ClubInfernoDungeon – Skinny Twink James Oakleigh Fist Fucked

Title: The Extreme Fisting Fantasy of James Oakleigh

In the dimly lit, leather-streaked chambers of Club Inferno Dungeon, a world of fetishistic delights unfurls – presenting a menu of sexual tastes for the most adventurous of gourmands. It’s here that our tale of extreme indulgence begins, centering around the lithe, agile form of skinny twink, James Oakleigh.

James was no amateur when it came to the art of fisting. With a hole as accommodating as a black hole, this young buck found perverse pleasure in being stretched beyond his limits. tonight, he welcomed the ultimate challenge – a velvet gauntlet of a fist, prodding the depths of his rear.

Donning nothing but a latex harness that barely contained his hips, James swayed to the pulsing beat, his smooth skin glistening under the dungeon lights. He had an air of defiance, of daring the extreme. It wasn’t long before he gained the attention he sought – that of a grizzled, burly daddy type, equipped with hands like catcher’s mitts and an ego to match.

The daddy took charge, gripping James’ slim hips and bending him over. He wasted no time, his gloved fingers probing the pink pucker of James’ ass. “Look at this tight little hole,” he growled. “It’s crying out for a real man.”

James purred in response, his back arching as a digit pushed past his tight ring. Slowly, methodically, the daddy worked James open, first one, then two, then three fingers plunging rhythmically in and out of that greedy hole.

But James wanted more. Craved it. His backside gyrated, silently begging for the fisting it so desperately needed. The daddy obliged, pulling out and replacing his fingers with a clenched fist, glistening with lube.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed past the tight entrance, feeling James’ walls yield and stretch to accommodate. The boy’s eyes rolled back, his mouth agape in a silent scream of pure sensation.

Inch by inch the daddy sank his fist deeper, watching in fascination as James’ ass gaped obscenely, swallowing the whitened fist whole. Up to the wrist it went, pausing just long enough for James to gasp for air before withdrawing and plunging back in.

Faster the daddy fisted, reveling in the squelching sounds and James’ guttural grunts. The boy was in pure bliss, his cock rock hard and dripping, untouched. His body was pure sensation, all thought, all worldly concerns ceased, as he surrendered to the intense, almost painful pleasure.

Suddenly, the daddy pulled out entirely, leaving James’ hole winking, gasping. “Again,” the boy panted, his eyes hazy with need. “Please, Daddy.”

And so the fisting continued, spurred on by James’ breathless entreaties. His body was like a violated rose, a gaping, inhuman hole that ached for thumb, fist, whole hand. He was a total whore, a slut for dicks and fists alike, reveling in his own depravity.

He came like that, his cock pulsing out rope after rope of cum as the daddy pumped his fist deep into James’ belly. The boy screamed, his entire body convulsing with the intensity of it all.

In the aftermath, splayed out and filled, the daddy pulled out, admiring his handiwork. James’ hole was stretched obscenely wide, quivering, never wanting to close. It was the mark of a true fisting whore.

And now, as James lies spent and satisfied, he knows that he’ll be back for more. He lives for this, craves it, his hole an eternal, greedy maw demanding to be filled. Because in the end, James Oakleigh knows that he’s not a man – he’s a pit, a hole, a cock sleeve. A rosebud ready to flower into a wholly different kind of bloom.