Florian Mraz sits on the edge of the bed, fingers already working at the waistband of his pants, the dark hair of his chest visible through the gap. His muscles ripple as he pulls the shirt free, tossing it aside, then stretches out on his back, legs splayed wide as he grips himself with deliberate, rough strokes. Every pose, side, stomach, back, keeps his hole open, his hand moving faster, the bedspread yellow with floral patterns barely visible beneath him.
