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Tommy Parker’s Sweaty Feet & Cock

The door slams. Tommy Parker collapses onto the couch, tie choking his neck, shirt clinging to his sweat-damp back. His eyes flutter shut—finally. No meetings. No emails. No pretending he’s not rock-hard under his dress pants. His fingers rip at the buttons, peeling off the fabric like it’s a second skin. The room hums with the rasp of his breath as he kicks off his shoes, shoves down his trousers, and finally—his cock springs free, thick and throbbing, veins pulsing like war drums.

His hand closes around himself, a ragged groan escaping as he strokes. The couch cushions mold to his ass, his back arching into the touch. One palm digs into his abs, tracing the ridges as his other hand works his shaft—slow, punishing circles. He pictures it: the intern’s tight smirk, the way his tie hung loose at lunch, the almost brush of their hands in the hallway. His hips jerk upward, cockhead slick with precum, dripping onto his fist.

The room narrows to the rhythm—slap, slap, slap of skin on skin, the wet squelch of his grip. His free hand claws at his nipple, twisting until his moan turns guttural. The edge creeps closer, his balls tightening, thighs trembling. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop. Just pounds himself, chasing the oblivion.

Then—explosion. His back bows, cock jerking wildly as ropes of cum erupt across his chest, splattering his neck, dripping into his hairline. His breaths saw through his teeth, the mess glowing under the dim lamp. He stares at the ceiling, spent, shirtless, and free. The office can wait. For now, he’s just a man—and a cumshot—reborn.

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