Paul

Paul reigns as a favorite in the Falcon Str8Men archives, that charmer with eyes that sparkle like mischief and a chin dimpled just so. We devour every frame of this young buck, all focus and fire, delivering exactly what we crave. He locks gazes with the lens, a bold challenge to look elsewhere—impossible, as his hand dives into those Calvins, jiggling his jewels with teasing flair. Bare now, skin flushed and taut, he drops into a seat and takes hold. His fist pumps his pud in steady rhythm, fingers teasing, circling, driving waves of pleasure that twist his features into raw ecstasy. Like a man possessed, he slaps his cock—sharp, stinging smacks that echo his urgency—then spins to bare his ass, firm cheeks parting in invitation. Back to the grind, he jerks harder, faster, breath ragged, until the cry rips free: 'Oh fuck YES!' Ropes of cum arc out, hot and thick, splattering in glorious disarray. Real. Messy. Done.