Tired of the dance floor's heat, a lonely reveller retreats to a quiet corner, a week's worth of pent-up desire demanding release. They take a long, satisfying swig from their drink, the cool liquid a poor substitute for the touch they crave. Their hand wanders, tracing the damp fabric clinging to their body, rubbing against their aching center. The dim lights and distant music fade away as they give in to the rhythm of their own body, fingers dancing to a private beat, bringing them closer to the edge.