Fistpack 3 - Up For Grabs

Michael Starr steps in front of the lens wearing his heavy boots and nothing else, cock already half-hard. The thick steel sound gleams in his grip. He lines it up, pushes, and the smooth rod disappears inch by inch down his piss-slit. His shaft swells around the intrusion, veins standing out. Eyes half-lidded, he keeps feeding it until only the base ring shows. Then he reaches back, works a fat black plug past his rim and drives it home. A third dildo follows—long, ridged—sliding over his tongue until it bumps the back of his throat. Three holes, three lengths of rubber and steel working him at once. His boots plant wide on the floor as he rocks, breath coming sharp. He fucks himself from both ends and the middle, the sound sliding slick inside his cock while the ass toy pounds in counter-rhythm. Sweat streaks his chest. His free hand jerks the base of his stretched dick until his balls draw up and he fires thick ropes across his stomach. Slowly, he eases each toy free, metal and rubber shining with lube and spit, and grins like he just set a record no one else will touch.