Giulio Pasolini and Serge Cavalli

Giulio Pasolini’s lean, hairy-chested grip pins Serge Cavalli’s hips as he drives deep inside, his clean-shaven jaw tight with the raw thrusts. Cavalli kneels over him, tongue deep in his mouth while his fingers work Giulio’s hole, the air thick with the sound of wet flesh and breath. Hands grip, bodies lock, no barrier, just the way they move.