Joel Kris sits cuffed to the bedpost, his lean body stretched taut as he works his own cock with slow, deliberate strokes, the candle’s flicker casting shadows across his dark hair. His hand presses into his face now, fingers tangled in the stubble of his jaw as he watches himself, no distraction, just the steady rhythm of his grip. The cuffs dig in when he shifts, the metal cold against his wrists, but his focus never wavers. By the end, he’s bare, the sheets rumpled around his hips, his breath uneven as he comes.
More galleries
