The room is dim, the only light casting long, dancing shadows. Jpmanov sits, his back to the wall, his hand moving rhythmically beneath the covers. His breath hitches as he visualizes his friends, their voices, their laughter, their presence in his mind's eye. His grip tightens, his strokes become more urgent. The room fills with the sound of his pleasure, the scent of his desire, as he brings himself to the edge. With a final, shuddering breath, he finds his release, his body relaxing as his pleasure subsides.