Tory Mason stands bare-chested against a rough tree trunk, his blond hair catching the light as he grips himself with deliberate strength, the woods and distant ocean framing his muscular build. Sitting on a mossy stump, he shifts his weight, fingers tracing his length with slow precision, his gaze fixed upward as if lost in the rhythm. On his back, sprawled across the same stump, he arches into the air, the natural setting untouched by anything but his body and the quiet power of his touch.
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