Clay Hanson sits on the couch, adjusting a towel over his lean frame as tattoos peek from his upper body, his fingers tracing the edge of his cock before he stretches out, legs bent high above him. The dark couch frames every shift, arms behind his head, torso leaning forward with his hole exposed, hands gripping himself as he works through the motion. No one else is there, just the way his body moves, the slow pull of his own grip.
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