Joaquin Santana strips down on the floral sheets, his dark hair framing a body built for control, muscles tight under smooth skin as he shifts between poses, fingers tracing his own thighs, ass, and groin with deliberate precision. Every lean, every spread of his legs, every pause with his hand hovering near his cock, is measured, the sheets catching the weight of his movements as he works himself open. The only sound in the room is the rustle of fabric against skin, the slow unraveling of restraint.
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