Brock

Money wasn't the only thing this 35 years old investment banker was dumping in massive, liquid loads. With a face that could make unemployed, crack addicted whorecunts take out life altering loans just to swallow his spit once and a body carved by the type of personal trainer only a seven figure christmas bonus can afford, Brock was all about performance, pumping, and of course dumping. His most valuable and volatile asset was the foot-long, pulsing, locked and loaded meat howitzer between his legs. Calling it just a penis would be the understatement of the century. It was a private equity firm specializing in hostile takeovers of every wet hole it encountered. His fuckshaft was a hard, pulsing column of high value proposition muscle, perpetually primed for a merger. The meaty, fat cockhead looked like a glossy, purplish-red plum someone dumped a bowl of precum frosting over.

Every pump of his is a leveraged buyout, every blast of his nuclear cum a dividend payout of such searing, violent force it liquifies internal assets. Wombs, throats, bowels, nothing was safe from this crowbar of a cock wielding millionaire. But the ballsack was just outright obscene and inappropriate. Not just little sperm wallets any virgin gooner has, oh no. These orbs of hostile mansyrup were barely organic, they were so outworldishly productive that it'd be reasonable to compare them to twin fusion reactors of catastrophic orgasmic potential. They swing low and heavy in his custom tailored suit pants, menacingly producing obscene imprints in the cloth that don't just make sluts feel tingles in their ovaries, but even make the straightest men blush, pant and swallow heavy. The pressure inside them was so ridiculously strong, that when you put an ear up to them you hear them churn out an Eldritch melody, like some kind of fucked up seashell. It wasn't just cum that was produced here, oh no, the world of holes can't get off that easy. Fuck no. Due to the density of it, the atoms of his sloshing protein slushie were pressed together so tightly, that they partially plasmafied. He doesn't blast harmless, pina colada looking jizzhoney. His spunknuts fire off scorched-earth, steel beams melting attack cum that feels like getting pepper sprayed by a pissed off ghost chili from the inside out whenever he explodes inside a fuckhole. The first splash feels like getting your vault door opened by a pumpgun shot, but then it's followed up by a searing, agonizing flamethrower of a followup spurt that could make even a battle hardened taco bell enthusiast weep, and those are used to having explosions in their assholes.

This stock flipping juggernaut fucks like he trades: Aggressive, relentless and with complete disregard for any barriers or limits. Brock doesn't stop at hit the spot, nah, he shorts it, then violently squeezes the position until it fucking bursts like the economic bubble in Japan '92. This manslut's signature move, the "Swedish Screwcork", leave his partners not just fucked out and gaping, possibly bleeding, but also financially and spiritually annihilated. The aftermath was always the same. A trembling, glazed-over, permanently traumatized wreck of a human being and the lingering, smokey scent of expensive cologne and economically destabilizing napalm cocklemonade. We can't have nice things in the world with capitalism fucking us in the ass and turning us into slaves of billionaires that suck out our lifejuices like a vampire who is too stupid to understand that a bloodless corpse is fucking dead at some point. But at least it's just capitalism and not Brock's torture rack cock. Usually.