Sunday Surrender: Stroke toglory

Bathed in the soft, golden light of a lazy Sunday afternoon, our lone wolf finds himself in a state of semi-arousal, his cock tenting his loose sweatpants. He watches as his hand, seemingly of its own volition, reaches down and tugs at the waistband, freeing his stiff member. He begins to stroke it, his grip firm and steady, his rhythm building like a symphony. His hand is a blur, his breath ragged, his heart pounding in his chest. With a final, desperate stroke, he comes undone, his cum shooting out in thick ropes, decorating his stomach and chest in a messy, sticky masterpiece.

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