To The Nines

Paddy O'Brian, the sharp-eyed owner of The Nines, fields a frantic call from medication execs Derek Kage and Drew Valentino. They crave a last-minute group bash to toast a deal. The procurer of premium men doesn't blink. He summons his elite trio: Seth Peterson, Grant Ducati, and Allen King. Suited up sharp, they glide through the door, ready to devour the businessmen's thick cocks. Lips stretch wide. Tongues swirl. The air thickens with moans. The pounding starts slow, builds savage. Seth bends first, Drew's girth splitting him open bare. Grant follows, Derek's thrusts deep and relentless. Allen takes his turn, hips bucking wild. They chain up—an anal train of slick, raw friction. Each man impaled, bodies slamming in rhythm. Sweat slicks their skin; suits rumple and fall away. Positions shift like a fever dream. On all fours. Against walls. One rides while another watches, stroking. The execs claim every inch, bare cocks plunging without mercy. Finally, the bottoms flip upside down—heads on the floor, legs splayed high. Holes wrecked and gaping. Drew and Derek stroke fast, grunting. Thick ropes of cum erupt, painting those exposed asses in creamy white. Satisfaction hangs heavy in the room, a sticky triumph.