The Art of Anticipation

Time stretches like taffy in his hands, each second a sweet torment. He's alone, yet not lonely, his body humming with a quiet energy. The room is bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows that dance with his imagination. His hands, strong and capable, rest on his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. His breath is steady, controlled, a testament to his patience. He waits, not in desperation, but in eager anticipation, his body a live wire, ready to spark with the slightest touch.

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