Tommy Dyk

Tommy Dyk leans against the wall, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he grips a stick between his fingers, the wood pressing into his palm while his other hand slides down to grip himself. The surface beneath him is smooth, the angle just right for the camera to catch the way his fingers work over his cock, the stick resting idle beside him as he shifts his weight, the stick’s shadow stretching across his thigh. Then he drops it, the wood clattering to the floor, and pulls his shirt over his head, the fabric catching on his ribs before he lets it fall away, his body bare now except for the stick still lying there, unused but waiting.