Piss Army

Alone with his canteen, Tommy Defendi takes a long pull then drops his hand to the fat dick swinging between his legs. Heavy artillery, every inch on full display. Each slow pull drags a fresh bead of piss from the slit. He soaks his t-shirt, fabric clinging dark to his chest. Boots planted wide, he steps right over the lens and lets loose, a thick stream hammering the glass. Heat rolls down the lens like rain on hot concrete. The flow keeps coming, one heavy spurt after another, the wet gleam catching every angle of that monster cock. You feel it land, warm, deliberate, almost personal.