Warehouse Fists

Armond Rizzo sits between Byron Saint’s spread legs, dark, compact, and hungry. Five foot two of solid olive muscle, thick black bush framing his uncut dick. His right arm is already halfway to the elbow inside Byron’s stretched hole. Byron is six-five, long and hairy-legged, flat on his back, demanding more. “Yeah, get up in there,” he growls. Armond slicks his whole forearm and drives in deeper. Byron’s abs knot and flex; he grabs his own thighs and pulls them wider. “Punch that hole.” Armond starts throwing short, hard left-rights that disappear past the elbow. Byron’s eyes flip white. Sweat rolls down his chest. He swings upright, plants his feet, and sinks onto Armond’s greased fist, riding hard and fast. Armond’s cock jerks untouched, shooting thick ropes across the floor while Byron keeps slamming down to the wrist.