MH-405 The Reamer

INTRODUCTION

Buttrape! Stalking the superstuds! Any jock with enough over the balls was target for their hard-up, tied-down and very dirty indeed. Plugging the best of them with the best of theirs… hairy holes lighting up and coming tilt!

FOREWORD

Fantasies! Everybody has ’em. Alone or in a crowd. Who was it who said that when there are two people making it, there are always two more people hovering around—you know, the stacked stud each of them dreams of being with instead of the stacked stud he’s plugging into?

What fantasies fill your mind’s eye, babe?

You’re sitting home by yourself and you’re watching your TV set. The show’s a drag, but there’s nothing else on; nowhere else to go. And then the commercial—only this commercial features one of those pro-football star jocks, stripped to the waist, plugging underarm spray. Hair tonic. Who gives a shit?

He’s got pecs that won’t quit, twin tits like pink peach pits you just know taste smooth and salty—and they have him rub the gunk into his hair, dollying in close on his swelling biceps and giving you one hell of a look at his armpit. Hairy. Smelling of sweat, you just know it. Hold that shot.

But they don’t—it’s only a thirty-second tease job and then that drag of a program is back on your screen. But you’re not looking at it, not really, even though your eyes are wide open.

No, man. Your hand has unzipped your fly, your hand is in your crotch, feeling your bush, closing around your cock, hauling it out, up, hot and throbbing. You’re squeezing it, pulling it, getting sticky because what you’re seeing is that butch line-backer standing right in front of you in your room with his shirt off just like in that fucking commercial and he’s wearing that pouting “you’re gonna get it now” look in his eyes as he steps forward, dropping his pants real slow…

…here it comes, man, take a look at this mother, you want this smelly prick in your mouth, up your ass; well, you’re gonna take it…

…and your mouth falls open and O-shaped and your eyes close and something thick and sizzling is inserted between your lips, still growing. You feel the wirey hair slam against your lips, your nose—

You miss the rest of the show and you cum all over your easy chair. Just like you did in your pants with nothing touching your cock but cloth, the night you went to see that hairy-chested actor, the night you went to that rock concert and those four guys with their fringed jump suits slit down to their navels twisted and writhed in that amber light and you could see them sweating as they rocked and you closed your eyes and rode with the sex-music and saw them surrounding you, holding you down, using you one after the other over and over again, two at a time, three at a time, all four together giving you a taste of their sullen arrogance and contempt. And you creamed all over yourself and you didn’t care.

Untouchable, actually—right? Rock stars—football superstuds. Shit, you’re an ordinary guy—not bad built, pretty damn good in the hay—but you ain’t gonna fuck no famous actor. Except in your head.

Fantasy. That’s how you do it. Everybody does. Nobody has the guts to go out and get—no, to take. Grab. To be more butch than the butch.

Or is there a stud or so out there who sees what he wants and doesn’t just dream? Are the Mitch and Tom that Jeff Kincaid describes in The Reamer his fantasy? Or does he know two ballsy jocks like them?

Fantasy or reality—does it matter, now that it’s down on paper here?

We don’t think so.