Jumpin' Jacks

Mark Masterson starts slow with decent dildos. Then the shelf shows its teeth—monsters that promise to wreck him. His ass takes them anyway. Thick toys slide past the rim, vanish, reappear, slick and gleaming. He pumps one after another until his hole stays open on its own. He picks the meanest, straddles it, and rides hard enough to make the bench creak. Sweat runs down his chest. His breathing turns ragged. Next he grabs a fat black plug, wide as a forearm. Every inch fights him; his hole flares, quivers, gives a little, then fights back. He exhales, leans in, forces the brutal girth deeper until his cheeks rest against the floor and the plug sits buried to its base. His thighs shake. He holds it there, shaking, hungry, already reaching for the next size.