And then he was done. _Finally, the torture is over!_ His cock began to shrink, though he remained seated, still squeezing her head with his legs. ... She felt him lean far over, twisting her head in his powerful leg grip as he did so. Then she heard paper rattling. She tried to look up, though with her face plastered to his groin and his hairy crotch filled her field of view. He draped the newspaper in his lap resting against her forehead. _Fuck! He's reading a newspaper. The fucker. Acting as a sort of free-moving gear ratio, it compensated for the Dream Cleaner’s fantastic spin, keeping him in one piece. Without it, he would have been torn to shreds in seconds. He only hoped now that his handiwork held. Grasping the throw handles on the dash in both hands, he watched the counter. Sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six–timing was critical, it meant the difference between freedom and death. At seventy-one seconds exactly, he jerked the handles down, closing the circuit. . More

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