In the privacy of his room, he succumbs to his carnal needs, his hand a poor substitute for the real thing, yet effective in its purpose. He grips his throbbing member, veins bulging, as he pumps furiously. His eyes roll back, lost in fantasy, as he picks up the pace, his body tensing with each stroke. The room echoes with his ragged breaths and the slap of flesh against flesh. With a guttural moan, he releases, his seed painting his chest, the evidence of his self-pleasure glistening in the dim light.