We were made aware this weekend that Gronk erotica exists and is being sold on Amazon. Due journalism diligence insisted we purchase this Gronk erotica, give you a full review, and then turn it into an animated movie.
I had been in bed for almost two hours, trying to fall asleep. Sandman would not unload his sandy cum into my bloodshot eyes.
A Gronking To Remember (Book One in the Rob Gronkowski Erotica Series) depicts a bored housewife who is immediately driven to start masturbating upon seeing this:
I'll never forget the first time I saw Gronk spike a football. It changed my life forever.
The unrivaled power of his touchdown dance: "The Gronk." It jettisoned jiggling ribbons of electric jelly through my body and melted my knees like two pads of margarine—turned me on quicker and made me wetter than at any other time in my life besides my wedding night.
The book's protagonist is not a football fan, but merely an observer as her husband (a Jets fan) and his buddies watch on NFL Sundays.
It wasn't my scene, to say the least, but I came into the den and sat down next to Dan. My sewing could wait, I thought—could go to hell for all I cared. Suddenly all I wanted to do was watch Gronk do his thang-thang in the zone place there. My vagina demanded it.
Gronk lifts the football in his hand and spikes it down with such violence the ball launches fifty feet in the air and into the crowd of the stadium, who flip out wrestling to get the holy token of pigskin.
Needless to say, I am weakened again by the spectacle. Silky ribbons of juicy pleasure wobble through my nethers. My nipples harden beneath my sweater. I am hot. The room around me recedes. My breath quickens. I squeeze my hands together in the center of my chest, between my breasts.
I take a few breaths. They're playing the touchdown and monster spiking again on the TV in slow motion and I can feel my pussy wetting in my panties, but I maintain my composure. I straighten myself out. Six pack? I bet Gronk has a six pack you could wash laundry on. I lick my lips thinking about it.
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There are graphic depictions of Gronk-sex:
I picture being mauled by a huge monolith of a man. My body used for his hard pleasure; a stone god gripping me in his hands. He hoists me in the air. My clothes are ripped from my body, my quivering flesh open and available, my body ready to be used by the strong force of the universe, a ravaging, rampaging man. He brushes aside his loincloth. And then… out comes his stone pillar of a cock.
Mr. Gronkowski fucking my ass with warping power on the Fifty Yard Line at Gillette Stadium couldn't even do it for me. Nor would softer and more emotional scenes coax me wet: Gronk on one knee spiking a bouquet of roses, bottle of champagne and diamond ring into my butt on the Fifty Yard Line at Gillette Stadium, had little effect as well.
...as well as some tortured puns:
"Look at me, ungh, splitting my own seam, oohh… going deep. You like how I work my slot receiver, like a tight end. Like Gronkowski… Ooh…" I stroked my wet pussy up and down. The whole lower part of my body throbbed, it ached with want.
We won't spoil the ending, other than to say that the protagonist ends up getting Gronked in the butt. Go buy the book, and watch this movie we made of its, uh, sexiest moments (this is probably Not Safe For Work):
We're not sure how any woman (or man, really) could find this sexy, but it's not appreciably worse than 50 Shades Of Grey.
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