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The clock ticks away the late-night hours as an anonymous stud retreats to his private sanctuary, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows. His hand wraps around his throbbing meat, the veins pulsing with need. He works himself, his grip tight, his rhythm steady, his eyes closed in concentration. The room fills with the scent of sex and the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the symphony of his pleasure reaching a crescendo as he spills his load, his body convulsing with each hot, sticky rope.