Fistin Alley

Pierce Paris has his fist buried to the wrist in Mike Tanner’s hole behind a row of dumpsters. He rotates his knuckles, driving deeper, and the older man’s breath comes in short, ragged bursts. Pierce keeps the motion steady, wrist flexing, forearm tensing each time he sinks in another inch. Mike pushes back, grunting for more, his voice cracking as the stretch borders on pain. Pierce slips his hand free, swaps, and sinks the other fist just as fast. Suddenly Mike rolls onto his back, fist still planted inside him, legs spread wide against cold brick. The sight of that gaping ring clenches Pierce’s gut; his cock swells, thick and flushed. He yanks the fist out, wraps slick fingers around his shaft, and jerks fast. “Ready for that load?” he rasps. Mike opens wide, tongue out, and Pierce steps in close. Hot ropes land heavy across Mike’s tongue, every drop swallowed while the stranger in the alley keeps his mouth open for the last dribble sliding down his throat.