Elliot Holloman leans against the couch, his dark hair falling over his shoulders as he fingers himself with slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers slick with his own wetness. The close-up of his hand, thick, calloused from work, presses against his lips before he drags it down his chest, his slim body half-reclined, half-exposed. The camera lingers on his fingers as he traces his own slit, his breath shallow, the couch or bed beneath him shifting with each shift of his weight.
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