The skin glistens—flushed, marked, alive. He doesn’t pose or perform. He simply stands, cock on display, unapologetic. The bruises speak louder than expression ever could: a silent archive of what’s been taken, given, endured.

There’s no hand to shield, no shame to soften the gaze. Just a body still humming with contact, sweat cooling on the surface. This isn’t about seduction—it’s about aftermath. He’s not asking to be seen. He already knows you’re looking.