Sammy Poulain strips bare in slow, deliberate poses, blond, sculpted, and unhurried as he leans against walls, drapes a towel over his shoulders, and stretches his arms above his head. The blue sheets of the bed frame his body in every angle, from his back arched in quiet confidence to his stomach pressed into the mattress, every muscle defined. His hands grip the sheets, the armrest, the air itself, as if measuring the weight of his own presence. The only sound is the quiet rasp of skin against fabric, the only movement the deliberate shift from one pose to the next.
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