Race Cooper
Race Cooper says, “I’ve done everything [sexually] under the sun except for this” as he unbuttons the fly of his jeans to get ready. A tray of surgical steel instruments and a tub of lube lie on the table nearby; the camera rolls over the glinting metal, then transfers its attention to Race’s torso: ridged with muscle, satin-smooth and the color of dark cacao. He works up a hardon before greasing the rod that’s going to render him a sounding virgin-no-more. Race is gentle with himself, but for those who, like him, have never tried this before, he offers a running commentary of what he’s feeling as he slides the slender sound in and out of his urethra: “Getting fisted inside your dick.” “It feels like I’m cumming but I’m not.” “That was my prostate.” Before he finishes, Race switches to a sound with ridged edges, then gives in to a screaming orgasm that probably brought everyone within earshot running.

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