Help Wanted

Joe Andrews stepped into the dim haze of Dick Fisk's warehouse on Folsom Street, where stacks of glossy porno magazines loomed like forbidden libraries. The air hummed with the scent of ink and desire. Fisk, broad-shouldered and commanding, eyed the applicant with a predatory gleam. Andrews, lean and eager, locked eyes. No words wasted. They dropped to their knees, mouths hungry. Fisk's long cock slid deep into Andrews' throat, a slick invasion that made his pulse race. Andrews returned the favor, taking Fisk's throbbing length fully, gagging just enough to heighten the thrill. Saliva glistened. Veins pulsed. They shifted, bodies entwining on the rumbling conveyor belt. A perfect 69—Fisk's tongue swirled around Andrews' shaft while Andrews sucked harder, the machine's jerking motion adding a wild rhythm to their moans. Belts whirred beneath them, carrying the heat forward. Later, Andrews bent Fisk over a scarred work table, splintered wood biting into skin. He thrust in deep, hips slamming with raw force. The camera caught every inch: Fisk's hole stretching wide, Andrews' cock plunging relentlessly, balls slapping against ass. Sweat beaded. Muscles clenched. The photographer framed it all—close-ups of penetration, Fisk's face twisted in ecstasy, Andrews' grip bruising those hips. Pure, unfiltered capture.