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Confessions of a Masturbator – Episode One: The Awakening
It started in a bathtub.
The water was warm, swirling around my ankles as I stood there—still, quiet, alone. I had no intention of doing anything special. I was just a boy washing himself, the way I’d always done. But something about that day was different. Maybe it was the silence in the house, or the way the water hugged my skin a little longer than usual. Maybe it was something already awakening deep inside me.
I grabbed the bar of soap, its surface slick and worn from days of use. I began lathering my chest, arms, and legs. When my hands moved between my thighs, where the skin was tender and usually ignored, I paused. I could feel everything more clearly—each motion amplified, every movement electric. The sensation wasn’t just physical—it was something deeper, sharper, almost... dangerous.
I kept rubbing. Not my penis—no. I didn’t dare touch that yet. I wasn’t even sure I was allowed. But I lingered along the inner edges of my thighs, letting the soapy foam collect and drip between them. I squeezed them together and felt a strange thrill as the slickness trapped warmth between the muscles. I began to move slightly, slowly shifting my hips side to side, letting the water carry the bubbles across my skin.
Then it hit me.
A sensation like nothing I had ever felt before. Heat bloomed in my lower belly like a fire being stoked from underneath. My knees wobbled, toes gripping the base of the tub for support. I wasn’t touching myself, not directly—but my thighs were working, pressing, shifting, squeezing with a rhythm I didn’t understand but couldn’t stop. The more I moved, the more intense it became. My breath hitched. My fingers curled against the tile wall.
It was like an itch I couldn’t reach, a pressure winding tighter inside me. My vision blurred. Every nerve in my body screamed for something, for release. And then—without warning—it happened.
My legs locked.
My belly clenched.
A violent, silent pulse tore through me.
No sound came out of my mouth, just a sharp breath and a stunned stillness. My cock twitched between my thighs, hard and untouched, but nothing came out. I felt it deep inside me—a rushing burn, an eruption without mess. My first orgasm. A dry one.
And it left me trembling.
I collapsed to my knees in the water, my arms wrapped around myself as the aftershocks faded. My heart raced. My body glowed. I didn’t know what I had just done, only that I needed to do it again.
That bathtub became my secret place—my church of discovery. For weeks after, I repeated the ritual. Always with soap, always standing, thighs pressed, chasing that invisible line until I could cross it again. Sometimes it took minutes. Sometimes longer. But I always got there. And each time, the fire returned, a little brighter, a little stronger.
I never told anyone.
I didn’t have the words yet. All I knew was that I had found something powerful—something sacred—and it belonged only to me.
This was the beginning of everything. The doorway into my body. Into pleasure. Into a world that I would spend years exploring in silence and shadow.
And that’s where the confessions begin.


Confessions of a Masturbator
Episode 2: The Shift

I still remember the day things changed.

It was a few weeks after that first strange but powerful feeling in the bathtub—a dry orgasm, as I’d later come to understand. I hadn’t even touched myself. I had just been rubbing the skin between my thighs with soap, standing under the warm water, and suddenly my whole body had clenched. A heat swelled up from deep inside me, like a fire igniting in my belly and spreading outwards. My knees nearly buckled, and for a few seconds, I stood there stunned, my breathing shallow and fast.

That moment stuck with me. I didn’t know what it was, not exactly. But it felt amazing. Scary, too—but not in a bad way. It was like unlocking a part of myself that had always been waiting there, silent and unnoticed.

Soon, I started chasing it—curiously at first, then with purpose. I’d recreate the setup in the bath: warm water, soapy hands, attention to that sensitive space. I didn’t know what I was doing, but my body seemed to. I never told anyone, not even my friends, who were starting to talk about girls and “doing it” without much understanding of what “it” was. I stayed quiet. Mine felt more personal. Private.

One afternoon, I experimented out of the water for the first time. I was in my room, the door locked, the house quiet. Lying on my stomach, I started pressing myself against the mattress, hips moving without conscious thought. It felt good—better than I expected. There was friction, pressure, heat. No hands, just instinct. Then again, the same internal surge. The fire. No mess, no release. Just a full-body clench, then stillness.

I didn’t know the term dry orgasm, not yet. But I was learning my body’s language.

It became part of my routine—not every day, but often enough. Sometimes in the bath. Sometimes lying in bed. Occasionally in strange places, like the laundry room, where I’d once found a forgotten magazine stuffed behind a bin. The pictures were crude, old, and wrinkled. But they stirred something. Not so much arousal at first—more curiosity. Fascination. A feeling that I was crossing into a world I wasn’t supposed to know yet, and that made it all the more powerful.

I kept it all secret. There was no one I could talk to about it, not without embarrassment. But inside, I felt something changing—maturing. My body, my thoughts, my sensations. It was like building a relationship with myself in private. Learning to understand desire without knowing its name.

And though I was still young, still innocent in many ways, I knew one thing for sure:

I had discovered something sacred. And I wasn’t going to give it up.



Confessions of a Masturbator – Episode Three: Fantasy Takes Form

By my early teens, masturbation had evolved from a physical ritual into something more complex—something that lived in both my body and my mind.

After discovering adult magazines, my imagination expanded quickly. What once started with simple sensations had become layered with stories, visuals, and a new sense of possibility. When I was alone, I didn’t need the pages anymore. I could close my eyes, recall the faces, the curves, the postures. I could build entire moments in my head. And the more I imagined, the more intense the experiences became.

My body was changing, too. My orgasms were no longer dry; they arrived with full release—an unmistakable sign that puberty had fully settled in. But the satisfaction wasn’t just in the physical. There was something emotional happening too. Masturbation wasn’t just an urge to scratch; it became a private comfort, a place where I could process feelings I didn’t know how to speak aloud.

There were moments of guilt, of course—whispers of doubt that crept in after the climax. Was it wrong to enjoy this? Was I supposed to feel ashamed? Those questions floated in and out, especially after I’d spend time hiding in the laundry room with one of the old magazines, or lying in bed late at night, creating scenes in my head that no one else would ever know about.

But I kept going. Because it felt good. Because it felt mine.

I kept my routine hidden. That secrecy became a kind of protection—a soft wall between my growing desires and the outside world. Nobody knew how often I did it. Nobody knew the details. It was my own rhythm, my own release. And over time, it gave me something that extended beyond the physical: a sense of control, and even self-trust.

Looking back, it’s easy to see how those early private sessions were the groundwork for understanding intimacy—how imagination could connect with sensation, how comfort and curiosity could coexist.

By the time I was in my mid-teens, I wasn’t just reacting to images or memory—I was creating my own fantasies. They weren’t always clear or linear. Sometimes it was just a gesture, a glance, a body in motion. But they were mine. No longer borrowed from magazine pages. They came from within.

And in those moments—quiet, intense, private—I came to understand something simple but powerful:

This was me, learning myself, on my own terms.

Confessions of a Masturbator – Episode Four: Control and Compulsion

By the time I entered my teenage years, I had become deeply aware of how strong the urge to masturbate could be—not just physically, but mentally. The desire would start small, a quiet background hum. But within days, it would swell into something I couldn’t ignore.
So, I tried to take control.
I remember drawing up a plan—five days between sessions. I’d mark it mentally, sometimes even on a calendar. It felt empowering to think I could manage it, that I could channel the energy instead of being consumed by it. But it rarely worked. After two or three days, the pressure would mount. A tightness in my stomach, a tingling awareness whenever I was alone—it became all I could think about.
Eventually, I’d give in. And when I did, it wasn’t just release—it was relief.
At that point in my life, it wasn’t even about fantasy. I wasn’t imagining people or scenarios. It was the anticipation of orgasm that excited me most. The knowing. That sense of approaching a moment I couldn’t create any other way. A self-controlled explosion. The buildup was almost more pleasurable than the peak.
Magazines were still part of my world, but my habits started shifting. VHS tapes became the new frontier.
Sometimes I’d be watching a movie with my family, and a sudden flash of nudity—just a pair of breasts, even—would ignite something inside me. I’d take mental note of the time on the VCR. Later that night, when the house was asleep and dark, I’d quietly retrieve the tape, fast-forward to the exact moment, pause the screen, and sit close. That frozen image would be all I needed. The memory of watching it “with them there,” and now watching it alone, added a secret thrill I didn’t fully understand.
That stealthy pattern became routine.
By my later teens and into my early twenties, the frequency of my sessions increased. Weekends were especially intense. I discovered how to access adult movie channels at night. I’d wait until everyone was asleep, volume low, door closed. On those nights, I’d masturbate multiple times—three, sometimes four—within a few hours. I didn’t pace myself. I just followed the rhythm of my urges.
Looking back, it wasn’t just about release. It was ritual. A form of self-regulation, escape, maybe even meditation.
But still, no one knew. Except one person—my sister. That connection, and the unique trust we shared, added another layer to this story. But outside of her, I kept this part of myself hidden. My urges, my rituals, the control I tried to impose—they were all private, guarded, unspoken.
And yet, deep down, I began to feel something changing. The desire wasn’t just about touch or climax anymore.
It was about being seen.
Fantasies of exposure started to creep into my mind. Being watched, or imagined as being watched, added a new thrill. I started wondering what it would be like to let others see me in that vulnerable, intimate state. Not to be admired or judged—but simply visible. That vulnerability felt oddly empowering.
I had gone from hiding magazines in the laundry room to imagining myself on display—an evolution I never could’ve predicted when I was just a kid in the bathtub.


Confessions of a Masturbator – Episode Six: The Thrill of Being Seen

As I moved through my early twenties, my fantasies about being seen grew stronger and more vivid. It wasn’t just about the physical sensations anymore; it was about the emotional rush that came with imagining exposure—being visible in a vulnerable moment, but without judgment or shame.
These thoughts became a quiet companion in my private rituals. Sometimes I would position myself so that I could catch glimpses of my reflection in a mirror, imagining eyes watching me from just beyond the frame. Other times, I pictured hidden cameras capturing moments meant only for me to see, yet somehow feeling connected to a larger world.
The appeal wasn’t about attention or validation. It was about honesty—the release of hiding, the power in revealing something raw and true. Being seen, even in fantasy, felt like a way to break free from the isolation that secrecy had brought me.
Despite the intensity of these feelings, I kept this part of myself carefully guarded. Masturbation remained my private ritual, my refuge from the outside world. No one else knew about these thoughts or how central they had become to my sense of self.
The routine continued through nights filled with whispered breaths and dim lights—my sanctuary where control and surrender coexisted. The repeated patterns of anticipation and release weren’t just physical acts; they were ways to understand my desires, my boundaries, and my identity.
Looking back, I recognize how these experiences shaped my relationship with intimacy and vulnerability. The balance between secrecy and exposure, between control and letting go, became a foundation for how I would navigate relationships and self-expression in the years to come.