Fistpack 25 - Junkyard Fist Dogs

Out of the trash and twisted metal, eleven-inch stud Antonio Biaggi rolls a ball of Crisco and pushes it inside Andre Barclay’s hole. The grease slicks Barclay wide for what’s next. Biaggi, dressed in torn post-apocalyptic rags, slides on a black rubber glove, lubes the leather, and drives straight in. One hard shove and his fist disappears, making Barclay cry out. No warm-up, no break—Biaggi just keeps punching deeper, eyes locked on that open ring. He switches fists, coats his thick uncut cock with the same slop, and works both in a broken rhythm: fist, cock, fist again. Barclay’s hole grips each thrust, slick walls stretched around rubber and raw meat. Biaggi pries the rim wider with two hands, then slams his cock back inside, pumping hard before swapping to his fist once more. Grease runs down Barclay’s crack and drips onto torn steel. Biaggi jerks his fat shaft while the opposite fist stays buried, wrist twisting, until his load fires across Barclay’s back. Barclay rolls, still hungry, so Biaggi keeps fisting, pounding knuckles deep until Barclay’s own cock spits a thick white streak over his stomach.