Michael Dora stands in the sunlight, his dark hair catching the light as he leans against a wooden bench, adjusting his jeans before firing a thick stream straight into the grass. His hands guide the flow with practiced ease, the force of his piss cutting through the air before hitting the ground with a sharp, wet sound. The greenery around him stays untouched, just a blur of leaves as he finishes, then zips up with a satisfied exhale.
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