James

James struts with the pride of a man sculpted by the sea—dark-skinned, Mediterranean allure radiating from every taut line. Four gym sessions a week chisel his frame into lean, wiry perfection, muscles coiling like hidden springs. His last flame flickered out after a year and a half; she bolted, snatching his cell phone on the way. He craved her from behind, seizing control, pounding deep while yanking her hair in fierce tugs. No mystery there, you think, why she fled his rough charms. A true vision, James flexes and steals the breath—ripped abs carving shadows across his skin, every inch a testament to sweat and iron. Even soft, his cock dangles heavy, balls swinging low like ripe fruit. He slicks lube across those washboard ridges and broad chest, fingers wrapping his thickening shaft. Stroke by stroke, he builds the fire, teasing his tight hole with probing digits. Then he reclines, legs hoisted high, offering a brazen glimpse of his puckered entrance, winking in invitation. The peak surges. He rises, voice gravelly: 'I'm fuckin' cumming.' Jets of thick seed erupt, painting the black coffee table in pearly streaks, each pulse draining him dry onto the glossy ebony surface.