Alone in his workspace, Desestre succumbs to the call of his flesh. His firm grip on his rigid cock is a testament to his self-control, his strokes purposeful and measured. The room echoes with the sound of his pleasure, a symphony of grunts and the wet slapping of flesh against flesh. His eyes closed, he's lost in a world of his own making, his body tensing as he nears the edge, his release a hot, sticky mess in his waiting hand.