Masturbation Experiences

OBSESSED

GENDER: Male

For the last 10 years or so I have been obsessed with getting caught and being watched masturbating at many different motels while leaving the curtains slightly open. I cant stand it any longer as it has put me in some embarrasing situations with the staff at times but there have been about 20 times or so in all those years where I had couples or girls stop and look in my partly open window while I furiously jerked my _____ while watching porno and could hear them laughing and talking about it which got me even hotter. I dont know why I like this so much , to see out of the corner of my eye a girl glance in the window and stare at my _____ and to see them realize that they are catching someone playing with themselves ( they also think I dont see them as I never turn around to look at them , I see through peripheral vision or a mirror etc ) and then to see them walk away and then come back past the window multiple times and continue to look in but not want to seem overly eager at doing it just drives me nutz. I even had a few call my room and laugh and ask if I was having a good time , or to tell me it looked pretty hot..even had a hooker ask if I want company. I am trying to stop this behaviour as I dont like the bad position it puts me in when staff catch me or guys get pissed there girls see me doing that but damn when I think on how much I love that look of shock on the face of the chicks , I always find myself heading back to the nearest motel and pulling back those curtains and waiting for a car to pull into the lot and for them to walk by and hope they look in.

SEXUALITY: Heterosexual
GENDER: Male
TITLE: The vacuum cleaner

From the time I began to masturbate, when I was really in the need to get off and looking for a different "screw", I would ultimately try finding a way to stick my dick in a vacuum cleaner, but it never worked because the various hoses for the vacuum were way too small for my dick. After I got married, my father-in-law gave me a Shop-Vac for a present. The thought never crossed my mind to try screwing it until one day my wife was out for one of her hours-long shopping trips. She was in her cycle, and I was in the NEED to get off. I wanted desperately to screw something, so I searched high and low in the house for something, anything. I went to the basement in search of something when I eyed the Vac. With my erect dick, I tried to see if it would fit in any of the attachments, and of course, no, it wouldn't. I was ready to give up, when it occured to me that the main hose sort of plugs into the body of the vac. I took that out, and put my hard-on in the hole. It wasn't real tight, but not bad. I lugged the vacuum to where I could look out the window to make sure nobody stopped by to find me screwing my vacuum cleaner. I plugged the vac in and turned it on. I slid my dick towards the hole, and the suction pulled me into it. The suction was incredible, and felt great, but there was a slight gap, and there was nothing around my dick beyond the hole. So I pulled up my pants, and went in search. In a box of clothes for goodwill, I found a 100% silk shirt my wife had put in it. I grabbed a picture of my ex-girlfriend from the yearbook, and the shirt, and headed back downstairs. I stripped totally naked. I put the wheels of the vac on part of the shirt and pulled it up over the top of the vac. I opened the yearbook to my ex's picture, and turned the vac on, holding the shirt on top of the vac. The vacuum sucked part of the shirt into the hole, and I slowly slid my dick into the hole. The vacuum eagerly sucked me in as would an eager mouth. The shirt wonderfully filled the space between the hole and my dick, and anyone who has ever jerked off with silk panties knows, silk feels incredible on the unit. The suction of the vacuum pulled me in so that I was buried in the vacuum. I slowly started to withdraw and pump into it. As I would withdraw almost completely, the head of my dick would get tremendous sensation from the vibration of the hole. I started to pump fast, then slow, fast then slow. I did this for about 5 minutes, not quite sure if I would cum or not. Then I started to get that feeling you get when you know it's going to happen. I screwed that vac about 80 miles an hour for about 30 seconds as that feeling overcame me and I shot pump after pump of cum onto the silk shirt. It may well have been the most intense orgasm I've ever had in my life. I was literally shuddering as I unloaded. All I had to do then was wash and dry the shirt, and put away the vacuum. Happy jerking!

My Introduction into Self-Pleasure

GENDER: Male Heterosexual

My penchant has always been for beautiful, strong, petite women who take the initiative in sex. As a child of nine or ten I fantasized about capture and restraint by a tribe of tan, longhaired, and scantily clad female warriors. I cannot remember if my genitals were involved in these daydreams, only that the diminutive Amazonians tied me up and spanked me, with an implied threat of worse if I resisted. What would the worse be? Exquisite sexual tortures, I suppose—not really painful—culminating in the climax I then knew nothing about. At eleven I locked myself in the bathroom after reading about masturbation in a book. Nothing much happened in these early attempts. Despite my reading, I did not quite know what to expect. But one night in bed, rubbing my penis back and forth in the palm of my hand, I discovered a strange new feeling. That first time I stopped just before the event, daunted by the surge I felt building. A subsequent night, I did not hold back, and was rewarded by a rush of sensations both frightening and pleasurable. It felt as if something had broken. Yet I was reassured. Until that first ejaculation, I had feared something might be wrong with me. At age seven I had an operation to correct an undescended testicle, and had since worried about my virility. Orgasm soothed my ego as well as the mad desire in my balls. How strange it felt! How miraculous! Puberty was a period of constant experimentation. I masturbated regularly, learning to intensify the climax through games of erotic escalation and delay. By controlling my breath and shifting my thoughts to neutral subjects at the decisive moment, I could approach the verge again and again before finally letting go. One ritual involved standing before a mirror and treating myself to a striptease. My naked reflection excited me, particularly my recently sprouted pubic hair, curly and strangely elegant, and my genitals as viewed from various perspectives. The curve of erection seen from the side seemed especially manly, and the way my balls dangled, admired from behind when I went on all fours with my ass to the mirror. I adored my scrotum, how it changed from silky and pendulous to tight and wrinkly. My anus also became an object of fascination. Bending over with a vanity mirror in my hand allowed me to inspect that most hidden part of my body, which invited further exploration. There were even stranger compulsions to give in to. I often thrust into a pillow that fantasy transformed into the hips and vagina of a beautiful girl. One time I humped a large stuffed panda, coming to a messy, cream-colored ejaculation on its black and white coat. I tried on pantyhose. I used an old electric razor as a vibrator, wrapping it in layers of socks to muffle the noise. Afraid of being discovered, I plugged it in down in the basement and held it between my legs. I came quickly—in my underwear, which I just as quickly changed. I recorded myself talking and moaning while masturbating to orgasm. I rubbed red ink into the skin of my glans, the head of my penis, to make it stand out. For two months, I saved the ejaculate from every orgasm in a plastic medicine bottle, to see how much I could accumulate. (Not much; it dried up pretty fast). When seventh grade gym class required a jockstrap I wore it alone in my room, aroused by its specific purpose, the protection of my genitals, and the way it left my ass exposed. Sometimes I tested how long I could avoid touching myself (two weeks was the record, and how I suffered!) or how long I could masturbate without coming. I spent hours with my journal, listing sexual words and drawing my naked self. For a few years I recorded the growth of my penis. By seventeen, it measured seven and a half inches fully erect, double its length when flaccid, discretely sheathed in its darling little foreskin. Masturbation became my torment and only relief. I masturbated in bed at night, in the shower, and outside in the fields and woods. On family vacations I would tell the others to go on, that I would catch up later. Then I would jerk off in the motel room, or in the family boat, parked on an access road near a lake. Nature hikes became missions in search of hidden bowers where I could pleasure myself privately in the glorious outdoors. By fifteen I was smoking marijuana so these excursions took on the dreamy air of spiritual journeys or rituals in a private religion of sex and nature. I carried supplies with me, including lotion, not only to lubricate my penis but also my anus, which responded pleasurably to penetration by one or more fingers. When particularly horny I would plunge the middle finger of my left hand deep inside, pushing in and pulling out while slapping my erection back and forth. This always led to the most intense orgasms, for which I came prepared with a washcloth to clean up afterwards. I was fascinated by my semen, how it varied from thick and creamy to runny and clear. I loved its stickiness and volume. After wiping up a copious ejaculation, I would lie back on the grass or the forest floor and stare up at the sky, wondering what life would offer in the years to come. I also carved a little phallus out of wood, varnished it, and hid it in the woods as a talisman to recover on my frequent excursions. Inserting it into my anus, I found that it was too short to serve as an effective dildo, so I carved a longer one that gave me something to hold onto while poking it inside. As crazy as all of this seemed to me at the time, I knew that my experience was normal because I had read so. I count myself lucky to have come of age after the sexual revolution, when accurate information had become available to those intelligent and curious enough to obtain it. Of course, I probably harbored some religious guilt about my animal nature, but it certainly did not dominate me. It all felt too good and right. I learned about sex wherever I could find something in print to fill in part of the mystery. The encyclopedia article on “Sex,” well-worn and dog-eared from frequent consultations, merely said that when a man and woman lie close together, the penis is placed in the vagina to release sperm, causing pregnancy. And that young people must control their passions. Articles in my mother’s magazines were informative, but not much more specific. Books in the public library offered a few choice items. While snooping in my parents’ closet I discovered their copy of The Joy of Sex, a gold mine of information and masturbatory themes. Pornography occasionally surfaced among the boys in the neighborhood. Adventuring in the woods, we would find weatherworn copies of Playboy, or if we were luckier, Penthouse, in which the models spread their legs wide open. Some even smuttier magazines gave me a hard-on but made me feel sick and furtive. I wished for a collection of pornography to look at whenever I wanted. It had a powerful effect, turning all of my thoughts to sex, swelling my organs and causing my ass to ache with desire. After seeing my first pornographic video at a friend’s house I went straight home to my room to masturbate. Orgasm came quickly, like an explosion. I shouted in astonishment and relief.

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