort Bastian Karim Bottoms For Dylan Tides
Mafia escort Bastian Karim has already been with Dylan Tides once, during his threesome with Adam Snow. This time it will be just the two of them – Bastian and Dylan. Although Bastian is used to being just a sex toy, this time he realizes that after meeting Dylan everything has changed. Is this love?!
The tension between Dylan Tides and Bastian Karim simmered like a lit fuse from the moment they reunited. Dylan, the Hollywood golden boy with a hunger that transcended scripted roles, had paid handsomely for exclusive access to Bastian—the mafia’s most sought-after escort, a man who thrived on the chaos of power imbalances. But this wasn’t about money or dominance. Dylan’s confession hung between them, raw and unscripted: “I didn’t want to share you.”
Bastian’s smirk faltered. Clients never admitted jealousy. They paid, took, and left. Yet here was Dylan, stripping off his designer shirt with trembling hands, eyes blazing with a need that mirrored Bastian’s own. Clothes hit the floor, and the facade of transaction dissolved. Dylan’s lips crashed into Bastian’s, a kiss that tasted like recklessness, not rented pleasure.
Related Posts
Bastian’s practiced detachment frayed as Dylan pinned him to the bed, their bodies a tangle of sweat and desperation. Dylan’s hands—actor’s hands, soft but demanding—mapped Bastian’s scars, his touch lingering on the marks left by rougher men. “You’re not like them,” Dylan breathed, nipping Bastian’s neck, his cock grinding against the escort’s thigh.
Bastian flipped them, reclaiming control, his teeth sinking into Dylan’s shoulder. “You don’t know what I am,” he growled, but the lie withered as Dylan’s fingers speared into his hair, yanking his head back. “I do,” Dylan hissed. “You’re mine today.”
The sex was a collision—Dylan’s Hollywood charm vs. Bastian’s street-edged grit. They fucked against the wall, on the floor, Dylan’s cock pounding Bastian’s ass raw while the escort’s nails carved half-moons into his hips. Bastian’s moans, usually calculated, turned genuine, vulnerable, as Dylan’s thrusts found his prostate with uncanny precision.
Afterward, Bastian stared at the cum streaking Dylan’s chest, the actor’s fingers tracing his jaw. “Stay,” Dylan murmured, voice fraying. Bastian dressed in silence, the weight of those three letters—S-T-A-Y—piercing his armor. Escorts don’t stay. Escorts don’t ache.
He left without a word, the echo of Dylan’s heartbeat still thrumming in his palms.
