The tattooed man strips down in front of you, his muscles rippling as he flexes against the wall, the ink on his left side sharp under the light. Sitting on a chair, he grips himself with deliberate precision, his short dark hair framing a face that doesn’t look away. Every angle, leaning, sitting, the close-up of his mouth, shows exactly what he’s doing, exactly how. No hesitation, no soft focus. Just the way he holds himself, the way he moves, the way he ends.
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