World Series of Fisting

The judges sit in a row, Tom Moore, Hugh Hunter, Joey D. Their eyes stay on two holes. Axel Abysse brings the French flag and a thick rosebud. Sam Syron flies the Irish colors and a hole already open. Five contests ahead: best self-fist, best rosebud, deepest reach, best punching, widest gape. Axel and Sam face each other, elbows high while Hugh and Joey slick their fists. First punch sinks in and both rosebuds swell, wet and hot. The punches keep coming. Each bloom gets thicker. Tension flips when both men drop a fist into themselves. Left, right, left, knuckles slap their own ass cheeks, heads tipped back, moans crawling up from their guts. Depth grows. The judges step in again, Hugh driving past his wrist into Axel, Joey sinking just as deep into Sam. Breathing turns ragged. Hands come out, cocks come out. Joey shoots first, ropes crossing Sam’s stomach and chest. Hugh follows, soaking Axel’s tank. Cum shines under the lights. The judges pull back, waiting. One spot left at the top.