James Jones sits on the couch, legs spread wide, his dark hair framing a smooth, muscular chest as he leans forward with deliberate control. The white underpants barely contain him, his hands gripping the edge as he shifts between poses, leaning back, bending his knees, then lying flat with the framed paintings in the background watching. Every movement is slow, deliberate, the tension all in the way his body stretches and holds.
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