Chance Armstrong’s clean-shaven face twists as he licks his fingers, fingers trembling near his mouth before he shoves them deep into his own hole. His tongue juts out in sharp, desperate thrusts, mouth open wide as he works himself with rough, unsteady hands. The close-up captures every flicker of his expression, gritted teeth, the way his jaw clenches when he pulls back, the slick, glistening mess of his own fingers. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t slow down, just drives himself harder.
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