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In the heart of a storm, our caped crusader seeks solace in the one act that can soothe his aching loins. He grips his mighty batcock, the cold rain pelting his body, the thunder roaring like the voice of his own desire. His fist pumps, the friction building, as he envisions the power he holds, not just in his heroic feats, but in the raw, primal force of his sexuality. His body tenses, the storm within him matching the one outside, as he unleashes his pent-up lust, painting the clouds with his creamy essence.