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The clock ticks, the table is set, but the main course has yet to arrive. Alone in the dining room, a man's patience wears thin. He unzips, his hand wrapping around his throbbing shaft. The room fills with the sound of skin on skin, his grunts echoing off the empty chairs. His body tenses, his hips buck, and with a final, powerful stroke, he paints the polished wooden table with his creamy offering, a testament to his lonely, lustful interlude.