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No coins clinking, no bills rustling, just the primal rhythm of skin on skin. A man, driven by carnal need, takes matters into his own hands. His cock, hard and throbbing, receives no monetary transaction, only the relentless friction of his palm. Precum coats his shaft, a lubricant born of desire, not commerce. His strokes are urgent, bordering on violent, a storm of sensation building within him. He pauses, teetering on the brink, then crashes into his climax, unloading his pent-up passion in thick, creamy ropes.