Fistin Alley

Arclyte snatches his gear, heads for the exit. Sebastian Keys bolts after him, hauls him back, barking for his own hole to be opened. D drops, kneels, spreads the ginger’s cheeks and buries his tongue in the sweat-soaked crack. He sucks the fat cock a few hard pulls, then lines up and slams in raw. One thrust, two, then he pulls out, spits on his fingers, and drives them knuckle-deep. Sebastian curses, demands more. D folds him over a barrel, feeds fist after fist until the tatted stud flips onto his back, boots in the air, hole gaping. D sinks past the wrist, twisting, stretching, knuckles rolling under the tight ring. Sebastian’s rosebud blooms, shiny, pulsing. He strokes once, twice, and erupts, thick ropes arcing over his beard and spattering the wall while D’s arm stays buried to the forearm.