Shoot

Rob Cryston stands alone in the dim glow of his studio, his muscular frame a study in shadowed perfection. He runs a hand down his chiseled chest, fingers tracing the ridges of his abs, each touch deliberate, igniting a slow burn. His cock stirs, thickening under the weight of his gaze—firm, veined, begging for attention. He wraps his palm around it, stroking with a rhythm that builds like a gathering storm. Precum beads at the tip, slicking his grip as he pumps harder, breath hitching in sharp gasps. Sweat gleams on his skin. He angles his hips, chasing the edge, until release crashes over him—thick ropes of cum spilling across his thigh, a hot, messy testament to his solo fire.