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Fulfillment Delayed (true story)
This is a repost of a story I put up her some time ago. As always I welcome comments, feedback and especially similar stories. And of course, this is intended for adults only, and if you're no an adult, what are you doing on this newsgroup, anyway.
I had always been a horny child--I remember masturbating by humping my bed at age three--and I grew into an even hornier teenager. I couldn't go more than a few hours without beating off. I can even remember going up to my bedroom and jacking off while I had friends at the house, sitting downstairs. They knew I was spewing my spunk all over the room up there, and occasionally made a teasing reference to my rather frequent disappearances.
Basic training but a major damper on my autoerotic indulgences. I had no girlfriend at the time to send me off with a farewell fuck, so I contented myself with staying up half the night with my collection of "stroke books" (to use Lenny Bruce's term), pounding myself to a number of wet finishes. Then I packed my girlie magazines away and went off to don the uniform of our country's service.
Being a fairly well-read youngster, I understood the function of boot camp, and so what seemed to others to be the random cruelties and caprices of the drill instructors were just the finely-honed methods, developed and polished since the days of the Roman Legions, used by any military outfit to turn undisciplined youth into soldiers, sailors and airmen. But though I knew early on how to play the game of Basic Training, a diabolically busy schedule and a brilliantly-conceived lack of privacy left me too drained and fatigued to think about sex. I never put any stock in the frequent and cherished rumor that saltpter was placed in our food to curb our youthful libidos, for there was clearly no need: we were too damned tired to be horny.
My own fatigue was compounded by a promotion to recruit petty officer, a dubious complement which entitled me to wear some silly boot chevrons and take the heat for everyone else's mistakes as well as my own.
For the first several weeks I had no desire to masturbate, which was just as well, for finding the privacy in which to indulge would have been difficult at best. My usual morning erection, a proverbial fixture in my daily routing since I had been six years old, was absent for the first time.
Of course, the lack of desire was psychological, born of stress and fatigue, rather than physical. My hormones were still at work, and though I didn't realize it for quite some time, the pressure in my groin was building.
I never did jack off in boot camp though in the last week or two I was awakening before reveille each morning with a steel hard erection. Before I could do anything about it, though, the bugle would sound and I and my forty-odd squad mates would leap from our bunks and clamor into our uniforms and out onto the parade ground. By graduation day I was really feeling the pressure and as I headed home on my ten-day graduation leave I looked forward to spending some quality time with my magazines and a bottle of baby oil.
Those plans were derailed when I arrived home, however. The house was full of relatives and well-wishers from the neighborhood, and my bedroom had been given over to one of my younger brothers, since I would not be needing it any more. Not entirely true, though: I needed it one more time! Even the guest room was taken, occupied by my mother's friend Joanne, visiting from Back East. I would in fact be sleeping on the couch for the next couple of days.
I had never experienced blue balls--how could I when I masturbated three or more times a day?--but now my testicles throbbed as I waited for the party to end and for everyone to go to bed in their respective rooms. Finally I was alone in the living room, everyone else hopefully asleep. Ordinarily, I would have waited a while to make sure everyone was settled in dreamland, but my rock-hard cock and burning balls would have none of it. I had to have relief soon or my groin would surely explode. I threw off my clothes and flung myself onto the couch, now made up with sheets and blankets as my bed. With a bottle of oil from the bathroom, I lubricated my aching member and started right in stroking.
Of course anyone who loves to masturbate as much as I do likes to make it a leisurely, indulgent act, a sensuous buildup to orgasm. But this time I was just too horny and my hands went straight to my hard cock, stroking away with abandon. I could feel the huge load building pressure in my crotch as I stroked. Almost at once my hips, joined in, thrusting to meet each squishy stroke. I was finally going to cum!
As I felt the spunk flow into the base of my cock, ready to shoot, I opened my eyes and looked down to see this load I had waited for for so long. My hips thrust up as my back arched, lifting my ass completely off the couch and I started blasting my spray.
In past sessions, particularly the times where I had teased myself to near climax a few times, I had squirted my semen as far as my upper chest, but this was truly a load for the books. The first spasm sent a stream across my chest and onto my throat, but the second, bigger shot sailed over my head, a fat stream of hot goo, and splattered all over the wall behind me. The next had enough impetus to splash my face and neck, and after that I just kept pumping out jism, stream after stream, flying across, my chest, my belly, my thighs, hitting the arm and the back of the sofa, the floor, running down my balls to form a pool beneath my ass. I fought to keep quiet but a series of primal grunts escaped past my clenched teeth.
Finally I lay there, totally spent, my head spinning with the most intense orgasm of my young life, panting and idly milking the last few drops of spunk from my cock, when I turned my head to see Joanne, my mother's friend, standing in the door to the hallway. She wore only a T-shirt which did not make it all the way down her hips, and her thick black pubic bush was clearly visible. I'd no idea how long she'd been there--I'd been busy watching my cock explode--but it seemed from the way she just stood there looking at me that she had seen all or part of my epic climax.
I felt a little silly lying there covered in crisscrossing ropes of my own cum, but I was literally too drained to say or do anything. "I was just going to the kitchen," she said.
"Oh," was my brilliant reply.
She hustled into the kitchen and I could hear the sounds of her getting a glass of water. Now, if this were a story from Penthouse Forum or one of its ilk, Joanne and I would have wound up in a wild threeway with my mother or some damn thing. What really happened was that she went back to the guest room without looking back my way at all and shut the door. I watched her asscheeks swivel as she walked away from me. I had never thought of Joanne as particularly attractive before--in those days I was hung up on young cupcakes with hard tits and no brains--but I had still had had a look at her exposed bush and ass, and a randy young man is bound to be stimulated by that, no matter who it is.
After a while I fancied the effect that my little scene might have had on her and I wondered if she might be masturbating herself. The more I thought about it, the harder I got, until I was stiff and ready for action again (ah, youth!). I crept over to her door and listened intently, the cum from my last load still glazing my upper body. At first, there was nothing save the squishing sounds of my hand sliding along my own shaft. Then, I thought I heard something--a gasp, perhaps, and then I heard the faint sound os bedsprings rhythmically creaking, ever so gently. A soft moan made it through the door and I knew for sure. Joanne was masturbating! Because of me!
If I were in this situation now, I might very well follow my first impulse and open that door. But this was 1979, I was still fairly young and timid and so though I was dying to see what Joanne was doing to herself in there, I stayed on my side of the door and jacked off again. I pumped quietly, still straining to catch each faint sound passing through the door. After a time, the creaking speeded up and the head board started to hit the wall. I timed my strokes to those thumps and I heard a stifled cry from Joanne as she came. I pumped another load into my cupped hand, smearing it back into the pulsing shaft; a few drops plopped to the carpet at my feet. I left them there like a tomcat marking his territory. I masturbated one more time that night, and did a little cleaning up, before I went to sleep. The next morning I was quite self-conscious around Joanne, but being older and no doubt wiser, she behaved for all the world as if she had never seen me pounding my pud and spewing a world record load of jism all over myself. I haven't seen her in years, but from time to time I masturbate to the memory of that time when I heard her frigging off to the sight of me drenched in my own cum, and I wonder if Joanne ever fingers herself to the memory of that young man caught so blatantly out of uniform.