Playthings

Kyle drops under the rim chair, tongue deep in Greg Hollywood’s hairy hole. Greg’s boots click, his low voice growls approval. Then he flips Kyle over, slaps lube on that open ass and works a thick robotic plug inside. Kyle bucks, nipples stiff, spit already shining on his chin. Greg steps close, feeds him every inch of heavy dick, choking the jock until spit runs down his chest. The plug pulses, stretching Kyle wider with each throb. Greg yanks it free, lines up, and drives in raw. Skin slaps skin, sweat sprays. Greg’s cock pistons, hips snapping, boots planted. Kyle groans, voice cracking, every thrust punching deeper. Greg pulls out, strokes once, twice, then paints that wrecked hole in thick ropes that drip down Kyle’s balls and over his boots. Year is 2025. No mercy. No limits. Just skin, spit, and seed.