Fistpack 11 - Arabian Fist

Heat slams down. Bright light. Hard sun. Heussein stands over Matthieu Paris, sweat rolling down thick hair on his chest. His gloves are slick. Matthieu’s ass is already open, hungry. Heussein works one fist in, then the next, grinding wrist deep while the desert glares around them. Matthieu’s hole takes it, sucks it, pulls him in like it wants to keep him. Marc Lasalle steps out of the shade and strips the dirt from his boots. He drops to his knees behind Matthieu and pushes his own fist in alongside Heussein’s. Two arms stretch the ring wide. They trade depth, one pulling back only so the other can drive forward. Each thrust shoves harder. The hole gapes, reddens, then pushes out a wet rosebud for both men to see. Boots plant in the dust. Jock straps soak through. Matthieu stays bent, breathing hard, letting them work him open until the sun itself seems to watch. Every pull comes out shining. Every shove sinks home again. The rhythm grows faster, meaner. No cover. No shade. Just the three of them and the raw stretch of one man’s guts taking everything the other two can give.