Samuel Colt sits in a black chair, his bearded jaw tight as he grips his cock hard enough to make his knuckles whiten, the leather of his motorcycle gear creaking with every sharp exhale. The muscles in his arms ripple as he strokes himself, his dark hair falling forward with each rough pull, the chair’s cold metal biting into his thighs. When he finally strips, the only thing left is the way his breath hitches mid-stroke, the leather still clinging to his wrists like a second skin.
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