PleXus

Jerek strips down first, fists planted on his hips, eyes locked on the three men waiting. Lance Gear cracks his knuckles and grins. Alex Steele already has the lube bottle squeezed open, slick running down his wrist. Andreas Stern rolls his shoulders, breathing heavy. Jerek drops to his knees. Lance moves in behind him, thick fingers sliding between Jerek’s cheeks, testing the give. Alex presses two fingers in beside Lance’s and works them in a slow grind. Andreas watches, stroking himself, then steps forward and adds his own hand. The three men take turns stretching Jerek wider, knuckles popping past the ring, palms sinking deep. Jerek’s breath turns ragged, body shaking. Lance curls his fist, pushes deeper, twisting until the wrist vanishes. Alex follows right after, his knuckles dragging over the same hot, stretched flesh. Andreas leans in with both hands, one fist still buried, the other pressing alongside until Jerek’s hole strains around the double width. Sweat runs down Jerek’s back. Every thrust pulls wet, obscene sounds from his gut. Lance pulls out, shoves back in hard, and Jerek’s whole frame jolts. The three men keep trading places, fists sinking past the second knuckle, forearms disappearing, until Jerek’s hole gapes and flutters around empty air each time a hand slides free.