Fist for Hire 2

Mack Kurtis spreads his boots wide on the club floor. RJ Parker drops between those thighs and swallows the whole length until spit runs down his chin. Hair covers Kurtis’ chest, ink cuts across his skin, every vein throbs under Parker’s tongue. He grips Parker by the nape, slams deep once, twice, then spins him face-down over the bench. One hard shove and Kurtis buries himself to the root. Parker’s back arches, breath punched out of him, but he pushes back for more. Kurtis keeps the pace brutal, sweat flying, skin slapping. He pulls free just in time, strokes twice, and shoots thick ropes across the black leather boots. Parker stays bent, chest heaving, both men spent in the dim light of the rented club.