Call To Arms

Batboy's back, and he doesn't need company tonight. He lines himself up, knees planted, cheeks split wide. His own fist disappears knuckle-deep inside him, in and out, over and over, a steady rhythm that makes his whole body jerk. The slack hole stays open every time he pulls free, then clamps back down for another push. When the hand finally slips free, he grabs a baseball bat. Metal kisses his rim, then sinks inch by inch until the taped grip brushes his knuckles. He rocks against it, taking nearly every foot, ass stretched taut around the shaft. The frame shakes. Sweat runs down the arch of his back. Each withdrawal leaves him empty, each thrust drags a fresh grunt from his throat until the room reeks of metal, spit, and skin.