|Description||Donny Blackthorne is back, bringing his cool demeanor and signature feline grace. With ink black hair and an obvious attitude showing on his face, Blackthorne clearly just wants to work out. This one sleek tom cat, baring avian tattoos and squeezed into barely-there red spandex that causes his package to jut outwards, demanding your focus, your curiosity, your lust. It's begging to be put through the wringer.
Enter the wringer. Jobe Zander appears in yellow and green trunks secured at the top by way of white strings, his impressive member clearly curled downward to the curved line of his well-placed shaft arches over his balls, making the placement of the tip very obvious. It's hard to look anywhere else, but if you're able to pull back and take in Zander's appearance, it's as if he's growing younger and leaner with each passing year. His skin tone set in a rosy tan that sings of sand and salt water, he is ready to impress upon young Blackthorne just how powerful of an adversary he can be on the mat.
Zander points out Blackthorne's noticeable package, Blackthorne shrugs off the comments, continuing his languid stretch session while Zander turns on the charm, implying that the younger man couldn't beat him in a match. Implying, in fact, that he hasn't lost a match in a very long time.
"I don't know what your problem is, buddy, but whatever," Blackthrone begins to say.
"I don't have a problem," Zander replies. "You have a problem."
Within seconds Blackthorne is flat on his back, then back on his feet with both arms twisted behind his back. Zander demands an apology. Blackthorne seems content to suffer rather than apologize, enduring some rough pectoral abuse, before landing back on his back to have his balls crushed by Zander's bare feet.
Zander controls the little bitch's head, easily muscling him backwards into an over the knee sleeper hold that allows him to use one free hand to squeeze, yank, and twist Blackthorne's balls with excessive force. Finally Blackthorne tumbles to the floor.
"I really like the way you suffer," Zander says, adding insult to injury. As he launches into a punch attack, hammering his forearm into Blackthorne's very prominent package, one can't help but marvel at the exquisite play of those chiseled back and abdominal muscles. Zander starts to sweat, which always makes for a better show.
After what feels like weeks of torture, Blackthorne collapses to the mat, only to be returned to his feet by a forceful Zander, who seems hellbent on running the red-clad stud ragged. A surprise scissor hold is applied to Blackthorne's torso, as Zander uses a free hand to fuck up the bitch's junk.
This match was designed with the domination enthusiasts in mind, as one powerful man defeats and humiliates another in beautiful, furious, erotic action that ends with one man being put in the sleeper hold to end all sleeper holds.
If you drool at the sight of a sexy man writhing on this floor, hands clamped around his brutalized balls, moaning and rolling in pain, this is the title for you.
|Size||448.14 MB (469,912,837 bytes)|
|Num files||1 files|