Hurricane

Manuel was flat on his back on the carpeted floor, turning his head back and forth, crying out at the invasion, and digging his fists into the carpet pile. He was mouthing off like this was his first time, but Galindo wasn’t buying that and he was feeding his ass fast and deep—and Manuel was taking him in, stretching to accommodate him without apparent trouble. Manuel’s butt was raised on three pillows from the bed; one of his legs rose up Galindo’s chest, and Galindo held the other one out to the side with a fist wrapped around his ankle. Galindo was on his knees between Manuel’s legs and raising and lowering his body in rhythm as his cock moved in and out, in and out inside Manuel’s tight hole—at an ever faster, deeper pace.

Manuel groaned and moaned and slowly pulled on his own cock, as Galindo muttered what a nice, sweet, tight ass he had, murmuring that he should see the world, that his talents should be shared—and thinking to himself that, yes, this young, boyishly handsome waiter would command top dollar in the male bordellos of New Orleans. Maybe, he was thinking, he should consider pimping some of these guys himself and letting them keep more of the take. Galindo’s share of the market at this point was not-fully-willing, expendable asses. It was almost a shame to throw someone as good at bottoming as Manuel was into that short-term pool. Almost. Manuel would return top dollar anyway—almost as much as if he was a virgin.