just received this email at The Arena.
Fuck knows why.
But saying that it's better than the usual death threats.
Probably.
Rupert Grint: A warning.
Rupert Grint’s gargantuan hands reach out and shove you back into the chair, hairy knuckles squeezing your shoulders painfully at the end of his gangly arms. “Oi’ve hit me puberty,” he intones in his gravelly new voice, “so now oi’m the man!” He stands upright, towering over you, and leans his head back to let you appreciate his first claim to adulthood: the rudiments of a scraggly beard appearing along the line of his jaw. He twists one between his thumb and forefinger, tugging it gingerly. “Cor! ‘at’s a right pisser, ‘innit?”
You don’t have time to answer before he shifts his attention downward, to the fly of his jeans. He lifts his Hogwarts jersey and, with a few deft movements, it stands before you: his thick, unclipped, distinctly British hog. This is not the dainty, elegantly tapered ginger morsel you remember. Brackish pubes menace from his distended scrotum, curling outward at you. The sack itself has taken on the appearance of Mickey Rooney, seemingly aging a lifetime in mere months, and his penis has exchanged its youthful pallor for a yellow-brown tinge that reminds you of overripe fruit.
“‘orright mate, get to work, get to work! I’m not gon’ta’ wank i’!” He bellows his baritone commands at you expectantly, even as the monster begins to take shape. As if awakening for the first time in its wretched existence, his meaty chud rises off his balls with a malevolent swagger. He lets it brush against your cheek and leans backward, allowing you one last, furtive glimpse of the boy you once loved.. and the abomination he has become.
Steeling yourself, you return your eyes to the task before you. He is ready now, you realize, his slit glistening with precum, his shaft twitching with his heartbeat. This is it. You detect the scent of fish and vinegar on the air, and it reminds you of better times. It seems so long ago….
Rupert Grint’s gargantuan hands reach out and shove you back into the chair, hairy knuckles squeezing your shoulders painfully at the end of his gangly arms. “Oi’ve hit me puberty,” he intones in his gravelly new voice, “so now oi’m the man!” He stands upright, towering over you, and leans his head back to let you appreciate his first claim to adulthood: the rudiments of a scraggly beard appearing along the line of his jaw. He twists one between his thumb and forefinger, tugging it gingerly. “Cor! ‘at’s a right pisser, ‘innit?”
You don’t have time to answer before he shifts his attention downward, to the fly of his jeans. He lifts his Hogwarts jersey and, with a few deft movements, it stands before you: his thick, unclipped, distinctly British hog. This is not the dainty, elegantly tapered ginger morsel you remember. Brackish pubes menace from his distended scrotum, curling outward at you. The sack itself has taken on the appearance of Mickey Rooney, seemingly aging a lifetime in mere months, and his penis has exchanged its youthful pallor for a yellow-brown tinge that reminds you of overripe fruit.
“‘orright mate, get to work, get to work! I’m not gon’ta’ wank i’!” He bellows his baritone commands at you expectantly, even as the monster begins to take shape. As if awakening for the first time in its wretched existence, his meaty chud rises off his balls with a malevolent swagger. He lets it brush against your cheek and leans backward, allowing you one last, furtive glimpse of the boy you once loved.. and the abomination he has become.
Steeling yourself, you return your eyes to the task before you. He is ready now, you realize, his slit glistening with precum, his shaft twitching with his heartbeat. This is it. You detect the scent of fish and vinegar on the air, and it reminds you of better times. It seems so long ago….
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