PapiFachero, still bundled against the unyielding cold, finds solace in his own touch. His calloused hands roam his body, pausing at his crotch. Through his sweatpants, he feels his hardness, throbbing with need. He frees it, letting it stand proud, and begins a slow, deliberate rhythm. His breath hitches, his grip tightens, and with a final, forceful stroke, he finds his release, painting his chest with his essence.