Brice with Toy

Brice saunters back into the frame, all boyish charm and fresh ink—a new tattoo curling across his skin, lyrics from the Dave Matthews Band etched like a secret promise: 'And if I die, before my time, Oh sweet sister of mine, do not regret me if I die.' A silver piercing glints in his eyebrow, catching the light. Excitement hums through him, electric and urgent, as he craves the thrust of something deep inside. His fingers wrap around his cock, stroking with deliberate pulls until hardness swells under his touch. He yanks open the sidetable drawer, grabs the manrammer—a sleek latex pole—and a slick bottle of lube. He coats it generously, eyes half-lidded with anticipation. The first slide in surprises him: not bad, not uncomfortable at all. It turns titillating fast, that slow invasion sparking heat as he eases it deeper into his hole. All the while, his hand pumps his shaft, rhythm building like a fever. Brice works it quick, body arching, until release crashes over him. He shoots his load in thick spurts, grinning wide like the Cheshire Cat, utterly pleased. No regrets, Brice. You kill me, babe.