Mo' Betta' Butt

Steve Hood lies back in a sling, already pleading for Buck Hammer's cock. Buck does not give it. He lines up a row of black plugs instead, one thicker than the last, and works them in until Hood's hole is stretched raw. The leather harness creaks when Hood strains, sweat running down his hairy chest. Finally Buck peels the glove back and sinks his fist wrist-deep, hair matting against wet skin. The whole forearm follows, slow and steady, until every inch disappears and Hood’s breath comes out in short, ragged bursts. Year after year, 2007, daddies still remember how that sling creaked under the weight of one man owning another.