The first week of October was not a pleasurable one for me. My stable of porn just wasn't doing it. I was 19 years old, and for the first time in my life, I was having a hard time achieving an orgasm. I was tense and in desperate need of relief. When that relief finally came, it was unsatisfying. I'd mindlessly click through images and videos which at one point would have pushed me over the edge within minutes, but they did nothing.
On Tuesday night, it took me twenty minutes of rubbing, yanking and pulling before my cock dribbled a pathetic few drops of cum into my fist. My dick softened, but the entire experience felt unsatisfying.
On Wednesday night, after sitting through an entire 45 minutes of random hardcore porn, I gave up and went to sleep. I know I needed the release because I woke up with my boxers stuck to my crotch. Nocturnal emission.
On Thursday night I decided to try a different strategy. I dimmed the lights in my room, put on headphones, and listened to jazz. I was laying on my back in the dark, completely naked, hoping the change in scenery would do the trick. By midnight, I threw off the headphones, rolled over, and went to sleep.
Friday morning I woke up with a very stiff cock. I went to the bathroom, pissed uncomfortably, then slithered into a warm shower, hoping I'd finally find relief. My cock was rock hard and throbbing. It was an angry purple. I lathered up and started stroking slowly, feeling an ache in my balls. I squeezed the head of my dick, then sped up my strokes. I desperately needed to cum. A few minutes letter, I could feel my balls tighten and the cum bubble up, but again, a few sad drops sputtered out and washed off my hand, down the drain within a second. I leaned my forearm on the wall of the shower and let out a sob. My cock was still half hard, and I was done. Dejected. Finished.
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"What's the deal, grump?" My mother tussled the hair on my head as I slumped into a chair in the breakfast nook. She had that patented Worried Mom look.
"Nothing. Why?"
"You look like someone took away your favorite toy," my father quipped, barely looking up over his paper.
My mother shot him a disapproving look. "Matthew, honey, if the stress of college is too much, let us know what we can do to help. You've got a lot on your plate, with a full load of classes and a job."
"It's only part time work, Mom, and it's not that bad. I'm fine. I guess I'm just tired or something."
"OK. Well you know to speak up if you need anything, right?" My mother is a therapist. She has a hard time leaving the work at work. Sometimes I think she's analyzing my every move.
"Where's Michelle?" Dad wondered aloud. Both my mother and I shrugged. My 18 year old sister Michelle was something of a prodigy, and was probably still in her room doing last minute studying for her AP classes. Don't get me wrong, I was a good student too and on full scholarship to state university, but Michelle was something else. We were a very close family, and my parents and I dreaded the day when she'd pick any one of a number of universities which would undoubtedly accept her for admission; she could probably go to an Ivy League across the country.
The thought of Michelle sent a little pang through me. We were only 11 months apart in age, so we were extremely close growing up. They say that girls are more emotionally mature than boys, so there was a period of a few years there where I think she was elder sibling, even if not chronologically. I had become so accustomed to having her around, even if she was huddled in the corner of the room with her nose buried in a book. I was accepted to a few schools, but I stayed local. I know she is one of the reasons. Even though she never expresses so, I know it isn't easy for her at school. She has a few friends, but they're high-strung honor students with whom she has little in common, other than academics. I am her best friend. Who am I kidding? She's mine. Even though I was something of a jock, I dated regularly, and I had my buds, she was still my closest friend in the world.
"Michelle!" Mom called up the stairs. "Michelle! Breakfast!" I heard a rumbling then a loud thump upstairs, followed by a few choice expletives. My sister came stumbling down the stairs, clutching her left foot, jacket half off, books in a precarious stack on one arm, bag slung across her body. She was such a klutz. It's a miracle she made it down in one piece.
"Sorry! I spent a little too much time in the bathroom this morning." Michelle dropped everything on the floor behind her chair. She threw her body into the chair next to me. Her dark brown hair was still damp from the shower, and hung loosely down the middle of her back. Her big almond shaped hazel colored eyes had a tinge of color; they must have been bloodshot from another night of studying. She yawned a huge yawn, stretching her arms high above her head, which pulled her flannel top open a little more than she probably intended. Her breasts, which were rather large for her frame, strained against the dark green tank top she was wearing. I caught myself staring and quickly looked away. My sister was beautiful. She wasn't aware of how beautiful she was, which made her all that much more beautiful. I reached across the table and handed her the carafe of orange juice. I knew it was part of her morning ritual. I knew all of her rituals, her habits, her needs.
"Thanks Mathy" She smiled warmly. Her childhood nickname for me stuck, but at some point a few years ago my parents stopped using it. She never did, and rarely called me anything else. She took the carafe and nudged my shoulder with hers in appreciation.
"Any Friday night or weekend plans, kids?" Dad finally put down his newspaper and started gulping his coffee. He wasn't grilling us. As far as rules and curfews, our parents were very easygoing on us. I think it's because we were both never in any real trouble. In fact, my mom half-hoped we'd rebel a little and do something out of character.
"Kelsey is coming over after school today and we're going over some AP Chem stuff," said Michelle between bites of her English Muffin. "Nothing planned this weekend." She licked the crumbs off her bee stung lips. I felt inappropriate heat between my legs.
The three of them glanced over at me. "I've got an Anthro paper. I'll probably hole myself up in my room this weekend and work on it." I wasn't in any mood to go anywhere. I hadn't been on a date in over two months. Most of my high school buddies were gone. My job was only Tuesdays and Thursdays. Maybe it was depression, I don't know, but the idea of spending an entire weekend in the house didn't seem all that bad.
Mom's brows knotted in concern. "Do you want to join me and your dad in Santa Barbara?"
"Yeah Ma," Michelle chimed in, "That's exactly what a 19 year old boy wants to do: join his parents on a romantic anniversary weekend." She rolled her eyes as my dad chuckled.
"It's cool." I tried to act nonchalant. I knew Mom was already a little bit worried about me, I didn't want to give her a reason to fret while on her annual anniversary weekender. "There are a couple of concerts actually, I might go to one. I'd rather stay in town just in case I score tickets." (In my head: "Oh, I'll be in my room, frantically whacking off.") I saw Michelle's eyes get a little wide. She could always tell when I lied. My phone chimed in my pocket and I lifted it out. "So full of shit big bro" was the text on the screen. My sister was stealth-texting under the table again. "There's a bunch of stuff in town that I'd like to do this weekend, Mom." I lobbed the second attempt over the net.
That seemed to do the trick with Mom. I could tell by her body language that she relaxed a bit, and would be off my case. Michelle glanced at me realizing I'd conned Mom, and then when the parents were wrapped up in conversation about where they'd have their anniversary dinner, she winked at me. I scrunched my face and gave her a huge, cheeseball smile. She snort-laughed and we shared a moment.
