Trip sits you on his kitchen table and stands before you, his sweat-soaked underwear stretched around his bulging thighs. His shirt has been slung over a nearby chair and now his glistening muscles are visible throbbing with his heartbeat. A fat vein wanders across his massive pec. His thick, brawny neck is decorated by clear beads of sweat a bouncing adam's apple big enough for you to curl up inside.
"C'mere." The giant says with a wolfish grin. He holds his hand and slowly curls his finger, beckoning you. There is nowhere to run.
In front of you is a brutal red cock like a bloody colosseum pillar.
You step forward on numb legs. Above you, the muscle god is breathing through gritted teeth, like an animal on the hysterical brink of attack.
You stand on your toes and place your hands on the purple head, which jumps at your touch.
"OH, yeah. Yes." He hisses, closing his eyes.
Above your head, the giant's abs clench, becoming deeper than trenches. You're pretty sure that if your head was between two of this brick-like muscles right now your skull would be crushed.
"That's right. Jack it. Jack my cock, puny little boy." The man says in his demonically deep voice. His cock is pulsing hard in your arms, alive with more vigour than you hold in your entire little body. You stroke the giant organ as well as you can, even though it stinks of sex and piss and feels clammy against your chest.
Before long, the giant's hand swoops out of nowhere and begins punishing his cock maniacally, beating it while it coughs up four healthy pumps of cum, which splash the table around you and pool all warm and gluggy at your feet.
All in all, the experience isn't as traumatic as you expected it to be. If you have to do that once a day until you formulate a plot to escape, you just might be able to survive.
"Sir?" You ask timidly.
Giant Trip mops the cum off of his table top with an old sock, his face sweaty and sated. "What is it, runt."
"Is that all you bought me for? To be your... cock slave?"
The colossus chucks his sock toward a pile of laundry in the corner and snorts, shaking his head over you like a pitying god.
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