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As the clock strikes twelve, an insatiable hunger stirs within him. In the stillness of the night, he sheds his clothes, his body a canvas of shadows and light. His hand wraps around his substantial length, feeling every ridge, every vein. He pumps vigorously, his breath ragged, his body tense. The room fills with the scent of his pre-cum, a heady, intoxicating aroma. With a guttural groan, he finds his release, his cum shooting out in thick ropes, coating his hand and the floor, a silent, messy confession of his midnight cravings.