CUT: Part 7
Hollowface crouched low in the shadowed corner of the master bedroom, black cloak pooling around him like spilled ink. He was perfectly still behind a high-backed leather armchair, the Sunny-mask tilted in silent fascination, silver knife resting lightly against his thigh. The blade caught stray glints from the bedside lamps, but neither man noticed—too lost in each other, too loud in their lust. Dean Himbro’s massive 6'4 frame loomed like a hairy, mature beast—thick slabs of muscle layered with years of powerlifting bulk, dense fur matting his heavy pecs, gut, and tree-trunk thighs. His beer-can-thick 11-incher throbbed upright, angry-red and slick, jutting from that wiry nest of pubes as he hauled Mason up from his knees with one effortless yank. The eighteen-year-old bodybuilding prodigy rose like a golden god—6'2, 250 pounds of shredded teenage perfection, every muscle pumped and veined from the gym, skin bronzed and gleaming with fresh sweat. Mason’s bleached-blond hair fe...