Fistpack 7 - Twist My Arm

François Sagat walks into the sex club like he owns the floor, boots thudding. Matthieu Paris waits on the bench, leather harness stretched across his chest, thick gauges pulling at his nipples. The two Frenchmen lock eyes, no words, just the sound of boots and the wet click of lube being opened. François rolls up his sleeve and shows Matthieu a fist the size of a grapefruit, veins standing out on a forearm that matches the rest of his thick muscle. Matthieu spreads, knees wide, hole already winking. François pushes four fingers in without warning, then the thumb, twisting until the whole hand disappears past the wrist. Matthieu’s dick stays rigid, drooling on his stomach. Deep, elbow-deep, François starts punching. Every thrust lands with a wet smack and Matthieu’s whole body jerks. François never stops moving, twisting, driving in farther each time. Sweat runs down his torso, catches on the ink across his abs. Matthieu moans low and steady, taking the pounding, boots planted, hole stretched shiny and red. Both cocks stay steel-hard the whole time. François keeps punching, forearm disappearing, pulling back just enough to slam back in. The club lights flash across slick skin and metal piercings. Matthieu’s hole takes everything, and François gives him more, fist moving like a piston until the only sound left is the slap of skin and the creak of leather.