Kivert, in the throes of self-indulgence, loses himself in a world of sensation. His hands, slick with oil, glide over his body, a symphony of touch. He starts at his chest, the scent of massage oil filling the air, then moves down, his hands tracing the lines of his abs, pausing at his hips. His touch becomes more insistent, more urgent, as he reaches his aching cock. He strokes it, his pace quickening, his breath coming in ragged gasps, until he finds his release, his body tensing, then relaxing, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips.