(mh=p9k4zKdLU-Qew0uU)8.jpg)
In the quietude of his room, a man, bored and alone, seeks solace in the rhythm of his own touch. He unzips, his hand wrapping around his hardening length, a slow dance of lust beginning. His fingers trace the vein, a moan escaping as he picks up pace, the scent of his musk filling the air. He's a soloist, the stage his bed, the curtains drawn, his body his only audience.