World Series of Fisting

Hugh Hunter has coached Sam Syron all season, and now the night before the Fisting All Stars Championship it's down to the two of them in a small hotel room. Hugh lays out one last pep talk, low and direct, then claps a hand on the kid's shoulder. Sam answers the only way he knows how—dropping to his knees and working open his mouth for Hugh's fat, uncut cock. The stretch burns, but he takes every inch until his lips press tight to the root. He sucks like he’s starving for it, spit coating Hugh’s shaft, throat working in long pulls. Still jittery about tomorrow, he pulls off and asks for one last stretch. Hugh nods, strips him bare, and bends him over the bed. One hard thrust sinks that thick rod straight into Sam’s hole; he fucks him deep and steady, hips slapping, until the muscle gives and Sam’s hole shines slick. Hugh pulls out, snaps on gloves, slicks both hands. Sam plants his chest to the mattress and lifts his ass. Fingers slide in, then knuckles, each push sinking farther while Hugh growls instructions: breathe, bear down, open. Wrist-deep, Hugh works the fist in smooth, twisting strokes. Sam’s hole swallows it, pink and stretched wide. When the session ends, Hugh peels the gloves off, strokes once, twice, and shoots across Sam’s tight, inked chest and stomach, cum streaking the dark lines of his tattoos.