Mo' Bigga' Butt

Cory Jay lies on his back, legs spread high, hole pulsing in the dim light of the leather room. Patrick O'Rourke steps through the doorway, heavy boots thudding, eyes locked on that greedy opening. He does not hesitate. His gloved fingers push inside at once, testing, stretching, claiming. Jay answers by shooting a pool ball clean out of his hole. O'Rourke catches it, wipes it on Jay’s thigh, and rams it straight back inside. Another follows. Then another. Each time Jay pushes one free, O'Rourke shoves it deeper than before, turning the game mean and relentless. The leather man’s free hand pins Jay’s leg wide. His forearm disappears past the wrist while he hunts the slick, hidden balls. Jay clenches, trying to keep them, but O'Rourke’s knuckles keep working until every last sphere is back where he wants them, buried and dripping inside the younger man’s gut.