Now Reading: Johnny Ford Solves Vander Pulaski’s Fuck Machine Problem
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Johnny Ford Solves Vander Pulaski’s Fuck Machine Problem
Johnny Ford Solves Vander Pulaski’s Fuck Machine Problem
Vander Pulaski’s ill-advised attempt to return a fucking machine to Johnny Ford’s Kink Store erupts into a brutal, sweat-drenched odyssey of dominance, mechanical sadism, and twisted redemption, as Ford transforms a petty customer complaint into a symphony of agony, ecstasy, and humiliating enlightenment.
Vander’s entrance is all arrogance—a slammed fucking machine on the counter, a sneer twisting his lips as he demands a refund. “This piece of shit couldn’t fuck a wet paper bag,” he spits, gesturing to the machine’s whirring, sputtering motor. Johnny Ford, sleeves rolled up to reveal biceps inked with temporary tattoos (“gay as fuck” scripted over one, the KinkMen logo stamped like a brand on the other), doesn’t flinch. His eyes narrow, a predator’s calm settling over him as he circles the counter. “You’re calling my machines weak?” he growls, voice low and dangerous. Before Vander can retort, Ford lunges—a blur of muscle and rage—tackling him to the concrete floor. Vander’s head cracks against the ground, stars exploding behind his eyelids as Ford’s hands snake around his wrists, binding them with coarse rope that bites into his flesh. “Let’s test that theory,” Ford hisses, dragging Vander to a thick support column in the center of the shop.
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The bondage is merciless. Ford loops ropes around Vander’s torso, pinning his arms behind the column until his shoulders scream. Vander’s jeans are shredded with a utility knife—blade cold against his thigh—leaving him naked except for tattered denim clinging to his hips. Ford’s hands roam with deliberate cruelty: he palms Vander’s cock, squeezing just enough to make him gasp, then drops to his knees, swallowing Vander’s thickness whole. Vander’s groan echoes off the shop’s metal shelves—a mix of shock and reluctant arousal—as Ford’s tongue swirls around his head. But the mercy is fleeting. Ford’s teeth graze Vander’s shaft, his hand clamping down on Vander’s balls, twisting until Vander’s scream ricochets off the walls. “Weak?” Ford snarls, standing to slap Vander’s cock—crack—the sound sharp as a gunshot. “Let’s see how weak my machines are.”
Ford vanishes into the back, returning with two monstrous fuck machines—industrial-grade, their motors growling like awakened beasts. He straps the first to Vander’s face, a silicone dildo shoved between his lips before he can protest. The machine whirs to life, pistoning into Vander’s throat with jackhammer precision, drool spilling down his chin. The second machine—a knotted, veined monstrosity—is lubed and jammed into Vander’s ass without warning. Vander’s scream is muffled by the throat-fucking machine as the assailant drills into him, stretching his hole wide around its girth. Ford watches, arms crossed, as Vander’s body convulses—a puppet strung between two mechanical masters. “Still think it’s weak?” Ford shouts over the machines’ roar, landing a slap on Vander’s crimson ass cheek.
But Vander’s defiance lingers. Between choked gags, he manages a ragged laugh. Big mistake. Ford’s fist closes around a flogger—leather tails frayed from previous sessions. He swings hard, the flogger cracking across Vander’s back, shoulders, and ass in a rhythmic barrage. Each strike syncs with the machines’ thrusts, pain and pleasure blurring into a white-hot haze. Vander’s cock leaks relentlessly, precum pooling on the floor beneath him, as Ford leans in, breath hot against his ear: “You’re gonna thank me for this.”
The machines run for what feels like hours, reducing Vander to a shuddering, drooling mess—his hole gaping, throat raw, and body slick with sweat. Ford finally kills the motors, the sudden silence ringing in Vander’s ears. “Now,” Ford murmurs, unbuckling his belt, “let’s see if I’m ‘weak.’” He fucks Vander bareback, no lube, no gentleness—just raw, brutal strokes that punch the air from Vander’s lungs. Vander’s screams morph into broken pleas, then mindless babbling as Ford’s cock rams his prostate, over and over, until Vander’s own dick erupts untouched, cum splattering the floor. Ford follows, emptying himself deep into Vander’s wrecked hole with a guttural roar.
Afterward, Vander slumps against the column, trembling, ropes cutting into his welt-riddled skin. Ford slices him free, letting him crumple to the floor. “Refund?” Ford tosses a rag at Vander’s face. “Keep the machine. You’ll need it after what I did to you.” He kicks Vander’s clothes toward him, smirking at the shaky hands struggling to dress. “Come back next week,” Ford adds, lighting a cigarette. “I’ll show you the deluxe model.”
Vander staggers out, legs wobbling, ass throbbing, and pride in tatters. But as he clutches the fucking machine to his chest, he knows Ford’s right—he’ll be back. The pain is too sweet, the humiliation too addictive. Johnny Ford doesn’t sell machines; he sells addiction.
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