Christian Mitchell fists Alson Caramel

Christian Mitchell’s thick fingers stretch Alson Caramel’s tight hole open, the blunt pressure forcing him to brace against rusted metal beams while the warehouse hums around them. Alson grips the edge of a conveyor belt, his knuckles white as Mitchell works deeper, the yellow hard hat abandoned on the floor beside them. Their bodies lock in sharp angles, one bent over machinery, the other kneeling behind, the air thick with the sound of skin and the slow, deliberate thrust of a fist.