Ricky Hingston lies sprawled across the couch, his shaved head gleaming under the light as he grips his cock with rough, deliberate strokes, his muscles flexing beneath taut skin. The tattooed ridges of his arms ripple as he shifts his weight, fingers tracing slow circles around his slit while his legs splay wide, the couch cushion dipping under his spread thighs. Leaning forward on the bed, he cups his balls with one hand, the other still working his shaft, his breath shallow as he leans back again, palm pressed to his forehead. Every pose, leaning, sitting, sprawling, keeps his cock in view, his grip never easing, his focus locked on the motion of his own hand.
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