The old showerhead creaks to life, casting a soft, warm glow over his petite frame. He takes his time, the suds building like a secret, his hand slipping and sliding over his length. The steam rises, fogging the mirror, as he loses himself in the rhythm, his body arching, his muscles clenching. He bites his lip, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as he spills over, the water washing away the evidence of his solo indulgence.