33: Sommerfield (Fort Greene)

I'd made a pact with myself to find new running routes, so I'd left Manhattan behind for the day. Brooklyn felt different: less frantic, more room to breathe. The April air carried that perfect hint of warmth as I jogged through Greenpoint and down into Domino Park, my pace steady but unhurried.

Then I saw him.

He passed me going the opposite direction, and something in my chest tightened. Tall, military-straight posture even at a run. Dark hair cropped close on the sides. His face was all angles — jaw like it was cut from stone, stubble perfectly maintained. But it was his body that nearly made me miss a step.

His tank clung to his chest, damp with sweat that traced the divide between his pecs. Broad shoulders tapered to a waist that wasn't narrow, exactly, but proportioned with an athlete's precision. When he turned slightly to navigate around a family, I caught the profile of his abdomen — a six-pack that showed through the fabric, not from flexing but from the natural architecture of his frame.

I kept running, but my focus had scattered. My route took me in a loop that circled back through the park (or so I'd tell myself), and I found myself scanning ahead, hoping for another glimpse.

There. By the water. (What a coincidence!)

He'd slowed to a walk, one hand resting on the railing as he looked out at the East River. Sweat darkened the center of his back, spreading between his shoulder blades. Even at rest, his body hummed with contained power. The muscles in his calves flexed as he shifted his weight.

I adjusted my path to loop closer. Not close enough to seem deliberate, but near enough to study him. His arms hung loose at his sides — thick, corded with veins that ran from wrist to bicep. When he took a breath, his belly expanded, and I could see how his tank rode up just enough to reveal a strip of skin above his shorts. The slight curve of his relaxed stomach caught the sunlight.

He turned suddenly, and I looked away, pretending to check my watch. When I glanced back, he was running again, this time in my direction. The rhythm of his stride was hypnotic — controlled, efficient, nothing wasted. Each footfall landed with purpose. His abs tightened visibly with each breath, a subtle ripple beneath his tank that suggested power held in reserve.

And, fuck, I wanted to know more about that power.

As he got closer, I noticed more details. A thin sheen of sweat across his forehead. The way his shoulders rolled slightly forward with each stride. The measured cadence of his breathing — three steps in, two steps out. Military precision.

He passed within a few feet of me, close enough that I caught his scent — clean sweat with a stronger musk underneath, something that made my gut tighten. His gray-blue eyes flickered in my direction for just a moment, then away, as he passed me.

I kept running, but slower now, aware of my own body in a way I hadn't been before. The hollow feeling in my stomach wasn't from hunger or exertion. It was anticipation. Recognition. My core muscles tensed involuntarily.

I finished my lap and found myself circling back again. Another chance to pass him. Another opportunity to feel that moment of connection — or to imagine it. The muscles in my lower belly tightened as I spotted him ahead, his back to me, both hands clasped on the back of his head. His tank had ridden up further, revealing the dimples at the base of his spine as he walked cooly toward a shady spot near the southern tip of the park.

I adjusted my pace. Not too fast. Not too slow.

Just right to cross his path one more time.

I slowed to a walk as I approached, using the moment to catch my breath. The guy had stopped near a bench, one hand braced against it while the other rested on his hip. His belly rose and fell, the muscles there visible but not tensed—just the natural ridges of a body built through years of discipline.

I stopped a few feet away, mirroring his stance unconsciously, hands on my hips as I gulped down air. Our breathing synced for a moment—both of us drawing deep, recovering. His eyes met mine, lingered, then drifted down to my torso before snapping back up. Not subtle, but I wasn't complaining.

"Third time's the charm," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Leo."

He took it, his grip firm but not showy. His palm was calloused in places mine wasn't.

"Sommerfield," he answered, voice steady despite his elevated breathing. His eyes stayed locked on mine as we shook.

"First name or last?" I asked, letting my hand drop.

"Last," he said. "Army. Force of habit."

He rolled his shoulders back, stretching his neck.

I nodded, taking in the information along with another look at his body. "That explains it," I said, gesturing vaguely toward his physique.

"Explains what?" he asked, though the slight curve at the corner of his mouth told me he knew exactly what I meant.

"The..." I circled my hand in the air, indicating his entire frame. "The way you move. The discipline. The body."

Sommerfield's smirk deepened, a flash of pride crossing his face. He looked down at himself, then back at me.

"Not bad for a guy who spent most of the last decade in desert conditions." He adjusted his stance, and I couldn't help but notice how his abs shifted beneath his tank—not flexing exactly, just naturally defining themselves with the movement. "The core strength sticks with you. Hard to lose once you build it right."

"I can see that," I said, not bothering to hide my appreciation.

He took a long, deep breath, his belly inflating and deflating. His eyes never left mine.

The air between us hummed with something unspoken. His breathing had slowed, but I could still see the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his stomach expanded slightly with each inhale. Not hidden behind forced tension—just a strong body at rest.

"The core is everything," Sommerfield continued, his hand absently tracing the outline of his abs through his tank. "They trained it into us. You can lose arm strength, leg strength—but if your center's weak, you're dead in the field."

I didn't know if that was true or if he was looking for a reason to call attention to his abs, but I went with it.

I watched his fingers drift across his midsection, mesmerized by the casual confidence of the gesture. The way he touched himself wasn't showy—it was proprietary, like a craftsman admiring his own handiwork.

"I get it," I said, finding my voice. "I box. Not professionally, but I've been at it for years. The first thing my trainer hammered into me was core conditioning."

Sommerfield's eyes lit with interest. "Yeah? What gym?"

"The Forge. Iron Fist Forge."

He nodded with recognition. "Good reputation."

A wild impulse seized me—the kind that had led to some of my best nights with guys like this.

"You know," I said, stepping slightly closer, "I'd love to test that military core sometime. See if Army training holds up against a good boxer's punch."

I expected him to laugh it off or look confused. Instead, his eyes darkened, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a knowing smirk.

"Actually," he said, voice dropping lower, "I'd rather test yours."

His gaze traveled deliberately down my body, lingering on my midsection. "You've got good definition. Relaxed, not flexed. That's rare—most guys walk around tensed up, trying to look bigger than they are."

The compliment sent heat rushing through me. He'd noticed exactly what I took pride in—the ability to maintain tone without constant posturing.

"Thanks," I managed, suddenly aware of how close we were standing. "I work at it."

"I can tell." His eyes flicked back up to mine, then down again, this time traveling lower than my abs. "Seems like we both appreciate… a good core workout."

I followed his gaze and realized we were both showing clear outlines through our running shorts. Not fully hard, but definitely interested. The thin fabric left little to the imagination.

Instead of embarrassment, I felt a surge of satisfaction. This wasn't just in my head.

"Looks that way," I agreed, making no effort to hide or adjust myself.

"You live around here?" I asked, eyes still fixed on the outline in his shorts.

"Fort Greene," Sommerfield answered, running a hand through his short hair. "Jogged up here. About to head back."

He paused, studying me with that measured gaze. Then he reached down, grabbed the hem of his tank, and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.

My breath caught. His chest was thick—a clean dusting of dark hair tapering down between defined pecs, then a hot patch of hair around his navel. His shoulders gleamed with sweat. But it was his abdomen that held my attention: six clearly defined sections that weren't artificially pumped or unnaturally cut. Just the honest architecture of a body built through years of work.

Sommerfield balled up the tank in his fist, using it to wipe sweat from his forehead. His abs contracted and released with the motion.

"You could come back with me," he said, voice casual but eyes intent. "If you can keep up."

The challenge in his tone was unmistakable. So was the invitation beneath it.

"Lead the way," I said, not bothering to hide my hunger. "I'll be right behind you."

His mouth quirked up at the corner. "We'll see."

We set off at an easy pace, heading south through the park before turning onto Kent Avenue. Sommerfield ran shirtless, the muscles of his back shifting hypnotically with each stride. The contours of his shoulder blades cast shallow shadows that deepened as sweat collected along his spine.

The first mile passed in comfortable silence. He set a steady rhythm—not showing off, but not taking it easy either. I matched him step for step, staying just behind his right shoulder. Close enough to catch his scent when the breeze shifted, far enough to watch the flex and release of his body as he moved.

"You're keeping up," he said as we approached Fort Greene, voice barely elevated despite our pace.

"Told you I would."

His only response was a grunt that might have been approval.

The second mile came and went. The afternoon sun beat down harder now, and sweat ran freely down my chest, soaking my shirt. Sommerfield's bare back glistened, droplets catching the light as they traced paths along the groove of his spine.

By the time we reached his neighborhood, my legs had found that perfect rhythm where movement becomes automatic. Sommerfield led us down tree-lined streets until he finally slowed in front of a brownstone.

"This is me," he said, barely winded as he jogged up the steps. He unlocked the door and glanced back, eyes traveling over my sweat-soaked form with obvious approval. "Third floor."

I followed him up two flights of stairs, watching the muscles in his calves flex with each step, the way his shorts clung to the curve of his ass. He unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside, holding it open for me.

The apartment was sparse but intentional—clean lines, minimal furniture, precision in its organization, as I expected. But I barely registered the details. All my focus was on Sommerfield as he shut the door behind us, the click of the lock echoing in the sudden quiet.

We stood there for a moment, both of us breathing hard from the run, the air between us thick. Sweat rolled down my temple, my shirt clinging to every contour of my torso. Sommerfield's chest rose and fell steadily, a sheen of moisture highlighting the definition of his pecs and abs.

He bent down to remove his shoes, and I did the same, our movements mirroring each other. The simple act felt strangely intimate—two men, drenched in sweat, preparing for whatever came next.

Sommerfield straightened, his eyes locked on mine. The apartment felt smaller suddenly. He stood close enough that I could smell the clean sweat on his skin, see the rise and fall of his chest.

"Take off your shirt," he said. Not a question. Not a suggestion.

My cock twitched against the fabric of my running shorts. The command in his voice hit me like a drug. I reached down, grabbed the hem of my tank, and pulled it over my head in one fluid motion. The air felt cool against my damp skin.

Sommerfield's gaze traveled over my exposed torso, taking inventory. I knew what he saw: lean muscle, definition without bulk, the result of years of boxing, weightlifting, and running. His eyes lingered on my abdomen, and I fought the urge to flex.

I didn't have time to read his expression. In one swift movement, he closed the distance between us, his body heat merging with mine as he drove me backward. My shoulders hit the wall with a loud thud. Before I could react, his forearm pressed horizontally across my chest, pinning me in place.

His other hand formed a fist that he pressed deliberately against my navel, my abs now rock-solid as I'd braced against Sommerfield's unexpected pin. His knuckles against my gut were not a punch—not yet—but a promise, I hoped.

"Fuck," I breathed, the word barely audible.

Sommerfield's face was inches from mine, his gray-blue eyes searching, assessing. His fist maintained steady pressure against my gut, knuckles pressed against my skin and solid muscle.

"I've been thinking about this since I saw your cock get hard in the park," he said, voice low and controlled. "About what I'm going to do to your stomach."

My breath shallowed. The pressure of his knuckles sent a deep urge through my lower belly. I could feel my cock hardening again, straining against my shorts.

"I'm going to start slow," Sommerfield continued, pressing his fist slightly harder against my abs. "Right here. Where your belly's thickest. I'll sink my knuckles in until I feel your intestines give way."

I swallowed hard, arousal building in my gut.

"First punch will knock the wind out. Second one goes deeper—right into your guts. I want to feel them compress around my fist." His knuckles rotated slightly against my skin. "Third punch will make you fold. Your belly will cave around my hand like it's trying to swallow my fist."

My breathing quickened. I could picture it perfectly, feel it happening already.

"By the fifth punch, your gut will be so soft I'll be able to feel every inch of your insides. I'll work your intestines until they're tender. Until they shift under my knuckles like putty."

His fist pressed harder, and I felt myself responding—not just my cock, but my gut itself. Instinctively, I let my abs go slack, surrendering the muscle tension I'd been holding.

Sommerfield felt the change immediately. His eyes darted down to my stomach, and back up to my eyes as my belly softened beneath his knuckles, yielding to his touch. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.

"There it is," he murmured, satisfaction in his voice. "You're giving it to me already."

His fist sank deeper into my relaxed abdomen, finding my intestines. I could feel his knuckles displacing something inside me—pressing against organs that weren't meant to be touched this way.

"Your gut's already talking to me," Sommerfield said, his voice dropping lower. "Telling me exactly how it wants to be used."

I didn't speak. Couldn't. The pressure of his fist against my belly had short-circuited something in my brain. All I could do was breathe and feel as his knuckles mapped out my insides.

"You're going to take every punch I give you," he said, not a question but a statement of fact. "And you're going to keep those abs down for me the whole time."

"Yessir," I said.

"Fuck yeah, 'yessir,'" he replied, smirking. "That's right."

Sommerfield's eyes darkened as he studied my face. His forearm remained firm against my chest, holding me against the wall while his knuckles pressed into my belly—not punching yet, just testing, measuring.

"Breathe out," he commanded. "All the way out."

I exhaled slowly, feeling my stomach flatten slightly. The moment my lungs emptied, Sommerfield pulled his fist back—just a few inches, not a dramatic windup—and drove it straight into my gut.

The punch collapsed my abdomen completely. His knuckles tore through the surface resistance and buried themselves deep in my intestines. My organs compressed against my spine as his fist disappeared into the hollow of my belly. I felt my guts part around his knuckles, felt them fold and twist as they were crushed between my back and his fist.

A strangled grunt escaped me—not from my mouth but from somewhere deeper, forced up from my diaphragm as my lungs emptied. The sound hung between us for a second before morphing into a low, pained moan. The impact radiated outward from my navel, a sick, heavy pressure that seemed to reach into every corner of my abdomen.

My intestines churned around his knuckles, displaced and compressed. I could feel them trying to resettle, to find space where there was none. The pressure in my gut was immense, like someone had filled me with lead. My knees buckled slightly, but Sommerfield's arm kept me upright.

I opened my mouth to say something—what, I don't know—but Sommerfield surged forward, capturing my lips with his. The kiss was hungry, demanding, his tongue pushing into my mouth as his fist remained buried in my gut. The dual invasion—mouth and belly—sent a wave of pleasure through me.

His knuckles pressed impossibly deeper, finding pockets of softness I didn't know existed. Then he began to rotate his fist, grinding his knuckles against my guts. My intestines squished against his knuckles, bunching and stretching as he worked them over. I could feel individual segments of my bowels being kneaded like dough, could track the path of his knuckles as they explored my insides.

The grinding sent waves of dull, deep pressure radiating through my gut. Each rotation displaced something new—pressing here, pulling there, rearranging everything. My belly felt both hollow and impossibly full at once. I moaned into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss.

Sommerfield pulled back just enough to break the kiss, his lips still close enough that I could feel his breath on mine. His fist continued its slow, deliberate circles inside my abdomen, working my guts like he was searching for something buried deep.

"I want you to make me work for it," he whispered, voice husky and breathless against my ear. His knuckles twisted sharply, sending a jolt through my intestines that made me gasp. "I want you to put up a fight."

Another rotation, deeper this time. I felt something shift low in my gut, a sickening pressure that made me groan.

"I'll win," he continued, confidence dripping from every word. His fist stilled for a moment, pressing hard against a particularly tender spot. "And when I do..."

He leaned closer, his lips brushing my earlobe.

"I'm going to bash these guts mercilessly while I fuck you. Pound them until they're mush."

The promise sent another wave through me that had nothing to do with pain. My cock strained against my shorts, leaking and desperate.

"Deal," I managed, my voice rough from the pressure still radiating through my abdomen. "But don't get cocky. I box, remember?"

Sommerfield's mouth curved into that dangerous half-smile. His fist finally withdrew from my gut, leaving my insides feeling strangely empty, rearranged.

"Then show me what you've got," he said, putting his arms out to either side, opening up his body. His abs visibly relaxed as he did.

I hesitated for just a second, savoring the sight of Sommerfield standing there, arms out, completely exposed. His abs—those perfect, military-honed muscles—visibly shifted as he relaxed them. The rigid six-pack that had been so defined moments ago softened before my eyes, melting into something softer and more vulnerable.

The transformation was mesmerizing. His stomach, no longer held in check by deliberate tension, rounded outward slightly. The sharp ridges between his abs smoothed, revealing the natural weight of what lay beneath. His navel deepened as the muscles around it released their grip. Without the constant flex, his belly pushed forward just enough to show the true shape of his gut—the weight of his intestines pressing outward against the wall of relaxed muscle.

That softened midsection called to me. The slight protrusion below his navel, where his intestines sat heaviest, begged for attention. The skin there looked warm, almost tender. His belly rose and fell with each breath, no longer the rigid fortress but something yielding, something… soft.

Fuck, it was beautiful.

I couldn't make him wait any longer.

I lunged forward in the narrow hallway, my boxing training taking over. My feet planted, my hips rotated, my shoulder drove the momentum as I buried my fist deep into the lower part of his gut—right below his navel, where his belly was softest, where his intestines were most exposed.

My knuckles disappeared into his flesh. His stomach caved completely, folding around my fist like it was swallowing me. I felt his guts compress against my knuckles, felt them flatten against his spine. The punch went so deep I swore I could feel the outline of his vertebrae through the mass of his intestines.

"UNH—" The sound that came from Sommerfield wasn't a word—it was pure, animal reaction. His breath exploded outward as his diaphragm spasmed. His eyes widened, pupils dilating instantly. His mouth opened in a perfect O of shock and pain.

For a split second, he remained upright, frozen in place. Then his body reacted. His torso folded forward, curling around my fist like it belonged there. His knees buckled slightly. His hands, which had been extended outward, flew instinctively to his gut—but didn't push me away.

Instead, one hand gripped my shoulder, steadying himself. The other pressed against his own stomach, right above where my fist was buried, as if trying to feel the damage from both sides.

"Fuck—" he gasped softly. His face had flushed deep red, sweat beading instantly across his forehead. But through the pain that twisted his features, I found his raw, undeniable arousal.

His eyes locked with mine, glazed but focused. His lips parted as he struggled to draw breath. When he finally managed to inhale, it was a shuddering, ragged sound.

"Your guts are soft as hell," I growled, twisting my knuckles deeper into his intestines. "All that military training, and you still fold like paper."

Challenge accepted. His cock was well-hard by now, pressing against his sweaty running shorts. The pain was turning him on just as much as it was me.

Sommerfield straightened up against the wall, his breath coming in controlled gasps. His abs remained deliberately relaxed, but I could see the effort it took him to maintain that vulnerability.

"Take off your shorts," he commanded, his voice rough. "Everything off. Now."

I didn't hesitate. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my running shorts and pushed them down, along with my briefs. My cock sprang free, fully hard and already leaking. I stepped out of the pooled fabric at my feet, kicking my shorts to the side, now completely naked in the entryway of this stranger's apartment.

Sommerfield's eyes traveled slowly down my body, taking inventory. I noticed he made no move to remove his own shorts, the fabric tented obscenely by his erection. The imbalance—me naked, him still partially clothed—shifted something in the air between us. The power dynamic crystallized.

I stood up straight, meeting his gaze with what I hoped was confidence. But I'd left myself open.

Sommerfield moved with precision. No telegraphing, no hesitation—just brutal efficiency. His right arm coiled tight to his body, then unloaded upward in a vicious uppercut that buried itself deep into my unprotected belly.

His fist drove up and in, spearing beneath my navel and tearing into my lower intestines. My gut collapsed around his knuckles as they plowed upward, forcing my bowels against my spine and diaphragm. The impact sent a sickening wave through my entire digestive tract—intestines, stomach, everything compressed and displaced at once.

"HUH—" My diaphragm convulsed as air exploded from my lungs. My organs seemed to fold in on themselves, crushed between Sommerfield's ascending fist and my own backbone.

My knees buckled as my body instinctively folded around the punch. Before I could catch myself, Sommerfield's left hand landed heavily on my shoulder. He pushed down—not violently, but with inexorable pressure. My weakened legs gave way completely, and I sank to my knees on the hardwood floor.

I clutched at my abdomen, one hand pressed against the spot where his fist had buried itself. My intestines churned beneath my fingers, finding their proper place again. Each breath sent new waves of aching pressure through my core. My guts felt hollowed out and swollen at the same time—and I needed more.

Through aching eyes, I looked up at Sommerfield. He stood over me, his chest rising and falling steadily, a thin sheen of sweat highlighting the contours of his muscles. His expression a mix of satisfaction and hunger.

"Now take mine off," he said. His voice had dropped an octave. "Slow."

I swallowed hard, still struggling to get my breath back. My guts ached deeply, but my cock remained rock hard, throbbing between my legs as I knelt before him.

I reached up, hooking my fingers into the waistband of Sommerfield's running shorts. His stomach muscles tightened reflexively, then deliberately relaxed again as I began to pull downward. The fabric clung to his hips, damp with sweat, before finally giving way. I dragged the shorts and his boxer briefs down together in one slow motion.

His cock sprang free, bouncing heavily before settling into a rigid upward curve. Thick, uncut, with a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. The scent of his groin hit me immediately—raw and masculine, intensified by our run and the arousal we'd begun to share.

"Fuck," I whispered, almost involuntarily. 

I continued pulling the shorts down his thighs, past his knees, until they pooled around his ankles. He stepped out of them one foot at a time, his movements controlled and deliberate even in this vulnerable state. I gathered the damp fabric in my hands, feeling the residual warmth from his body.

The smell emanating from the shorts was intoxicating—earthy and sharp, pure concentrated male. Making eye contact with the man, I brought them to my face and inhaled deeply, letting the musk fill my lungs. The scent was strongest where the fabric had pressed against his balls and ass—salt, sweat, and something more primal.

I breathed into the fabric, taking another deep pull of his scent. My cock throbbed painfully between my legs.

Sommerfield's breathing changed above me. His lips slightly parted as he watched me inhale his most intimate scent. His hand moved to his cock, giving it a slow stroke as he stared down at me.

He was distracted. Vulnerable.

I seized the opportunity.

Still clutching his shorts in my left hand, I coiled my right arm and drove my fist upward into the underside of his belly. My knuckles speared into the soft pocket just below his navel, where his intestines hung heaviest. His relaxed abs offered no resistance—my fist tunneled straight through the surface muscles and buried itself deep in his guts.

I felt his intestines collapse around my knuckles, the beautiful bulge of his relaxed lower gut inverting beneath my fist.

"UGH—" Sommerfield's cock jerked violently, slapping against my wrist as his body folded forward.

My fist twisted inside him, grinding against the mass of his bowels. His guts rolled under my knuckles, the sickening pressure as his organs evident by the moan that followed.

Sommerfield's knees buckled slightly. His hands flew to my shoulders, not pushing me away but steadying himself as the punch tore through his core. His stomach muscles remained slack—a man who knew how to handle pain.

"Your guts are fucking soft, soldier."

Sommerfield's breathing was ragged above me, his fingers digging into my shoulders. His eyes had glazed slightly, lost in the internal devastation I was causing, I guess.

"I'm…" he started as he caught his breath, "…going to kick your ass."

The words hung between us, his threat laced with promise rather than anger. Sommerfield's lips curled into a dangerous smirk as he looked down at me, still on my knees before him. The pain in his eyes had already transformed into something hungrier.

Without warning, his hands shot under my armpits. In one fluid motion, he hoisted me to my feet, his biceps bulging with the effort. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could form words, he adjusted his grip and lifted again—this time lifting me completely off the floor.

My feet dangled uselessly. I was suspended in the air, held aloft by nothing but Sommerfield's raw strength.

Holy fucking shit?

I'm three inches taller than him, and not exactly light. Yet he held me steady, his arms barely trembling with the effort. The muscles in his shoulders and chest flexed dramatically, veins appearing along his forearms as they supported my weight. His abdominals—the same ones I'd just buried my fist in—tightened into rigid bands across his torso, no longer soft but functional, powerful.

He began walking, carrying me down the hallway like I weighed nothing. His breathing remained controlled, only slightly labored. His face quickly turned red, but had you not seen the strain on his face, you wouldn't have known he was struggling at all. The display of muscular strength sent a rush through me that had nothing to do with the pressure still radiating from my gut.

We entered the living room, and without ceremony, Sommerfield tossed me backward. I was only suspended a couple inches above the floor, but the sudden release caught me off guard. My heels hit the hardwood first, and I stumbled backward, arms pinwheeling for balance before I toppled onto a couch behind me, narrowly missing a large mirror by the couch.

Looking up, I found Sommerfield standing over me, a satisfied expression on his face. His cock jutted out proudly, still rock-hard despite—or because of—the gut punch I'd delivered.

He lifted his right hand to his face—the hand that had been tucked under my armpit moments ago. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as he took in my scent. His eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, a look of pleasure crossing his features.

Then, maintaining eye contact, he slowly licked his palm, dragging his tongue across the skin that had just been pressed against my sweat.

"You smell good," he said, voice low and rough. "Taste even better."

Sommerfield turned away from me, moving toward the coffee table that sat between the couch and a TV mounted on the wall. With casual strength, he gripped the edge of the table and dragged it to the side, clearing a large open space in the center of the living room.

The muscles in his back rippled as he moved the furniture, his ass clenching with the effort. When he turned back to face me, his expression had shifted—no longer just aroused, but focused. Determined. The look of a man with a plan.

The newly opened space between us felt like an arena.

I pushed myself off the couch, my gut still aching from Sommerfield's earlier uppercut. We faced each other in the cleared space, naked and erect, our bodies gleaming with sweat. Neither of us spoke—we didn't need to. The air between us hummed with anticipation.

We began to circle each other slowly, instinctively dropping into wrestling stances. Sommerfield's military training showed in his perfect balance, weight distributed evenly between both feet. I mirrored him, drawing on years of boxing footwork, keeping my center of gravity low.

His eyes never left mine as we circled. His hands raised, palms open, ready to grapple. I tracked every subtle shift in his muscles, looking for the tell that would signal his first move.

It came with a flicker of tension in his right shoulder. He lunged forward, arms outstretched for a headlock. I'd been waiting for it. I pivoted left, letting his momentum carry him past me, then spun behind him. Before he could recover, I looped my right arm around his neck, locking him in a tight headlock.

My bicep bulged against the side of his head as I secured the hold. Sommerfield's body tensed against mine, his back pressing into my chest. I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the sharp musk of his sweat.

"Not so fast," I growled into his ear, tightening my grip.

He grunted, his hands coming up to grip my forearm. He twisted and strained, testing my hold, but I kept my arm locked. His neck muscles strained against my bicep as he fought for leverage.

"You're good," he muttered, his voice tight from the pressure on his throat.

I felt a surge of pride at having caught this military-trained specimen off guard. But Sommerfield wasn't done. His body shifted, muscles coiling as he maneuvered within my grip. With a quick twist of his shoulders, he managed to turn his body until we were chest to chest, though his head remained trapped in my headlock.

I saw the exact moment his strategy changed.

Before I could react, he planted his feet firmly and pushed backward with explosive force. We shot across the open space, my back slamming into the wall with a hollow thud. The impact knocked some of the wind from me, loosening my grip just enough for Sommerfield to gain the advantage.

His right fist cocked back, then drove forward in a perfect hook that he buried in my navel. My abs, intentionally slack for this gutpunch fight, left my gut completely undefended.

His knuckles disappeared into my belly as the full force of the punch transferred into my organs.

"UHH—"

Sommerfield didn't hesitate. His second punch drove into the same spot, but lower, targeting the heaviest part of my intestines. My bowels accepted his knuckles without protection, my soft six pack rippling like liquid.

My knees weakened, but I couldn't fall—Sommerfield's body kept me pinned to the wall, his arm still trapped in my weakening headlock.

His third punch was the most brutal. He pulled back farther, his entire body coiling behind the blow. When it landed directly on my navel, it was like he'd hit my bare intestines with a battering ram. His fist plowed straight through my liquid-soft six pack and briefly pinned my bowels to the wall behind me. My intestines collapsed completely, bulging my oblique muscles outward as my guts were compressed between knuckles and backbone.

My vision blurred at the edges, the room spinning slightly as Sommerfield's fist ravaged my insides. The wall behind me was the only thing keeping me upright as waves of pain and pleasure radiated from my core.

But I still had him in that headlock.

Sommerfield's head remained trapped against my bicep, his neck straining as he tried to maintain his advantage. His focus on punching had made him forget his own vulnerability. My arm tightened around his throat as I summoned strength from somewhere deep.

I drove my knee upward with every ounce of power my legs could generate. The top of my kneecap speared into the underside of his belly. The impact lifted him slightly off his feet, his body momentarily airborne as my knee disappeared into his gut.

His intestines collapsed around my kneecap, compressing into his gut. The sick, wet sound of organs being displaced filled the space between us—a sound halfway between a squelch and a thud. His bowels seemed to fold around my knee, accepting the blow with deeply arousing compliance.

Sommerfield's breath exploded from his lungs in a violent rush. His eyes widened, pupils dilating as the pain registered. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his diaphragm spasmed. 

His cock, remarkably, stayed rock hard.

Sommerfield's body went rigid, then slack, then rigid again as conflicting signals raced through his nervous system. His hands, which had been ready to deliver another punch to my gut, flew instinctively to his own belly.

I held him there for a moment, my arm locked around his throat. Then I released the headlock and let him stagger backward, just far enough to give me room.

I didn't hesitate. My right fist shot forward, driving directly into the pit of his stomach—that hollow space just below his sternum where the abdominal muscles converge. His already traumatized gut offered no resistance. My knuckles plowed through the surface of his abs and buried themselves deep in his upper intestines, crushing them against his solar plexus.

The punch folded him completely. His torso jackknifed around my fist as if magnetized to it. I felt his guts, soft inside him, squish and displace as my knuckles ground deeper. His stomach and intestines seemed to liquefy around my hand, churning and rolling as they sought escape from the pressure.

Sommerfield's knees buckled. He sank to the floor, his body folding forward until his forehead nearly touched the hardwood. His arms wrapped protectively around his middle, cradling his devastated core. His breathing came in short, desperate gasps—each inhale causing his traumatized gut to spasm.

I stood over him, my own gut still aching, my cock throbbing with arousal. Looking down at Sommerfield's crumpled form, I asked, "You okay down there, soldier?"

I smirked down at Sommerfield's crumpled form. This had been almost too easy—a military man taken down by a weekend boxer. Pride swelled in my chest as I took a step toward him, savoring the sight of his powerful body folded over itself, those perfect abs now vulnerable and conquered.

"Guess the Army isn't what it used to be," I said, reaching down to offer him a hand up.

My mistake.

Sommerfield's eyes flashed—not with pain but with predatory calculation. In an instant, I realized I'd been played. His collapse had been measured, controlled. A ruse.

Before I could pull back, his hand shot out and gripped my wrist with crushing force. His other arm coiled around my knee, and with one explosive movement, he yanked forward while simultaneously driving his shoulder into my thigh.

The room tilted violently. My back slammed against the hardwood with a hollow thud that knocked the wind from me. In the split second it took me to register what had happened, Sommerfield was already moving, his body flowing over mine with practiced precision.

His weight settled heavily across my thighs, pinning them to the floor. I tried to push him off, but he caught my right wrist in a vise-like grip, wrenching my arm up and back until it was trapped beneath my head. As I struggled to free my left hand, he shifted his weight, pressing down on my torso at just the right angle to trap my arm beneath my own body.

The position forced my back to arch slightly, pushing my belly upward—completely exposed, completely defenseless.

"You thought I was done?" Sommerfield's voice was steady, controlled, not even winded. A cold smile spread across his face as he looked down at me, pinned and vulnerable beneath him.

I bucked against his weight, but his thighs tightened around mine, immobilizing my lower body. My trapped arms strained uselessly as arousal surged through me (and a little panic, too—but who doesn't like a little danger in their hookups?).

"This is what happens to cocky civilians," he growled, raising his right fist high above my exposed midsection.

Time slowed. I watched his arm coil, his shoulder muscles bunching with stored power. His eyes locked with mine—no mercy, no hesitation, just pure intent.

The punch came down like a hammer. His fist drove straight into my navel with surgical precision, his entire body weight behind the blow. My relaxed abdominals parted like water around his knuckles as they tunneled deep into my exposed gut.

My intestines collapsed instantly, crushed between his descending fist and my spine. The pressure of the punch immediately crushed the guts beneath it and blew the rest of my intestines into my lower gut.

With his fist still buried in my navel, he used the other to launch a punch right into my bulging lower guts, and with nowhere to go, my bowels took the full force of the punch.

My cock jerked violently against my stomach, a thick bead of precum spurting from the tip. My balls tightened painfully as orgasm built at the base of my spine. I was going to cum—just from this punch, just from the feeling of my guts being brutalized by Sommerfield's fist.

"Fuck—I'm gonna—" I gasped, my voice barely audible as pleasure and pain twisted together into something indistinguishable.

My entire body tensed, hovering on the edge. Sommerfield must have felt it—the way my abs tightened involuntarily, the way my thighs strained against his weight. His eyes widened slightly, a flash of satisfaction crossing his face as he realized what was happening.

He pulled his fist back, releasing the pressure on my devastated gut. The sudden emptiness left me gasping, my organs shifting back into place with a nauseating roll. I'd been so close—one more second and I would have lost it completely.

I brought my hands up behind my head, fingers laced together, deliberately exposing my midsection again as I fought to control my breathing. My belly rose and fell rapidly, the muscles there completely slack. The skin around my navel had already darkened to a deep red, the imprint of Sommerfield's knuckles visible in the tender flesh.

Sommerfield sat back on his heels, still straddling my thighs but no longer pinning me down. His eyes traveled over my body, lingering on my exposed stomach and my still-rigid cock. Sweat gleamed on his chest and shoulders, highlighting the definition of his muscles. His own erection hadn't flagged at all—if anything, it looked harder, angrier.

The room fell quiet except for our breathing. Maybe we were taking a break? My gut throbbed with a deep, spreading ache that was somehow both painful and deeply satisfying. I closed my eyes briefly, savoring the sensation.

When I opened them again, Sommerfield was staring at me with an intensity that made my stomach clench. His face was unreadable—not angry, not satisfied, just... focused. Like he was solving a problem.

Without warning, his right fist drove down again, spearing directly into my navel. My intestines compressed beneath the blow, folding around his knuckles like they were welcoming him home.

Before I could recover, his left fist followed, landing in exactly the same spot. My belly caved completely, my guts flattening against my spine. The alternating rhythm continued—right, left, right, left—each punch delivered with mechanical precision. Not frenzied or wild, but measured. Deliberate. Each one designed to sink deeper than the last.

THUD

THUD

"Oh, fuck—" I breathed out.

THUD

"Take it," he commanded.

THUD

"Fuck—"

I let my eyes fall closed, surrendering to the rhythm of it. Each impact sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain radiating through my core. My intestines fully accepted the assault, taking the punches without any protection from my abs.

My breathing synchronized with the punches—exhaling as each fist drove in, inhaling in the brief pause between blows. My hands remained locked behind my head, my body completely open and vulnerable to Sommerfield's assault. I didn't want to defend myself.

I just… wanted this.

THUD

THUD

"Fuck—"

My cock leaked steadily now.

The rhythm continued, relentless and hypnotic. Right, left, right, left. Each punch finding that same spot where the impact traveled deepest.

Without warning, Sommerfield paused. I cracked my eyes open to find him staring down at me, his chest heaving, his face flushed with exertion and arousal. For a moment, we just looked at each other, something unspoken passing between us.

Then he raised both fists, interlocking his fingers to form one massive hammer. With a grunt that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, he brought it down directly into the center of my gut.

I saw it coming and knew I needed it. Not a chance in hell I would flex my abs at a time like this.

The impact was devastating. My entire midsection caved inward as his combined fists crushed my intestines deep into my core.

I couldn't help it—my hands flew to my belly, cradling the devastation. My fingers pressed against the tender flesh, feeling the echo of Sommerfield's fists still reverberating through my core.

"That's what a real gutpunch feels like," Sommerfield whispered, his fists still buried in my devastated belly as I groaned, grinding his knuckles deeper into my traumatized intestines.

Sommerfield's hands gripped my shoulders, and with one powerful motion, he flipped me onto my stomach. My cheek pressed against the cool hardwood as my arms instinctively stretched out in front of me. The movement sent a fresh wave of aching pressure through my gut—my intestines still churning from the brutal pounding they'd just taken.

"Ass up," Sommerfield commanded, his voice rough with arousal.

I complied without hesitation, drawing my knees beneath me and arching my back. My devastated belly hung down, tender and swollen, as I presented myself to him. Each small movement sent a sensation through my traumatized guts.

Behind me, I heard Sommerfield shift his weight. The sound of him spitting into his palm followed, then the slick noise of his hand working over his cock. I felt his fingers trace the curve of my ass before one pressed against my asshole, spreading the wetness.

"You want this?" he asked, his finger circling slowly.

"Yes," I breathed, my voice barely audible. "Fuck me. Don't stop punching me."

A low, approving rumble came from Sommerfield's throat. His finger pressed inside me, testing, then withdrew. I felt the blunt head of his cock against my ass, slick with spit and precum. He pushed forward, the pressure building until my body gave way.

My body accepted him eagerly. He sank deeper, his thickness filling me completely. My breath caught as he bottomed out, his hips flush against my ass. For a moment, he held still, letting me adjust to him.

"Fuck," I gasped, my internal muscles clenching around him. "That's—"

His right hand snaked around my waist, finding my exposed belly. His fingers splayed across my abdomen, feeling the softness there. Then his hand formed a fist.

Without warning, he drove his knuckles up into the underside of my gut while simultaneously thrusting deeper into me. The dual invasion—cock stretching me from behind, fist crushing my intestines from below—sent a wave of pleasure-pain radiating through my core.

"Oh fuck," I moaned, my forehead pressing against the floor as my back arched involuntarily.

Sommerfield established a rhythm—each thrust of his hips accompanied by a punch to my hanging belly. Sometimes he'd hit the same spot repeatedly, working it until my intestines felt like jelly. Other times he'd alternate—high, low, center—keeping me off-balance, never knowing where the next impact would land.

My cock hung heavy between my legs, leaking steadily onto the hardwood below. Each punch forced more precum from the tip, creating a small puddle beneath me. I was close—so fucking close—but the alternating sensations kept me hovering just at the edge.

"I'm going to get my neighbor to come over," Sommerfield said suddenly, his voice casual despite the brutal pace of his thrusts.

The words took a moment to penetrate the haze of sensation. When they did, I felt a fresh surge of arousal.

"What?" I managed between gasps as his fist found a particularly tender spot in my lower gut—then I moaned.

"My neighbor," Sommerfield repeated, grinding his cock deeper into me. "He's got a thing for bellies too."

His fist drove up again, catching my intestines at an angle that made me see stars. My elbows buckled, and my chest pressed against the floor while my ass remained raised, impaled on Sommerfield's cock.

"Three of us," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Taking turns on these guts. Punching you from both sides at once. Filling you up while we empty you out."

The image he painted sent a jolt through me—being used by two men, my gut the center of their attention, punches landing from all angles while I took their cocks one after another.

"Fuck," I breathed, my voice breaking. "Yes. Get him over here."

Sommerfield's rhythm never faltered as he reached for his phone on the nearby coffee table. My intestines still churned from the assault of his knuckles, but I wanted more.

"Don't move," he commanded, his cock still buried deep inside me. I heard the quick tap of his thumbs against the screen, followed by the soft chime of a message sent.

"How long until—" I started to ask, but Sommerfield cut me off with a particularly deep thrust that knocked the question right out of me.

"Not long," he answered, his hand returning to my gut. "He lives right across the hall."

His fist found that tender spot just below my navel again, grinding his knuckles against intestines that already felt like warm pudding. I moaned, my forehead pressed against the cool hardwood as pleasure-pain radiated through my core.

Less than two minutes later, I heard the front door open and close with a soft click. Footsteps approached the living room, hesitant at first, then more confident.

"Holy shit, you weren't kidding," a voice said from somewhere behind me.

I turned my head, cheek still pressed against the floor, to see a guy in his mid-twenties standing in the doorway. He wasn't built like Sommerfield—leaner, with the kind of body that comes from occasional gym visits rather than military discipline. His dark hair fell across his forehead in messy waves, and a light stubble covered his jaw. A faded band t-shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, and low-slung jeans rode his hips. There was something appealingly disheveled about him—like he'd just rolled out of bed after a night of drinking.

"Told you it was worth coming over," Sommerfield said, still buried inside me. "This is Leo. He loves getting his guts rearranged."

The neighbor's eyes traveled over my exposed position—ass in the air, belly hanging down, Sommerfield's cock disappearing inside me. His lips curved into an appreciative smile.

"I'm Drew," he said, already pulling his t-shirt over his head to reveal a lean torso with just a hint of definition. Not a six-pack like Sommerfield's, but a flat stomach with a light trail of hair disappearing into his jeans.

"Hi, Drew," I managed, my voice hitching as Sommerfield chose that moment to deliver another punch to my hanging gut. "Fuck—nice to meet you."

Drew laughed, a warm sound that somehow made the surreal situation feel more normal. "You too, man. I take it you can take quite a beating."

"He loves it," Sommerfield said, his hands suddenly gripping my hips. "Watch this."

In one fluid motion, Sommerfield pulled me upward, his cock still inside me as he maneuvered us both to our feet. My legs trembled, weak from the gutpunching and the intensity of being filled. Before I could find my balance, Sommerfield bent me forward at the waist, his hand between my shoulder blades pushing me down while his cock remained buried in my ass.

"Fuck," I breathed as he began thrusting again, harder now that we were standing. My devastated gut swung with each impact, sending waves of sensation through my already traumatized intestines.

Just when I thought I'd adjusted to this new position, Sommerfield's hand tangled in my hair. He pulled back sharply, forcing my torso upright while his cock continued to drive into me from behind, my back arched.

"Look at that," Sommerfield growled into my ear, his free hand moving to my belly. "Look how exposed his gut is now."

And it was true—the position forced my abdomen to thrust forward, my belly completely vulnerable. The muscles there remained slack, unable to tense after the brutal beating they'd taken—not that I'd want to flex anyway. My intestines, already churning from Sommerfield's assault, seemed to push outward against the wall muscle.

"Look at yourself," Sommerfield commanded, his voice low in my ear as he positioned us to face the large mirror I'd almost crashed into earlier. "Watch what happens to your gut."

I couldn't look away. The reflection showed everything—my flushed skin, my sweat-slicked torso arched backward, my exposed belly thrust forward, my large cock leaking. Sommerfield's muscular form behind me, his arm wrapped around my chest like a vise while his hips drove relentlessly. The position displayed my entire front to the mirror, leaving nothing hidden.

My stomach looked different already—slightly distended from the pounding, a reddish tint spreading across the skin where fists had repeatedly buried themselves. My abs were completely relaxed, offering no protection to what lay beneath.

"Drew," Sommerfield called to his neighbor, who stood watching us with undisguised hunger. "Get those clothes off. Come jack off while you punch his gut."

Drew didn't hesitate. His clothes hit the floor in one fluid motion, revealing a cock already fully hard and leaking. He kicked the clothes aside and approached us, his eyes locked on my exposed midsection in the mirror.

"Fuck, look at you," Drew breathed, his hand moving to his cock as he stepped in front of me. "Your body is insane."

His free hand reached up, fingers tracing the contours of my chest with something like reverence. His touch was surprisingly gentle, exploring the definition of my pecs, the ridges of my ribs, the hollow of my sternum. All while Sommerfield continued to fuck me from behind, his rhythm never faltering.

"I've never seen abs like this," Drew murmured, his palm flattening against my stomach. "So defined, but you keep them totally soft."

His hand traveled lower, fingers dipping into my navel, testing the give of my relaxed abdominals. I watched in the mirror as his expression shifted from appreciation to arousal to something hungrier.

Drew leaned in closer, his face nuzzling into my armpit. I felt his inhale—deep and appreciative—as he breathed in my scent.

"Fuck, you smell good," he groaned, his hand working faster on his cock. "Like a man."

I watched his reflection, transfixed by the way his face contorted with pleasure as he buried his nose deeper into my pit. His other hand continued to explore my torso, squeezing my pecs, tracing the line where sweat pooled at my collarbone.

Then, without warning, his exploring hand formed a fist.

Drew pulled back just enough to get leverage, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. There was a question there—and I answered by letting my abs go even slacker, pushing my gut out slightly in invitation.

His uppercut came fast and brutal. His fist drove deep into the center of my belly, disappearing into the softness there. My gut compressed violently around his knuckles, crushing deep into my body as Sommerfield thrust forward at the same moment. The mirror showed my rounded, relaxed six pack immediately go concave with Drew's punch.

The punch knocked what little air I had left completely out. My body tried to fold forward, but Sommerfield's grip kept me upright, forced to watch in the mirror as Drew's fist rearranged my intestines.

"Holy fuck," Drew gasped, his cock jerking in his hand as he watched my gut cave around his knuckles. "That's the hottest thing I've ever felt."

He pulled back and delivered another uppercut, this one landing slightly lower. My intestines seemed to liquefy around the impact, my soft abs rippling like liquid again with the force of Drew's punch. In the mirror, I could see the exact moment his knuckles found something particularly sensitive in my gut—my eyes widened, my mouth falling open in a soft moan.

"Look at your face," Sommerfield growled in my ear, his pace increasing. "Look how much you fucking love this."

He was right. The mirror didn't lie. The man reflected back at me was completely lost in the sensation—devastated and ecstatic all at once.

Drew's eyes were wide with wonder, his gaze darting between my face in the mirror and the impact site of his fist. His knuckles twisted deeper, grinding against my soft entrails.

"I can't believe you're keeping your abs soft," Drew marveled, slowly withdrawing his fist. He watched, mesmerized, as my gut rebounded—not snapping back like tensed muscle would, but flowing back into shape like heavy liquid. "Most guys can't help but flex."

"He knows better," Sommerfield grunted behind me, his rhythm never faltering as he drove into me. His hand tightened in my hair, forcing my gaze back to the mirror. "Keep punching him. Don't stop."

Drew nodded, a hungry look crossing his face as he studied my exposed belly. His fist cocked back, muscles coiling in his forearm. The anticipation was almost worse than the impact—almost.

His cross landed above my navel, driving straight through my unprotected core. My guts bulged outward into my lower gut as they sought escape from the pressure.

"Fuck—" I gasped, the word barely audible as my lungs emptied.

"Again," Sommerfield commanded, his voice rough in my ear.

Drew didn't hesitate. His next punch came as a vicious uppercut that speared upward into the underside of my belly. His knuckles disappeared completely into the soft pocket below my navel, where my intestines hung heaviest. I watched in the mirror as my lower gut collapsed around his fist, the visible six-pack inverting into a hollow as his knuckles drove deep into my bowels.

My intestines churned around the intrusion, twisting and folding as they were crushed between Drew's ascending fist and Sommerfield's cock driving into me from behind. The dual invasion—front and back—created a pressure that had nowhere to go but outward, radiating through my entire core.

"Fuuuuck yeah, take it," Drew marveled, twisting his fist deeper. "It's like punching dough."

The grinding of his knuckles sent fresh waves through my traumatized intestines. Each rotation displaced something new inside me—pressing here, grinding there, rearranging everything. Drew's fist kneading my bowels like soft clay.

Drew withdrew his fist slowly, watching my gut reform. Then, without warning, he hammered a brutal hook into my side, just above my hip. The punch landed at an angle that drove my intestines sideways, creating a sickening internal slosh that I could both feel and hear. My guts seemed to roll within me, displaced by the force of Drew's knuckles as they bored into my side.

"Fuuuck yeah," Drew groaned again, his free hand working furiously at his cock. "Your fucking guts are squirming around my fist."

The hook left me gasping, my knees threatening to buckle. But Sommerfield's grip was unyielding, his arm like an iron bar across my chest as he continued to fuck me with military precision.

Drew's eyes were wide with wonder as he watched my gut ripple and reform. His own cock leaked steadily as he stroked himself, his gaze fixed on the deepening red across my midsection. Each punch had left its mark—not just in color but in how my belly responded, growing softer, more pliant with each impact.

"Your gut's fucking incredible," he breathed, stepping back slightly to admire his work. "The way it just... takes everything."

I couldn't form words anymore. My entire consciousness had narrowed to the twin sensations of Sommerfield's relentless rhythm behind me and the hollow ache spreading through my core.

Drew took a half-step back, his eyes locked on my lower belly, again, where it hung most vulnerable. The muscles in his arm tensed as he drew his fist back, preparing for something bigger than before.

I watched in the mirror, unable to look away. My body was displayed in perfect clarity—sweat-slicked and flushed, my cock angry and leaking, my gut relaxed and waiting. The anticipation was electric. Every nerve ending in my body seemed to focus on that exposed section of my abdomen, knowing what was coming.

Drew's uppercut started from his hip, his entire body coiling behind the blow. His shoulder, torso, and arm moved as one unit, transferring maximum force into his fist as it rocketed upward. Time seemed to slow as I watched his knuckles approach my unprotected belly.

The impact was brilliant.

His fist disappeared completely into the underside of my gut, Drew burying his knuckles so deep I couldn't see his fist. My intestines collapsed instantly, offering no resistance as his knuckles plowed through them. The punch lifted me slightly off my feet, my body rising on my toes as the force traveled upward through my core.

The pressure was unlike anything I'd ever felt—like my guts were being forced simultaneously up into my chest and down into my groin. My intestines compressed into a tight mass, then seemed to explode outward, bulging my upper gut briefly as my intestines sought any available space as Drew's knuckles ground deeper.

"Fuck—" The word tore from my throat, barely recognizable as my own voice.

Drew twisted his fist, grinding his knuckles against my beaten guts. The rotation sent a final, devastating wave through my core—a pressure so intense it felt like my guts might burst.

That was it. The tipping point.

My cock jerked violently, untouched, as thick ropes of cum erupted from the tip. The first shot hit the mirror in front of us, the rest spattering across the floor as my body convulsed. Each pulse seemed to originate not from my cock but from my devastated gut—Drew's and Sommerfield's fists had beaten it out of me mercilessly.

"Fuuuuck, bro," Drew breathed, his own hand a blur on his cock as he watched my handsfree orgasm in the mirror.

Behind me, Sommerfield's rhythm faltered. His grip tightened painfully in my hair as his hips slammed forward one final time.

"Fuck—" he growled, his voice breaking as he came deep inside me. I felt each pulse of his cock, each spurt of heat filling me as his body tensed against my back.