Well, why not start a thread about your last fisting experience? let me start with mine ....
After weeks of grinding through work deadlines, glued to my desk and pretending to be a respectable citizen, my inner pig was screaming. My hole had been itching for days—tight, hungry, desperate for a stretch—and my balls were swelling with all the loads I’d been edging out, never quite satisfied. I’d been jacking off here and there, but that just made the craving sharper. It wasn’t release I needed. It was destruction.
No marathon this time—Monday morning would hit hard enough. What I wanted was a filthy reset: quick, filthy, public, anonymous, hands in and out, then home in time to fake normalcy at work. Enter: Naked Sunday at De Stammbar in Brussels, Belgium
If you know, you know: doors open at 3pm, by 3:05 you’re naked, sniffing the air thick with lube, sweat, and anticipation, and the only thing on anyone’s mind is getting holes used. No pretense. No chit-chat. Just pigs, jocks, and pure fucking intent.
Rinsing was a breeze—I’ve got it down to an art—and as I arrived, the place was already swarming with every flavor of filth you could imagine. Hung, hairy, shaved, smooth, chunky, shredded—doesn’t matter, as long as you’re ready to show me your hands or get on your knees. I slipped out of my clothes, felt the blast of cool air on my skin, and instantly felt myself thickening, my hole fluttering in anticipation.
For the next three hours, I was hunting hands. In the end, three hungry fists, working me open, knuckles deep, pushing, coaxing, making my eyes roll. I was moaning, grunting, drooling, a proper fuckpig—no names, no words, just pure animal connection.
Between fists, other guys teased my cock, chewed my tits, fed me poppers, and slapped my cheeks raw. Every hole needed attention, every nerve ending on fire.
one of the highlights? A filthy Brit couldn’t keep his hands off me. Five minutes of grinding and he was grunting in my ear, “I’m gonna cum.” I turned around, locked my legs, squeezed my wrecked hole, and milked his load straight up my guts. Waste not, want not. I could feel his spunk oozing out, mixing with lube and sweat. Fuck, that’s church for pigs.
The bar was heaving—shoulder-to-shoulder with men who didn’t give a fuck who watched them get fucked—but the real players were a bit rarer this time. Still, three fists ain’t a bad Sunday. I swapped numbers/profiles with a couple of solid boys for next time.
By 7pm, I was spent, sore, and glowing. I waddled home, ass leaking, cock soft, brain fizzing. Happy? Fuck yes. Satisfied? Maybe for a day or two. This pig’s always hungry for more.
