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As the last of the iron-clad patrons leave, he's still there, his body a temple carved from hours of toil. His hand finds its way into his sweat-soaked shorts, wrapping around his stiff cock. He's climbed this mountain before, but today, it's different. Today, he's not stopping. His strokes are long, purposeful, each one pushing him closer to the edge. His grunts echo off the cold walls, a primal symphony of desire and determination. There's no finish line in sight, just the lifelong grind of his own hand, bringing him closer to ecstasy.