Anthony

Anthony arrives from Florida, chasing the sun with runs along the shore, swims in the surf, beach days, and easy hangs with buddies—nothing fancy, just real life. Shy at first, he warms up when we nudge him toward sex talk. Rough edges turn him on, he confesses, and stamina? He's got it in spades. A bashful smile creeps in as he vows to last long for us, too. He echoes those classic 1950s-60s physique models from old bodybuilding rags: short hair slicked back with pomade, a lean frame packed with muscle under pale skin, and a dark trail of hair circling his navel like a secret invitation. He peels off his clothes, bare and bold, then straddles the couch's back. His naked hips grind slow against the cushions, crotch sliding with deliberate heat. He smacks his ass sharp, the sound echoing, then pushes fingers deep into himself, probing without mercy. Game face locked, he grips his cock. One fist pumps steady, then two hands join the frenzy—stroking hard, pulling taut, yanking with raw need, squeezing until veins throb. Finally, he erupts, ropes of cum arcing high to splatter his belly. A performance for the ages, watch still ticking on his wrist like a cheeky afterthought.