Bottoms Up

In a smoky club corner, Mark Baxter spots the masked stranger. Leather hugs Baxter's frame. He moves fast, pins Jeff Baron against the wall, tongue already sliding past the mask's edge. They kiss hard, spit slicking the rubber. Baxter drops to his knees, rims deep, tasting sweat and musk. Baron groans, spreads wider. Baxter reaches for the first plug, twists it in. One by one, bigger toys follow, popping past the ring, stretching Baron open until his hole shines and twitches. The final plug stays buried while Baxter strips his glove on. He pulls the plug free, lines up his fist, and sinks in. Knuckles press, slide, vanish. Baron pushes back, taking every inch Baxter gives. The fist pumps steady, wet sounds filling the air. Baron shakes, leather creaking, hole swallowing wrist and forearm like it was made for it. Baxter grins behind the mask, fist twisting deeper, pushing Baron right to the edge.