Oh man. Onanism. Self love. Spanking the monkey. Petting the kitty. Rubbing one off. Choking the chicken. Pearl diving. Shebop. Jacking off. Jilling off. No matter how you say it, this can be a touchy subject.
How can anyone not like masturbation? Unless they’re doing it wrong. Or they’re just one of those people who hates everything and everybody. You know the type. I call them Mary Janes – those pinch faced girls on the playground who ran off to tattle to teacher whenever they suspected anyone might be having fun and *gasp* getting away with it!
Mary Janes are the first ones to point to the Bible and recite the story of poor Onan. But I often thought that story was a parable written after the fact to illustrate a huge misunderstanding. I can envision the conversation around the biblical campfire and the resulting game of telephone, in which the real message about masturbation was impossibly garbled:
A: “Verily, I have rubbed myself raw. Tell me, oh learned dude, is masturbation wrong?”
B: “Only if you don’t use lube.”
A:”I know how to get off, thank thou very much. You know what I mean.”
B: *ponders quietly for a while* “Whilst I’m enjoying a bit of solo recreation, I fantasize all kinds of nasty, dirty sex. I’m not thinking of love, commitment, or treating the objects of my fantasy as people. They are there for my pleasure--.”
B: *rolls eyes* “There’s nothing wrong with that, unless I were to treat real people the same way.”
A:”Thou art taking all the fun out of it.”
B:”I say unto you, you can’t treat real people like your personal wank fantasy fodder. It dehumanizes them, and makes you a selfish lover. No one likes a douchbag in the sack. Dost thou knowest that whole ‘love others as you would love yourself’ thing? Yeah. That’s God telling you to be good to the people who will actually have sex with you. Treat them with respect. Show some class.”
Person A, not being the brightest oil lamp, ambled away confused. Later on, s/he met person C, who was lazily stroking his/her way to a little afternoon delight.
A:”Thou should not do that.”
C: “Why not?”
A: *unable to remember or understand the philosophy behind the earlier conversation* “Uh, because it’s bad.”
C:”No, it feels really good.”
A: “But it’s wrong to fantasize about sex. God says we can’t treat ourselves. We have to do it with other people.”
C: “I don’t remember that in the ten commandments. I say unto you, if God wanted to forbid it, he would have mentioned it somewhere in that list.”
A:”Then I shall inscribe a story upon a scroll so that thou, and everyone else, will know of this teaching I got from our learned one. And I shall put your name in my story so that everyone knows about your wankery and shuns thee. What is thy name?”
C: “George. Uh, wait. Onan. That’s right. I’m Onan.”
Okay, maybe not, but it seems that what probably started off as a bit of good advice – “Get out of your tent and spend some time around real people” – was dumbed down into dogma because no one wanted to take the time to explain the longer reason, or maybe they were embarrassed by the subject. Sex is a powerful drive, and controlling people through sex is the wet dream of the Mary Janes of this world, so it’s no surprise that religions couldn’t keep their hands off. Wankery takes on many forms, but some are more debauched than others.
This story isn’t for the squeamish.
Fetish was sex deconstructed. Removed from my body to my mind. The rites of worship worshipped. The fetish was for the details. Someone once said that God was in the details, but others said that it was the devil, a devil I knew intimately.
I closed my eyes tight and hoped Devon would hurry. We didn’t have much time. Every detail was perfection. It would never be this good again. Never.
At the soft click of the door, I opened my eyes again and willed myself not to blink.
Devon silently folded the sheet down to the swell of my breasts. The bare warmth of the sheet escaped as he lifted it from my feet and folded it above my waist.
Would he jump if I moved?
Devon climbed on the table and lowered the waistband of his scrubs to free his cock.
Devon wasn’t the most endowed member on staff, his looks didn’t excite me, and he was not the one I would have picked for recreational fucking, but he met my requirements – meaning that he could perform the exacting details I demanded.
He was quiet while he jerked off. A few gasps, the slap of his hand, and the squishy sound of the lube.
A trickle of water from the melting ice cube streamed out of my pussy and pooled under my butt cheek.
My eyeballs were dry.
Remember how much you hate what it takes to get the details right. Next time you’re tempted to pick up the phone and make an appointment, remember that it hurts to have ice cubes in your cunt. Think of the pain in your feet and hands. Think about never being warm again.
Devon had bowed his head to the task. He groaned. The table shook as he worked his cock. He knew not to waste time. With his free hand, Devon spread my labial lips. Warmth bled through his examination gloves to my skin.
Hot, thick come splattered against my clit. I bit my tongue to hold back my moan. He came buckets, my Devon did, covering my cunt like boiling water splashed on snow. Another shot, so warm, so full of life, pulsed onto my chilled skin. It slid from the hard nub of my clit down toward my pussy. My clit tingled under it, loving the perfection of the moment, soaking in the heated gift from his body.
Devon immediately climbed off the table. He pulled the bottom sheet down to my ankles. Hurrying, he stood by my head. But then he did something he’d never done before, he bent down and placed a reverent kiss on my lips. Then he gently pushed my eyelids closed, and I felt the sheet cover my face.
The door clicked shut.
I flung back the sheet and spread my slit so I could see it in the overhead mirror. The slick load clung in thick globs to my pubes.
So warm. Warmth is life.
Everything was perfect. Perfect that time. Better than fantasies.
A spasm shot down my legs. I drew my knees up and spread my legs wide. Pinching and pulling, I overloaded my clit with sensation – hot come, cold fingers. My hands made tighter circles.
My lips pulsed.
My hand was almost a blur. My shoulders lifted off the table. My pussy clenched tight.
A furious orgasm shot though me.
God or the devil, it was perfect.
Chill appears in The Best Women’s Erotica 09 and The Best of Best Women’s Erotica 2.