Kevin Warhol’s lean frame straddles the rusted rail while Sven Basquiat kneels below, his mouth locked around Warhol’s cock as the sun bleeds through the tracks. Basquiat’s fingers dig into Warhol’s thighs, gripping hard as he takes him deep, his own cock jutting out taut and unspent. The air hums with the distant whistle of a train, but neither man moves, just the slow, deliberate pull of lips and the wet, rhythmic slide of Warhol’s shaft.
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