Jones' Solitary Sin: Pounding Pulp Friction

Jones, in a trance, stands before the mirror, his reflection a study in carnal contrast. His hand moves with a life of its own, jacking his meat with expert precision. He leans into it, his hips thrusting in sync, his breath ragged. His eyes, dark with desire, remain locked with his reflection's, both lost in the dance of the lone wolf, until the inevitable explosion of release.

• soloboy

• Unknown