In the sultry heat of the night, Lobito's hand wraps around his rigid shaft, a low groan escaping his lips as he begins to stroke. His eyes flutter closed, imagining the tight grasp of a lover's hand, or perhaps the wet warmth of a mouth. His strokes grow more urgent, his grip tighter, as he approaches the brink. The scent of his musk fills the air, a primal aroma that only serves to drive him further. With a final, shuddering groan, he comes undone, his seed spilling forth, a testament to his raw, unbridled desire.