Wednesday, January 14, 2009


The sun was flowing in the windows, bathing the wood floor and the furniture in honey light. It was late in the morning. I was alone. I was naked and didn’t really want to get dressed. I thought about a lot of things, but one thing that stood out in my mind was an afternoon in years past, when I was hanging out in my apartment, waiting for my lover to show up. She said she’d be there around 3:00 p.m. I was going to get primed.
Cindy was her name. I had fallen in love with her in college, and we had moved from Wisconsin to Oregon to pursue our respective professional dreams. I was in science; she was in art. She lived on a farm outside of town, where she could work in some old man’s vegetable garden in the nude on hot summer days. I worked, in town, in a ski shop. She had strong legs and shoulders, large breasts that browned in the sun, thick Scandinavian hair to the middle of her back, and sapphire eyes. We were young and into exploring the sensual sides of ourselves.
Cindy was on her way. I had a little pot that I thought might put me in a good frame of mind. I stripped down and smoked a bowl. It was about 2:30. By 2:45, I was sinking deep into myself, feeling my inner self, focusing on myself. By 2:50, I was feeling my outer self. I sat on the bed, cross-legged, leisurely stroking, thinking of the moment Cindy would knock on the door. The more I stroked, however, the less I thought of Cindy, and the more I thought of how good it felt to stroke.
Don’t get me wrong, I’d flogged my dick for years. It always felt good. But, here I was, naked, sitting cross-legged on my bed, high as Mt. Everest, waiting for Cindy’s wet pussy, with a hard-on that felt like a baseball bat. I didn’t want to cum, because I wanted to fuck Cindy’s lights out and spill an incredible load inside (or outside) her. So, I just kept up this incredibly maddeningly slow rhythm on my cock. I would pump until I almost spilled my load, then stop until the intensity subsided. Then, I would start the process all over. In my mind, this took a few minutes. Clearly, however, I lost track. By 4:00, I was still naked, with an aching stick between my legs, and Cindy was nowhere in sight. I fell onto my side and went to sleep, my dick wilting in my grip.
I remembered this incident, years later, as I walked around my house, in the late morning. I had always wondered what it might be like to make myself cum without actually touching my cock. I remembered the intensity of the feelings I had had, in that college-grade apartment, years earlier. I remembered what it was like to bring myself to the brink, without allowing the floodgates to open. I wanted to recreate that intensity. This time, however, I could not touch my cock. That was the rule.
The gear: contoured butt plug, rubber dildo, lubricant, my favorite movie. Just the thought of what I was going to try made me hard. That was a good start. I lubed up the plug and eased it into my ass. It pressed firmly against my prostate and I could feel the pressure building inside of me. I sat on the couch and turned on the movie. It was one of those “Shane’s World” movies, full of beautiful kids in exotic places having uninhibited fun. As some young stallion pumped his meat deep into a lovely mare’s pussy, I moved my hips in concert. My hands were up on the back of the couch. I couldn’t touch. My cock was long and tight, swaying side to side, slapping against my belly, as I thrust in time with the guy in the movie, listening to the joyful squeals of his lover. The plug in my ass drove the liquid out of my gland and into the root of my rod. The pleasure was intense and somewhat maddening. For about half an hour, I gyrated on the couch, hoping I could tip myself over the edge. The head of my cock was dark with blood, and smooth, straining against its nerve-buzzing skin. If I had reached down to touch, I would have shot like a geyser. Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I had to bring out the big gun.
I stood up and removed the plug. Clear syrup beaded at the tip of my member as it arched through the air. I lubed up the dildo and slid it deep into my rear. The feeling was of the deep guttural groaning type. Damn, that felt good! I could envision just why gay men have so much fun. The sensation could make me insatiable. I started pumping the long slab of realistically-fashioned rubber in and out of me, standing in front of the television set, watching some guy getting sucked off by two gorgeous sets of lips. I pumped hard. The oil in my well worked its way to the end of the derrick, spilling down the sides in a long, slow, seep. I couldn’t get myself to erupt; it just wasn’t happening. I pumped harder and faster, my rigid muscle flailing in the morning light, my balls tight against my body. Finally, I had to admit defeat. I couldn’t make myself cum without touching; it just wasn’t going to happen. As delicious and consuming as the feeling was, the final blast was going to need some help.
I pulled the long probe out of my ass, and fell into the couch. I reached down and grabbed my cock, pumping it madly. Instantly, a torrent of cum flew up and hit my chin, splashing against my neck and chest. The next shot coated my belly. I was bathed, lying there in the caressing light of the morning, my stomach in spasms and my chest heaving.

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