Toymaker
Tiny Tim hadn’t cum for a very long time, nary a spurt or a tittle, though he rubbed his soft cock, his sore hand wetted with spittle. His pale, sagging skin, he churned and he twisted, then milked the head over and over, tight-fisted. As the glum town once was vibrant, but now withered away, his cock slumped upon his thigh — a mickle sad display. There were five days ‘til Christmas, and not a red ribbon in sight; no ligh...