Johny Cherry sits on the edge of the bed, knife in hand, his dark hair framing a smooth, lean body before he strips away every stitch. His legs part as he lies back, fingers tracing himself with deliberate precision, the patterned sheets catching the light as he poses, hands behind his head, feet lifted, every angle designed to draw the eye. The only thing missing is the act itself, but the tension in his posture makes it impossible to look away.
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