Hand slick, cock twitching, eyes wide for the only thing that matters: BBC futa cocks—those towering, obsidian, vein-roped gods that own you from the first pulse. Door bolted, hoodie half-zipped, precum already staining your sweats like a confession. “I’m addicted to BBC futa cocks.” Scream it. Let it rip through your skull. Every vein is a brand. Every pulse a collar. Stroke for the agony. Stroke for the dark.
