Rear End Alignment

Max Stone, Kal and Mac Masters surround Jack Miller in a dim back room that reeks of leather and sweat. 2007. The three men strip him down, tie his wrists tight to the sling frame, and get straight to work on his massive ass. They grease his hole with thick lube, take turns driving their fists inside, twisting, pulling, punching deeper until Miller’s rim is loose and red. He moans every time one of them pulls out so another can push in, the wet sounds filling the space. When two fists slide side by side, stretching him wider, Miller’s whole body bucks against the straps. The men pause, fingers still lodged deep, and watch his pulsing ring open on its own, showing off the pink inside. Hair mats their knuckles. Every breath Miller takes makes the hole flex and beg for more. Tension hangs thick while they keep checking how far they’ve wrecked him, leather creaking, fists shining, nobody saying a word.