Discovered the most peculiar volume in my library this morning – a 19th-century treatise on the 'moral dangers' of solitary habits in young men. The author’s prudish horror at the natural male inclination for self-pleasure struck me as delightfully hypocritical, given how eagerly most men abandon such habits when presented with a superior alternative. There is an undeniable poetry in watching a man’s fingers, so recently occupied with his own cock, suddenly grasping at bedsheets as I ride him with deliberate, measured strokes. His reluctant moans when he realizes his seed belongs to me, not his hand, are among life’s simpler satisfactions. The book shall join my collection of curiosities – though I daresay its warnings are rather obsolete. After all, what need has a man for solitary vices when my cunt is available for his use? (The chapter on 'the weakening of masculine resolve through excessive emission' was particularly amusing. I shall have it read aloud to my breeding stock during tomorrow’s performance review.)