Double post: BEHIND TABLE and FARMER MARKET (104 PICS)
Added 2025-04-01 08:36:00 +0000 UTCfull collection in zip file
Mason “Mace” Holloway was a 23-year-old slab of prime beef, fresh out of college and working his uncle’s fruit stand at the local farmers market. Six-foot-two, 220 pounds of muscle—broad shoulders, biceps that bulged like cantaloupes, and a chest that could crack walnuts. His dark hair was buzzed short, his brown eyes sparkled with a cocky glint, and a scruffy beard framed a grin that screamed trouble. The market was bustling—old ladies haggling over zucchini, hipsters sniffing artisanal apples—but business at Mace’s stall was slow. Too many vendors, not enough buyers. Time to shake shit up.
It was a muggy Saturday morning, the sun beating down, sweat already soaking through his tight white tee and faded cargo shorts. Mace scanned the crowd, then smirked. “Fuck it,” he muttered, peeling off his shirt and tossing it onto a crate of peaches. His torso was a goddamn sculpture—rippling abs, pecs that bounced when he flexed, a trail of dark hair diving into his waistband. A few grannies gasped; a dude with a man-bun dropped his kombucha. Mace grabbed a juicy nectarine, held it up, and shouted, “Best fuckin’ fruit you’ll ever taste—step right up!”
Heads turned, but he wasn’t done. He bit into the nectarine, juice dripping down his chin, trickling over his chest in sticky rivulets. “Sweet as sin,” he grinned, smearing the mess across his abs, fingers tracing the ridges until they glistened. A soccer mom blushed, clutching her reusable tote; a twinky guy in flip-flops adjusted his sunglasses, staring. Mace kicked it up a notch, shucking his shorts—commando underneath, naturally—leaving him in nothing but beat-up sneakers. His cock swung free, thick and heavy, half-hard already, balls dangling low in the heat. His ass was a masterpiece—two firm, round cheeks, tight and meaty, flexing as he shifted his stance.
“Who wants a taste?” he bellowed, grabbing a banana from the pile. He peeled it slow, eyes locked on the crowd, then ran the tip along his lips, teasing it like a goddamn pro. “Big, ripe, and ready,” he said, voice low and dirty, before sliding it down his chest, leaving a faint smear of fruit on his skin. He turned, bending slightly to show off that ass—cheeks parting just enough to flash a glimpse of his tight, pink hole, winking in the sunlight. A lady with a stroller squeaked; the twink whimpered.
Mace plucked a handful of cherries, popping one in his mouth, spitting the pit into the dirt with a plink. He dangled the rest over his dick, letting them brush the shaft, then squeezed—red juice bursting out, streaking his thighs, dripping onto his cock. “Fresh and fuckin’ messy,” he laughed, stroking himself with the sticky mess, hand slick as he pumped slow and deliberate. His meat thickened—eight inches of veiny glory, head glistening with cherry juice and pre-cum. The crowd was a mix of horrified and horny now—some fleeing, some inching closer.
He grabbed a watermelon slice next, holding it up like a trophy. “Who’s thirsty?” he roared, then smashed it over his chest, pink flesh exploding, juice cascading down his torso, pooling in his navel. He scooped a chunk, rubbed it over his ass, smearing it across those plump cheeks until they shone—wet, slick, and obscene. “Lick it off or buy it, your call!” he taunted, slapping his own ass hard, the crack echoing over the market. The flesh jiggled, red juice dripping down his crack, teasing that puckered hole.
A burly biker dude—tatted, bearded, built—finally broke the spell, stomping up with a twenty. “Gimme the damn peaches,” he growled, eyes locked on Mace’s dripping dick. Mace grinned, tossing him a bag, then jerked himself faster—hand a blur, fruit juice flying—until he came with a loud, “Fuck yeah!” Ropes of white splattered the table, mixing with the cherry stains, a sticky, glorious mess. The biker snorted, “Keep the change, freak,” and walked off, shaking his head.
The market erupted—yells, laughs, a few claps. Mace stood there, panting, naked and triumphant, fruit-smeared and cum-streaked. “Best damn produce in town!” he shouted, grabbing an apple and taking a bite like nothing happened. Sales spiked—people bought out of shock, lust, or sheer confusion—and Mace raked in cash, grinning through the chaos he’d unleashed.
By noon, the cops showed up, and he was hauled off—still shirtless, shorts barely on, leaving a trail of juice and legend behind.
