A body lies sprawled across patterned sheets, not in surrender, but in rest. Masked and still, his form is softened by exhaustion or perhaps afterglow. There is something intimate in his posture—loose, heavy, bare in every sense.

The leather remains, unmoved. The tail rests against his thigh. His cock, flaccid but present, shares no urgency—only truth. This is the moment after everything, when performance has passed and what’s left is just the weight of the body, the silence of the room, and a man in his most unguarded state.