Chancing My Hand

Hi there, this one I have written for the ladies out there (well, okay the gay guys too if they like), basically this is for anyone who enjoys watching a man play with himself, and by extension, will hopefully enjoy this little tale, presented for their pleasure.

First, a little light background:

Throughout the thicks and thins of relationships and the times in between, there has always been masturbation and it has remained the only true constant.

I don’t think that I particularly do it a lot, not compared to what folks have told me or from the stories I’ve read about – but I am consistent.

Wintertime I will do it most days, but not every, say an average of five times in any given week between November and February, when single – maybe ten times a month when in a relationship.

Spring and summertime are of course a very different story – who can resist the call of nature when the sap is rising, and then all that tempting flesh on clear display on the street, once the temperature is more agreeable? If I have the time, then the count during these two seasons can rise to more than three times every day. What can I say, as a writer I often have plenty of opportunity and motive, more so than with any other profession…

Nor is this an adolescent thing. My body and I have been through more than enough summers to know that this isn’t just some prime-time glandular thing, poking its head up there at every available opportunity it gets. No, this is me, and it’s personal.

Masturbation has become such a natural part of my life, so that I can easily gauge my inner-self’s true state, all by my reactions during the act. Even when I move house, or travel, also going visiting for a few days, I will play with myself that first night in the new room, if not at the first opportunity I get – it’s akin to a centering ritual, a pine-cone style bad-vibes detector. If I don’t feel comfortable doing it there, I won’t get hard, and if that happens, then I’m gone in the shortest space possible.

Once I’ve played with myself in a new place, it immediately starts to feel homier all of a sudden, a known and marked territory I can be comfortable in – after that, I relax.

The deed:

Remembering all of the above, let me tell you about when I did it during a journey once.

It wasn’t anything like on a bus or a plane – but a hostel in Dublin (of all places), where I made the overnight stop.

Arriving there late, the dim-lit 40-sleeper dorm already had a number of occupants, all of them pretty much asleep already – probably travellers like myself and getting an early night in before an early departure. The rest were certainly all out on the town, there being little else to do at that time of night – well I said it was late, but not that late. I knew therefore that it would be peaceful for an hour or three still, and that’s how I liked it. The city can be hectic, and I wanted to avoid all those earnest, fun-seeking students, each insistent upon having a good time whilst in town. If I could get to sleep soon, then they wouldn’t disturb me too much when they all came stumbling in.

Having dumped my stuff by the bed allotted to me, I showered, changed and went to the TV room for a tea and a smoke, then slipped out down into Temple Bar for a swift pint of the black stuff and a whiskey to ease me into sleep – besides, you never knew who you’d meet on a quiet mid-week night, and what that meeting would develop into.

But that’s not what I wanted to tell you here.

I returned alone and ready for sleep. A few more of the beds had filled during my absence, but their occupants were settled for sleep. So as I prefer to sleep naked, I took the opportunity to strip off as usual, enjoying the freedom from clothes as I walked around quietly and stowed my things away, smiling to myself as I thought about the warning signs guaranteeing 24-hour CCTV coverage of all rooms, and hoping that this was giving the young lass on the front desk a bit of a thrill.

That particular thought must have worked on me, for I had the first thickening of an erection to contend with as I climbed up onto the top bunk. By the time I was fully up there, so was he, both long and hard, his weight slapping down onto my flat belly as I rolled onto my back.

Oh boy…! I thought, looking down along my body at him – he looked back hopefully as I drew the covers up. I smiled at him with forbearance, then dropped them over him.

The sensation of the fabric’s contact being drawn up over his sensitive skin, and then dropped, was pleasant and distracting, leaving a visible bulge from crotch to belly-button as the sheets settled, definitely making him look bigger, as fabrics tend to.

I remembered the time I’d been in hospital for two weeks, immobilised with a broken heel and the summer sun blazing out there, keeping the place so hot that all I could stand on me at night, was a single, thin sheet. I’d wake up each morning with an extremely visible hard-on, outlined there by the sheet’s dampened drape.

During that week, I had a different nurse each morning, come to administer the jab for the bed-ridden, more often than not before I was awake too – they must have noticed, I thought, and taken it in turns to come and see.

Eighteen centimetres isn’t huge, but not everyone has one, and it’s definitely quite difficult to miss under the circumstances – as a result, I got more than one very warm good-morning smile.

At the time, and occasionally since, I had imagined their conversations afterward at the shift’s end, and from there onwards it was but a very short leap to imagining each of them at home, masturbating while thinking about me and what they’d like me to do with them, or playing with themselves on the toilet, whilst still at work – hey, these are my fantasies, so they go the way I want them to.

This wasn’t helping me get to sleep though, certainly not as my right hand had inveigled itself under the covers, and lightly started stroking him – Ah, no one was likely to notice – and the thrill of it told me that there was no turning back now.

While I was getting myself hornier and hotter, thoughts of the CCTV warning had me casually checking the ceiling up amongst the rafters for signs of those invasive little black boxes, at the same time wondering if they were hooked to a live feed, or just a blind archive, available in case anything did get stolen. I preferred the former, and began to imagine the young woman who had signed me in earlier, watching the screen with me on it, her fascination mounting, eyes returning quickly after each distraction – maybe she’d seen me strip off, and her casual following of my naked ass had led to her seeing my erection, and now to the unmistakable hand movements stoking up and down under the sheets. If I were her, she’d be licking her lips right about now, willing the action to move on.

I could hardly disappoint her now, could I?

Pulling the sheet partway down, I angled him upright and into plain view, relishing the cool air with its tingle of vibration from distant noises within the building, and also from outside, licking oh so lightly across his sensitive skin.

My breathing began to deepen as the full-on buzz of masturbating in public coursed through me – all added to by the fact that despite their being apparently asleep, someone might be watching, other than my fantasy front desk clerk, or any one of the 'sleepers' could pick up upon my motions at any time.

My thought returned to her, visualising the chest-high front counter, its row of monitors on the lower desk level underneath, hiding from the world what she was up to as she watched me, stroking herself through her jeans, lightly so as not to draw too much attention to her own activities – the only possible signs being of a little heightened colour to the cheeks, and a certain restlessness in her seat.

I contemplated switching the fantasy to summer, so that she could conceivably be wearing a skirt, making her explorations over light panties, much easier. The thought of her fingers busy with herself while watching my hand, was the beginning of the end for me – I was ready to squirt. Lifting my legs up and opening them more, I began to pick up speed, no longer worrying or caring if anyone saw me, or heard.

Although she didn’t leave my thoughts, down at her desk, fingers wet and slippery now, my main fuel was the open act of masturbation itself, it rebellion and accompanying thoughts of some of the lads in the room also becoming turned on. I could see them in my fantasy state, slowly working away at themselves under the covers – all of which got the tingle within to tighten, and that sweet pressure of imminent release building up ready to rush.

Opening my legs wide, like a woman (it’s something that gets me hot, okay?), I focused on lighter strokes, just fore-finger and thumb, encircling him just under the drawn back foreskin and allowing me a faster stroke – feeling the tingle quickly become an itch, an itch that my rubbing only made worse.

The bed had begun to make a counter-tempo squeak, rising in crescendo as I felt the orgasm rising.

Shifting grip again, I went to full-hand contact with a firm grip, and began pumping fast – my mind’s eye seeing the night-receptionist leant back in equal abandon, a hand inside her now open jeans, and flexing in time to my own hand.

The itch rose thickly up through my cock, volcano-like and preceding its first spurt, jettisoning up and out to land in a long line from chest to belly, clearing the way for thinner spurts of hot sperm that shot themselves faster and further as I kept pumping, barely containing my gasping as the orgasm shook me, again and again.

So that was that – not exactly my first solo orgasm in public, but one hell of an experience. I might well tell you all about the others if you’re interested, someday.