Backdoor Bathroom

Drew Dixon sprawls on the cold tile, cock in Nate Grimes’ mouth, bathroom lights flickering overhead. Drew stands, turns, spreads. Nate drops to his knees, drives his tongue straight into Drew’s hole, gets it slick, then slams his dick in before the spit dries. No resistance. Drew’s ass swallows every inch like it’s been waiting. Nate watches his shaft disappear, pulls back, then drives again—hard, fast, deep. The stretch makes Nate hungry for more. He yanks out, presses four fingers, then the thumb, and the whole hand punches through. Drew grunts but doesn’t flinch; his ring opens wide, takes the knuckles, the wrist, the forearm. Nate’s leather harness creaks as he twists and pumps, fist-fucking the hole in steady punches. Drew’s hole clings, then lets go, muscles rolling around the thick wrist. Drew grabs control, lowers himself onto Nate’s fist, rides it, rocks back until the knuckles press against his prostate. Nate flips him onto his back on the filthy floor, plants the arm deeper, wrist twisting, and Drew’s cock jumps—shoots hard across his own stomach while Nate’s forearm stays buried to the elbow.