He's been at it for hours, his uncut cock a relentless soldier, standing at attention. His fist is a blur, his rhythm unwavering. The room is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the air heavy with the promise of release. He's a machine, his body a temple dedicated to the art of self-love. His grunts fill the room, his eyes locked on the prize. He's not stopping until he's painted the walls with his cum, until he's milked every last drop from his throbbing dick.