World Series of Fisting

Coach Hugh Hunter does not mess around. He drives his closed fist straight into Sam Syron’s stretched hole, knuckles popping past the ring. “Come on, you can take it!” he growls while Sam grunts and pushes back for more. Hugh pulls out to see what the rookie can do on his own. Sam bears down, forcing his rosebud to bloom bright red. He reaches behind, slides his own hand in up to the wrist, the third-hand trick. Hugh shouts, “Show me you’re a champion!” Sam rolls onto his back, raises his legs, and opens wider. Hugh sinks back in, wrist-deep, forearm flexing. Sam’s inked chest heaves; sweat runs over the black lines. He grabs his long, uncut cock, balls swinging heavy, and starts pumping. One raw cry and he fires thick ropes across his pale belly, cream splattering up to his chest. Hugh wipes a streak of cum with his thumb. “I think you’re ready,” he says. They rest for the main event.