Daddy's Fist

Drew Dixon has the kind of ass that swallows whatever you give it. He kneels, back arched, hole already glistening. Jake Morgan rolls his knuckles against the slick pucker and pushes two fingers in, then three. Drew breathes hard through clenched teeth. Jake works his hand in a slow twist, every knuckle stretching Drew wider. The hole grips, then yields. Four fingers. Drew’s cock twitches against his stomach. Jake adds more lube, thumb tucked, and presses forward until his fist pops inside. Drew’s hole blooms into a fat, pulsing rosebud. He moans low, voice rough. Jake keeps his fist planted, turning it gently, pulling back just enough to watch the rim cling. Drew pushes back, taking the thick wrist deeper. Jake slides out, fist glistening, then sinks in again. The rosebud swells each time he withdraws, shiny and swollen. Sweat runs down Drew’s back. Jake’s forearm flexes as he fists him steady, deliberate, relentless. Every thrust drags a ragged sound from Drew’s throat. The hole stays open, shiny and loose, begging for the next push. Jake doesn’t rush. He knows exactly how deep to go and when to hold. Drew’s whole body shakes, caught between pain and the raw need to be filled.