Hand Over Fist

Justin Southall works Scott Samson like a vise. Scott’s already lashed between two cold pillars, wrists cinched, legs spread, leather harness biting into hairy, ink-covered pecs. He snivels, head low, and Justin clocks the sound. One gloved hand lands hard on the offered ass; the other snaps a crop across the same cheek. Spit follows, thick and filthy, running down the cleft. Justin shoves his boot under Scott’s mouth and the boy licks leather without being told twice. When the pierced cock swings free, Scott tongues the ring like it’s communion, eyes wet, lips shining. The pace never drops. Justin fists once the hole is open, raw knuckles driving past the second ring while Scott arches, boots scraping the floor. Every punch of the arm knocks another grunt out of him, deep and grateful. Justin keeps the rhythm brutal until Scott’s thighs shake. Then he yanks free, aims the fat cock at Scott’s upturned face, and pumps out a heavy load that stripes cheeks, tongue, and harness in hot ropes. Scott swallows what he can. The rest cools on his skin under the lights. 2016.