The relationship I have had with my right hand is, without question, the longest sexual relationship I have had, stretching back (no pun intended) for over 35 years. During this time, my hand has given me more orgasms than I can remember, and a few women have enjoyed its attentions too.
So, what am I thinking about when I take those stiff several inches of myself into my hands? The truth is, not a lot. I’ve never really been one for fantasising during my solo sessions; I’m much more of a sensualist, and so, most of the time I’m simply experiencing the sensations.
It starts, of course, with arousal. I’m hard and, for whatever reason, I cannot ignore it and hope that it goes away. It needs direct attention.
Now ask any of women who have shared my bed over the years and they will tell you that I am an extremely tactile and sensitive person. When aroused, touch me just about anywhere and I will flinch, squirm and moan. I love it when a woman drives me wild touching me, kissing me, licking me; my entire body becomes one large, hairy erogenous zone.
When I’m own my own, however, the concentration is entirely on my cock. I circle it with my thumb and fingers of my right hand and begin to stroke. I settle into a rhythm, find the appropriate degree of pressure and just work my hand up and down.
It’s a simple and effective technique; one which has been mastered over three and a half decades of practice.
Sometimes the urgency is great, and I beat myself off a quickly as possible, but when time and circumstances allow, I like to take my time.
Stroking slowly at first, a warmth spreads through me, my breathing slows as I go through those long, familiar motions. I don’t even need to think; my hand knows how much pressure to apply and what speed to go at.
As time moves on, the sensation of arousal deepens; I hit my plateau phase. Now I need to concentrate, to be aware of the signs my body is giving me, to speed up, then slow down to make this phase last as long as possible. This is probably my favourite stage. I draw it out for as long as I can; speeding up, slowing down, tightening and loosening my grip, savouring that warm, languid feeling as I enjoy the feelings.
Eventually though, my body takes over and the responses become automatic. The languid relaxation gives way to increased tension in my groin. My breathing becomes more rapid, my heart rate increases. There is an urgency now, a need for release that cannot be ignored or overridden. I’ve used every trick and technique at my disposal to prolong this moment, but now I simply have to do what my body requires me to.
I tighten my grip around my cock. I increase the pace of my strokes. I press my left hand into the inside of my corresponding thigh to try and ease the tension that is building up.
My cock throbs in my hand as the end approaches. I can feel a tingling in my balls. The tension increases, the pressure builds.
Again, as a last act of defiance, I attempt to prolong the inevitable, to extend the exquisite pain of pre-release as I use every ounce of my will to last a few seconds longer.
And then it’s over. My balls contract. I can feel my cum surge through me, almost like a pulse as the contractions inside my cock drive it onwards.
It spurts out; several long, forceful jets erupt before trailing off to end in the final few dribbling drops.
The tension slowly leaves my body. My heartbeat and breathing return, eventually, to normal.
Life can now continue.