Flynn Evans sits on a bench in a red sweatshirt, gripping his cock hard while his dark hair falls forward, muscles flexing as he strokes himself. The bench creases beneath him as he leans into the motion, his grip tight enough to make veins stand out. By the end, the sweatshirt’s sleeves are pushed up, his chest bare, and his hand moves faster, no shirt, no pause, just the wet, relentless pull of his own fist.
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