Frank

Frank turns heads without trying. Tall, dark, handsome—his words fade into the background, pulling your gaze elsewhere. He's an exhibitionist at heart, craves the thrill of sex, lives to display every inch. No nerves here; confidence runs deep. This stays between us, his secret unveiled. He's eyed guys with curiosity but never crossed that line. Regular hookups keep his hand idle these days. Enough talk. The heat builds, and thank fuck for it. He rises, peels off his black tank top, flexes those sculpted arms and chest. Damn. Pants drop next, leaving him in tight blue bikini briefs that hug every curve. He teases his bulge, rubbing the heavy swell, jiggling it with a smirk. Big hands roam his chest, then dip to his crotch, sparks flying for him and anyone watching. The briefs slide down. He steps free, revealing a towering frame of naked muscle—tanned skin gleaming, dusted with fine black hair. Irresistible. He wets his left palm with a slow lick, wraps it around his cock, and strokes. The shaft stretches long and rigid—seven-and-a-half inches, pushing eight when desire peaks; he's checked. His grip glides steady, up and down, building rhythm. A sight to savor: standing tall, or kneeling to flaunt that firm, round ass and dangling balls, or easing back, fist pumping relentlessly—stroking, slapping, squeezing—until release hits. Cum arcs out in hot spurts. He's spent. We're wrecked. But play it back; one more time won't hurt.