Trent Locke

Meet Trent Locke, the epitome of a full-blooded young American guy. Unassuming on the street, no secrets, no schemes. Yet he's a knockout, hot and ravenous like his peers. He strokes himself four or five times a day—right after real sex, which he claims happens plenty. That shaft must ache from the workout. Sports have sculpted him: solid frame, natural muscle. A light fur dusts his chest and legs. His skin's a bit uneven, the mark of youth. (All our men are legal, so breathe easy.) That's his charm—wholesome, hale, utterly craveable. He settles in, relaxed as ever, and grips his cock. His right hand knows it intimately, old pals in rhythm. He strokes slow at first, kneading the swollen length, coaxing it firm. Pace quickens. Tension builds; body coils tight, eyelids flicker, lips tremble. Grunts punctuate sharp gasps. Climax hits—he erupts, splattering everywhere. Typical young buck: a glorious mess. We forgive him; he's that damn appealing.