An underground parking lot, a cubicle bathed in flickering light. The air reeks of oil and sweat. The active man, a black military man cut like a colossus, is perched on a rusty metal stepladder, legs spread wide. His half-open fatigues reveal his monster: an oversized cock, as thick as a can, veined, glossy black, 25 cm of raw power. The glans, broad and smooth, glistens, its massive balls hanging heavily, ready to explode. The "Artillery", as insiders call it.
Cocksucker steps through the rusty door, his moist lips quivering, and kneels on the oily concrete, facing the stepladder. His hands grasp the member, too large for a single grip. He licks the bulging veins, titillates the glans, savors a salty drop. Then he attacks, lips parted, engulfing the tip. His throat protests, but he fxxces, swallowing further.
The asset loves it. Each suction wrenches a hoarse grunt from him, his abs contracting under the pleasure. "Fuck, you're so good," he rumbles, his voice trembling with ecstasy. Cocksucker's mouth is a burning sheath, his tongue dancing over the veins, alternating deep throating and swirling around the glans. Cocksucker drools, his eyes watery but defiant, saliva dripping onto the filthy floor. He accelerates, his hands kneading the heavy balls, feeling their pulsing heat. Active, in a trance, grips the back of Cocksucker's neck, fucking his mouth in short strokes. The stepladder creaks, the cubicle echoes with wet noises.
Tension mounts. The asset gasps, his muscles bandaged. "I'm gonna come," he grunts. Cocksucker redoubles his efforts, his throat swallowing to the hilt. Artillery explodes: a thick, burning stream spurts down his mouth, then another, spilling over his lips. Cocksucker swallows what he can, semen running down his chin, splattering the concrete. The active, out of breath, savors the sight, his pleasure increased tenfold by the pro's performance.
