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Under the soft glow of his bedside lamp, he starts his nightly ritual. His hand, calloused from years of practice, wraps around his throbbing member. He begins to stroke, slow and steady, his imagination running wild. The room is filled with the scent of his musk, the sound of his hand meeting flesh. His breathing grows ragged, his movements more urgent. With a final, intense thrust, he finds his release, his body shuddering as he coats his stomach with his warm, sticky seed, the room now a testament to his unrestrained passion.