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The man's sack sways like a pendulum, a metronome counting down to his climax. He grips his shaft, twisting and pumping, his movements gaining urgency. The sound of his balls slapping against his hand is a primal, lewd melody, echoing in the empty room. He leans back, his body tensing, his grip tightening. With a guttural groan, he spills his load, his balls contracting, pushing out every drop. The room is filled with the scent of his musk, a pheromonal perfume that lingers long after his performance ends.