There’s a towel on the seat and porn on my screen: the basic
preparations are done. Water glass filled up? Check. Curtains closed? Check. My
clothes landed on the bed when I threw them? Check. I plonk myself down on the
office chair, which creaks alarmingly. I’m almost naked except for my socks — I
don’t trust the cleanliness of the carpet — and a pair of pinkish lace panties.
(“Brazilian-style”, apparently.)
A deep breath.
The moment of putting the panties on is still fresh in my
mind: I’m playing it through again and again! How I gingerly picked them up — reverently,
like a historian with an old manuscript — and ran my finger along the fabric. How
smooth it was. How my dick throbbed! One leg through; then the other. They glid
up my legs — slowly, so I could savour that feeling — and how my tip made first
contact. Tingles. And then my arse. Tingles all over!
They’re hugging my arse cheeks perfectly, as though they
were designed for my contours. I can feel the cool air on my arse. I stand up
from the chair and gently run my fingers over my cheeks: so much skin exposed! How
naughty. Each touch sends a tingle up through my body — a call to which my dick
throbs in response — and, as I brush my way inwards, I catch myself holding my breath.
I hastily sit.
Another deep breath. I’m ready...
...and I hope that paints a very vivid picture in your mind.
And now that I’ve got your attention, I’ll rewind to the start.
A few weeks ago, I guess a switch flipped. Don’t ask me why.
All I know is that what started as a little tickle in the back of my mind while
jerking over panty pictures grew and grew with each session. The urge to
experiment! To try on panties, but to go further still: I was picturing myself
in outfits in myriad lurid shades of pink. (Within the four walls of my home, I
mean: this is, after all, a masturbation fantasy.) It probably didn’t help that
I’ve been coincidentally chatting with people who cross-dress; they may have
contributed to it, but that switch flipped independently of them.
This is not the first time that switch has flipped for me.
When I was 14, I stumbled onto the crossdressing captions side of the internet
and consumed those. I had the same visions of wearing these things. I stole my
mother’s knickers once or twice and masturbated with them; and then I stole a
bra too and masturbated on the bathroom floor wearing the knickers and bra.
This fact is one that I had completely suppressed; it only returned to me a
year or two ago.
Anyway, 6 years and a lot of growing-up and wanking later,
and those visions, those urges, and that voice was getting louder and louder
and louder until, last night, I caved.
I went online, looked for a place where I might buy panties
— criteria: sexy and pink, cheap, and somewhere far away from where I live —
and I found one that met those criteria. I even measured myself to be sure. And,
suddenly, there was only one night, 20 minutes on the bus, and £5 between me
and a pair of sexy pink panties to make those fantasies come true (and
hopefully silence that voice for a bit)!
So, I did it. I went to the shop: I had two options written
on a piece of paper, so that I wouldn’t forget if I got flustered. In the
event, I couldn’t find the ones I’d seen on the website, but I found a 3-pack that
wasn’t much more expensive and was in the same style. (Also, I think that list was
a very useful prop to explain why a bloke should be poking around women’s
underwear.)
And, on my way back, I nipped into the local sex shop. I’d
had poppers talked up to me, and I figured if I was pushing the boat out, I may
as well do it in style! (Nothing illegal, I hasten to add.)
So, we’re all caught up. There’s me, sitting in my chair,
panties on and poppers on the desk, ready to go. In my mind, this was going to be
a multi-hour mind-melting wank session; in reality, I sabotaged myself by watching
videos and using the poppers at the start.
I thought they smelled odd, like cough medicine perhaps. For
a moment, nothing happened: had I wasted a tenner? Was I about to start coughing?
And then... and then I can only describe it as feeling like someone opened my
skull and punched my brain. My body felt like I was moving at a hundred miles
an hour. The pounding in my head made it tricky to relax entirely, but a sip of
water and a few moments later it stopped. Every subsequent inhalation just
produced a rush. It literally felt as though I was being pulled up by the head,
so I don’t know if that’s why they call it a high, haha.
I was rock hard and at the edge in 5mins! And I limped
through on the edge for an hour — and what a glorious hour! — maybe before I
couldn’t hold back and came... and the orgasm was longer than usual.
And, just like that, everything was normal again. I showered,
got dressed, and went about my life.
I will definitely try more acts of crossdressing in future. I
can live without taking poppers again though, to be honest.
That one short sentence defines me rather well, I think. Of
course, there are many different aspects to anyone’s life but if I had to sum
myself up in one word, it would be ‘masturbator’. Since the age of 11, I have
masturbated regularly; in the last few years, daily; and I can say with some
confidence that, since I was 11, I have not gone more than a fortnight (consecutively)
without masturbating.
In that time, I haven’t flirted, I haven’t dated, I haven’t
kissed, and I haven’t fucked: I am a virgin and a pure masturbator. I am, retroactively,
quite proud of this record, and do not intend to change it. In addition, I have
always loved porn and erotica. My first crush was the beautiful Serena Wood, an
erotic model: all these years later, I am still slightly in love. This has all
contributed to an impression that the grass isn’t greener on the other side, so
I’ve never had more than half-hearted interest, which has since evaporated.
