Stars: Alex LeMonde   Anthony Shaw   Brandon Lee   Dillon Press   Eddie Stone   Gus Mattox   Jan Fischer   Johnny Hazzard   Kent Larson   Kyle Lewis   Lance Gear   Owen Hawk   Rick Gonzales   Rick Razor   Rob Romoni   Rod Barry   Sebastian Tauza   Shane Rollins   Tag Adams   Theo Blake   Tristan Bennet   Troy Punk   Zak Spears  
Studio: Rascal
SN: ras-60102
Release Date: 2014-08-05

Fasten your tool belts and break out the nuts, bolts and hammer-cocks, because Miss Chi Chi LaRue and her stable of beautifully sculpted and superlatively hung stallions are going to open a shiny toolbox worth of sordid sexual pleasures that would tempt Pandora herself ? or at least her homo boyfriend. The title scroll sets the scene: We're in the not-so-distant future, in a society where sex is ruled by a certain few and the rebel s exist to serve their lusty masters. Or something like that. But enough with the pretense, let's get on with the cock-swinging. First up, we meet gruff muscle daddy Zak Spears ("The Commandant") and delectable tattooed hotness Johnny Hazzard ? one of the most delicious dreamstuds to ever boost Chi Chi's stock. They get things going sweatily with a spitty, pierced-prick-gagging, plump-nuts-tugging, pinched-nipple-twisting, pried-hole-slurping office romp. Hazzard is as exquisitely fit as he is fancily scrawled with tattoos, and Spears is quite the hunky bulldog in his studded leather harness. Spears gags down on Hazzard's thick rigid cock and is soon pounding the inked-and-chiseled fuck-punk on the glass desktop. Props on the see-through table, by the way, which affords us all sorts of luscious, unobstructed views of Zak's probing tongue and lunging cock flickering against and burrowing deep into Johnny's fuzzy pink cooter, not to mention a fetching low angle shot of Hazzard and Spears lapping their spurted puddles of creamy effusion clean off the desktop. A metal shop is the scene of the next sexcrime? Still sweaty from his encounter with the commandant, Hazzard has himself a greedy mutual ass-chew and cock-gobble with beefy daddy Lance Gear, while an unseen punk toils away at the lathe. In the Director's Cut version Gear feeds Hazzard's twitch-hole with the cherry-red hilt of a long metal rod before both men ass-maraud each other atop a work bench. Favorite image: Hazzard delivers a gooey seminal baptism to Gear's shiny bald head. Next, in the "interrogation room", we see abducted Tag Adams in torn and burnt underwear. He's quickly thrown to his knees by a brutish authority figure and again, only in the Director's Cut is d to crawl through a gauntlet of piss, sprayed in succession by a strapping squadron of six over-hydrated gym-studs. Be sure to roll up your knickers before dipping into this splashy aquatic ritual. Soaked heavy with the whiz of six scruffy punks, Tag is hosed clean by a handy power-washer and then takes turns gagging down hoggishly on every stiff pulsing dick in the room. Eventually the other guys join in on the cocksucking, rim-chewing and ass-tagging, and Tag eventually gets creamed and left wallowing on the floor, slathered in a thick glaze of multi-man chowder. Next is a slobbery, pit-licking, throat-cramming, sphincter-slurping tryst in a candle-lit tattoo parlor. Hazzard is first given a new tattoo by exotic inked cutie Brandon Lee, after which Lee takes command of submissive daddy Kent Larson's firm bubble ass. Scene five fills the entire second DVD and is an astonishing hour-plus twelve-man orgy set in a starkly lit gray room appointed with cascading chains and glass boxes/cages. Jock straps are yanked down to unleash thick throbbing tools for the gargling; tight briefs are torn open to expose yawning, insatiable fuck holes for the slurping and probing; firm buttocks both smooth and fuzzy are slapped and spanked and invaded. It's all sweaty and sniffy and piggish but, despite the scruff, the leather cuffs, the tattered underwear and the clinking Hellraiser dcor, it's all but a playful nudge beyond mere vanilla. That is, until things escalate with the introduction of some stainless steel hardware ? namely the titular objet d'art, a shiny oversized ass-plug with a series of etched grooves coiled around its thick metallic shaft. Now, picture a bounteous supply of 'em, of varied girth and length, administered liberally to quivering poke-holes and gulping gullets ali