Probe

Tim Tyler pins Xavier Vitale to the mat. Tim is a Carolina kid with a baby face and a big, gloved hand. Xavier is built like a bronzed island god, dark skin glowing, ready to take more than coconuts up his ass. Xavier eases down onto Tim’s fist, inch by greased inch, until the knuckles vanish inside. The stretch pulls a low moan out of him. Tim twists his wrist, and Xavier’s rim flutters around the wristband. The pace picks up—Tim pistons, Xavier rides. Sweat rolls down Xavier’s abs, boots planted for leverage. He leans back, takes the second glove next, hole stretched wide around two wrists now. The double-fisting makes Xavier’s cock jerk, heavy, uncut, the foreskin stretched tight. Tim works them deeper, knuckles grinding in sync, then pulls back so the camera can see the wet gape before he plunges again. Xavier’s breath comes in ragged bursts; every thrust punches a guttural sound out of his chest. His boots squeak on the slick floor. Tim never softens the rhythm. Xavier’s hole swallows both arms to the forearm, lips shiny and swollen. The young white boy’s muscles stand out in sharp relief as he fists the island stud like it’s a contest he means to win. Xavier’s whole body locks, thighs trembling, then he blows hard across his own stomach. Tim keeps both fists buried until the spasms fade, slow-grinding the last aftershocks. When he finally eases out, Xavier’s open hole pulses, shiny with lube and need. The 2003 raw footage leaves nothing to the imagination.