Eddie Patrick and Max Mabry redefine total surrender in this unflinching BDSM onslaught, where power isn’t just taken—it’s ritualistically carved into flesh. Max, the ever-eager submissive slut, returns to Kinkmen as a canvas for Eddie’s sadistic artistry, his body reduced to a trembling playground of pain and pleasure. The dungeon becomes a chapel of degradation, and Eddie? Its merciless priest.
Leashed by a rope around his neck, Max crawls into frame, his balls cruelly tethered to an ankle, each step a sharp reminder of his place. Eddie wastes zero time: a gloved hand fists Max’s hair, forcing him to lick spit-shined boots while a leather paddle reddens his ass. “Good boy,” Eddie mocks, shoving his fingers down Max’s throat until the sub gags, tears and drool streaking his face. Eddie smears the mess across Max’s cheeks before grinding his face into his leather-clad crotch, the musk of sweat and dominance choking the air. “Beg for it,” he snarls—and Max does, whimpering through spit-soaked pleas until Eddie rams his cock down his throat, skull-fucking him until his eyes glaze.
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But Eddie’s hunger isn’t sated. Max is strapped spread-eagle to a St. Andrew’s cross, asshole fluttering under Eddie’s flogger. The strikes alternate between pain and pleasure—Eddie’s fingers brutalize his hole, stretching him wide before the flogger’s handle is shoved between Max’s teeth as a gag. Choking on leather straps, Max takes Eddie’s cock again, throat raw and ass ravaged, until the dom flips him onto his back.
The finale is Eddie at his most vicious: a zipper of clothespins clips Max’s lips, chest, and balls, each yanked free mid-fuck as Max screams into the void. Eddie drills him through the agony, jerking Max’s load onto his own tongue before force-feeding it back. The coup de grâce? Eddie’s cum erupts across Max’s broken face, a sticky baptism sealing his role as nothing more than a fucking hole.
For fans of Eddie Patrick’s unrelenting dominance and Max Mabry’s masochistic zeal, this isn’t a scene—it’s a manifesto. No safe words, no mercy—just raw, unfiltered filth that blurs the line between pleasure and punishment. Dress code: leather, tears, and regret.
