Andrew Larsons stands at the table, gripping his cock hard while the blue strap-on harness rests beside him, its weight forgotten as he works himself with rough, deliberate strokes. His dark hair falls forward, framing the way his fingers dig into his own flesh, then slip down to tease his asshole with slow, deliberate pressure before returning to pump his shaft. The red cushioned stool behind him stays empty, he doesn’t need it, not when his own hands are doing all the work.
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