Down and Dirty

Evan Matthews owns every filthy inch he takes. Leather clings to his skin, ink shows through sweat, while he sinks onto a thick red plug and works it deeper. His hole opens wide, ready, starving. Cylus Kohan steps in raw, first-time nerves gone in a heartbeat. Matthews reaches back, fists his own hole, loosens it until Kohan’s fist slides in like it belongs there. One second he’s empty, the next Kohan’s forearm disappears, swallowed to the elbow. The kid learns fast. He pulls out, slams back in, both fists now, punching in rhythm that rattles the table. Matthews groans, body bucking, leather straps biting his thighs. Then it happens—his famous rosebud blooms, slick and dark, pushing out for air and for Kohan’s hungry stare. 2012, two men, one lesson that leaves nothing hidden.