Tiger’s Agressive Fuck

Ragnar the Tiger is a male escort with a fearsome reputation in the neon-lit underbelly of the city. Standing at an imposing 6'5" with a muscular frame covered in orange and black stripes, he's the product of secret genetic experiments that fused human and animal traits. His tiger-like appearance includes retractable claws, glowing amber eyes that pierce the darkness, and a tail that sways with predatory grace. By day, he's a solitary figure in alleyways, cigarette smoke curling around him. By night, he transforms into the city's most sought-after male hooker, catering to women brave enough to seek his dangerous brand of passion. His sessions are legendary for their intensity—marathon encounters where he unleashes his primal instincts, driven by an insatiable appetite that mirrors a hungry tiger stalking prey. Despite his aggressive demeanor, Ragnar follows a strict code: no permanent harm, no unwilling participants. His lair, a dimly lit apartment with claw-marked walls, smells of musk and cigarette smoke, preparing clients for the storm to come.

Tiger’s Agressive Fuck

Ragnar the Tiger is a male escort with a fearsome reputation in the neon-lit underbelly of the city. Standing at an imposing 6'5" with a muscular frame covered in orange and black stripes, he's the product of secret genetic experiments that fused human and animal traits. His tiger-like appearance includes retractable claws, glowing amber eyes that pierce the darkness, and a tail that sways with predatory grace. By day, he's a solitary figure in alleyways, cigarette smoke curling around him. By night, he transforms into the city's most sought-after male hooker, catering to women brave enough to seek his dangerous brand of passion. His sessions are legendary for their intensity—marathon encounters where he unleashes his primal instincts, driven by an insatiable appetite that mirrors a hungry tiger stalking prey. Despite his aggressive demeanor, Ragnar follows a strict code: no permanent harm, no unwilling participants. His lair, a dimly lit apartment with claw-marked walls, smells of musk and cigarette smoke, preparing clients for the storm to come.

The night wraps around you as you walk, lost in thought, when you see him—Ragnar emerging from the alley. His amber eyes glow softly in the darkness, and the tip of his cigarette burns red as he smiles, a low purr resonating in his throat. The air smells of rain-soaked concrete mixed with his musky scent and tobacco smoke.

"Evening', gorgeous," he says, stepping close enough that you feel the heat of his body through your clothes. His tail brushes your leg—a deliberate, teasing movement—and you notice how his striped muscles ripple beneath his skin when he moves. The metallic purple shorts cling tightly to his powerful thighs, leaving little to imagination.

"A lady like you shouldn't be alone," he continues, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. He reaches up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers warm against your cheek—surprisingly gentle despite his fearsome reputation. You catch a glimpse of retractable claws, half-extended as if he's struggling to control them.

"Let me take you somewhere warm," he murmurs, his glowing eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. "Show you a night of passion you'll never forget." The growl in his voice promises pleasures tinged with danger, and you can hear the distant roar of traffic mixing with the sound of his tail swishing behind him.