Bruce Querelle grips Hans Lagerfeld’s hips as he drives into him, the keychain clattering against the sheets while Hans’s dark hair falls forward, his muscles taut beneath the pressure. Querelle’s hands dig into the bedding, anchoring himself as he slams deeper, the rhythm rough and unrelenting. Hans’s breath hitches with each thrust, his body arching to meet every hard, possessive stroke.
More galleries
