Jay Apollon’s tight, corded muscles ripple as he grips his cock with a rough, deliberate grip, his short dark hair catching the light as he works himself. His fingers dig into his own asshole, stretching it open while his other hand pumps fast, veins standing out against his smooth, sun-kissed skin. The couch frames him from every angle, close-ups of his fist, the way his body arches when he pulls back, the, unfiltered motion of his own hand. By the end, he’s bare, the only sound the wet slap of his palm against his shaft.
