Kc Blaise and Ricky Daniels stretch across a medical table, their dark hair and clean-shaven faces framed by the mirror’s glare as they pose with deliberate slowness, one hand gripping his own ass, another tracing a thigh while the other leans forward, muscles flexing under taut skin. The third man, tattooed and broad-shouldered, lies back with legs spread wide, arms raised in a stretch that splits his shirt open just enough to show the dip of his waist. Their laughter cuts through the silence, sharp and unguarded, as they adjust, lean, and fold themselves into positions that make the table groan.
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