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Clutching his mother's pillow, he buries his face in its scent, a perverse comfort. His hips move in a rhythm as old as time, seeking friction, seeking release. Whimpers escape his lips, growing louder, more insistent. He's not just humping a pillow; he's fucking it, fucking the fantasy of a warm, welcoming body. His moans are a plea, a prayer, an invitation, filling the void around him with the sound of his desperate need.