Warehouse Fists

Brian Bonds grips the stepladder and pushes his ass back. Zack Taylor’s gloved fist works the rim until it slides in. Brian talks him on. “Fuck me good,” he growls. The fist turns, pushes deeper, pops the wrist. Zack’s dark chest shines with sweat; Brian’s pale, freckled skin catches the light. A slap lands and the fist sinks past the forearm. Brian’s cock bounces in his fist as his hole swallows more. Zack keeps punching forward, driving every knuckle. Brian’s grip on the ladder turns white. He whips around, spits in Zack’s face, and shoots hard. Zack jerks his own cock and shoots on Brian’s boots, the load running down the leather. The whole room smells like sweat, spit, and cum. 2014.