The house is silent, save for the soft rustling of sheets and the rhythmic sound of skin slapping against skin. The blind boy, a stranger to this house, has found solace in the familiar act of self-pleasure. His hands roam, his fingers tracing the length of his throbbing cock, his grip tight and steady. The bed beneath him moves with his rhythm, creaking softly, a symphony of his desire. His breath hitches, his body tenses, and with a low groan, he finds his release, his cock pulsing as he paints the bed with his essence.