Fatbellybob, in a state of post-dinner languor, finds himself craving a different kind of satisfaction. His belly, full and content, nonetheless yearns for the touch of his own hand. He lies back, his pants pooled around his ankles, and takes his fat, throbbing cock in hand. The room is dim, the air thick with the scent of his recent vice. With a slow, deliberate pace, he begins to stroke, his belly rising and falling with each movement. The sound of his hand working his cock fills the room, a lewd symphony of his solitary indulgence.