BeaufromParis

c0mm1ssi0n 0p3n

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

so good indeed 🤤

[Geo¹² @katwelvee]

My two favorite desserts in one video 🤤

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Kimi's tongue.

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

qtpie

[White Boy Archives @jlovestoes69]

i love media day

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Ruaridh's tongue.

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Lucas Hairlyballs.

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Lucas B.

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Rider twink

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Sergei getting FCKED 🤤

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Mason bubble butt.

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Mason bubble bath.

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Bullseye

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Joe Keery Booty

#fakesonly #fake

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Lucas Bigballs.

[S3LCO @S3LCO]

Lucas Bergvall stood under the floodlights, blond hair damp, blue eyes bright, still breathing hard from the match. The yellow Player of the Match cylinder felt solid in his left hand. He raised his right, pointing straight at it with a small, pleased smile, the way the cameras liked. Tottenham kit clinging, number 15 on the shorts, sweat darkening the fabric across his chest and under his arms. West Ham’s sign glowed pink in the background, empty seats stretching out behind him. He was supposed to say a few words, hand the award off, head for the tunnel.
Instead he kept pointing.
The lights above him pulsed once, slow and deliberate. A low tone slipped under the stadium noise, almost too quiet to hear. Lucas’s smile stayed fixed. His finger stayed locked on the award. Something warm started low in his stomach and spread outward, thick and heavy, like the heat from the pitch was climbing into him.
“Good boy,” a voice said, soft, right against his ear even though no one stood that close. “Keep pointing. Eyes on the light.”
Lucas blinked. The floodlights smeared into long white streaks. His mouth parted. The arm holding the award lowered an inch, then stopped. His other hand stayed up, still pointing, but the direction had shifted. The finger now aimed down at his own chest.
The kit felt too tight. Heat rolled under the fabric. He dragged in a breath and the material stuck to his skin, wet and heavy. The voice came again, calm, certain.
“Drop it.”
The yellow cylinder slipped from his fingers and hit the grass. Lucas didn’t look down. His hand stayed raised, index finger still aimed at himself. The collar of the jersey pulled. He tugged at it without thinking, peeling the damp shirt upward. Cool air hit his stomach. Another tug and the jersey cleared his head, falling somewhere behind him. His torso was bare now, skin flushed, already shining under the lights. Sweat ran between his pecs and down the cut of his abs. His nipples had gone tight.
“Better,” the voice said. “Look at yourself. Point.”
Lucas’s arm trembled but stayed up. He pointed at the center of his chest, then lower, following the line of his abs to the waistband of his shorts. The fabric there had gone dark and tight. His cock pushed against it, thick and obvious, the outline of the head clear through the material. A low sound left his throat. His hips shifted, just once, grinding against nothing.
The shorts felt wrong. Too loose, too ordinary. His free hand moved on its own, thumbs hooking under the waistband. He shoved them down. They caught on his thighs, then dropped. Underneath, the white compression shorts were already there, tight as a second skin, navy waistband sitting low on his hips with the letters S3LCO printed clear across the front. The material clung to every line of his cock and balls, the head of his dick pressing a wet spot into the front. Sweat and oil made the fabric gleam.
Lucas’s knees softened. He stayed on his feet only because the voice told him to. His pointing hand drifted lower until the fingertip hovered just above the waistband, then brushed the hard length beneath. A full-body shudder ran through him. His mouth opened wider. A thin string of spit slipped from his lower lip and landed on his chest.
“That’s it,” the voice said. “You’re not holding the award anymore. You’re the prize. Say it.”
Lucas’s tongue felt thick. He tried twice before the words came out, low and rough.
“I’m the prize.”
“Louder. Tell them what you are.”
His hips rolled again, slow and helpless. The compression shorts were soaked at the front now. Every shift dragged the fabric over his cock. His free hand came up, palm sliding over his oiled chest, thumb catching a nipple. He pinched. The sound that left him was short and broken.
“I’m… fuck… I’m S3LCO’s prize,” he managed. “Player of the match. Your toy. Yours.”
The lights pulsed again. His eyes went glassy. The pointing hand stayed exactly where it was, fingertip resting on the bulge, tracing the shape of himself through the shorts. His other hand kept working his chest, fingers slick. His cock throbbed hard enough that the head pushed the fabric out farther, a clear line of pre-cum darkening the white material.
“Turn,” the voice ordered.
Lucas turned. The empty stands faced him. He stayed in the same pose, one arm bent, finger still aimed at his cock, the other hand roaming. The compression shorts rode higher with every small thrust of his hips. The waistband cut into the base of his dick. He could feel how full he was, how heavy, the way his balls pulled tight against the fabric. A drop of spit hit his stomach and slid down toward the waistband.
“Hands behind your head.”
Both arms lifted. Fingers laced. The pose pushed his chest out, made every muscle stand under the sheen of sweat and oil. His cock strained the shorts so hard the material looked ready to split. He rocked his hips in slow, mindless circles, chasing friction that wasn’t there. Every breath came louder. The stadium lights painted long highlights down his abs and across the wet patch on his crotch.
“You’re going to cum like that,” the voice said. “Still standing. Still pointing at yourself. No hands. Just the shorts and the lights and the fact that you’re mine now. Understand?”
Lucas nodded. His throat worked. Another string of spit slid from his mouth onto his chest. His hips moved faster, short, desperate thrusts that dragged the tight fabric up and down his length. The head of his cock kept catching on the seam. Every catch made his thighs shake. His balls drew up. The wet spot spread, turning the front of the shorts nearly transparent.
“Say whose you are.”
“S3LCO’s,” Lucas gasped. “Yours. Fuck, I’m yours. I’m gonna… I’m gonna cum in these. Can’t stop. Please.”
The lights flared once more. His back arched. The first pulse hit hard enough that his knees nearly buckled. Cum flooded the front of the shorts in thick, heavy spurts, soaking the fabric until it clung to every ridge of his cock. He kept rocking through it, hips jerking, mouth open, spit running down his chin onto his chest. The second and third waves followed, slower, painting the inside of the shorts until the material was hot and heavy against him. A low, broken moan dragged out of his throat the whole time.
When it finally eased, he stayed exactly where he was. Arms still behind his head. Body shining. The ruined shorts dark and dripping at the front, cum already seeping through the fabric onto his thigh. His eyes stayed half-lidded, fixed on the lights.
“Good boy,” the voice said again. “Stay like that until I say otherwise. You’re still the prize. And the match isn’t over.”
Lucas didn’t move. The stadium stayed quiet around him. Under the floodlights he stood, oiled and marked, the letters on his waistband clear for anyone still watching. His cock twitched once more inside the soaked shorts. He smiled, small and empty, and waited for the next instruction.

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Shocked Javon.

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Hasan's glasses.

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

Cameron's pinkish manpüssy

[BeaufromParis @parisian9999]

This is not him