But captured...

Michael hit the hallway at a sprint, cock swinging, heart jack-hammering with pure, unfiltered lust.

The torso was already tearing across the living room in frantic barrel-rolls, those massive breasts slapping the hardwood in a wet *thwack-thwack-thwack* rhythm that echoed like gunshots. A glistening trail of lube and precum streaked behind it.

“Get back here, you gorgeous little freak!”

It switched tactics mid-roll, flopped onto its belly, and started the **** butt-scoot—hips rocking, thick thighs pumping, ass cheeks clapping together with every shove forward. The motion was so violently sexual Michael actually moaned.

He dove, fingers brushing the curve of one hip. Missed.

The torso veered hard, ricocheted off the couch, and shot toward the kitchen.

In the kitchen it tried to wedge under the breakfast table. Breasts jammed against the legs, ass high, thighs trembling. Michael dropped behind it, cock in hand, ready to drive home.

“Got you now—”

It spasmed, arching so hard the table jumped an inch. Breasts compressed, then *popped* free. It shot forward, knocking a chair flying, and kept scooting around the island counter like a panicked, limbless siren.

Michael chased it in circles, laughing breathlessly, cock dripping on the tile.

It hit the den rug, flipped back to rolling, and made a **** beeline for the sliding glass door.

The door was shut tight—no gap, no doggy door, no mercy.

The torso slammed into the glass breasts-first with a heavy *thud*. The impact squashed those huge tits flat against the pane, nipples dragging downward in two long streaks as it tried to keep pushing. It bounced off, stunned for half a second, then spun in a frantic circle looking for another route.

Michael was on it before it could choose.

He tackled it to the rug, both of them crashing down in a tangle of limbs and curves. The torso bucked wildly, but he threw his full weight across its back, pinning it chest-down. One arm snaked under the narrow waist, the other gripped a fistful of breast, and he **** those thick thighs apart with his knees.

“End of the line, baby.”

He found the entrance—still slick, still clenching in panic—and slammed in to the hilt.

The torso arched beneath him, spine bowing, ass grinding back against his hips whether it wanted to or not. The inner walls spasmed in frantic waves, milking him so hard his vision whited out.

“Fuck—yes—keep fighting, just like that—”

He hooked an arm under each thigh stump, yanked the lower half up off the rug, and started pounding in brutal, possessive strokes. Every thrust sent ripples through that fat ass and made the breasts scrape against the carpet. The torso thrashed, rolled its hips, tried to twist away, but there was nowhere left to go.

Michael buried his face against the blank neck stump, teeth grazing the soft skin, and growled against it.

“You’re not going anywhere. You’re mine now.”

He felt the orgasm building like a freight train, spurred on by every useless, **** clench around his cock. With a final, savage thrust he buried himself deep and came hard, flooding the living toy in long, pulsing ropes.

The torso shuddered beneath him, inner muscles still fluttering in panic and defeat.

Michael stayed inside, catching his breath, lips brushing where an ear would have been.

“Damn, I don’t care how impossible this is. It’s hot as hell. I wonder if all toys at Molly’s come to life?”