Armond Rizzo leans against the bench, his dark hair framing a smooth, muscular chest as he grips himself with deliberate precision, fingers tracing the thick ridge of his cock. The garden’s greenery blurs behind him, but his focus stays locked on the motion, slow, deliberate strokes that make the head glisten. Seated with legs spread, he angles his body just right, the bench’s edge cutting into his thighs as he works himself open. No hesitation, no softness: just the, unfiltered grip of a man who knows exactly what he wants.
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