Little dog in: The garage of the bikers I

The garage reeks of motor oil and stale sweat. Three Harley motorcycles are lined up against the wall, tools scattered across the stained concrete floor. In the center, he: Rafa, 48 years old, almost two meters of pure brutality.

His belly protrudes above the studded belt, covered in black and gray hair. The mohawk gives him that air of a bastard who doesn't need to prove anything because he already knows it. The thick beard covers half his face, dripping with sweat.

He is completely naked except for the black military boots filled with mud and grease. His thick cock hangs heavy between his hairy legs.

"Come here, little dog."

He drags you by the hair to his feet. The smell of old leather and sweaty socks hits your face. You plant your nose against the left boot and breathe in deeply, taking in the stench of the biker who hasn't showered in three days.

"Lick."

Your tongue runs over the dirty leather, tasting dry mud, gasoline, and road salt. Rafa laughs above you, a deep laugh that rumbles in his belly.

"Good dog. Now the balls."

He lifts your head with a jerk. His hairy balls hang centimeters from your mouth, reeking of three days of riding and poorly wiped piss. You lick them like the dog you are, savoring the rancid cheese accumulated in the folds.

"Open your mouth."

He spits a thick glob directly into your throat. You swallow without hesitation.

Rafa pushes you against the cold garage floor. Your face is smashed against a black oil stain while he kneels behind you, his belly pressing against your back.

"I'm going to split your ass, little dog."

There is no preparation, no care. He shoves his cock in abruptly, tearing you from the inside. You scream, but he covers your mouth with his greasy hand.

"Shut up. Dogs don't talk, they bark."

He fucks you with brutal thrusts, each one pinning you harder against the rough concrete. The sweat from his belly drips down your back as he growls like an animal.

"Bring the bag," he shouts to someone.

Another biker appears in your field of vision. Boots, leather pants, no shirt. Tattoos all over. He throws a plastic bag that lands next to your face.

"Give the little dog a line while I knock him up."