English Sex Stories
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He wants to buy a luxury vibrator for his masturbation
Lickety Clit's tits bounced to and fro about two feet from me. They were clearly fake. Too round. Plus, if you looked close enough you could see the scar from the incision. This is probably why pornstars aren't so keen on shooting their movies in HD. All their scars are on display.

I've got my cock in my right hand, raw. It's only the second time of the day. I never need lube for the second time. The third could go either way. By the fourth I definitely need moisture of some sort, or my dick gets all lumpy with abrasions. Whereas normal hand lotion will work fine for sessions four through seven or eight, the petroleum jelly is essential after that.

But this is only session two. I've always preferred to whack off sans lube. It just feels more natural. We all have a little masochist in us, they say, and I guess that's my bit. Back when I was only doing it two, three times a day, I never touched lube. Well, maybe once or twice, just because it sounded like everyone else did, but nothing serious.

Back then there was purity, just me and my right hand.

Back then there was such thing as being too tired to jerk off.

Back then there was a sense of satisfaction that came with an orgasm.

That I'm watching Lickety Clit means that I'm in my slutty phase. For the next couple of weeks, I'll be watching only the filthiest, sluttiest porno. How does a movie qualify as this, you ask? A few characteristics to look for:

1) The girls have to be total bitches, and they have to talk all sorts of dirty. 2) They're caked in makeup. 3) They're wearing some form of high heel. Bonus points for boots. 4) They must crave cock, and be vocal about that craving. 5) Lots and lots of ass fucking. The phrase, "Yeah, fuck me in my ass" must be said at least thrice per scene. 6) PVC, vinyl, and leather.

In the weeks before this, it was amateurs. Not the amateurs you'd see in Amateur Dolls #4, but actual, non-paid pornstars. The kind you find on YouTube porn sites. It wasn't the porn itself that got me off. It was the knowledge that for all I knew, it could be John and Jane from down the street. I especially like the ones filmed in college dorm rooms. Brings me back.

It's been about four minutes since I started the movie. My ass won't become numb for another five or so, though it's kind of cold from the seat. The whole room is kind of cold, actually. It's what you get when you have a room filled with tile, marble, and porcelain.

Yes, I'm in the bathroom at work. Thank Jebus for BlackBerrys. The best part is that no one suspects a thing. To them, I'm just taking my first shit of the day. The second shit -- the fourth in my daily jack-off sessions -- will come later in the afternoon, usually around 3, 3:30. I try to space these things out evenly. At lunchtime, I hit up one of the public restrooms in the area. No need to arouse any more suspicion at the office. Who shits three times in eight hours, anyway?

My heart skips a beat as someone raps on the door. This shouldn't bother me anymore. Not only is the door locked, but I get knocked on three, four times a week. "Occupado," I say. For some reason, this shoos people away. I could just say "occupied," but that seems a bit more awkward.

When in doubt, always say simple phrases in a foreign language. The way it disarms people is remarkable.

Three more minutes and I send my goop into a folded piece of toilet paper. Down the drain it goes, eliminating the evidence. I wash my hands and head back upstairs to my office. No one is the wiser. There's always a pit in my stomach as I sit back down at my desk. Maybe it's the endorphins that have just been released into my system. Maybe it's the knowledge that everyone else in the office would consider what I do disgusting.

Probably, though, they're just jealous that they don't have the audacity to do it themselves.

Back in the day, whacking off in the office was a quick way to relieve stress. Long, pointless phone call with the boss? Whack it in the bathroom. Get chewed out because you screwed up? Head to the restaurant across the street for a marathon session. It's also especially relieving after you've talked to the hot chick in the office while trying to repress your bone. It's hard to keep your monster at bay when you can't help but mentally undress her.

Other uses for whacking off, beyond relieving stress:

- Ensuring that you don't come early when you're actually with a woman. - Aiding in the wallowing in your own self pity. - Making you feel better after you bone a less-than-satisfactory female. - Escaping from the ever-changing world in which you live in. - Helping you fall asleep when you're restless. - Alleviating yourself, temporarily, of sexual frustration.

The reasons for jacking off are far more numerous, and not even worth listing. In fact, if you're an addict like me, you'll create your own reasons for doing it. Let me tell you, though, if you do find yourself creating reasons to pull your pork, you might as well start going to therapy groups right then and there. Because once you've hit that point, it's only going to get worse. No level of self-control can change the course, because at that point, it's controlling you.

At my desk, I'm plugging away at the Cytro CT campaign. It's some new drug that, like all other new drugs, needs a marketing plan. That's usually the case. Our firm handles mostly pharmaceutical marketing. Everyone here pretty much hates me. That's because to keep my mind off digitized tits and ass, I burn myself out working. I get here an hour before everyone, because if I spent any more time at home, I'd be on No. 2 before I even set foot into the office. I leave later than everyone, too, but that's mostly so I can whack off at my desk. During the hours I'm here, I'm always keeping myself busy. If I'm not drawing up a marketing plan, I'm reading. There are stacks and stacks of marketing books all around my office, and I have an RSS feed with about 70 marketing blogs.

The co-workers hating me, though, extends beyond my workaholism. Whenever someone comes in my office to ask me something, I usually ignore them. It's personal, but it's not. I don't hate any of them. It's just that most of their appearances aren't good for my psyche.

Seeing Jim reminds me of how bleak and pathetic life can be. When I feel that, all I want to do is jerk off.

Seeing Sharon gives me a hard on. When I feel that, all I want to do is jerk off.

Seeing Lars, my boss, reveals to me a deceptive and conniving aspect of human nature. When I feel that, all I want to do is jerk off.

And so I tune everyone out for the most part. They think I'm indignant, arrogant, condescending. When in actuality, I'm just as messed up as they are.

I stare at my computer screen, pulling stats off the Web for Cytro. There's an ad for a dating service on the sidebar. I feel the vacant space in my pants shrinking. Why can't I stay flaccid after orgasm like almost every other guy?

Perfect timing: Here's Lars. "Meeting time, slugger." I hate when he uses terms like "chief" and "slugger" to refer playfully to his subordinates. Just call me Dave, like everyone else.

I do a quick twelve o'clock tuck, and it's off to the meeting.

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