Last Call For Handball

Drew Sebastian had heard the whispers—head to the bar on the back patio if you want more than just another drink. The burly fist-pig lounges on a stool, cigar clenched between his teeth, one hand working his thick, pierced cock. Bartender Brian Davilla spots the massive meat and drops to his knees. He swallows as much as he can, throat straining around every inch. Drew grunts, pulls out, and tells him there’s more: a pair of black fisting gloves already shoved up his own ass. Davilla yanks them free, greases his hand, and works four fingers into Sebastian’s hole, then the thumb, pushing until the whole fist sinks inside. In moments his forearm disappears to the elbow. They shift to the bar itself. Sebastian mounts Davilla’s arm, riding it in hard, steady drops while Davilla leans in and sucks the pierced cock again. When the heat peaks, Davilla grabs a metal shaker, dumps the ice down Sebastian’s back, then forces the freezing cylinder straight up his hungry hole.