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In the solitude of his room, he finds solace in the rhythm of his hand, the slow, steady buildup of pressure as he grips his thick, uncut shaft. The head emerges, glistening and ready, as he picks up speed, each stroke bringing him closer to the edge. His body tenses, and with a guttural moan, he spills his seed, the hot, white liquid coating his hand and stomach, a testament to his uninhibited, private indulgence.