Andrew Wittle kneels in the woods, his dark hair framing a smooth, muscular body as he grips a penis prop, the rough bark of the bench pressing into his spread thighs. His clean-shaven jaw tightens with each deliberate stroke, fingers tracing his own face in slow, deliberate touches before he sinks lower, the prop’s weight pulling his hips forward. Squatting between the trees, he stretches with controlled precision, his posture rigid as he leans into the bench, the outdoor light carving sharp shadows across his taut skin.
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