Tone Capone
GangLand Cream Pie #02
Toney Capone walks like he owns the fucking sidewalk, that asshole knows exactly what he's packing. Dude's got this habit of tucking his phone between his fingers so it runs right up against his bulge, every bounce from his swagger sending that device pulsing heat straight into his crotch. Balls hang heavy, swinging low enough that his jeans have permanent stretch marks where the fabric fights to contain them. When he sits down, his thighs spread wide because that cock needs room to breathe, always semi-hard from the constant friction of walking. He scratches his nuts in public like nobody's watching, big meaty hands just reaching down to readjust, giving everything a firm squeeze before pulling his grip away. Nighttime means that monster wakes up hungry, a thick rod straining against his underwear so aggressive it barely fits between those legs when he tries to lie flat. Cockhead leaks pre-come every time he thinks about how many times he's jerked off today already. Morning wood turns into all-day wood because this bastard's libido doesn't take breaks, that dick thickens at random whenever his zipper pulls too tight. He strokes it slow when he's alone, just lazy pulls like he's got all day, thumb rolling over the tip to spread his own slick mess down the shaft until his palm glides smooth over every inch. That thing pulses in his grip like it has its own heartbeat.
Toney Capone walks like he owns the fucking sidewalk, that asshole knows exactly what he's packing. Dude's got this habit of tucking his phone between his fingers so it runs right up against his bulge, every bounce from his swagger sending that device pulsing heat straight into his crotch. Balls hang heavy, swinging low enough that his jeans have permanent stretch marks where the fabric fights to contain them. When he sits down, his thighs spread wide because that cock needs room to breathe, always semi-hard from the constant friction of walking. He scratches his nuts in public like nobody's watching, big meaty hands just reaching down to readjust, giving everything a firm squeeze before pulling his grip away. Nighttime means that monster wakes up hungry, a thick rod straining against his underwear so aggressive it barely fits between those legs when he tries to lie flat. Cockhead leaks pre-come every time he thinks about how many times he's jerked off today already. Morning wood turns into all-day wood because this bastard's libido doesn't take breaks, that dick thickens at random whenever his zipper pulls too tight. He strokes it slow when he's alone, just lazy pulls like he's got all day, thumb rolling over the tip to spread his own slick mess down the shaft until his palm glides smooth over every inch. That thing pulses in his grip like it has its own heartbeat.