Indian Muslim forced gangbang in interview
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The Interview free porn video
The first time Vincent surprised me was when he suggested a second interview – in person.
When we chatted by phone he was reserved, at best. I had reached out about the mural he had painted years ago in the general classroom building on campus. It was the kind of thing thousands of students had passed by millions of times while coming in and out of the basement computer lab. You never really paid it any mind. But if you did, you'd catch the odd shapes of the field-workers and wildlife, the bold color choices, the attention to diverse representation that was certainly ahead of its time. And in the bottom left corner, near the water fountain, the signature "V. GREY." Which was Vincent.
It would be a great feature for the college newspaper, the kind of thing that would get me in good with the editors and blaze a trail for my burgeoning journalism career. Maybe the city paper wouldn't even steal the story and rereport it, as it was prone to do.
But I needed, you know, a story. That didn't come out of my first call to Vincent. So when he asked to meet, I was a solid yes. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, with most folks away visiting family, so what else would I be doing?
We had arranged to meet at the Riverwalk near the edge of downtown. It was unseasonably warm, but the holiday weekend meant we'd have the place to ourselves. Great opportunity to get him to open up.
Sure enough, he was the only soul on the promenade, parked on one of the concrete benches s**ttered along the 1930s-era path. He was what you could call a "big boy" – average height but thick everywhere, from his calves up to the proud round belly that hung over his shorts as he sat. About those shorts: They were certainly stretched to their limit, both by his chunky white thighs and the enormous bulge hugging his right leg. It was almost comically big – it had to be an athletic supporter, diaper, or ripe coconut down there – and caught my shocked glance as soon as I approached. Luckily, he wanted to walk – doc says it's good for his heart condition, he said.
Boy did we walk. Up and down the riverfront, back again, for a coffee at the kiosk and then for another. He happily obliged my questions: The mural came about after he met someone at a party who had been commissioned for the job but didn't want it. It was loosely based on the agricultural history of the area or the agricultural history of the university or maybe it was just an idea he had at the time. There were other V. GREY murals in old friends' apartments and alleys throughout the city; I circled that in my notebook and scribbled "follow up."
He also gave me … other material. Lots of it. Every anecdote spun into another that spun into his time as a mailman and took an inevitably raunchy turn, which he described to me in an excited whisper. As much as I doubted the validity of some of his tales – were the fornicating couple in the playground getting their mail delivered there? – I got the sense Vincent just wanted someone to talk to. Would I really want to cut him off?
As we hit hour four, however, I had to. The multiple coffees left me with a pain in my side that intensified each time we waltzed past the restroom building. Did I really want to end our conversation abruptly because I had to pee urgently? When we approached the men's room for the 16th time, I found a gap and my chance.
"Hey, man, I need to duck in here for just a second," I said. "I'll be right back."
"Of course! Of course!" Vincent said, as I jammed my notebook in my pocket and darted for the door.
The restroom was a throwback, with two floor-mounted urinals shaped like cupped hands just around the corner from the door. A welcome sight if there ever was one. I undid my buckle and zipper in one furious motion, closed my eyes and reared back my head. Sweet relief.
Then a voice.
"She was just bobbing up and down, like BOUNCING."
Vincent, continuing one of his progressively pornographic stories.
"It was like unh, unh, unh. I tell ya," he said, waddling behind me and setting up shop at the next urinal. "You've never seen such a thing! I don't know what got into her."
The sound of belt buckle hitting floor tile snapped my eyes open. I instantly realized my rush to piss left me somewhat improperly positioned around the side of my urinal. Because directly in my line of sight was Vincent, shorts down around his ankles and hands on his bare hips. He had gotten to the whisper part of his story.
"And her knockers, man," he said, looking at my face as his palms traced the shape of breasts around his chest.
But my eyes already locked on his midsection. Those balls! They were as advertised, hanging heavy, pink, and hairless more than halfway down his thigh as Vincent prattled on. Not quite swollen, not quite sagging. His penis was like their stubby coathook as they cascaded down, somehow also extending outward.
A trickle of piss dribbled from his dick onto his massive scrotum below. I watched drops as they slid down the longer right side and dripped randomly onto the floor. With two fingers, he pushed back the fat around base of his cock, exposing more of his pink dick head as it let loose an inconsistent stream.
I snapped out of it. Vincent had gone silent.
"It's OK, buddy. You can have a look," he said gingerly. "Everyone always wants to know if they're real."
He lifted the underside of his belly with one hand and cupped his sack with the other. His balls were like a massive mound of putty, spilling over his fingers. Vincent smiled at me as he kneaded them like fleshy dough. His penis peeked out atop them. He stepped back, proudly. More drips s**ttered to the floor.
"They do make it a challenge to take a leak, " he said, shaking and repositioning in front of the basin. "It doesn't look you're ever going to have that kind of a problem."
"No complaints so far," I said.
It was here I realized I was standing with my dick out, too. Obviously, but not so obvious in the moment.
And because of the rush I was in when I pulled it out, not only did Vincent have a full view of my dangling six inches as the piss kept coming, but there also were my balls propped up against my fly in their just-grown-hair glory. I could feel his eyes on me. I grew self-conscious. Looked away.
I started to shift my feet back to the front of the basin but felt resistance – Vincent's hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me back to the side.
"Just stand still," Vincent said.
His hand began stroking my dick, slowly. I could feel the coarseness of his fingers and palm – he made his living as a woodworker these days. No ring; I had never asked if Vincent was married.
In an instant, a grunt, and Vincent took to his knees. The roughness of his hand was replaced by the smooth sensation of his lips over my shaft. His wet tongue made a soft bed for my hardening cock, then wiggled its way to the tip, tracing the bumps near the slit slowly, then quickly, then changing speeds again. I jerked ever so slightly with the trace of his finger across my tightening balls, then through the opening in my pants to where my sack met my hole.
Wow.
I had a handful of blowjobs to this point, all from girls after various parties at various stages of sobriety, and all strictly of the "bobbing up and down variety." None had come anywhere near this.
Speaking of cum.
I pulled back, my dick popping out of Vincent's mouth with a wet "thwack." For a moment I was embarrassed, shocked, scared. Vincent reached his hand up to my shoulder and attempted to lift his big body off his crouch on the floor. He smiled wide at me.
"Oh, man, are you ready?" he said. "Let's shoot our loads together."
He stepped back, nearly tripping on the shorts that still chained together his ankles. By now his cock had woken up, making its presence known as a thick, wet mushroom cloud emerging from between his chubby legs. Vincent licked his palm and jacked it wildly – squish, squish, squish. The head of his dick was red and bulbous, matching his sternly concentrating face. He put his hand back on my shoulder as I sheepishly stroked my own hard cock. Man, was I ready.
Vincent let out a long grimace as his thrusts intensified. He nearly shook me off my feet. I felt his belly hit the end of my cock and fist with each of his strokes. I did not expect that when I woke up in the morning.
"Here we go," said Vincent, straightening his back.
I'll admit – aside from maybe porn movies, I had not seen another man ejaculate at this point in my life. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest as Vincent's first long gob of cum flew to the wall behind the urinal. It's possible I would have passed out. But Vincent suddenly grabbed my wrist with force and brought my hand to his balls.
"Feel 'em."
Inside the fleshy mass between Vincent's legs, I felt his muscles spasm. Although I had jacked off plenty of times in my life, it was almost otherworldly to experience this sensation from the other side, this mix of control and random blasts. He almost had it choreographed, positioning his body to shoot long lines over the urinal basin before it slowed down to white viscous lines dangling from his dick. I've realized later in life that Vincent was most definitely a big shooter, especially for his age.
Vincent moved my hand back to his dick. I instinctively grabbed and squeezed, capturing his warm juice in my hand as the last drops of his load leaked out.
Vincent panted, blinking with purpose.
"Do you want me to take your load?" he said.
Before I could consider it, or ask where, we heard hinges. Footsteps.
Oh yeah, we were in a public restroom.
Another surprise: Vincent turned and stepped to his right slightly. And continued his story.
"I couldn't believe my luck, you know? Here I was just delivering mail and … you know the thing most people don't know about postage … ."
Our visitor walked behind us to the open stall – which, in retrospect, might have been a fantastic resource for us to have utilized. No doubt he had paused to glance at the older white gentleman with his pants around his ankles regaling the room with a story about postage. We immediately heard water hitting water as Vincent continued, flushing the urinal in front of him.
I'm not sure at this point why I didn't pack up and run – or why Vincent didn't do the same, albeit likely at a slower speed. As our visitor made his way out of the stall, Vincent bent down to pick up his shorts. When they reached his midsection, his fly cupped his balls in a way that made them look like a basketball, a globe of the largest planet, or …
Well that was all I could take.
The load shot out of my dick with more urgency than I had ever felt before, streaking the wall alongside Vincent's cum.
"Have you ever seen anything like that before?" said Vincent, continuing his story.
"I don't believe so," I said. And yeah, I had not. My cock came wildly as I held it straight, the footsteps behind us disappearing around the corner. I had never seen this kind of fountain come out of myself. Vincent and I watched silently as the faucet behind us spritzed, and the footsteps turned into hinges and into silence.
Vincent zipped his fly.
"This isn't going to make it into your story, right?"
When we chatted by phone he was reserved, at best. I had reached out about the mural he had painted years ago in the general classroom building on campus. It was the kind of thing thousands of students had passed by millions of times while coming in and out of the basement computer lab. You never really paid it any mind. But if you did, you'd catch the odd shapes of the field-workers and wildlife, the bold color choices, the attention to diverse representation that was certainly ahead of its time. And in the bottom left corner, near the water fountain, the signature "V. GREY." Which was Vincent.
It would be a great feature for the college newspaper, the kind of thing that would get me in good with the editors and blaze a trail for my burgeoning journalism career. Maybe the city paper wouldn't even steal the story and rereport it, as it was prone to do.
But I needed, you know, a story. That didn't come out of my first call to Vincent. So when he asked to meet, I was a solid yes. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, with most folks away visiting family, so what else would I be doing?
We had arranged to meet at the Riverwalk near the edge of downtown. It was unseasonably warm, but the holiday weekend meant we'd have the place to ourselves. Great opportunity to get him to open up.
Sure enough, he was the only soul on the promenade, parked on one of the concrete benches s**ttered along the 1930s-era path. He was what you could call a "big boy" – average height but thick everywhere, from his calves up to the proud round belly that hung over his shorts as he sat. About those shorts: They were certainly stretched to their limit, both by his chunky white thighs and the enormous bulge hugging his right leg. It was almost comically big – it had to be an athletic supporter, diaper, or ripe coconut down there – and caught my shocked glance as soon as I approached. Luckily, he wanted to walk – doc says it's good for his heart condition, he said.
Boy did we walk. Up and down the riverfront, back again, for a coffee at the kiosk and then for another. He happily obliged my questions: The mural came about after he met someone at a party who had been commissioned for the job but didn't want it. It was loosely based on the agricultural history of the area or the agricultural history of the university or maybe it was just an idea he had at the time. There were other V. GREY murals in old friends' apartments and alleys throughout the city; I circled that in my notebook and scribbled "follow up."
He also gave me … other material. Lots of it. Every anecdote spun into another that spun into his time as a mailman and took an inevitably raunchy turn, which he described to me in an excited whisper. As much as I doubted the validity of some of his tales – were the fornicating couple in the playground getting their mail delivered there? – I got the sense Vincent just wanted someone to talk to. Would I really want to cut him off?
As we hit hour four, however, I had to. The multiple coffees left me with a pain in my side that intensified each time we waltzed past the restroom building. Did I really want to end our conversation abruptly because I had to pee urgently? When we approached the men's room for the 16th time, I found a gap and my chance.
"Hey, man, I need to duck in here for just a second," I said. "I'll be right back."
"Of course! Of course!" Vincent said, as I jammed my notebook in my pocket and darted for the door.
The restroom was a throwback, with two floor-mounted urinals shaped like cupped hands just around the corner from the door. A welcome sight if there ever was one. I undid my buckle and zipper in one furious motion, closed my eyes and reared back my head. Sweet relief.
Then a voice.
"She was just bobbing up and down, like BOUNCING."
Vincent, continuing one of his progressively pornographic stories.
"It was like unh, unh, unh. I tell ya," he said, waddling behind me and setting up shop at the next urinal. "You've never seen such a thing! I don't know what got into her."
The sound of belt buckle hitting floor tile snapped my eyes open. I instantly realized my rush to piss left me somewhat improperly positioned around the side of my urinal. Because directly in my line of sight was Vincent, shorts down around his ankles and hands on his bare hips. He had gotten to the whisper part of his story.
"And her knockers, man," he said, looking at my face as his palms traced the shape of breasts around his chest.
But my eyes already locked on his midsection. Those balls! They were as advertised, hanging heavy, pink, and hairless more than halfway down his thigh as Vincent prattled on. Not quite swollen, not quite sagging. His penis was like their stubby coathook as they cascaded down, somehow also extending outward.
A trickle of piss dribbled from his dick onto his massive scrotum below. I watched drops as they slid down the longer right side and dripped randomly onto the floor. With two fingers, he pushed back the fat around base of his cock, exposing more of his pink dick head as it let loose an inconsistent stream.
I snapped out of it. Vincent had gone silent.
"It's OK, buddy. You can have a look," he said gingerly. "Everyone always wants to know if they're real."
He lifted the underside of his belly with one hand and cupped his sack with the other. His balls were like a massive mound of putty, spilling over his fingers. Vincent smiled at me as he kneaded them like fleshy dough. His penis peeked out atop them. He stepped back, proudly. More drips s**ttered to the floor.
"They do make it a challenge to take a leak, " he said, shaking and repositioning in front of the basin. "It doesn't look you're ever going to have that kind of a problem."
"No complaints so far," I said.
It was here I realized I was standing with my dick out, too. Obviously, but not so obvious in the moment.
And because of the rush I was in when I pulled it out, not only did Vincent have a full view of my dangling six inches as the piss kept coming, but there also were my balls propped up against my fly in their just-grown-hair glory. I could feel his eyes on me. I grew self-conscious. Looked away.
I started to shift my feet back to the front of the basin but felt resistance – Vincent's hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me back to the side.
"Just stand still," Vincent said.
His hand began stroking my dick, slowly. I could feel the coarseness of his fingers and palm – he made his living as a woodworker these days. No ring; I had never asked if Vincent was married.
In an instant, a grunt, and Vincent took to his knees. The roughness of his hand was replaced by the smooth sensation of his lips over my shaft. His wet tongue made a soft bed for my hardening cock, then wiggled its way to the tip, tracing the bumps near the slit slowly, then quickly, then changing speeds again. I jerked ever so slightly with the trace of his finger across my tightening balls, then through the opening in my pants to where my sack met my hole.
Wow.
I had a handful of blowjobs to this point, all from girls after various parties at various stages of sobriety, and all strictly of the "bobbing up and down variety." None had come anywhere near this.
Speaking of cum.
I pulled back, my dick popping out of Vincent's mouth with a wet "thwack." For a moment I was embarrassed, shocked, scared. Vincent reached his hand up to my shoulder and attempted to lift his big body off his crouch on the floor. He smiled wide at me.
"Oh, man, are you ready?" he said. "Let's shoot our loads together."
He stepped back, nearly tripping on the shorts that still chained together his ankles. By now his cock had woken up, making its presence known as a thick, wet mushroom cloud emerging from between his chubby legs. Vincent licked his palm and jacked it wildly – squish, squish, squish. The head of his dick was red and bulbous, matching his sternly concentrating face. He put his hand back on my shoulder as I sheepishly stroked my own hard cock. Man, was I ready.
Vincent let out a long grimace as his thrusts intensified. He nearly shook me off my feet. I felt his belly hit the end of my cock and fist with each of his strokes. I did not expect that when I woke up in the morning.
"Here we go," said Vincent, straightening his back.
I'll admit – aside from maybe porn movies, I had not seen another man ejaculate at this point in my life. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest as Vincent's first long gob of cum flew to the wall behind the urinal. It's possible I would have passed out. But Vincent suddenly grabbed my wrist with force and brought my hand to his balls.
"Feel 'em."
Inside the fleshy mass between Vincent's legs, I felt his muscles spasm. Although I had jacked off plenty of times in my life, it was almost otherworldly to experience this sensation from the other side, this mix of control and random blasts. He almost had it choreographed, positioning his body to shoot long lines over the urinal basin before it slowed down to white viscous lines dangling from his dick. I've realized later in life that Vincent was most definitely a big shooter, especially for his age.
Vincent moved my hand back to his dick. I instinctively grabbed and squeezed, capturing his warm juice in my hand as the last drops of his load leaked out.
Vincent panted, blinking with purpose.
"Do you want me to take your load?" he said.
Before I could consider it, or ask where, we heard hinges. Footsteps.
Oh yeah, we were in a public restroom.
Another surprise: Vincent turned and stepped to his right slightly. And continued his story.
"I couldn't believe my luck, you know? Here I was just delivering mail and … you know the thing most people don't know about postage … ."
Our visitor walked behind us to the open stall – which, in retrospect, might have been a fantastic resource for us to have utilized. No doubt he had paused to glance at the older white gentleman with his pants around his ankles regaling the room with a story about postage. We immediately heard water hitting water as Vincent continued, flushing the urinal in front of him.
I'm not sure at this point why I didn't pack up and run – or why Vincent didn't do the same, albeit likely at a slower speed. As our visitor made his way out of the stall, Vincent bent down to pick up his shorts. When they reached his midsection, his fly cupped his balls in a way that made them look like a basketball, a globe of the largest planet, or …
Well that was all I could take.
The load shot out of my dick with more urgency than I had ever felt before, streaking the wall alongside Vincent's cum.
"Have you ever seen anything like that before?" said Vincent, continuing his story.
"I don't believe so," I said. And yeah, I had not. My cock came wildly as I held it straight, the footsteps behind us disappearing around the corner. I had never seen this kind of fountain come out of myself. Vincent and I watched silently as the faucet behind us spritzed, and the footsteps turned into hinges and into silence.
Vincent zipped his fly.
"This isn't going to make it into your story, right?"
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