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Stroke of Midnight
As the moon casts its silver gaze through the window, a man finds himself in the grip of his most primal urges. The house is quiet, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator, and the ticking of the clock, each tick a countdown to his inevitable surrender. He stands, his silhouette stark against the moonlight, his hand moving with a mind of its own, tracing the length of his rigid cock. His body responds, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his skin prickling with desire. He imagines hands other than his own, a mouth other than his, and the fantasy propels him closer to the edge. His strokes become more insistent, his grip tighter, until with a final, shuddering breath, he finds his release, his body convulsing as he spills his seed onto the floor.