Rear End Collision 1 - Pop a Gasket

Steve Cannon drops to his knees on the shop floor, ass up, already open. Brock Devonshire does not warm him. He buries his fist straight in, knuckles first, no lube wasted on niceties. Steve groans and pushes back. The bench rocks. Brock’s thick forearm vanishes, reappears, vanishes again while Steve’s cock strains against the front of his jock. Sweat rolls down Steve’s spine, drips onto steel. Brock’s breathing turns ragged. He slows, then stops, wrist aching. Steve stands, climbs the workbench, spreads wide. Brock tries again from below. Steve’s hole takes him to the elbow, then expels him with a wet pop. Brock steps back, spent. Steve looks past him, spots Rik Jammer at the bench. One crook of the finger and Rik strips. Now two fists work Steve in turns, then together, stretching him until the shop lights catch the slick shine on his red, swollen ring. Steve reaches back with both hands, pulls his cheeks apart, shows the ink across his shoulder blades and the word SINNER stamped above his wrecked hole. No soundtrack plays, only Steve’s filthy mouth, cursing, begging, ordering them deeper. His American-flag sleeve flexes every time he shoves back onto the hands filling him.