Victtor Montsanto, alone in his sanctum, offers his verification. He begins with tentative touches, his hands mapping his body, pausing at his briefs, then discarding them with a flick of his wrist. His cock stands at attention, and he grips it, his strokes confident, his breath deepening. He leans back, his body relaxing into the rhythm, his mind lost in the sensation of his own touch. His moans, low and guttural, fill the room as he nears his climax, his body tensing, his grip tightening. With a final gasp, he finds his release, his body shuddering as he spills onto his hand.