A boy, alone and yearning, finds solace in his own touch. He strips slowly, each piece of clothing discarded with a sense of urgency, yet a desire to prolong this private ritual. His body, lean and taut, is a work of art, each muscle defined by his youth and hidden desires. He takes his cock in his hand, feeling its length, its heat, its pulse. He strokes it, his grip firm, his rhythm steady, his body arching with each thrust of his hips. His other hand roams, touching, pinching, caressing, exploring every inch of his body, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he races towards his climax, his body tensing, his cock pulsing, his seed spilling forth in a wave of relief and satisfaction.