(mh=YHaoZSO6VTpDghFi)11.jpg)
His pants, a constant reminder of his state, are never dry for long. With each stroke, more precum seeps out, wetting the fabric, tracing a path down his thigh. He teases himself, bringing himself to the brink before backing off, his body trembling with the effort. The room echoes with his ragged breaths, the sound of his hand moving rhythmically, the wet slap of skin on skin. His pants, a second skin, bear witness to his persistent, exquisite torture.