In the quiet of his room, he sheds his inhibitions, baring all to the cool air. His hand closes around his cock, feeling the heat, the pulse of life. He's a sculptor, carving his pleasure from the marble of his flesh. He's a musician, composing a symphony of sensation, each note a stroke, each crescendo a gasp. His body tenses, his breath comes in ragged bursts, and then, like a dam breaking, he's released, his essence spilling forth, a testament to his solitary sin.