Vance Crawford sits on a bed of hay, his muscular frame stretched forward as he leans into the moment, cowboy hat tilted low over his light brown hair and clean-shaven jaw. His arm bends behind his head, fingers flexing as he grips himself, the act and deliberate, no hesitation, just the slow, steady pull of his own hand. The hay rustles beneath him, the only sound in the frame as he works himself open, the tension in his posture the only clue to what follows.
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