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THE CONFESSIONS OF A PROFESSIONAL MASTURBATER PART I

Posted by: SoloTouchArchive Author: admin Posted on: 07 Jun 1998 1 comments
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by Slipper the Magnificent I am home in my New York flat, waiting for my last load of laundry to come out of the dryer. I have a private performance scheduled on the upper East Side, in less than two hours. Right now, there is a soft, thick shoelace tied around my balls, separating them from one another and from my cock. My nuts are already beginning to feel heavy. I am looking forward to later when I will be jerking off at one of those safe-sex parties that have become the rage lately. I was hired to entertain tonight(or is it to educate) at this socially conscious gathering, by a man who caught my solo act at Onan's a few weeks ago. If you haven't heard of Onan's, let me just say, it's a club where you can watch naked men dance and masturbate. It has an international reputation in certain circles. It is a prestigious place to work although it doesn't pay a hell of a lot. This gentleman, a , chose me for this evening's soiree, he said, because he liked how I get off on my own orgasm. He's paying me five-hundred dollars to do that very thing tonight and I intend to oblige him with one of my best performances ever. I try on all of my underwear, the Calvin Klein's, the silk boxers and the BVDs but none of them are right. I experiment with the lace thong bikini. It's unique, something I concocted myself from a more modest item I picked up in a Montrose men's boutique during my last engagement in Houston. By sewing the base of the pouch higher in the crotch, tight and close to the base of my scrotum, I have fashioned something that can lift and present my package in provocative ways. With this practically see-through jock pulled high enough to cover my light blond, low-shaved pubic hair, my balls, which are already separated by the laces, are pressed out against my thighs like two big brazil nuts. This transforms walking and even sitting into a delightfully gratifying experience. I pull the top of the jock lower, to just where my dick begins to sprout and I reach down inside, and stroke my hard balls without touching my dong. My nest begins to swell and I bring it up and lay it sideways along the top of the edge of the pouch, halfway in and halfway out. Sometimes I begin my act with my equipment arranged this way, running my thumb along the beautiful thins as if measuring the potential of its dimensions. If you go by the standards in men's magazines these days, I don't have a gigantic member, but with its prominent head and those veins that strain when I bind it with leather or my laces, it has never disappointed anyone, certainly not me. Beginning like this would be appropriate maybe, for an audience in Pittsburgh, but tonight I'm working uptown Manhattan. The party is supposed to help raise the city's consciousness about safe sex and the healthier aspects of masturbation. Public service, I can get into that. So, off comes the see-through number and around my nuts I wind another shoelace. I pull it firmly but not as tautly as I usually do. My dick stiffens at this and I knead it with my left hand, using my inverted fingers to brush the frenum under its head. When I cup my hands under my balls they feel as cold as my prick feels hot. I tuck myself tenderly into an anonymous pair of teal blue low-rise Jockeys, still pleasantly warm from the dryer. The third pair of slacks I try on, thin cotton ones, reveal just enough of the bulge in my crotch to be noticeable but not screamingly obvious. I slip a thin brown money belt through the pants' trendy wide loops and pull a plain one-pocket, unmongrammed but obviously expensive cotton tee-shirt over my head. It comes down to just below my hips. I slip into my sockless loafers, and feeling properly dressed and horny to boot, I leave my building and hail a taxi. My hands are in my crotch the whole trip uptown, not just to keep things warm, but to untie the shoelaces which I have decided are a bit hardcore for this particular gathering. If I've learned on thing in this business, I've learned it is best never to offend unless you are invited to do so. At the same time I always am prepared for a surprise. Sometimes the most gentile of people will unexpectedly reveal their darker natures when confronted by true eroticism. At Fifth Avenue the taxi stops for the traffic light. The driver glances back over his shoulder and watches me playing with the drop of pre-cum that has just escaped from my half-swollen dick. For his benefit, I wet my fingers with saliva dn stroke myself taller. The light changes but he keeps staring until horns behind us start blowing. He drives on, my momentary fantasy of him turning on the inside lights so everyone on the street might watch, too, goes unsatisfied. Okay, I say to myself, no freebies until after the party. I had to cut back on freebies when I started at Onan's. There, most of the customers feel cheated if they don't see a lot of cum. Still, I like to jerk off in public places with only one or two people watching, in alleys, showers and of course, taxis. That's when I discover who really appreciates sex, understands its power, like the time I did it beside a Wall Street phone booth one rainy Sunday morning. There was no one else there but his square-jawed security guard who watched me from a doorway no more than five yards away, rubbing his own turgid dick through the gabardine of his uniform. I first started making money from masturbation when I was fourteen and a neighbor caught me pounding away on my meat behind my parent's garage. He paid me ten dollars a shot to repeat this every Sunday night for almost a year. Then later, during my first week at college, I did it on a dare at a drunken fraternity rush party. I made thirty-five lousy dollars in the pool the took up for me, and I got my self suspended from school. A week later I was grinding my ass for hard-to earn tips in a low-life strip joint. The only way I ever made good money there was to let the customers caress my cock and balls through the pouch which was not allowed to come off. Touching was not really allowed but the management looked the other way. That way, dancers got bigger tips and management could keep their salaries low. When I finally realized that I liked touching myself better than having others do it, I entered the Masturbation Marathon at Onan's. They have this monthly jerk-off contest for amateurs. It brings in big crowds. It attracts talent, too, and best are sometimes given a chance to work in the Hall of Mirrors, and then in the Pit, and if you really prove to be popular you could become a head liner in the Pump Room. The orgasm I had during that first masturbation marathon turned out to be one I will never forget. At first, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, dance, strip, entice my audience or just whack off. I was worried that the sight of my cock soft, might blow my chance of getting the regular job at Onan's that I wanted. My dick is ons of those shrinkers, especially when I am cold or nervous, so I kept on the leather jock I was wearing, just like I sometimes do at home, until it could no longer contain me. My silly prick is so heavy-headed that it doesn't often stand totally erect without some serious encouragement. Luckily I had worn my tightest cock ring. Once I got it up, my cock didn't look exactly enormous but I noticed several people, including the owner, concentrating their gaze on it. I began to do the same. For my own pleasure, not theirs, I grasped it tightly between my thumb and forefinger, just at its thickest spot. With my left hand, I fingered my balls from underneath. The head of my prick began to tingle so I spit on my fingers and twisted them over its rosy surface. Wetting my hands some more, I gave myself I don't know how many minutes of long, steady stroking. When it was time to either stop of go on to something more inevitable, I slowed down. I heard myself groaning and when I opened my eyes I saw that everyone was looking at me. Not at my cock, but at me. They knew I was approaching someplace special, someplace precarious, glorious and dangerous. My left hand took over with a gentle tugging that moved my prick-skin up and down over the blood-swollen pillar of ivory it enclosed. The underside of the ridge of my cock-head was sharp and dry and I wet my fingers again to relieve it. An ooze of pre-cum glistened down over me. I tasted it from the end of one finger and returned to deep stroking, the back of my hand happily barraging my balls. Veins were beginning to pop up from under the confinement of my cock-ring, reforming my usually pretty peter into a wicked, crookedly pointing saber. I sped and then slacked off again to prolong the incredible feeling that took me over. It was rarely this good and the crowd watching intently, knew it. Their eyes urged me to continue, faster and then slower again. Deliciously, I teased my own limits. I was lying down when I came, looking at myself. I was so intent on my incredible bursting dick that I almost rolled out of the light which would have disqualified me from the contest. I don't remember trying to show off my spurting thick white cum to anyone. I was madly intent on keeping it inside, just a minute longer, a second and then another second. "God!" I cried out when my jism finally forced itself past my tight grip and escaped. The others watching cried out too. I won first place, fifty dollars and Onan's offered me a trail contract. At first I worked the Hall of Mirrors where you don't really get totally naked or cu, , but just play with yourself to tease the entering or leaving customers. I was good at that and after only a week they transferred me to the Pit where you were supposed to get naked and keep it up but didn't have to cum if you didn't want to, or couldn't. It happens.. After only two weeks in the Pit I proved to be so popular they made me a head liner upstairs in the Pump Room. After less than a year there I found myself invited around the country to headline in similar clubs and I began to do all other types of free-lance work, like I am doing tonight. These other gigs pay better than Onan's but I haven't given up the club entirely. Performing there is how you keep your name and reputation, and everything else, up before the public. The taxi has arrived and the driver offers to come back in an hour to pick me up. I am five minutes early and I spend it outside the door, arranging myself so my crotch will bulge without the aid of the laces that I removed in the taxi. To do this to my satisfaction I pull waist elastic of my jockeys down under my tender testicles, lifting everything to just the right, saucy angle. I am hornier that I thought I would be. The host greets me with several large green bills, up-front money, as I call it, which I fold into my money belt. "Everyone's expecting you", he says. "I don't think introductions are necessary." I nod and go to work. The party doesn't seem to be very lively. The lights are blazing and everyone is just standing around talking loudly, with blank looks on their faces, giving each other the once over. I'm not sure if they have yet realized that masturbation, even as a form of safe-sex, is not about the other person, it's about yourself. There is music playing, soft-rock, pretty bland but good enough. I'm sorry that they aren't playing some rather more romantic music like Wagner or Strauss. That sort of music takes me over completely. I once did a scene, for the first of my two solo videos, in which I got myself off in total coordination with Mahler's Adagietto. The director thought it was too artsy. He had much grittier, commercial taste and redubbed the whole thing to something that sounded like late disco. The meat beat he called it. There is no mirror in the room but I can see myself clearly in the tall uncurtained windows that lead out to the balcony. I like the way my cock-head is outline through my trousers, just below where my shirt hangs. The people around the room begin to watch me stare at myself. I rub my hand over my dick. The conversation quiets down. My balls are aching to be held to I touch them, gently at first and then by grabbing through my trousers. I lift my shirt to see my crotch better. My cock has grown and I want to touch it with my bare hands but first I slip the belt out of pant loops and refasten it higher around my chest. The trousers have one button at the top and an easy zipper. I am eager to get my hands inside. I sometimes enjoy doing my whole act with my pants on, flonging myself though my gaping fly. This is more likely to be appreciated by dirty old men and not these socially refines types so I stand with my legs a little apart and let the trousers slip down gracefully, a move that has taken a lot of practice. I step out of them and out of my loafers, all in one move. As I turn to face the people in the room I pretend they are my mirror. My tee shirt I tuck up under my belt on the left side, like a curtain being drawn aside. I retrieve the shoe lace I have tucked in my shirt pocket and hang it around my neck. They watch with interest. My hand is in my shorts now, weighing their contents and offering them for my view only. I love seeing my prick fat and half-hidden. impulsively, I expose myself by sliding the elastic band of my shorts under my balls again and spilling everything outwards. The room is now absolutely silent. My erection pushes against my hand which only partly covers it. As I slip my short down with one hand, I begin to stroke with the other and then squeeze and then stretch my cock, considering the length to which it might be capable of growing. My left hand reaches around my nuts, pulling them together and down sharply. They are aching to be tied up again but I wait. Some sensitive stroking is called for first, not fast, but serious. My pleasure in myself is enormous. I bring it to a new plateau before changing my grip and fingering my dick's tip. I hold my meat sideways across my belly and my hip. It looks so wonderful that I can't resist wetting it so I can see it shine. Now I begin a compulsive palming of my dick which bobs up and down every time I let it go. I am not as erect yet as I sometimes get but my host helps me later the situation He brings me a vial of oil and pours a little on my waving cock. Not enough to drip, just enough to let me rub with greater pleasure. I hear someone in the room exclaim, "That's good!" now they are beginning to get the message. By pinching the base of my prick I get it to stand taller. I caress it. I am looking at the most beautiful thing in the world. My left hand slides over my glans and down the thickening shaft as my right hand corses over the top. I fuck slowly inside my two fists. Some attention to my cock's end now, deep, short, rapid, whirling strokes, bring me to a panting halt. A bead of pre-cum appears and then, with a shiver, along oozing of it drips across my fingers. Although I am almost on the verge of cumming, I begin stroking again, slowly, but deliberately. "Damn!" I hear someone exclaim. I soak my hands in the oil and go at myself with sudden, vigorous strokes, fingering, pounding, swirling. Let the music carry me for awhile, searching for its most delicate textures, then echoing its throbbing drum beat, driving it and mirroring it with every touch to my hot cock-skin. The pleasure that had been rising from my balls for the past two hours rushes me to the next plateau. When I stop my knees are trembling. It is time for the shoelace. I can wrap a lace around my cock and balls in seconds. No one takes their eyes off me as I tighten this erotic truss which turns my nuts shiny purple. No one moves closer to watch me either. They are beginning to unzip and fondle themselves. I am a hit! Please with my success, and his, my host is smiling and stroking his own two-fister dick. The closing stage of my act can go on as long as the opening one if I want it to, even when I so close to coming my mouth hangs open and my calf muscles cramp. I turn the attention of my abuse from my balls to my swollen cock-head, down the shaft, to my balls tight balls and back to my dick. It begins steadily, this last time, my fingers roaming ore sensitively than ever, searching for an irresistible spot. I find it under the sharp ridge of my glans. Each blessed finger of my sliding hand manages to encourage my delight. Without obscuring that heavenly view of my hand on my cock, I hunch over and bring my load slowly up from my nuts, letting it force itself past the laces. Visual stimuli kicks out and I can only hear my pounding and my dick slapping against my belly. It is thundering to the end of my pole. My legs spasm and my spew splatters on my chest in scalding drops. Nothing else exists. Often, when I get off like this at Onan's, or in some out of town club, someone in the audience is likely to try and put the make on me, which means they have really missed the point. But as I leave this party, I take professional pride in the fact they they all are doing themselves. My host is very happy and only missed one long stroke as he hands me the rest of my fee and a generous tip we both know I have earned. I am happy, too. Glad that I had asked the taxi driver to come back in an hour for his own private performance. (Look for "Confessions of a Professional Masturbator - Part Two - in which Slipper the Magnificent indulges in phone sex and hears about the ultimate blow job.)