Wrist Wranglers

Alessio Romero comes back hot from the trail. Evan Matthews waits in the stall, jockstrap already pushed aside, hole slick and ready. Romero drives his fist straight in. Matthews takes it like he was built for this. One second he’s gripping the rail, the next Romero’s forearm disappears up to the elbow, thick veins standing out against ink. The stretch pulls a fat rosebud out when the arm slides free, pink and pulsing. Matthews shudders, then pushes again, showing it off. Romero doesn’t let up. He shoves back in, knuckles working deeper, twisting slow and mean. Matthews breathes hard, sweat sliding down his spine, every muscle tight. The barn smells like grease, leather, and raw need. Romero leans in, tongue against the back of Matthews’ neck, teeth grazing skin while his fist keeps working inside. Matthews moans low and pushes back harder, chasing the next deep thrust. The rosebud flares once more before it slips inside again. Romero keeps the pressure steady, fist turning, wrist rolling. Matthews stays locked on the rail, taking everything the older man gives him until the last thick inch slides free and the slick rosebud blooms heavy and open.