The room is heavy with anticipation as he starts, his hand a blur of motion, a piston driving his desire. Punheta, his lonely dance, a symphony of sensation. His body tenses, back arches, a silent cry escapes his lips as he spills over, his hand stained with his sin. Alone, but not lonely, he revels in his self-administered pleasure, his body shuddering with the aftershocks of his solitary vice.