Fistpack 6 - Can Openers

Matthieu Paris kicks the door open with that grin. His frame is muscle and sinew wrapped around one hell of an appetite; everything about him feeds his hole. The moment Ian Jay’s boots hit the floor the kid’s fingers already know their job. Matthieu leans into the first fist like he’s starving for it. Ian works him open, knuckles disappearing, wrist swallowed. Matthieu groans and pushes back harder. Two hands slide inside, knuckles bumping knuckles, the stretch loud and wet. Ian’s breathing turns ragged as he feels the give, the heat, the hungry pulse around his wrists. Boot leather creaks while Matthieu plants his feet and rides. Double fists pump in a steady, filthy rhythm that never loses its edge. Ian watches, wide-eyed, learning fast that this hole was built to take and take. Every thrust proves it. Every shudder from Matthieu says it won’t stop until he decides. Sweat drips, skin slaps, the air tastes thick. When the pace finally slows, both men are locked together at the wrists, breathing like they just ran through fire.