The Hand That Fists You

The room reeks of Brian Bonds’ jock strap—dirty, dark, and stiff with dried sweat. That’s all he wears, plus black latex gloves that shine as he works one fist, then the other, into Ben Reyes. Ben kneels, knees spread wide, back arched, offering his hole without shame. Brian doesn’t rush. He twists each wrist, sinks in slow, pulls out just far enough for the rim to gape before driving in again. The opening stays wider every time, the soft pink of a rosebud peeking through. Sweat rolls down Ben’s sides, mixing with lube that runs in thin streams over his thighs. Brian switches fists fast, left then right, knuckles popping past the ring. Ben flips onto his back, smooth swarthy chest heaving, and Brian leans in for a hard kiss while his fist sinks deeper—wrist swallowed, forearm disappearing. A quick round of punch-fucking drives Ben wild. He grabs his cock, strokes once, twice, and his hole clamps tight around the buried fist as he shoots. Thick ropes arc across his stomach. Brian eases his hand free. Ben lies there twitching, mouth curled in a lazy, satisfied grin.