Cock in hand, Amos Colby stood at the Gleaming urinal in the pristine beige-tiled men’s room, appreciating the acoustics of the echoing room, the splash and spatter; of his piss reverberating from every corner. A self-satisfied smile played at the corners of his full-lipped mouth as he gazed down at the exposed, hand-cradled length of maleness responsible for the powerful hquid concerto. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly as he gauged the elasticity of that generous girth.
A nice handful, he thought, a perfectly proportioned handful.
And it was, The shaft—thick and rubbery and appetizing - fit exactly the width of his palm, the edge of his forefinger nestling intimately behind the nervestudded ridge of the fat, pink-toned head, foreskin retracted, stretching beyond his grip, nearly another two inches, glossy, sensitive in its unaccustomed naked freedom, even thicker than the fat, spongy shaft which his fingers could just manage to encompass when it was soft, as now, fat and flaccidly resilient.