Hole Sweet Hole

François Sagat steps out of the dark, Raging Stallion tattooed on his skin, and Sean Harris is already waiting on his knees. The fire pops, throws light across Sean’s thick chest hair and the wet shine of lube on his spread ass. François plants his boots wide, wrist flexing that little black F tattoo, and sinks four fingers in without a word. Sean grunts, pushes back, hole blooming around the knuckles until the whole hand disappears to the wrist. They move like they’re racing the dark, shifting from Sean’s back to his side, then onto all fours with one leg up. François twists, spreads, punches slow, then hard, never pulling out all the way. Sean’s cock stays rigid, slapping his own belly with every deep shove. The flames catch the heavy swing of François’s fat uncut dick, veins full, foreskin stretched tight, never going soft. They change again—Sean on his shoulders, legs hooked over François’s forearms—while the fist keeps driving, wrist turning inside that red tunnel. Sweat rolls down their ribs. The night stays quiet except for the wet sound of the hole taking every inch and the crack of burning wood. François stays buried to the forearm until Sean’s load shoots across his own chest in thick ropes, and even then the fist doesn’t leave. It stays planted, knuckles flexing, while Sean’s hole keeps twitching around it.