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In the solitude of his room, a man, unnamed but verified as an amateur, stands before the mirror. His eyes, mirrors of his primal urge, reflect his intent as he unzips, releasing his throbbing cock. It's a dance, a raw, carnal ballet, as he strokes, his strong hand working the length with practiced ease. His grunts echo, primal music in the silent room, as he fucks his hand, his hips moving in a rhythm as old as time. His body tenses, muscles flexing, as he nears the edge. With a final, guttural groan, he spills, his seed painting the mirror, a testament to his solo indulgence.