Handy Men

Warehouse lights still buzz. Geoffrey Paine and Colin Steele trade sweat for pleasure in 2009. Steele drops to his knees, tongue tracing Paine’s thick shaft, lips stretching wide around it. He stands, feeds Paine his own heavy meat, watches it disappear down that eager throat. Then Steele spins, spreads, and offers his hole. Paine works it open with thick toys, each one bigger than the last, until the muscle yields. He sinks his fist inside. Steele breathes hard, pushes back, demands more. Paine feeds him knuckle by knuckle, deeper, relentless. Ink moves across their skin as their bodies lock. Steele’s moans turn guttural. Paine’s fist disappears to the wrist, then past it, driving hard until Steele shudders around the invasion, lost in the stretch.