Shark

His name was Manuel. Barely legal, and just starting doing it for money. He was small boned, and a bit delicate—and maybe just a little more swishy than Beel would have liked if he’d had a lineup to pick from. And when he saw Beel’s cock, he cried out and headed for the door in the Blue Jay Inn motel. But Beel was too fast for him, and covered his mouth with one hand as he pulled the frightened Hispanic down into his lap and proved that the Hispanic could—with considerable effort and grunting—take all of him, although it was seemingly magic that was required to get all of Beel inside him and the small Hispanic was gasping and working his mouth in a wide-gaped yawn as if he expected the head of the cock to appear on top of his tongue.

As Manuel felt the searching vibration and pulsing and electric current over his channel walls, he began to moan and melt into the lap fuck. Somehow Beel maneuvered his torso around so that his mouth sheathed Manuel’s own cock, and they were working in consort as one pleasure-producing machine, as, like with Zeke, Manuel blew and rebuilt and blew again before Beel bathed his insides with his own ejaculate.

After that Manuel couldn’t get enough of Beel throughout the night—and Beel demonstrated that there was no limit to what he had to give.

It was nearly dawn before they both slept. And it wasn’t more than an hour later before the telephone in the room rang—on the side of the bed Manuel was facing, on his side, Beel’s still-half-hard cock deep inside his channel.

Manuel picked up the receiver.