Solitude's Satisfaction

With a house empty save for his thoughts, he retreats to his haven, the warmth of his hand a poor substitute for the comfort of another's touch. His imagination runs wild, picturing the curves of a lover, the softness of her skin. He pumps his shaft, mimicking the rhythm he'd use if buried deep inside her, his groans filling the void left by her absence. His release is explosive, a testament to his pent-up desire, his seed spilling over his hand, sticky and warm.

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