Fistpack 10 - Best In Hole

Marc Lasalle slid his dark, muscled arms into Matthieu Paris’s pale hole on the studio roof in 2006. The jackhammer across the street kept beating, but neither man paused. Matthieu took the forearm to the elbow, breathing hard, then pushed back until the fist disappeared. Marc worked the wrist inside, slow circles that opened him wider. Matthieu’s red rosebud bloomed and pulsed in the sunlight. He stayed on all fours, ass high, and let Marc push the bright fold out again and again. Sweat ran down his back. He reached under, gripped his thick uncut cock, and stroked in time with the thrusts. Marc pulled free, spat on the hole, then drove back in. Matthieu moaned, legs shaking, while the jockstrap dangled at his knees. They traded places without words. Matthieu’s pale fist sank into Marc’s darker ass, stretching it open until the same swollen rosebud showed, glistening. Sun hit both bodies, the roof tar hot under their knees, the city noise nothing compared to the slick sound of fist meeting gut.