“Gonna wreck your hole, kid,” he grunts, sandy curls falling into his eyes, bush a sandy-blond tangle that brushes his veiny abs. Gay porn Dylan’s hands fumble through Ryan’s bush, stroking the veiny rod, lube and hair sticking to his fingers, Ryan groaning low. Dylan swallows and clenches, tears mixing with lube, body trembling, pain and triumph fusing into a primal high. His throat is raw from the seniors’ oral gauntlet, jaw aching, lips swollen, but his bi curiosity burns hotter than ever, shame incinerated by a desperate, throbbing need to prove himself. For Ryan, it’s a “vein apocalypse”—Ryan slams his 8-inch rod into Dylan’s ass, Dylan pulsing his hole to match the vein’s heartbeat, reciting “1855,” Ryan growling, “Ride my fucking wild, kid.” The thrusts are savage, the thick vein scraping Dylan’s raw walls, his hole screaming, but he pushes back, desperate to feel every inch. Trap beats throb like a primal pulse, muffled by the locked door of the back room—a musky den where the worn leather couch creaks, the flatscreen blares a blonde’s moans from hardcore porn, and the hardwood floor gleams with lube, sweat, and Dylan’s spilled release. His hole fights the intrusion, muscles spasming, the thickness splitting him open, every nerve screaming.
