Fistpack 11 - Arabian Fist

The sultan's tent reeks of sweat and spice. Dirk Jager works his forearm into Matthieu Paris like he owns it, sliding past the elbow in one greedy shove. Matthieu arches, legs shaking, every muscle locked around the thick muscle that splits him open. He howls and grinds down harder, desperate for more. On the floor, upside down, spine against silk, he offers his hole like a gift and swallows Dirk's uncut cock to the root, throat working while that veiny shaft throbs against his tongue. Back on the low bed he squats high, knees wide, forcing Dirk to punch upward. Each brutal thrust knocks the air out of him. When the fist twists deep and holds, Matthieu breaks, shooting hard, body jerking, hole pulsing around the arm buried inside him. Dirk keeps driving until the last spasm fades.