Awakening Alone: Stroke of Solace

As the sun barely creeps in through the curtains, our anonymous stud stretches languidly, his hand wandering down to his already throbbing morning wood. He props himself up against the headboard, his eyes locked on the mirror reflecting his naked form. His strokes are slow, deliberate, building a rhythm that matches his increasing breaths. The friction of his palm against his sensitive skin sends waves of pleasure through him, his grip tightening as he picks up speed. The room fills with the sound of his hand working his shaft, the scent of his musk heavy in the air. He grunts, his body tensing as he nears the edge, his release painting stripes across his abs.

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