Help Wanted

In the dim, shadowed husk of an abandoned warehouse, Joe Andrews stands like a rugged relic from the '70s—hunky, his long hair tousled and uncombed, a thick mustache framing his grin. Dusty work boots scuff the concrete floor, his flannel shirt clings to broad shoulders, and faded jeans hug his hips. With a defiant chuckle, he unzips, drawing out his sizable cock, ringed at the base for that extra throb. He waves it teasingly, the length swaying heavy and bold. Then he lets it spring free, rigid and unyielding, veins pulsing with need. His fist wraps around the shaft, stroking slow at first, building rhythm—firmer, faster—until the climax shudders through him, spilling hot and triumphant in the moody air.