Season 38 Episode 2: Super Men 9

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Rugged in reminisce, tugging a pipe, appraising a faded mask, reclines power daddy Matt Thrasher. How much ass he kicked and fucked back in his glory days when crime was mitigated with justice dispensed by real men, heroes. Through Thrasher’s open robe protrudes the powerful chest of the last great superhero, basking in his twilit repose. Soon, however, reverie and repast meet with an abrupt end as Thrasher is accosted by a villain vaguely silhouetted by unusual nude nylon attire, in the form of a full-body suit, which daddy later learns is a source of unnatural strength employed by a former foe. 

 

Upended and barreled into a corner post, Thrasher heaves heavy under the waves of shoulder spears crashing upon the shores of his granite midsection. The menacing nudist relentless, renders the fine-aged super unable to find his feet purchase on solid ground. Grabbing the grayed muscle daddy by the collar reigns of his robes, the antagonist thrusts Thrasher about, launching the superhero in full-force propulsion to meet the unforgiving ground. Mounting the man that was once (and frequently) his captor, the assailant throttles and chokes the wizened champion of the old days, as Thrasher remarks on the vast difference in strength exhibited by his foe comparative to their last encounter. Laughing in malevolent merriment at the wonders of his nylon power suit, the vengeful villain begins to break down the naturally superior man, aided by his technology, upon the curtails of the inevitable toll collected by father time. “A Camel Clutch,” recounts the wrongdoer, “is what you used to apprehend me.” An eye for an eye is the warped sense of justice employed by the heel as he starts snapping Thrasher’s spine in his Camel Clutch, which he elongates with indulgent malice, before isolating one of daddy’s beefy arms, nearly tearing it off.  Alternately, the spiteful man in nylon recounts the wrongs, now switching to several deep submission-holds, now again, proclaiming the merit of exacting his revenge. Straining in agony, musculature bursts beneath the taut skin of suffering Thrasher, who fights ferociously, until at last, he slowly slips into compliance with his fate. The heel states his intent, all along rubbing his uncouth cock against daddy’s cradled crotch. Adorned in the see-through technology of his ingenious design, the villain is nigh invincible, a sentiment which much like his physique, he takes no pains to conceal, elaborating in vulgar detail on the true nature of his super suit, whose power enables the enactment of his ultimate goal, namely, draining every last speck of power from Thrasher! Absorbing the vital life force of his victim, thrust by thirsty thrust, the repugnant heel claims the right to become the author of Matt Thrasher’s final chapter, signed in seed, sealed with cock. 

Rugged in reminisce, tugging a pipe, appraising a faded mask, reclines power daddy Matt Thrasher. How much ass he kicked and fucked back in his glory days when crime was mitigated with justice dispensed by real men, heroes. Through Thrasher’s open robe protrudes the powerful chest of the last great superhero, basking in his twilit repose. Soon, however, reverie and repast meet with an abrupt end as Thrasher is accosted by a villain vaguely silhouetted by unusual nude nylon attire, in the form of a full-body suit, which daddy later learns is a source of unnatural strength employed by a former foe. 

 

Upended and barreled into a corner post, Thrasher heaves heavy under the waves of shoulder spears crashing upon the shores of his granite midsection. The menacing nudist relentless, renders the fine-aged super unable to find his feet purchase on solid ground. Grabbing the grayed muscle daddy by the collar reigns of his robes, the antagonist thrusts Thrasher about, launching the superhero in full-force propulsion to meet the unforgiving ground. Mounting the man that was once (and frequently) his captor, the assailant throttles and chokes the wizened champion of the old days, as Thrasher remarks on the vast difference in strength exhibited by his foe comparative to their last encounter. Laughing in malevolent merriment at the wonders of his nylon power suit, the vengeful villain begins to break down the naturally superior man, aided by his technology, upon the curtails of the inevitable toll collected by father time. “A Camel Clutch,” recounts the wrongdoer, “is what you used to apprehend me.” An eye for an eye is the warped sense of justice employed by the heel as he starts snapping Thrasher’s spine in his Camel Clutch, which he elongates with indulgent malice, before isolating one of daddy’s beefy arms, nearly tearing it off.  Alternately, the spiteful man in nylon recounts the wrongs, now switching to several deep submission-holds, now again, proclaiming the merit of exacting his revenge. Straining in agony, musculature bursts beneath the taut skin of suffering Thrasher, who fights ferociously, until at last, he slowly slips into compliance with his fate. The heel states his intent, all along rubbing his uncouth cock against daddy’s cradled crotch. Adorned in the see-through technology of his ingenious design, the villain is nigh invincible, a sentiment which much like his physique, he takes no pains to conceal, elaborating in vulgar detail on the true nature of his super suit, whose power enables the enactment of his ultimate goal, namely, draining every last speck of power from Thrasher! Absorbing the vital life force of his victim, thrust by thirsty thrust, the repugnant heel claims the right to become the author of Matt Thrasher’s final chapter, signed in seed, sealed with cock. 

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