Bobby Hall sprawls across the red couch, his muscular arms flexing as he grips his own cock, the tattoos on his forearms sharp against the fabric. His dark hair falls forward as he shifts, legs splayed wide, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of his thigh before sliding lower. The floral-patterned towel pools beneath him, discarded as he leans back, the couch swallowing his weight. His breath comes steady, hands moving with deliberate precision, each stroke a deliberate claim on his own body.
