The bass from the club bleeds through the bathroom walls as Riley and Zario Travezz stumble through the door already half-undressed. The club bathroom fuck is a genre unto itself: urgent, uncomfortable, impossibly hot, and performed with the time pressure of knowing someone could walk in at any second. Zario pins Riley against the cold tile wall, hiking his leg up to find the angle that works in this cramped stall. The interracial contrast of their bodies reflects in the grimy mirror as Travezz drives in raw — no time for lube beyond spit, no room for positions beyond standing. The toilet flushes in the adjacent stall, a reminder of their audience that only makes both men fuck harder. The filthiest thing in this bathroom isn’t the plumbing.
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