In 2019 I had a wank. That’s right, “a” wank: singular, solitary, just the one. If anyone is interested, it was in November. If you want to be particularly specific, it was on November 27th. It was very good; I enjoyed it a lot; I may even be tempted to have another one some time, but there’s no particular rush.
Those of you who have followed this blog for some time will know the reasons why this was such a note-worthy and memorable event. Those who haven’t, can find out by reading this post. Suffice to say, that it was one of those rare occasions where everything aligned: I was in the mood, I felt suitably aroused/stimulated and, most importantly, I had the inclination/could be arsed, to take things in hand and see if it would actually be worth the effort. As it turned out, it was; which if you read the post I linked to, is not something that can never be taken for granted and is largely the reason why the above alignment of circumstances happen so rarely.
I’d had a shower and was lying on my bed. I noticed that, for some reason I wasn’t aware of, I was slightly hard. I lightly touched my cock and it grew harder. I touched it some more, more firmly, and it responded. My fingers encircled my shaft and began to stroke, up and down, with long, slow, strokes. In a lot of ways, wanking is a lot like riding a bike; once you’ve learned how to do it, you never forget. Even though I couldn’t remember when I’d last indulged myself, I quickly fell into the pattern that works for me; the changes in pressure and pace, varying from stroking the full shaft to concentrating on just the head. From the very start, I knew that I was going to come, it was inevitable; all I had to do was enjoy the intervening time between that moment and the moment of final release.
With each stroke, the arousal grew until it became a noticeable pressure. I could feel the tension in the muscles of my groin build, slowly and inexorably. I could sense my heart rate increase, feel my breathing become deeper, more rapid.
Every stroke, every squeeze, every light touch intensified the sensations. I was lost in a haze of deep arousal yet acutely aware of my surroundings; the sound of the rain on the window, the rattle of the central heating, the rustle of the sheets beneath me.
Time passed at its own pace and I became lost in the inevitable build up. The pressure grew; slowly becoming the sweet, exquisite pain of impending release. The urge to climax battled with the longing to draw to postpone the final ecstasy for as long as could be endured. Pain, pleasure, frustration and anticipation all combining in the eternity of those final moments.
The instant of climax was that bittersweet combination; relief tinged with a hint of sadness that it was over. The tension slipped away and I lay in languid satisfaction as my breathing and heartbeat slowly returned to normal.
As I’ve alluded to on many occasions, this is a far from regular experience for me; it is rare that I even contemplate indulging myself, let alone actually act. I suspect, part of the intensity of the experience derives from the fact that such occurrences are few and far between. If the price of such intensity is the rareness with which it occurs, it is a price I am more than happy to pay.
I have no idea when my next wank will be, but if it is to be as enjoyable as my last one, it’ll be worth the wait.