Scott Demarco kneels on the toilet, his dark hair slick with water as he grips the rim, then flips to lie on the bed, legs spread, fingers circling his asshole before he shifts, mouth parting to catch his own hand’s wetness. The shower sprays behind him, but his focus stays on the bed, where he rolls onto his back again, legs raised, fingers tracing his hole before his mouth closes over them. Towel in hand, he drinks, then repeats the cycle, each position a slow, deliberate push toward something unseen.
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