NM-197 Bridegroom’s Cherry
Bridegroom’s Cherry
New Male
NM-197
Jeff Kincaid
$3.95
Excerpt
“Great,” Chance agreed, smirking. “The perfect wedding present; let’s get him on the fuckin’ bed, right in the center’a the picture.” The mechanism whirred softly in the camcorder as the three big young beach bums heaved, lifting the drooping musculature between them. Steve was dumped on the mattress, dead center.
“Hhaaahhh… “ he moaned, an excess of spit drooling out of the corner of his slack-jawed mouth. Unless one of his attackers slapped him awake, or splashed a bucket of water in his face, consciousness was yet at least ten or fifteen minutes away from the brawny jock’s mind, if not more.
“Get those cords from the drapes back in the living room,” the next order from the blond surfer stud, directed at Mike even as Chance leaned lasciviously over their ripe-muscled young prisoner, shredding the rest of the damaged tee-shirt off Steve’s hairy pecs and smooth-skinned shoulders.
Shee-itt, this bridegroom’s upper body was perfect, wasn’t it, abso-fuckin-lutely perfect, with curly hair even like a low-mowed lawn on the high trapezoidal plains of Steve’s sculpted chiseled chest, the nipples smooth, dark pink, the size of silver dollars: twin peaks sloping up out of the sea of dark hair all the more luscious for their isolation at the curve of the pectoral ridge, itself at least two inches vertical off his wide-flaring ribs.
It was to cream in one’s jeans, on sight.
Of course, there was no fucking way that Chance, or Sal, or Mike, was going to waste a cum in his briefs. Not when there was this soon-to-be stark naked hunk to cream all over they weren’t.
The gang leader’s hands were where Sal’s hands had wanted to go before, slipping the broad leather belt out of the loops at the waist of the dungarees, the tilt of his blond head giving Sal the high sign, simultaneous: the Italian kid could get those work boots off Steve’s big size thirteen feet, and the sweat socks, too. Yeah.
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