In the dimly lit room, the lone male figure, his body a landscape of curves and fat, begins his intimate dance. His small penis, a mere nub, is no obstacle to his pleasure. He strokes it gently, his hand a steady rhythm against his flesh. His mind's eye fills with images of power, of a dominant woman taking control, and he jerks faster, his breath coming in short gasps. He licks his fingers, wetting them, and rubs his slit, feeling the slickness, the wetness. He's a soloist in this symphony of sin, his body his instrument, playing his own melody.