Caleb and Delmonico were unable to speak nor move as the seismic shock tore through their bodies and minds. The Bucktown Antique Market in Chicago was charging $675 for a small Art Deco clock. Caleb had noticed the clock and thought it would feng shui nicely with the layout of the salon in the West Loop loft he shared with his power-bottom lover Delmonico. He had called Delmonico over before looking at the small paper price tag hanging from one of the clock's feet.
Delmonico eventually swallowed loudly, sighed and removed his hands from the pockets of his Dussault Apparel jeans. "Jesus, Caleb," he whispered/lisped to to his treasured bone-smuggler, the love of his life for the past eight years, "this colon-bomber is an even bigger faggot than us; he must know that current market conditions in no way support the valuation of a clock this small in very good condition at anything above $400."
Delmonico knew of what he spoke. After law school made him so stressed out that his anus was clenched too tight for Caleb to penetrate, Delmonico dropped out and was currently preparing a business plan and securing investors for his own Chicago antique store.
"Piss in my ass, Caleb, everything in here is overpriced," Delmonico said, while pointing at a mediocre 1910 watercolor selling for $550, "I think this uppity bear needs to be taught a lesson about ripping off the public."
Caleb thought for a moment. Delmonico's foreskin had been torn a week earlier when Caleb had fulfilled Delmonico's long-running fantasy of being jerked off by someone wearing a Michael Jackson glove.
"Beat it! Beat it!," Delmonico had yelled. Unfortunately, the sequins caught under the foreskin and caused a bloody mess and an uncomfortable emergency room visit. Waiting for the wound to heal meant that Delmonico had not ejaculated in seven days, the longest he had gone since he first expelled his manly dessert to a picture of Marc Harmon in People Magazine.
"Delmonico, you've got a seven-day load in your beanbag that is going to make a bigger mess than a stick of dynamite in a mayonnaise factory. Let's teach this entitled homo some humility."
"Oh fuck, Caleb, it's so naughty that I'm already plumping up. Look! There's painted folk art chair listed at over $1,000! Oooh, it's just begging for me to bust seed."
The Bucktown Antique Market consisted of a first floor and a basement, both so crammed full of random items that the only way to traverse the shop floor was via narrow walkways between the endless piles of items. The only camera in the basement was above the stairway, and the wretched chair was in the back behind an armoire.
Caleb and Delmonico moved quickly through the basement until Delmonico could get into position with his back against the armoire and his super-soaker pointed at the chair. Caleb knelt down in an uncomfortable position, pulled down Delmonico's jeans and extracted a very veiny meat-pole from sheer Calvin Klein briefs.
Caleb gulped and began to sweat when he saw the state of Delmonico's turgid member. Delmonico's cock was normally the size of an adult ferret, but the combination of 7 days without milky release and the excitement over defacing inferior, overpriced antiques had left Delmonico resembling a pepperoni on steroids with a plump, harvest-ready grapefruit swinging below it.
"Caleb, I need you to take all of it," Delmonico pleaded with a trembling lisp, "I need to explode all over this wretched pile of driftwood shit."
Caleb, as a master cocksucker, knew that he would need to employ a technique he had only read about if he hoped to completely inhale Delmonico's cream cheese roll and coin purse. Performing the Blowa Constrictor would require him to unhinge his jaw and devour the entire stinky pickle.
Caleb went into a quick meditative trance while Delmonico maintained his erection by fantasizing about baptizing Justin Bieber's vanilla back-gash. When ready, Caleb began by opening his mouth as wide as he could without experiencing muscle strain, holding the position for five seconds and then closing his mouth. He then opened his mouth to the point where there was a small amount of muscle strain, held the position for five seconds and closed his mouth. Caleb repeated this until his mouth was as open as it could be.
At this point Caleb, who was double-jointed in many parts of his body, shifted his lower jaw to the left to unhinge the right side of the jaw, and then shifted it right to unhinge the left side. Caleb was left looking somewhat like an extremely queer Roger Ebert.
Caleb slowly moved his mouth down Delmonico's greasy spunk-sausage until the entire monster wang was deep-throated. Caleb summoned a level of concentration worthy of a Jedi Master and stretched his mouth down below the level of Delmonico's nuggets.
Caleb's face now resembled the mask the killer wore in the Scream movies. Delmonico moaned as his sack also got gobbled up.
"Oooh, it won't be long! T-minus 10...9...8...7...6," Caleb swallowed so that his throat would tighten on the head of Delmonico's cock.
"5...4...3...2......1!" Caleb moved his head at the last second and narrowly missed being decapitated. As Delmonico screamed, a thundershower of viscous spunk hammered down on the chair; the forceful ejaculation seeping into cracks in the wood and blowing chunks off the period-inappropriate paint job.
Fearful that the shop owner had been alerted by Delmonico's passionate screams, Caleb quickly realigned his jaw and Delmonico coiled-up his come-python like a premium sausage.
On the way out the front door, Caleb yelled, "thanks, but your stuff is a bit too crusty for us. If you take a load off the chair downstairs we might be back, though!"
The couple entered a top-shelf sushi restaurant with a well-earned feeling of pride and genuine accomplishment. They executed a limp-wristed fist-bump before ordering enough tuna sashimi to replenish Delmonico's depleted protein reserves.