You catch Mark Woods fresh off the train, still in that tight navy blazer and slacks, tie loose, shirt buttons already straining. He steps inside the station bathroom like he owns the place, unzips, and stands there pissing in a fast, hard stream that drums the porcelain loud enough you can hear it two stalls down. His free hand grips the back of his neck, shoulders rolling, and you watch the fat bulge behind the zipper grow even tighter when he shakes off. He tucks it away slow, then fixes his collar like the mess is nothing—until he turns and catches you staring, eyes half-lidded, bottom lip tucked between his teeth in a smirk that dares you to make the first move. Air between you crackles hot; the steady drip from the faucet fills the pause. He angles his hips forward a half-inch and lets out a low, throaty laugh. His dick’s already swelling back to life, pressing a thick ridge across the front of his trousers. No words, just the jingle of a belt being unthreaded while his fingers trace the heavy outline of his shaft. Then he grabs the base, pulling it free—long, veined, flushed at the tip—and strokes upward in one lazy pull, precum beading and stretching as he thumbs it down. He moves in close enough that you can smell sweat, soap, and skin. “Eyes on it,” he mutters, then spits into his palm and starts jerking with hard, deliberate strokes, wrist twisting on each upward pass, the wet slap echoing off tile. Balls swing heavy beneath, his breath punching out through his nose every time the head drags his palm. A bead of cum thickens, then breaks, stringing between his fingers and shaft. He doesn’t slow. Every flex pushes another smooth inch of slick skin through his fist, veins pulsing under the low fluorescent light. Mark braces one hand against the stall door, knuckles pale, and lets out a grunt that lands right between your legs. His eyes flick to your mouth and hold it there like he’s already seeing how you’d swallow him to the root.
You catch Mark Woods fresh off the train, still in that tight navy blazer and slacks, tie loose, shirt buttons already straining. He steps inside the station bathroom like he owns the place, unzips, and stands there pissing in a fast, hard stream that drums the porcelain loud enough you can hear it two stalls down. His free hand grips the back of his neck, shoulders rolling, and you watch the fat bulge behind the zipper grow even tighter when he shakes off. He tucks it away slow, then fixes his collar like the mess is nothing—until he turns and catches you staring, eyes half-lidded, bottom lip tucked between his teeth in a smirk that dares you to make the first move. Air between you crackles hot; the steady drip from the faucet fills the pause. He angles his hips forward a half-inch and lets out a low, throaty laugh. His dick’s already swelling back to life, pressing a thick ridge across the front of his trousers. No words, just the jingle of a belt being unthreaded while his fingers trace the heavy outline of his shaft. Then he grabs the base, pulling it free—long, veined, flushed at the tip—and strokes upward in one lazy pull, precum beading and stretching as he thumbs it down. He moves in close enough that you can smell sweat, soap, and skin. “Eyes on it,” he mutters, then spits into his palm and starts jerking with hard, deliberate strokes, wrist twisting on each upward pass, the wet slap echoing off tile. Balls swing heavy beneath, his breath punching out through his nose every time the head drags his palm. A bead of cum thickens, then breaks, stringing between his fingers and shaft. He doesn’t slow. Every flex pushes another smooth inch of slick skin through his fist, veins pulsing under the low fluorescent light. Mark braces one hand against the stall door, knuckles pale, and lets out a grunt that lands right between your legs. His eyes flick to your mouth and hold it there like he’s already seeing how you’d swallow him to the root.
