In a private, dimly lit room, a cocoa-skinned god takes center stage, his colossal, uncircumcised manhood tents his shorts. He teases, rubbing his bulge before freeing his meat, letting it bob heavily. He grips it tightly, his large hand struggling to encompass it. He pumps, his hips bucking, his body tensing as he edges closer. His breath hitches, his grip tightens, and with a grunt, he unloads, his cream painting his chest and hand.