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As the sun creeps in through the window, he takes his seat, the cold porcelain a stark contrast to the warmth of his body. His hand wraps around his shaft, the other braced against the wall, steadying himself as he releases. The sound of his piss hitting the water is his only accompaniment, a rhythmic symphony that sets the pace for his strokes. He's not in a hurry, time is irrelevant. He's lost in the sensation, his mind's eye focused on the image of you, waiting, wanting, needing him.