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The room is filled with the sounds of wet flesh slapping against flesh, the grunts of exertion, and the scent of musk. Our lone wolf is lost in his pleasure, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. His hand moves with a rhythm that's almost hypnotic, his grip tight, his strokes steady. He's in his own world, a world where only his pleasure matters. And then, with a final, shuddering breath, he comes, his cum painting his abs, a sign of his solo conquest.