Pierre Cezanne grips Derek Caravaggio’s hips as he kneels between his thighs, tongue deep in his mouth while his fingers probe the tight hole. The woods blur behind them as Caravaggio arches into the touch, his dark hair falling over Cezanne’s shoulders. They’re on a couch, rough bark pressing against the wood beneath them, the air thick with the sound of wet lips and the slow, deliberate thrust of a finger.
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