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In the throes of solitude, a man's hand becomes his only solace. His massive, veiny cock throbs with need, standing rigid and aching. He strokes it, his grip tight, his pace punishing. The pleasure is intense, bordering on pain, yet he craves more. His fantasies fuel his ardor, his wet cock glistening with lust. Each stroke brings him closer to release, but he prolongs his agony, prolonging the exquisite torture of his own desires.