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In the quiet of his room, a man, uninspired by the day, takes matters into his own hands. His strokes are steady, his breath deepening as he loses himself in the sensation. The room fills with the sound of his hand meeting flesh, the scent of his arousal. He doesn't need much; a few more strokes and he's there, his release painting the room in long, white streaks. It's just him, and his hand, and the satisfaction of a job well done.