You’re already past the point of no return before your hand even closes around yourself. The room is thick with heat, your own skin radiating it, the air tasting of salt and want. Your cock is an iron bar against your stomach, flushed almost purple, the head swollen and slick, a single fat bead of precum trembling at the slit before it finally breaks and slides down the underside in a slow, obscene trail that makes your mouth water.

You wrap your fist around it and the first stroke rips a growl from your throat. Your skin is burning velvet over steel, every vein hypersensitive, the ridge of your crown catching on your palm with every twist. You smear that leaking precum in tight, filthy circles until the wet sound is loud and shameless. Your hips jerk on their own, chasing more, needing more.

You don’t give yourself mercy. You start slow just to torture yourself (long, dragging pulls from root to tip), then speed into something greedy and punishing. Your fist is a slick, relentless tunnel now, slapping wetly against your pelvis with every brutal thrust upward. Precum is everywhere: dripping off your knuckles, running over your balls, pooling hot in the crease of your groin. Your balls are drawn up so tight they ache, heavy and packed, ready to explode.

You can feel the load building like a fist in your spine, white-hot, vicious, coiling behind your balls until it’s almost pain. You’re snarling through clenched teeth, abs burning, nipples peaked and begging. You angle your cock up like a loaded gun, aiming at your own chest, and you don’t stop; you can’t stop.

Then it snaps.

The first contraction is violent. Your whole body seizes, back bowing off the bed so hard your shoulders lift clear. A thick, scalding jet erupts with so much force it splashes your chin, your open mouth, the hollow of your throat. You taste yourself instantly: salt-bitter heat flooding your tongue. The second spurt is even heavier, an endless rope that stripes from collarbone to navel in one unbroken line, pooling hot and glossy. You keep coming, pulse after savage pulse, painting yourself in long, sticky lashes until your chest and stomach are drenched and shining. It’s running down the sides of your ribs, soaking the sheets beneath you, dripping from your nipples like obscene jewelry.

You’re still stroking, merciless, milking every last drop. Your cock jerks wildly in your fist, forcing out fat, creamy beads that coat your fingers and slide over your balls. Your vision tunnels, sparks exploding behind your eyelids, every throb ripping another broken moan from your raw throat.

When it finally ebbs, you’re wrecked: shaking, gasping, drenched in sweat and your own load. The smell slams into you full force (sharp, bleachy, animal), flooding the room, flooding your lungs, making your mouth flood with saliva.

You don’t wait. You drag a trembling hand through the mess cooling on your chest and scoop up a thick, dripping palmful. You bring it straight to your lips and lick, slow and deliberate, tongue curling through the slick heat. The flavor detonates: bitter-edged, musky, faintly sweet, pure distilled lust. You suck your fingers deep, moaning like you’re starving, swallowing with a filthy sound that echoes in your throat. You do it again (bigger handfuls now), letting it sit heavy on your tongue, smearing it across your lips like gloss so every ragged breath tastes like sex.

You rub the rest into your skin like you’re claiming yourself forever: circling your nipples until they’re slick and aching, dragging it down your abs, marking every inch. You scoop the puddle from your sternum and paint your neck with it, your throat, behind your ears, until the scent clings to you like cologne.

Your cock gives one final lazy pulse against your thigh, spent but already twitching at the taste still thick on your tongue, at the smell rising off your skin, at the sight of yourself glazed and filthy and perfect.

You lie there drenched in it, breathing it, tasting it, heart hammering against your ribs, and you know (without a single shred of doubt) that nothing in the world will ever feel as good as this, and you already want it again. Right now. Harder. More.