stroking to oblivion

In the quiet of his room, he bares himself, both literally and figuratively. His cock, a monument to his arousal, stands proud. He wraps his hand around it, feeling the heat, the pulse of life. His strokes are slow, deliberate, as if he's painting a masterpiece. The room echoes with his guttural moans, the primal music of his solo symphony. His body tenses, his grip tightens, and with a final, desperate stroke, he finds his climax, painting his release onto his stomach, a visceral, beautiful end to his self-love.

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