Kip Horn stands pressed against the wall, his plaid shirt untucked and the brim of his straw hat casting shadow over his face as he grips the edge with one hand while the other strokes himself slow and deliberate. The muscles in his arms ripple under smooth, sun-kissed skin as he works himself open, the rhythm steady and unhurried, his breath shallow but controlled. The hat stays on, the shirt stays loose, just the way he likes it.
