Take The Plunge

Brock Rustin finally found the puncher he wanted. Sebastian Keys is young, mean, and already knows where to shove his hand. Keys starts slow with the beads, the big glossy ones Rustin likes. Rustin lies back, jockstrap pushed aside, hole open and ready. He makes Keys bite the handle and yank each sphere out one by one, the rubber stretching, the pop loud every time. The second Keys pulls the last bead free, he snaps on the black latex gloves. No warm-up now. Rustin takes the fist like it belongs there. Keys pushes in past the knuckles and keeps going, slow at first, then deeper, wrist twisting, knuckles grinding against that velvet spot that makes Rustin’s breath hitch. The tattoos on Keys’ forearm flex as he works, stretching Rustin open wider with every turn. Keys climbs on the table, squats over Rustin’s face, and sinks his own fist into Rustin’s hole from above. Rustin reaches up without missing a beat and shoves his bare hand straight into Keys’ tight, waiting ass. Two fists, two holes, same rhythm. Every thrust knocks the other deeper. Latex squeaks. Skin slaps. The whole scene stinks of sweat and rubber. Two men, one year, 2012, no mercy, no limits.