NaMaMo: Day 8


We’ve made it through week one of National Masturbation Month! You should all be feeling even more energized, healthy and sexy than usual by this point! And if you’re not, well, you know how to fix that, right?

Public or private? That’s today’s random masturbation prompt. Do you always masturbate in the privacy of your own home? Or do you masturbate elsewhere (running up, apparently, thousands of dollars of someone else’s semen-related costs)? If you’re in public, is it a scary/nervous thing, or do you get off on the excitement of it? Where’s the most public place you’ve ever gotten off?

Filling pipes by emptying them!



About Shanna Germain

Writer. Editor. Game Designer. Leximaven. Geek.
This entry was posted in Dailies, NaMaMo. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to NaMaMo: Day 8

  1. Mat Twassel says:

    Skit Night at Kappa Delta

    Peg was in junior high when she first started to masturbate, but she didn’t know what it was called so she called it skittering—not that she actually called it anything, but skittering was how it felt, like something frizzling over the surface, fat on a frying pan, a dragonfly coasting above a summer lagoon, the itch of the slightest sunburn on her secret skin. She didn’t do it very often, and never to conclusion, possibly because she didn’t know was the conclusion was. Later she learned more and did more, and she almost forgot about “skittering,” but in her junior year of college something reminded her: She had been assigned to do the skit at the next Kappa Delta chapter meeting.

    For a few days her mind was blank. She knew the skits were supposed to be funny and raunchy. “Skit, skit, skitter,” she said to herself, and then it came to her. It helped that earlier that day her roommate had been stung by a bee. “I was drinking that dreadful diet root beer and this fucking bee just came up and did the deed,” Marcy Acton Smith said, rubbing the big red bump on her chin. “I mean what the fuck! Who gets stung on the chin? I should sue somebody.”

    “It serves you right for drinking that foul stuff,” Callie Dickens said. Everyone agreed that the diet root beer was repulsive. How did we every end up with six cases, they asked each other.

    For Peg, the seed was sown. After all, she was a dance major. She had a copy of Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Bumblebee” on her iPod. All that remained was to borrow the proper boy clothing.

    Peg decided to enlist the aid of her biology lab partner, Bradley Gartner. Brad was so serious but also friendly and kind of cute, in a cuddly Teddybear way, and what clinched matters: he was short for a boy, barely bigger than Peg. “Could I ask you a huge favor?” she ventured just before the end of the lab period. “Do you have a tie I could borrow?”

    “A tie? Sure, I guess so.”

    “And a shirt to go with it? And pants and … um … underwear?”

    That very night she met Brad at the Lambda house and he took her up to his room. He laid out the shirt, tie, trousers, and underwear on his bed. “Do you need shoes and socks, too?”

    “No,” Peg said. “But a belt, I think, unless you have suspenders.”

    Brad frowned briefly, then unbuckled his belt, stripped it through the loops of his jeans, and put in on the bed atop the trousers. “I just have the one,” he said.

    Peg grinned. “I hope your pants don’t fall down.”

    “I’ll be okay. Do you want to try this stuff on?”

    “No, I’m sure it will fit good enough,” Peg said, “but there is one more favor. A really huge favor.” She told Brad about the skit.

    “And you just want to watch?” Brad asked.

    Peg nodded.

    “Well, since the belt is already off,” Brad said, starting to unbutton his jeans.

    “No, wait,” Peg said. “Start out with it in.”

    “But I don’t do it that way. I mean if I did it, I wouldn’t do it that way.”

    “Just for the skit, okay?”

    Brad began touching himself through the material of his jeans. Peg watched intently. It wasn’t long before she could see Brad fattening and firming beneath the denim. She nodded her approval. Brad continued rubbing.

    “Now you can…” Peg said.

    Brad nodded. He worked the zipper down. The front of his white briefs bowed significantly.

    “You want me to…?”

    “Uh huh,” Peg said.

    The head of Brad’s cock appeared above the elastic of his briefs. Peg took a deep breath. Then he was all the way out.

    “So big,” Peg exclaimed reverently. “So beautiful.”

    “And I should…?” Brad said.


    She was surprised how fast his hand went, skittering the shaft of his cock, his fist nearly a blur, the bell-shaped head not quite covered on the upstroke, dark and bold and big on the downstroke. Peg watched Brad’s cock getting darker and bigger and bolder.

    And then, a spot of white appeared in the slit, and his hand slowed, and the whole thing jerked. White cream slashed out, like a leaping tongue, and then another, and Brad sighed and crumpled and covered himself while turning away.

    “No, I want to see it all,” Peg said, and he turned back to her, and let his hands fall helplessly to his sides, and she watched his penis, erect still, pulsing still, but more a twitch than a pulse, and she herself twitch, as if in empathy, deeply thrilled.

    “That was great,” she said. And she kissed him—a peck of a kiss, but leaning in so his twitching prick wouldn’t drool on her.

    At the chapter meeting the next evening, Peg started her skit dancing in silence, which wasn’t easy with a full bottle of root beer between her legs, between the borrowed boy’s briefs and her beige panties. For almost a minute, she writhed slowly, sinuously, with an almost painful grace, her hands holding the bottle safely in place. Eventually her fingers went to the zipper of Brad’s dress pants and gave a little tug. At this signal, Marcy started the music. The head of the bottle peeked through the fly, and to the skittering throb of Rimsky-Korsakov’s tune, Peg’s fingers flew, mimicking the ardent shake and stroke of a boy’s masturbation.

    A minute or so later, the hearty pop, the amber lurch and gush, the foamy spew brought cheers from Peg’s sorority sisters. Peg smiled, hoisted the almost empty bottle, waved it at her mates, then brought it to her lips and drained it dry.

    Marcy recued the music. In a matter of moments all the girls had their own root beer bottle in hand, and they whirled and pranced around the basement room, hooting and whooping and laughing, shaking and popping their root beer bottles and letting them gush where they would, an orgy of root beer glee.

    “Now what?” someone said, when things had quieted some, when the last bottle had been emptied of its fizz and abandoned.

    “Now we shower!” someone else said. And all the girls dashed for the shower rooms, some of them stripping off their clothing as they went, others undressing as best they could in the crowded stalls under the spray of warm water and the hugs and kisses of their sisters.

    Peg stayed behind in the basement room surveying the mess. She struggled out of Brad’s soaked pants. Probably ruined, she thought. Or maybe not. Root beer probably comes off better than cum. She removed Brad’s underwear. She stepped out of her own panties. She regarded the small dark circle of wet spot at the center. It was true: doing that dance had excited her as if it had been real sex—realer than anything she’d done before. At the climax of the dance, she’d almost actually come. Peg climbed back into Brad’s pants, bundled up his underwear and her panties, slipped into her shoes, and set off to return the stuff to Brad, to return his favor.

  2. sophie says:

    We had stopped for a drink before hitting the road.
    I was going South, she was going East.
    Neither of us were in a rush.
    I ordered a Scotch because she always teased me about being a fem. in the street and in the sheets. I just smile when she says that, I don’t need to argue the point. Besides, I don’t really care. I’m a salamander when it comes to sex; I adapt.
    She orders the same, and a pint for a chaser.
    We both get a bit light headed after the second shot. we’re dancing around our bodies wanting to fuck but not able to.
    She’s talking about about her man. How much he liked being with me. She says he thinks I have a different rhythm than heteros. I want as much as I give. She says she liked watching his pleasure, and the movement of my body.
    A young guy comes in and sits at the bar around the corner from her next to me. He’s nursing his drink, listening to us, trying to be cool about the whole thing. I see him rub his dick, and I look at him straight and smile, he smiles back.
    There are two guys sitting in two separate tables against the wall, and I look at their eyes darting in our direction.
    She is talking about her man’s balls, how he loves having her lick them when he is fucking me.
    My neighbors hand is quicker now. Eyes against the wall intent.
    I lean over and kiss her passionately, an let my hand slide down to her breast.
    The bardtender comes by with an other round, from the the table over there she says pointing to the back.
    I continue kissing her and stroking her leg and pulling her against me. Then I pull away, and survey the room,” boys, if you’re going to watch, best put some cash on this counter right here, and keep the drinks coming.”

    We leave the bar twenty minutes later, in a cab paid for with crumpled cash soaked in whisky and wet dreams.

  3. [fox-trot, allegro]
    I’m late!
    I’m late!
    I’m late
    To mas-tur-bate!
    Though I prefer to make it
    [swing it]
    Don’t rush me, ba-by,
    I’ll swing it when I’m home
    I’ll swing it like a phone
    Don’t fuss me, darlin’,
    I’ll let it all hang out
    I’ll make it twist, and shout
    “June Cleaver!”
    [coda ad libitum]

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