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The evening air is cool, yet the man's body burns with an inner heat as he continues his task, the rhythmic motion of his hands on the tomatoes stirring a primal desire within him. He leans against the counter, his free hand exploring his hardening length, his eyes closed as he loses himself in the sensation, the scent of tomatoes and his own musk filling the air. His strokes grow faster, more insistent, as he chases his release, the canning jar forgotten in his single-minded pursuit of pleasure.