Harry Coniston presses his palm against his own asshole while sprawled on the bed, his dark hair framing a body built for strength. The red underwear peeks through as he shifts, legs spread wide on the black-patterned sheets, fingers tracing his thigh before slipping lower. Leaning against the wall, he grips himself with deliberate control, then collapses back, hand hovering just above the tight hole. Every movement is, unfiltered, his own.
