The StudBusters are back and this time putting a pair of sexy but deserving brothers through the ringer. Another classic collaboration between Jeff Kincaid and Cavelo!

For Asses Only
by Jeff Kincaid
Art by Cavelo
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"Them?" My jaw must have dropped ten feet.

"You know the name, I gather." Lt. Jakes used his pencil to scratch an itch at the back of his ear, leaning back in the chair behind his desk in the squad room.

"We know the names," Ryan acknowledged, emphasizing the plural as he passed the I.D. sheets over to Harker and Mario. "This match-up is fool-proof, is it?"

"Conviction guaranteed," the detective insisted, amused at the naivete of the question. "If this was a case I was preparing for the D.A., that is." Before he dropped the whole matter entirely and showed us to the door he wanted it confirmed: "You're not pressing charges against these assholes?"

"Not when we can have the fun of 'trying' them ourselves we're not." Some of the cross-examination in a court of law might not be too cool, in fact and a smart defense attorney could damn well have a jury come back with a verdict of justifiable break-in and retaliation, if such a finding were permissible. Speculation like that primed the paranoia, my fantasy immediately taking terrible flight All of a sudden we'd be the defendants. We'd be the ones on trial, so many sexual felonies on the bill of arraignment that we'd be facing three hundred years in the slam, ye Gods.

What about the original client you were working for, you ask. Surely she'd take the stand on your behalf, telling the court what had been done to her by those very plaintiffs now pointing the finger at the upright young citizens who had only come to her defense, righteously and properly? Yes?


Any other client we ever worked for, no sweat. This one? Who had spider-like lured our victims into a trap that we unwittingly closed on them for her? Ha. Oscar Wildes we were not, foolishly taking a personal problem into open and all-too-legal jurisdiction.

"Then we're nice and even," Peter Jakes wanted us to know. "So long as I don't have to come back into the picture down the line." What he meant was, he knew who we were and he knew who these fingerprints belonged to. "If anything criminal happens to these guys, be warned, boys. I'll come after you and you'll hang." A promise.

"Lieutenant," I nodded, "up front; something criminal is going to be done to those bastards. But you won't know about it and they won't complain."

Would they survive? Intact? "Our promise for your promise, Pete," Harker wanted the detective to know. "Not only are they going to survive - whole - they are going to have the time of their fucking lives..."



The phone rang at Wyandotte Plumbing three minutes to six in the afternoon, an overflowing toilet at 672 East 23rd, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Estes Grant. It was Mrs. Millie Grant calling, "hoping" that "that nice polite young plumber Zach Mayo was available - he did such a good job on the sink some months ago, did the gentleman remember?"

Stu Wyandotte didn't, but the customer was always right, and if Mrs. Grant said that Zach did such a great job on her sink, hey, Zach did a great job on her sink. Actually, the dispatcher mused, amused, "sink" might just be a terrific euphemism - the tennis pro's brother happened to be the best-looking young stud on the company's field staff and Millie Grant would hardly be the first bored housewife to call in requesting his "services" in specific. The guy was a real pussy chaser (as well as a decent plumber), and he loved his job for the opportunities it gave him, just about every other day. Except for a noticeable "lull" about two weeks ago - a time when Zach seemed uncharacteristically depressed and off sex, off everything - the guy was a gung-ho screwing machine, happy, healthy and horn-ee. All of Stu's employees should have such a bright outlook when they took their trucks out!

(But all of Stu's employees weren't as tightly muscled and handsome of face as Zach Mayo, were they?)

Where the hell was he this afternoon, anyway? A quick check of the schedule and an alert call to the electronic pager on the plumber's belt Within three minutes the phone at the office was shrilling again, Zach promptly on the line. He didn't remember Mrs. Grant, either, but that didn't mean anything; too much water under the proverbial bridge if he'd taken care of a problem at her house "some months ago. What was that address again, 23rd? That might be that petite little redhead with the pointed rose-colored boobs, yeah. Yeah. And if it was, if it was, hey, Stu? "I might be pulling in pretty late tonight." It was to be his last assigned call, right?

His bright puppy-dog enthusiasm and candor tickled the boss's risibilities. Zach could keep the truck out all night, he didn't care. "Just so long as you're here with it ready for the first call in the morning. Eight A.M., kid."

"You're a real understanding sweetheart, I mean it," Zach whooped, chuckling with anticipation and making a point of adjusting the balls beneath his company work clothes, grease-stained and damp with the funky smell of a young blue collar already on the job for ten hours. If this was the redhead he was chugging over to see the heady aroma of masculine sweat would knock her on her back and spread her pretty legs within the space of 30 seconds. Oh, fucking yeah and, with that prick-hardening thought in mind, Zach leapt for the truck and took off in a cloud of exhaust, leaving his fellow workers to clean up where they were, jealous and admiring, both. Thank God that he and brother Doug had gotten back at those ass-fucking Studbuster jerks last week. After the S&M hell those bastards put the Mayos through neither would have been able to fuck any good snatch. Now that the siblings had evened things up, had given those hairy, muscle-bound big shots a taste of their own fucking medicine... Hey, Mrs. Grant; if what you want is to get laid, relaid and parlaid, this young stud cock is going to make every hole in your sweet little body cream like it's never creamed before, count on it "I am going to send you to heaven, yeah!"

He sang it, in fact, as he pulled up into a spot conveniently open in front of 672, swaggering as he crossed the sidewalk and entered the lobby of the swank apartment house, stabbing the Grant bell button with the ball of his thumb. Once, twice, and there she was on the building's intercom. "Is this Mr. Mayo, the plumber from Wyandotte?"

"Right here for your leak," he grinned, buoyant, his hand clutching at the bulge stretching the fabric at the seam between his legs, pulling it downward on the inside of his left thigh. Fluffed almost to indecent hardness, it looked like the mound left by a subsurface mole lying in wait for some easy prey.

The buzzer unlocked the lobby door and, grin broadening, the sturdy young plumber sauntered through to the elevator, going up to sixteen. She was there in the open apartment door, long eyelashes and attractive body - not the redhead he'd been thinking of, after all, but not bad. Not bad at all. If this chick wanted him to use his big fat plumber's snake in her hot dripping cunt, hey, he was willing. No sweat None whatsoever!

"It's in the master bedroom," she gestured, voice seductive, eyes giving him the old once-over. "The master bath, I mean." Sure. Lady, I hear you. I know where you're coming from. No twat fools me. The hubby out of town, is that it, huh? Too busy at the office to give you a mercy fuck?

Probably the big "leak" is a faucet deliberately left ajar, the excuse to get the hot muscled jock of choice over to plug her hole - a little bet Zach made with himself as he followed Millie Grant through the master suite, the bathroom on the far side. Kingsize bed, the plumber noted. Unmade. Yeah.

"You look like you've had a long hot day," she was saying as she pointed to the toilet bowl, the water running within. Could she get him something? "A soda?" There was even beer - "if this is your last stop I suppose your boss wouldn't mind."

"A beer would be great" he nodded, uncapping the tank and taking a look. What do you know. What do you know. The bob seems to have gotten caught here, keeping the valve from closing at the end of the flush. One of those "accidents" that happen in toilet tanks every now and then, isn't it. Sure. Right.

The hiss of a tab opener came through the air from the bedroom door behind him, a "here you go" accompanying it. With his back to his hostess Zach could leer with impunity, a cute little plan suddenly blossoming in his libidinous brain, put immediately into action. Expert fingers unleashed the rubber bob from beneath the valve which held it, a sudden splash of tank water spraying up and inundating his body from the neck to the crotch. The tee soaked through in that exact second, drenched cotton plastered to his flaringly muscular body, showing off the definition the way nakedness itself could never so sensuously do.

"Oh, shit," he said as though this were an unexpected and unwanted mishap, quickly looking up over his broad shoulder to check out her response to the sight, and the language. "Pardon my French."

Mrs. Grant didn't seem to mind his French. (She'd be giving him some of her own, he thought, judging from the way her tongue was playing across her lips, seeing the beautiful development of his monumental physique.) "You're all wet; you'll catch cold. Oh, my."


"All I need is a towel. Cotton dries fast"

"It dries faster off than on." Her hands fluttered, more with lust than anything else, if Zach were reading her right and Zach very rarely read them wrong. The beer had been set aside. A towel was up and extended.

"You're sure it's all right? I mean," he smiled, showing her how even and white his teeth were, "it could look a little incriminating, me standing here in your master suite bare-chested."

"My husband is away on a business trip. No one is going to come in here to rub a finger and go, 'shame, shame, shame."' Now it was the lady who was displaying some teeth, and Zach stripped the sodden shirt up over his head, tossing it into the tub. She stepped forward, not giving him the towel as a disinterested woman might, but using it on him herself, gently rubbing him down, patting the thick pectoral slabs, the giant shouldercaps. "You have a very well developed body," she said, her voice liquid with saliva. Did any of the water get into his armpits?

"I don't know." Why didn't they see? And Zach raised his arms, hooking them seductively behind his head so that Millie could get as good a look at his pits as she wanted, and she seemed to want, very much, moving in on them more with her face than her towel. Breathing deep.

"You don't use deodorant" It was not said with disapproval, none whatsoever. Quite the contrary, in fact.

"Should I," did she think? His eyes seemed to draw her head even close to him, magnetic. Stick your tongue out, lady. We both know how hot you are to lick my hairy underarms, do it, come on. Taste that good stud sweat if that's what you want, yeah. Yeah. He'd guzzle that beer she so thoughtfully opened and Millie'd go down on his stinking armpit, everybody'd have a hot time. If she were a real good pit-licker, hey, he'd let some of this foaming brew spill down from his mouth, let it dribble down through the hair of his chest She could lap some of that up as well.

"No," she was saying in a tiny little voice, looking lost "I think a man - a real man - should smell like a real man." The tongue was protruding from her lips, extending, tentatively burrowing into the tufted bush beneath his biceps, at the end of his vee'd out lat. Slurp! Chomp! "Mmmm. Mmmmmmgg."

Zach let his head fall back on the thickness of his cording neck, the Adam's apple yoyoing as he swallowed a sudden excess of spit, eyes pretty much closed. What a sensation. What a fucking sensation, a smoothly brushing tongue sliding the length of his hair-infested hollow, making the sensitive skin beneath goosebump with mindblowing pleasure. Wow. Fucking A. His hand almost mindlessly brought the beer can up to his face, tipping it The suds went mostly down his esophagus, filling his belly. Some did, however, drip onto his chest, slicking it again.

He didn't have to give the order. Mrs. Grant wanted that beer, it seemed. She wanted it bad, her scuttling tongue slithering up from the spit-wet recess beneath his muscular arms, crossing the pectoral plain and gobbling. Gobbling like crazy. This was one hot bitch, man. This was a cunt of the first fucking water! So hot, in fact, that it made him dizzy. It made his knees rubber. "Oo." Would Millie mind if he plopped down prone on the bed here? There were more goodies for her if she wanted to find them: all she had to do was keep on the way she was going, moving that incredible mouth of hers downward, yeah. "Kiss my belly button, yeah," and beneath the belly button, hidden in those work clothes, the real object of her salacious desire, right?

The lips were indeed working their way down his stretched-out form, tracing swampy trails of spit across his ribs and the ridges of his belly, her hands simultaneously undoing, unhooking, spreading the ripe, gamey cloth. There were his pubes, yeah, thicker and curlier and smellier even than the forests she had just explored in the armpits above, the stink of dried cum sharp in her cock-crazy nose.

A new drink appeared at his mouth, Millie reaching up to pour the liquid over the teeth and the tongue, except that wasn't possible, was it? Weren't both of the cunt's hands down there between his legs, holding his cock and his balls while she siphoned the juice up out of those aching glands? Who, then? Who was feeding him this nectar? The room was so dark and so light at the same time, under and over exposed. Spiraling around, and there was a roaring in his ears getting louder and louder and - Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He'd been drugged. The bitch put some Mickey Mouse Powder in his beer, the twat. The cunt. She was eating him up alive down there, chomping his pecker with her teeth, cannibalistic. Munching his meat like a dog with a bone, grinding it between the molars and making him husk. "N-no-ohhh, kripes." The eyes bugged over his lovers lids, looking down his cheekbones and his heaving nipple-dotted pecs. There she was at her post - at his post - only it wasn't any Millie Grant at all, was it. The wig was gone. The hair was short. The smile emphasized by the stark red lipstick was diabolic.

He knew the guy. The kid. He knew him! The Studbuster kid - Mario - oh, baby. Oh, wow. They were all over him, putting him under, lifting him up, stop. I'm sorry. Please. Please.

The fist that he was standing in closed down around his entire being and there was nothing but darkness for a good long while.



Something light and feathery was sensuously tickling the darkness in the rancid crevasse between the cheeks of his ass, nudging the small curls of hair profuse on either side of his winking hole, circling its radius as though about to close in, dead center. "Hhuuhh," he groaned, barely audible, not because it was annoying or invasive, but because, shit, it felt good. Soothing. Relaxing. Hypnotic. His legs shifted, opening wider: an invitation to the sensation. More. More. "Mmmhhh"

But they could only go so wide and not one more inch, something locking his ankles into place on either side of - of what? Where was he? The muscular young plumber bolted upright, eyes snapping open, wanting to see. Needing to know. And it was like a tether attached to him even before he got a quarter of the way up into a sitting position, yanking him back down, flat, wrists fastened above his head, as wide spread as his feet. "Hi," said Harker Hines, smiling, filling the entire field of Zach's vision. "Welcome to Hell."

"Oh fucking shit," the imprisoned victim moaned. "You figured it out." Whatever the Studbusters were using to tickle his asshole with, it was itchy and bluntheaded, the merest touch jangling every single nerve surrounding the tender flesh of his winking anus. It felt like a horde of little ants, nibbling, and each second that passed made it more and more impossible to keep still. To take it without moving.

"You left your stupid fingerprints all over the place," Mario wanted the goodlooking superstud to know. "You and your idiot brother."

"I told him," he inhaled, sucking the air. "I told him you'd come for us, haaahhhghh!" The "haahhhghh" was because the plumber's pliant young quim had just flowered enough to let whatever it was that I was holding in my hand to slid through into the rectal vestibule. "What is that, what?"

It wasn't a cock, it was too narrow and flexible to be a cock. The texture was all wrong: there wasn't any of the rubbery give a good cock sheathes its inner hardness in, and this worm seemed segmented, the hard shell around its penetrating length articulated like the narrowest of armadillos. Some eel-lengthed crustacean.

"You have to be putting me on, man," I said, mock surprise all over my voice. Didn't Zach the husky young plumber recognize his own plumber's snake when he felt it going up into his ass-twat? "What's the matter? We thought you'd get a real kick, being roto-rootered in the end." His throbbing pecker didn't seem to mind; in fact, the deeper we probed, the more solidified it seemed to become. The more erect.

"Maybe we have to turn the faucets on at the same time," Mario reflected, moving up alongside Zach's heaving chest, each of his hands occupied by a pair of pliers, tools taken, of course, from Zach's own tool box. "Now, let's see... which is hot and which is cold?"

"Turn them both and see," Ryan suggested, which struck the youngest of the Studbusters as a brilliant idea. Each set of pliers gaped and then struck, the cold metal teeth biting down on the nub of each of the plumber's hair-haloed rosettes, pinching them mercilessly, twisting them into a red-fleshed corkscrew, tugging upward. Zach must have thought - if the pain allowed him to think at all - that the kid was literally going to rip the nips right up off his pecs, tearing them free.

"YYYAAAAGGGHHHHKKKK," he screeched, his back arching his whole body upward from the ankles to the neck; I took advantage of his single-mindedness to slip the rest of the writhing snake through his stinking backside, a combination of tortures which filled his prick to the hydraulic limit, the distended tumescence stretched and swollen all the way up his hairy abdomen. The priapic glans looked like a purple plum about to pop its peel, stringy webs of translucent precum connecting it to the little hairs which grew reed-like around the navel crater. It reminded me of a picture book I once had as a child of five, a Gulliver's Travels illustrated with a picture of the prone Gulliver webbed by the Lilliputians with what looked like the very same plasticized ropes. (Sometimes I wonder if that print wasn't what in the long run caused me to become a Studbuster. I remember getting an immediate hardon every time I looked at its somehow salacious depiction. The artist had envisioned Gulliver as a well-developed young Anglo-Saxon seaman in semi-conscious bondage. Tantalizing glimpses of his naked flesh had been visible through the rips and wrecks of his waterlogged sailor suit, part of the flat of the belly, the curve on the right side of his pec, half a full-sized nipple winking out from under the shred of the cloth. Yeah.)

"Maybe you're turning the knobs the wrong way," Hinsie was saying to his cousin as I came out of my reverie, this despite the obvious boner I just described. "Try it counterclockwise, why don't you."

"Why don't I indeed," Mario agreed, reversing the direction of plier twist. By this time the plumber's masculine nipples were all swollen and red, pebbling. Sore. His scream this time was siren-like, up and down, up and down, ending in a kind of burp when I snapped a pair of alligator clips onto the puckering foreskin just at the frenum. Snap! Zach's head lifted on his neck, sheer strength of will more than anything else by now; he looked down the length of his spasming nakedness to check out the dimensions of this latest atrocity in the work.

What he saw made his head jerk up even higher on the thickness of that well muscled neck. "What is that," he wanted to know, voice quavering in trepidation. "Where's that wire going?"

"To the same place this wire is going," I assured him, snapping a second clip onto his scrotum, knowing that the ragged metal teeth would make him howl, would make that uplifted head fall back down with a thud. I also knew that the combination of curiosity and fright would make it rise again: the humpy young blue-collar stud couldn't take his eyes off what was happening. He had to see - to see the box with the handle I was setting up between his yawning knees. "Ready?" The connections all were made, nice and neat,

"For what, hhhyyaasggkkk - Hhyyyaaiiigggkkkkkk!" It was just a short burst of electricity, but his whole body smoked, speaking figuratively, the muscles dancing with sensuous beauty just under the sweating skin. "Hyyyuuhh!"

"Just to get your attention," I explained, smiling to put him at his ease. "Devilish thing, this box, the way it can give a guy pain. Or pleasure. To illustrate the latter..."

Now my hand was moving the knob with deliberately slowness, rheostating the current through his helpless genitalia, increasing the voltage little by little. At first the frowning plumber just lay there feeling nothing, beginning to think that maybe I didn't know what I was talking about - this despite the jolt I started him out with! But then the slightest of tingles began, sizzling through his gonads and up along the length of his prick, immediately restoring whatever rigidity the initial shock may have removed; The tingles turned into fiery itchings, into the kind of unbearable congestion which only afflicts a man's balls when he's about to cum, prompting the convulsion of orgasm. Only here there would be no release, no relief, there would only be the sensation of impossible pleasure, delightful at first, mindblowing, but then excruciating. Utterly agonizing. It was a whole different sound coming out of his drooling mouth at this point, a whole different sound as his hips made figure eights and the padded cheeks of his muscular young butt slapped down with increasing ferocity against the table to which he was tied. Thump! Thud! Thump!

"Hhhuuunnnggghhhh... unnnhhhggggkkk, "that's about as close to the onomatopoeia as I can come, I'm afraid. You get the idea.

"I think he's trying to say something." Ryan was very good at recognizing the signs.

"I wonder what" I loomed up over the study, my own dick feeling as though it were about to explode. If a load of cum boiled up out of my balls at that exact moment, I swear, man, my god damned pecker would have flown off into outer space, that's how much propulsive force it would have had. What a glorious end to a Studbuster career!

"Yyyuuuhhhhgggnnn..." Still at it Zach. Loving every fucking minute, yeah. I kept the turning steady. Very steady. I could do it like this all day and tonight, when I wanted to catch a few winks, hey, I could rig it to a separate motor; that would keep it going all night.

Unless the writhing young plumber wanted to speak English to us instead of that mindless wailing, monosyllabic and dumb?

He huffed, jaw opening and closing, tongue wagging, foamed with spit "C-ccummmmm," he stammered. "You h-have to I-I-let me c-c-cummmmmm. . ." This was followed by a helpless "yyeeeeeggggg,"or some such nonsense. I made a show of turning to my buddies for a translation. Had they understood the plea?

"Something about wanting us to let him get his rocks off, I think." Mario nibbled at a fingernail, the picture of patrician insouciance, if you can imagine a street punk being patrician in the first place. I cocked my head at the squirming youth spread out between us, drenched with sweat Was that it, hmm? Did the big tough jock want us to send him over the line, was that it? Did he want us to fix it so that his nuts would crack open and all that thick gooey jizz would come pouring out, wave after wave of hot gunk going splat! on his belly? Yeah?

"Nnnyyyuuuhhhgg," he started and then started again, nodding hard enough to thwack the back of his head against the table. "Yessss... !!" Ahhhh.

Well. I lowered the voltage. Just a little. Enough to make it easier to talk. To repeat after me. "Or should I go back on 'high' again, asshole?"

"W-what do y-y-you want me t-to s-s-say?" He looked sexy, drained and sagging in his bounds, his mouth slack, his armpits dripping line after line of sweat It had a lot to do with the continuing movements of his tormented pelvis, I thought, the way the twisting of his hips made his pubic bush pull this way and that.

What did I want Zach to say? "How about, 'you got me, sir,' for openers?"

"You do. You got me." Nice. I especially liked the plaintiveness in the tone.

"And you're grateful now that you think about it, aren't you."

Huh, his expression said.

"Don't make a Studbuster repeat himself, punk." I gave him a smallish jolt, to remind him of what could be done. His naked body contracted and then relaxed, whitened lips making little smacking sounds as he tried to regain his voice as quickly as possible. To parrot the line he should have spoken without question. Was he grateful that we'd gotten the best of him? Yes? Was he sorry that he and his queer crud brother broke into Studbuster HQ and took out their own miserable insecurities on our sleeping bodies, when we were in no position to defend ourselves? Was he?

"I am," he cried. "I am!" Could he cum now? Could we fix it, please? "Please?"

"If you're willing to help us get your brother Doug, the big tennis pro, maybe." Brother Doug. The studly supercock of the country club tennis court, who'd started all this by coming on to a certain married lady. Whether or not the guy had subsequently conspired with his plumber brother to gang-bang her nakedness up in Doug's bachelor apartment or whether she had conspired to get them there in order to holler rape made no nevermind at this point Had he not wanted to notch her name on his gun none of this would have happened at all.

"What're you going to do with him if you get him?" The question didn't surprise me. The tone did. Was Zach protecting his manly young sibling or, was I hearing right? Was he just making sure that the punishment fit the crime? Were we going to use the pliers on his fucking tits? Were we going to sew his fucking foreskin closed with needle and thread? Were we going to dick his ass and piss in his mouth 'til he just lay there, a stinking pile of quivering man-meat on the ground? Huh?

"You want to see that, Zach?" Harker sure did. "You want to see your arrogant asshole of a brother groaning naked in the dirt, dripping cum?" Not very brotherly of him, to say the least.

"He got me into this, the cocksucker." The confession was accompanied by a series of grunts as I adjusted the amount of current flowing through his mottled genitals, making sure that the edge I maintained him on wouldn't send him toppling over into orgasm too soon. "I told him she was trouble, making like she wanted to get dicked by the two of us at the same time. A high-class chick like that? She had to have something up her sleeve, but did Doug listen? No, he just said I was crazy, the cunt was a cock-happy slut who couldn't get enough. And then, when you guys helped her get her revenge I said, 'Doug, hey, let it be, you'll only make it worse, going out after them, they're Studbusters - they don't take any shit"

"Not lying down, we don't," Mario confirmed.

"He wouldn't listen to me, the asshole; he said, 'man, nobody plows my butt and gets away with it, nobody makes a monkey out of Doug Mayo.' And I was going to help him, he said, because if I'd been smart and quick you never could have used me to get him. I 'owed' him, and the two of us were going to break in to your place and give you some of the same medicine."

They did that, all right, but I wasn't going to give Zach the satisfaction of saying so out loud, not here, not with his own god damned plumber's snake burrowed up into his shitty ass and an electrical charge stiffening his aching dork. I doubt there was a Studbuster present who didn't think that the truth wasn't quite as our struggling captive depicted; that the actuality was that he thought that the two of them could get away with it They could break into the place in the middle of the night when we wouldn't know what was happening till it happened, forcing us in their ski masks to suck our own cocks. To suck each other's cocks. To - shit, why linger on the past? The important thing was that it was Zach who was stripped down and tied up now, Zach who was begging for mercy, Zach who was more than willing to get off the hook by putting his humpy brother on it. Who, in fact, was more than a little turned on by the prospect "I want to jam this boner up his ass so hard he screams," he yelled, and I believed him, whipping the handle on the generator up into a frenzy. The plumber's powerful young muscles went completely rigid as the current crashed through him with the force of a tidal wave.


In all my years as a Studbuster - and before - I never saw anyone cum like that I never saw a hardon so hard, shooting so many bolts of gism so thick so far. These weren't little globules of gunk, man, these were meteors. Hailstones. Bombs, landing with audible splats all over the place, especially on his naked, rancid, sweat-drenched body. His face. His hair. His eyes and mouth, both wide, both pulsing. "Doesn't he ever stop?" Ryan wanted to know, astonished. "He keeps this up his balls are going to collapse!"

He kept it up, quite a while, but his balls didn't collapse even after so amazing a performance. I didn't really think they would. Zach Mayo had to have some ammunition left to shoot at his swaggering brother Doug before the day was out.


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