Alone, He Strokes and Spills

In the quiet confines of his room, a man lost in his thoughts turns to his trusty right hand, a familiar companion in moments of solitude. His breath hitches as he tugs at his rigid length, the sensation of calloused skin against sensitive flesh igniting a spark within him. He imagines the soft touch of a lover, the wet heat of a mouth, as he builds a rhythm, his hips lifting to meet his hand. His groans fill the room, echoing off the walls, as he nears the edge. With a final, shuddering stroke, he spills, his release painting his belly in warm, sticky ribbons.

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