Alex's tongue is rough and ready as it slurps Armagnac from between Cesare's thumb and index finger.

"My God," says Cesare, and it comes out as an almost-hiss when his hip gets a boneful of Alex's elbow, "my God tends to look the other way, both when you're good, and when you're being bad." His still-wet hand caresses Alex's cheek. Then it slips down and expertly twists open Alex's pants, shoves it down, two inch past the hips. Idly, Cesare notes that Alex's cock looks pleasantly... straining.