Onanistic sessions I

The day I was caught was ordinary and somewhat boring. It was one of those days where you wake up and think nothing of it. Yes! You think nothing of it all and you do not try to make sense of your commonplace life. This is the day I was caught.

*****

My mother opened my bedroom door and thrust her round face in my immediate area. She said something about living and going out to lunch with friends. I didn’t care. My father was standing behind her and he hummed while preparing his pipe tobacco.
I was fiddling around with some solitaire game on my IBM and said nonchalantly: “Alright, bye”.

The minute they went, I was horny. This happened always. As if in my parents’ absence I was magically transformed into a sex beast. Jesus. It could be Freudian. Who knows? In any case I was thirteen and finding a sex partner sounded out of place. Now it even sounds funny. Hah, a woman to have sex with…
Masturbation was king back then –still is- and it was easy, efficient and sufficient. It was more than enough and I did it plenty.

The front door was locked and the car was backing off the garage. The first step was to find the right stimulus. My choice was finite of course and it involved my mother’s fashion magazines. You have to remember the internet was not so widely spread back then. I pushed my chair back and rushed into their bedroom. I knew there was some fresh paperflesh in store since I always paid attention to the newcomers of the week. And especially that week, the cover girls seemed extra inviting.

I thumbed through the pages, scanning for any titties on the occasional, laser induced, hair removal ad. I found a couple of pairs and I was set to go. I grabbed three magazines, two new and an old one, to which I tore the upper right corner to signify the amount of nudity found within. It had three tears, therefore it was level-3. Considering that Playboys were level-5, (not that they had any tears on it or were lying around the house for that matter) the old backup had some decent pictures. If you are wondering why the hell was I not using the Playboys, it’s because they were on a boat, stranded on an olive field in an entirely different story.

I ran and sat on the toilet, where most of my early onanistic sessions took place, and began frapping my frappuccino. It wasn’t easy wanking with the right and trying to balance the 200-page magazine on my thigh with my left while turning the pages with the same hand. It became easier when my thigh was stickier but on that hot day, the sticky period switched rapidly into the sweaty period and it was a hilariously freaking mess. Though I must say, I didn’t think so at the time.
Then I thought “Fuck it, I’ll do it in the shower.” I had plenty of hot classmates who were more than willing to populate my sexual fantasies. Well not really but at least they knew I was masturbating to them. Haha, because I told them so. Big mistake. They haven’t spoke to me since. They’ve even threaten to tell on me to our schoolmaster. It took, me on my knees & twenty pounds to change their minds. Manipulating bitches. What was I thinking? How could I expect two thirteen year old girls to be as sexually open as I was? I have trouble with my sexual openness even now… So anyway, back to the story.

The water was running hot and I was busy dealing with my three classmates. I was a stud. The blackmailers were, of course, very sorry and they said something like: “The 20 pounds was a down payment for this, silly” and they knelt. I think I was kissing the third one since I was a romantic back then.
Mind you, that masturbating in a shower is extremely difficult to some people and since I am one of those people, I was completely concentrated and drawn in my fantasy world. So when my parents’ car pulled in the garage, the only thing I could physically hear, was my dick’s foreskin; flapping hard.

The bathroom door was wide open, the shower curtain drawn and I was standing with one leg on the bath’s oval rim, (like a Roman emperor dreaming of victories to come) wanking furiously. Suddenly my father storms in saying “Stop pretending you’ll have a sh…<stunned pause>…ower”.

And there I was, all fired up, squinting, curled lip, dick in hand and my father facing me.

“I’m sorry,” he said while diverting his glance, “I thought you were waiting for the hot water to come” and left the room, somewhat laughing.
I said nothing. My dick was now flaccid and I was shocked. After a brief moment, my father shouted from the corridor:
“Don’t forget to clean your penis” with a joking air in his voice.
“What do you think I was doing all this time?” I replied and we both burst into laughter. Oh man...

Then I briefly shampooed my hair and headed to my bedroom. My father was still standing in the corridor. We were both smiling but I was staring at the floor. I walked into my room, locked the door, leaned on my wardrobe and slid down in a sitting position. I started laughing again and I couldn’t stop for a good quarter of an hour, reenacting everything in my head.
Next day everything was ordinary, I think.

*****

After that experience, there’s only one thing I can advise you… Don’t get caught! But if you do, hope for a cool dad. Because who knows, if I was treated differently, I might ended up thinking masturbation was better than sex and advocating it on the Internet or something.

 

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