Alas, the solitary siren of self-pleasure echoes through the empty room. The lone sailor, Lc1130's voyeuristic delight, takes matters into his own hands. His firm grip, slick with anticipation, strokes his rigid length, drawing out beads of lust. The room fills with the symphony of skin on skin, wet and eager, as he builds to a fever pitch. With a final, desperate tug, he spills his seed, painting his torso with ribbons of white.