Fisting Big Leagues

Rick Van Sant’s dream hits him square in the chest the second Cory Jay steps out of that locker-room stall. No hello, just a sharp command: bend, spread. Van Sant plants his palms on the bench and opens. Jay drops to his knees like a man tasting what he’s waited years for. His tongue drags wide and wet, then pushes deeper, rimming the big muscle ring until it flutters and loosens. The first gloved fist slides in smooth, the knuckles riding the slick heat. Van Sant groans, low and hungry, every thrust of Jay’s arm milking his cock from the inside out. Cum spills in thick ropes before Jay even touches his shaft. Jay keeps working, slow and steady, the slap of skin echoing off the lockers while tattoos shift across straining biceps. They trade rough kisses, spit-slick and hard, before Jay sinks back in deeper, chasing every last tremor. 2010, two daddies in the big leagues, pushing the limit until nothing’s left but wet heat and shaking thighs.