Pleasant Thoughts

I thought, "Wow! I'm actually masturbating! This is it! This is masturbation!" I had a smile on my lips from the knowledge that my mother would disdainfully use the 'm-word' to describe the unholy act I was so enjoying. It amused me that such a word was deemed so shocking when it was spoken in full that it had to be cloaked a hushed whisper, and yet here I was lying in my bed, legs wide open and cock out through my pyjama fly at full mast, enjoying the sensation with such glorious abandon.

Doing to myself the thing that bad boys do.

Doing the very same thing my snide, self-righteous brother claimed he never would.

I think I was chuckling as I lay there: relishing the feeling that I shouldn't be rubbing my cock back and forth like this but enjoying so intensely the fact that I was.

And then, completely out of the blue, my orgasm hit me. I had no idea that simply stroking myself under my bed sheets could bring about something so dramatic. I was suddenly overcome by waves of pleasure just as the slit at the tip of my cock started erupting squirt after squirt of a hot and strong-smelling liquid all over me. My hips were bucking and my lungs were choking for air. I was stunned and disorientated and yet my hand kept sweeping up and down the shaft of my cock, as if mechanically pumping squirt after squirt of the thick gobs of liquid which were spewing out of it.

It seemed to go on and on – my very first climax – although I'm sure it was just the unfamiliarity of the sensations I was feeling that made it seem so ever-lasting. I was transfixed – gasping for breath and with a hand that had a life of its own, pounding so relentlessly at my endlessly shooting organ no matter how hard I tried to will myself to stop it. I needed to control it – I had to stop it – and yet it kept milking my shaft over and over, soaking my duvet, drenching my pyjamas and making the whole room stink of whatever this hot, sticky goo was that was being expelled in ropey spasms from my twitching cock-head.

Was it pee? Even in my confusion, I didn't think so; it was way too thick. Was it blood? It didn't smell like it; it had its own, rank odour. It must be 'spunk'; yes, that's what it was. I realised I was, to use my brother's term, slap bang in the middle of very violently 'spunking up'.

In time, of course, my orgasm subsided and the rush of semen, full of my sperms so excited to be released out into the world for the very first time, gradually abated. I managed to slow my hand and then stop its movement altogether and I lay there panting, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of what I'd just experienced.

Almost as soon as it was over, and I was staring wide-eyed up at my ceiling, feeling cold and wet and with my cock growing soft in my hand, my mother called into my room from the corridor: "Robert! What are you doing in there?"

Through force of habit I shouted, "Nothing!" realising too late that my voice was a choking squeak, a good octave higher than its usual pitch. I lay there as still as I could, gradually recovering my breath and willing her not to open my bedroom door to find me lying there, flushed bright red and copiously soaked with the sharp, cloying wetness of my own freshly-discharged seed.

"Well get to sleep then!" came her terse reply and, after a few moments, I heard her stomp downstairs.

In spite of my predicament I suddenly found myself inexplicably tired, and dutifully complied, as sodden as I was, with her instruction.

The following night, wearing a fresh pair of pyjamas and with a wad of tissues at the ready, my hand was back on my cock and I was enjoying a second, equally beguiling taste of the thing that good boys don't do.

And so it continued over the following weeks.

Every night I discovered new techniques and different ways of stimulating myself. Sometimes I would focus on my cock-head, which seemed to grow plumper every time I caressed it, while at others I would concentrate on rubbing and squeezing my shaft. I'd play with my balls while I stroked myself, and then sniff my fingers which smelt deliciously sweaty and musky from the folds of my lightly hairy scrotum. Every night brought new pleasures and unforeseen exhilarations.

Those good boys didn't know what they were missing.

After a few weeks, finding I was awaking with hard-ons each morning, I started masturbating before I got up or otherwise would hurry to the shower holding my dressing down over my crotch so that I could enjoy stroking myself under its steamy spray. And just a few weeks after that, becoming plagued by erections which grew out of nowhere during the day, I slotted in a third regular session when I got in from school.

I had only my mother's whispered portents of doom and occasional sarcastic quips from my brother on which to formulate an opinion of what I was doing. Such remarks made it obvious that masturbation of any kind, never mind on a regular basis, was unhealthy and shockingly wrong and yet I enjoyed it enormously and couldn't envisage not doing it for any significant stretch of time. I knew full well that I shouldn't be 'defiling' my body in such a crude, depraved way but in spite of that – or perhaps, because of that – I continued.

When my mother talked of sinfulness and squalor, or my brother made some sanctimonious comment which was blatantly directed at me, I'd go to my bedroom, close my door and stand directly behind it. It would amuse me to hitch my trousers and underpants down around my ankles and then, still facing them through the closed door, squat down and do the act which they found so outrageous right back at them. I'd grin and grab my balls before spraying spurt after spurt of thick white liquid up the yellowed glossed panelling of the door which was between us.

I suppose it was my way of saying, "Fuck you!"

It was when I was in that position one evening, squatting down behind my bedroom door, that I realised I could duck my head down towards my cock and take the tip of it into my mouth. After I'd licked the head of it a couple of times and enjoyed its sharp, salty taste, I waddled over to my bed, still with my trousers and pants around my ankles, and investigated my new-found talent further.

I found very quickly that, although I quite liked the taste of my cock, I didn't like the sensation of having my mouth around it. It felt wet and slimy and made me lose my hard-on. That night, after bed time, I tried sucking myself in different ways but no matter how I tried to do it, the weird sensation of having a warm, wet mouth slobbering over my cock-head was really uncomfortable and I soon gave up.

From then on, apart from occasional tastes of myself when the smell of masturbation has got me in the mood, I've stuck to purely hands-on techniques.

I've only once ever climaxed with my cock in my mouth and that was relatively recently. Soon after Linda had left me, I'd gone out with a woman from the marketing department where I work and, after a couple of dates, she'd asked me back to her place 'for coffee'. Even though it was obvious that we weren't getting on terribly well – the two of us were like chalk and cheese if I'm honest – she asked me if I wanted to stay over and I, of course, agreed.

As we'd undressed and I saw her glancing mistrustfully at the hefty mound I was making in the front of my blue underpants, I found myself hoping that she wouldn't have presumed – just like several women before her – that just because I happened to be modest and restrained in character, it must by necessity follow that my genitals would be similarly composed. Sure enough, when I pulled off my briefs and she saw how large and thick my penis looked – even though it was still only semi-erect – she announced categorically that she didn't want me to penetrate her.

I'd been very embarrassed – this woman knew me as a quiet, gentle man at work and I felt as if I was showing her that I'd had been hiding some bloated, thuggish phallus away in my trousers all these years. I had a humiliating vision of her telling the other women she worked with how sweet, shy Rob from project development was one to be avoided: how his monstrous drainpipe cock had emerged dribbling expectantly from his straining underwear and how stretched his hairy ball-sack had looked from the sheer girth of his obscene bollocks.

I'd tried to convince her that in spite of my intimidating size, I would do my best not to hurt her. Yet, in spite of me assuring her over and over that I'd take it as slowly as she wanted me to, she made it bluntly clear that there was to be no cookie for me that evening. She offered to kneel in front of me and suck at the top few inches of my organ but I told her I didn't like the sensation of it. In the end, we settled on mutual fondling and had knelt together on her bed, kissing and stroking between each other's legs until she was feeling moist and I had hardened fully.

She'd gradually grown to appreciate the generous size of my cock – could enjoy its aesthetic appeal while not wanting to sample its more intimate charms – and had caressed it with great aplomb while she kissed the bilobed underside of my bulbous helmet. She laughed that it was always the quiet ones who were "hung like Hoovers", and made me squat in front of her so she could rub my thick pole up and down with both hands using the ooze from my weeping slit to lubricate them.

To see her reaction, I reached down and gently licked the head of my cock with the tip of my tongue. She really enjoyed watching me do that and pushed my hand away from between her legs, taking up her own rhythm on herself with her fingers. She kept stroking my shaft, getting faster and faster, and grinned at me as I kept licking around my own puckered slit.

She reached forwards and joined me in licking the broad helmet of my cock. As she didn't put her mouth right around me, I quite enjoyed the sensation, and we stayed like that: me hunched over tasting my own juices while she rapidly masturbated me and tongued my fat cock-head making the same circular patterns as I was.

It felt remarkably good for us both to be feeding on my erection; for us to be lapping at the plump, shininess of my swollen helmet and tasting the dribbles of precum which would ooze from its slit. My shaft was still thickening and we smiled at each other across its fattened head, both hungrily licking it like a shared lollipop.

I pushed her hand away and began wanking myself in earnest; the swift gentleness of her fingers being replaced by the more confident grip of my larger fist. I beat my long shaft quickly and roughly and precum started flowing more copiously from my slit. We drank it between us, nuzzling our lips against one another as my foreskin slid rapidly back and forth over the taut, shiny skin of my throbbing cock-head.

Then she reached down between my legs and massaged my large, pendulous balls. I don't know when I'd previously enjoyed a release, but I felt a twinge of self-consciousness about how engorged they with my collected semen: ripe and bloated and stretching my scrotum painfully.

She kneaded them through the tight, hairy skin like she didn't mind how full I'd let them grow, and then smiled at me, the two of us still lapping at the ooze from my slit.

"I want you to cum," she whispered, taking first one of my plump bollocks into her whole hand and then the other. "I want you to release all this and then drink it."

As she spoke, I saw her hand speed up between her own legs and I felt my own excitement steadily mounting.

"Squeeze my balls," I commanded her.

She worked them in her hand, struggling to contain their large, round girths between her fingers, and I smiled back at her, my tongue flicking at my cock-head as I gently coaxed another bead of salty precum from its puckered slit.

My fist was pounding at my shaft like a piston at full speed; sustaining a blur of rhythm that women's hands don't seem to be able to manage.

When I started shooting, I don't know which of us was more surprised.

She gasped as the first white gush of liquid shot from my cock, catching my upper lip and coating my tongue. I instinctively pulled my face away from my organ, mildly repulsed by the acrid taste of my own semen, but she gently pushed my head back down.

"Eat it," she whispered, her own hand now working at herself with a quickening pace. "Feed on your own seed..."

Sensing her own approaching orgasm and hoping to hasten it, I did as she wanted. I opened my mouth wide and let my cock squirt shot after shot of its hot, white load into me.

Part of me couldn't believe what I was allowing her see. I knew we were unlikely to meet up for another date and that I'd have to see her regularly at work, and yet here I was – that boringly reserved guy from two floors down – squatting in front of her, gulping down my own jizm as it pumped out of me in thick, sticky gushes from my swollen nuts.

And yet part of me was loving the sheer wantonness of letting her see me doing this to myself; letting her see how over-sized my male organs were and how I could nourish myself with their copious juices.

She squeezed at my plump balls, as though urging them to empty themselves into their owner's waiting mouth, and started gasping as she watched me consuming my own spray, swallowing spurt after spurt of my own strong-smelling liquid as it spouted in rapid jets from my bulbous cock-head.

"Eat it!" she repeated, this time with more urgency. "Drink your own spunk, Rob!"

She tensed and I could tell she was climaxing, watching me guzzling on my own sperm which, as I kept masturbating myself, showed no signs of abating in its hot, gooey pulses. As her orgasm kicked in, she grabbed my scrotum hard, gripping it tightly as she cried out in pleasure.

I looked up at her, smiling, still gulping down the more physical evidence of my own climax as it spurted from my slit, excited by her pleasure and surprised at how wonderfully debauched it felt to be doing something so animal in front of a woman I worked with and didn't actually know that well.

Its taste was starkly unpleasant – I have to admit – but the excitement of feeding on my own cock, of consuming my own ejaculum as it erupted from my balls right in front of this woman, more than outweighed any revulsion I felt.

Afterwards, whenever I'd seen her again at work – which I had to for a couple of years until she'd mercifully moved on – I would blush at the memory of what I'd let her see me doing to myself and she would throw me a small smirk to let me know that she too remembered it well. I often wondered if she'd told anyone else who knew me what I'd done: that unassuming Rob, with his quiet manner and his store-bought suits, likes to feed on the distended head of his own elephantine manhood and to drink down his own thick, white cream when it starts spouting from his over-filled knackers.

Tonight, lying in my own bed, I settled for just licking at my cock, teasing myself with my tongue rather than sucking at it. Instead, I focussed on using both hands to pleasure myself: one between my legs with my finger pumping like a turbine in and out of my hole; the other on my cock, with my wrist now slamming up and down. I'd worked up a good, solid rhythm and was hugely enjoying myself, occasionally pulling my finger out from my hole to eagerly sniff it.

Jake had long since finished his own indulgences and was, I hoped, already asleep. I didn't like to think of him lying in bed having to listen to the sounds of his dad's masturbation and willing me to climax quickly so he could sleep.

As I lay back in my bed and pushed myself towards my final, rapid rhythm, I thought about Debbie and what might develop between us: of what it would be like to be in bed with her, for us to be naked together and for me to make love to her.

I fantasized about us being together like that: how her breasts would feel and how she would taste between her legs. What it would be like to be intimate together; to kiss her deeply while I drove my cock faster and faster in and out of her. Then to mount her from behind, with her bending over in front of me.

I remembered the lad from Asda in the toilet and thought about how he would have looked if I'd had enough money to fuck him. She'd look exactly like him bending over with his arse wide open, my cock sliding rapidly in and out of it. His balls hanging down and his cock being jerked in his excitement at the feel of a big, thick cock buggering him.

Just like him with his squat, hairy arse, still wet from my mouth, except it would be her. Just like him as I was grabbing onto his hips and driving in and out of him, with the taste of his arsehole, strong and intense, on my tongue. Just like him spraying his spunk over the toilet bowl as I filled his hot, stinking bowels with my own pumping seed.

I climaxed thinking of Debbie like that. And afterwards, as I mopped up my semen and wiped my finger, it felt promising that I'd had her in my mind as I'd pleasured myself after our first meeting. It seemed like it might be an omen that there was a sexual connection between us, albeit an embryonic one: an indication that we might have potential together and perhaps it wasn't completely absurd for me to imagine I might soon have a girlfriend.

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Next story: A Holistic Approach

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