Dale Savage fists Drew Dixon

Dale Savage’s thick fingers split Drew Dixon’s hole open, slick with black lube as the third man in the orange jumpsuit watches, gripping the cuffs that bind Dixon’s wrists to the cell bars. The bald, hairy brute presses his mouth to Dixon’s asshole, tongue probing deep while Savage’s knuckles stretch him wider, each thrust forcing a choked gasp. The restraints dig into Dixon’s skin as the object slides in behind the fisting, two men working him at once.