Stroke of Solitude in the Stalls

The tiled room hums with the echo of his breath, each exhale a testament to the pleasure he's drawing from himself. His grip tightens, his pace quickens, the scent of sweat and musk filling the space. The tension builds, coiling in his groin, until with a final, desperate stroke, he finds release, his body shuddering as he paints the cold, hard surface with his warm, sticky load.

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