this is all R C Dean fault...
Newt ran his tongue around Tim’s gaping anus in a lazy spiral, seeking the center to dart and dip within. Tim was still strapped down ass up, offered like a ruined buffet. Blood leaked in slow rivulets down his scrotum; his wrung-out penis glued to his leg with dried semen. The room stank of sweat and shit.
Michelle emitted a long, rumbling queef as she sat up. Her startled eyes narrowed for just a moment before springing open again. Mitt was masturbating furiously, intent on ejaculating again in Tim’s hair. Michelle crawled over and began to lick Mitt’s flailing scrotum. He smacked her with his free hand and she tumbled backwards, rolling on to Ron with an inhuman grunt.
Ron was nude, wearing nothing but bright purple surgical gloves. He had assisted Gary in stuffing Rick’s testicles into Tim rectum early in the night, and then passed out. Ron had snored through the quadruple anal, a feat of sexual acrobatics and contortion only attempted once, years before in the pleasure pits of Columbus, Ohio. Two people had died that day and one lost the use of his penis, forcing him to fuck on crutches for the rest of his life. The Ass-Pleasure Overseers had declared the position impossible.
New Hampshire had proven them wrong.
Herman had proven them all wrong.