Rear End Collision 1 - Pop a Gasket

Simon Cox owns every hole contest going. That black bodybuilder looks like a Mack truck with skin. Chris Ward first spotted him years ago in Southern California and knew he had hit the jackpot. Simon stayed number one at the studio from then on. Now he stretches out across a motorcycle in the back of a garage, jock strap riding up tight, heavy boots planted wide, nipples pierced and shining under the shop lights. Rik Jammer walks straight in. No talk, no warm-up. He sinks his fist past the wrist, knuckles popping through, then keeps going until half his forearm disappears. Simon’s hole takes it like it was built for exactly this. The punching starts slow and turns brutal, steady rhythm, wet sound bouncing off the concrete. Sweat runs down Simon’s thick back. Rik keeps driving in and out, wrist twisting, arm flexing under the black tribal ink. Simon’s boots scrape the floor. His breathing turns ragged. The punches get deeper, almost elbow deep, and his hole stays open, pink and hungry. No mercy, no break. Just hard, practiced fisting between two men who know exactly what they’re doing.