David Reed leans back on a table, tattoos tracing his upper arms as he grips his cock, the green stickers on his chest marking the skin beneath. His dark hair falls loose, his lean frame relaxed as he lifts his hips, the stream cutting through the air. The chair, the table, anything solid becomes a support as he shifts, his hand steady on his head or raised in rhythm. Every position holds the same focus: the slow, deliberate release, the weight of his body leaning into it.
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