California Dreamin' 2

Angel Rock lounges under the California sun, his body a slick testament to solitary indulgence. Sweat gleams on his compact frame, convex where it counts—muscled from collarbone to calves, dusted with dark hair clipped just short. Bright yellow swim trunks and a towel hug his tan like a lover's whisper. Sunlight sparks flares in his Ray-Bans' dark lenses; a tiny pool of perspiration gathers in the hollow of his throat. He bites his lower lip. With deliberate strokes, Angel slathers his cock in SPF 35, lingering longer than the rays demand. His free hand cups his balls, squeezes them firm, then tugs at his foreskin, sliding it over the head until pre-cum and sunscreen blur into one teasing sheen. Gripping his fully engorged shaft with both fists, he reveals its true girth—two hands barely tame it. Sweat and lube drip as he jacks off with abandon, thrusting into the air, a finger probing his hole. Climax hits in hot bursts, spooge puddling on his belly. A wide grin spreads across Lance Luciano's face; he's been filming the whole secret show.