Troy Hammer plays with himself

Troy Hammer stands with his hands on his hips, muscles rippling under his shaved head as he bends forward to reveal a thick, tattooed back. He grips himself hard, fingers tracing the veins along his length, his knuckles dark against the skin. The couch behind him offers no support, just a hard edge for his weight as he leans into the moment, every flex a deliberate show of control. The tattoos climb up his arms, sharp lines marking the way he holds himself. No hesitation, no softness, just the, unfiltered grip of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.