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In a dimly lit room, a man stands alone, his body a canvas of ink and sinew. His cock, a thick, veiny masterpiece, juts out, demanding admiration. He runs a hand up its length, feeling its heat, its pulse. His other hand cups his sack, feeling their weight, their fullness. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he picks up pace, his body moving in a primal rhythm, his cock slapping against his belly, his moans echoing off the walls.