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In the quiet of his boudoir, a debonair gentleman, untouched by time, retreats to his private sanctuary. His eyes flutter closed as he inhales the scent of aged leather and polished wood, the air thick with anticipation. He begins to stroke his length, a soft, almost reverent touch, his breath hitching slightly as he imagines the taste of his own salt on his tongue. The room fills with the soft symphony of his pleasure, a symphony only he can hear.