I explained to Dr. Curry that Bill isn’t just a client. He’s someone who discovered parts of me I didn’t even know how to name at first.
We met online years ago, and from the beginning, it was clear he wasn’t looking for touch. He was interested in control, in watching, in shaping me into whatever fantasy he was holding that day. He paid me for my time, yes—but what he really wanted was access to me. To my body. To my obedience.
Every session starts the same way. I arrive, and I’m told to shower. It doesn’t matter that I’m already clean. The shower is part of it—him standing there, watching, reminding me that once I’m in his space, I belong to his rules. When I step out, the bathroom counter is always prepared: clothing folded with precision, chosen carefully. Stockings. Panties. Sometimes nothing at all except something he wants me to wear later.
He gives me privacy to dress, but the anticipation is heavy. I know once I step out, I’m no longer deciding anything. Bill tells me where to stand, how to pose, how to hold myself. Couch. Bed. Occasionally outside, exposed to the open air in ways that make me feel both small and thrillingly visible. He films everything. Takes pictures endlessly. I never see them. I don’t need to. Knowing they exist is enough.
He likes me compliant. Still. Soft. Most of the time, I’m not allowed to touch myself. I’m there to be used visually, to be an object for his release, not my own. He’ll remind me of that if I shift too much or breathe too loudly. Other times, he gives me instructions that blur the line between embarrassment and arousal—telling me to do things that make me feel ridiculous, degraded, exposed in ways I never imagined admitting out loud to another person.
There are days when he wants to push that feeling further. He’ll talk about my body like it’s something he owns, something other men would want to look at too. A few times, he’s put me on webcam, letting strangers watch me while they pleasure themselves. I can’t see them, but I know they’re there. I feel it in the way Bill watches me more closely then, the way he tells me to hold certain positions longer, to stay exactly as I am.
He tells me I have a beautiful body. That men desire me. I don’t see it when I look at myself, but hearing it from him—over and over—does something to me. His fetishes shift constantly. Humiliation. Control. Exhibition. Testing how far I’ll go without ever laying a hand on me. By the end of most sessions, my body aches from holding poses, from being frozen in place while he takes what he wants from the sight of me.
When it’s finally over, I’m told to shower again. Another reset. Another reminder that whatever happened stays there. Afterward, he leaves fresh underwear for me—always men’s underwear, always clean. I dress, and only then does the money appear. Sometimes it’s generous. Sometimes it isn’t. The price is never discussed. I learned early on not to expect fairness.
Once, after nearly five hours, I barely got anything. And I didn’t complain. I didn’t even feel cheated. Because the truth is, part of me didn’t come there for the money at all.
We don’t meet as often now. Life shifted. Maybe his interests did. Maybe mine did too. But when I think about Bill, I don’t just think about what he paid me to do. I think about how easily I gave myself over. How natural it felt to let someone else decide who I was for a few hours.
That’s what I told Dr. Curry.
And that’s my story with Bill.

I’m honestly ready to leave this site for good. I’ve put in the effort, but it’s gone nowhere. I write erotic stories and blog consistently, and I get almost zero response—except from one loyal friend. My forum posts about my stories or scenarios are basically ignored.
The site keeps getting worse. You can only post two pictures now, the chat room is always dead, and trying to talk to anyone feels pointless. At this point, I’m seriously considering deleting all my content and walking away because it’s not worth the stress or frustration.
No engagement. No conversations. No reason to stay. What do you think?

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.

Journal Entry
I didn’t expect a short nap to make me think about my body this much, but it did. Twice now, I’ve woken up from less than two hours of sleep and noticed a strong erection. No dreams that I remember, no sexual thoughts—just waking up and being aware of it.
What struck me wasn’t the sensation itself, but the clarity of it. It felt decisive, almost matter-of-fact, like my body flipping a switch on its own. At 49, I don’t take things like that for granted anymore. When I was younger, I wouldn’t have noticed or cared. Now, it registers as information.
The second time it happened, I paid closer attention—not in a worried way, just observant. I realized how calm and rested I felt waking up, and how closely that seemed tied to the physical response. It reminded me that rest does more than clear my head; it affects everything.
I didn’t feel embarrassed or alarmed. If anything, I felt reassured. It was a quiet confirmation that my body still works in predictable, healthy ways when I give it what it needs. That felt grounding.
This feels like part of a larger shift in how I relate to myself—less dismissive, more curious. I’m learning to notice patterns, not jump to conclusions, and appreciate signs of health without overthinking them. Aging isn’t just about loss; sometimes it’s about awareness.
I’ll remember this—not as something unusual, but as a reminder to rest, pay attention, and trust my body a little more.

David Oliver – Journal Entry

I filmed a new video tonight, and honestly it turned out way more intense than I expected. Just me, nothing on but my mask, crawling into the frame on all fours with the rubber bands tight around my balls. The camera angle caught everything—my ass, hole, cock, and balls all on display right away. That always gives me a rush, knowing how exposed I look.

At first I just tugged lightly on my cock, but I couldn’t resist teasing my hole too. I ran my finger up and down my asshole and then spread it wide open for the camera. Felt dirty, but in the best way.

When I started stroking at just over a minute, I was still soft, and honestly I stayed that way almost the whole video. I had to stop, adjust the bands, play with the tension. Each time I let out these moans—soft “ohs” and “yeahs”—like I couldn’t help myself. Taking the band off, putting it back on, pulling it tighter—it was like I needed the ritual as much as the touch.

Then out of nowhere, around the three-minute mark, I pulled my foreskin back and my body just let go. Cum shot right out onto the floor, and I couldn’t hold back this deep groan. More semen spilled a few seconds later, then another spurt. I was still soft, but the release felt so raw, so good, that my whole body shook.

I didn’t stop there. I kept stroking, moaning louder, breathing heavy, and another wave hit at the 3:39 mark. I could feel myself pumping out more cum even though my cock never got fully hard—just semi. It was messy, intense, and completely satisfying in a different way than when I’m rock hard.

When it was over, I just caught my breath, sticky, moaning low, and then shut the camera off.

Strange thing is—these softer, banded orgasms almost turn me on more than the classic hard ones. Maybe it’s the humiliation of not getting hard, or the thrill of still cumming strong anyway. Either way, this one felt powerful.

David Oliver – Journal Entry

I filmed a new video tonight, and honestly it turned out way more intense than I expected. Just me, nothing on but my mask, crawling into the frame on all fours with the rubber bands tight around my balls. The camera angle caught everything—my ass, hole, cock, and balls all on display right away. That always gives me a rush, knowing how exposed I look.

At first I just tugged lightly on my cock, but I couldn’t resist teasing my hole too. I ran my finger up and down my asshole and then spread it wide open for the camera. Felt dirty, but in the best way.

When I started stroking at just over a minute, I was still soft, and honestly I stayed that way almost the whole video. I had to stop, adjust the bands, play with the tension. Each time I let out these moans—soft “ohs” and “yeahs”—like I couldn’t help myself. Taking the band off, putting it back on, pulling it tighter—it was like I needed the ritual as much as the touch.

Then out of nowhere, around the three-minute mark, I pulled my foreskin back and my body just let go. Cum shot right out onto the floor, and I couldn’t hold back this deep groan. More semen spilled a few seconds later, then another spurt. I was still soft, but the release felt so raw, so good, that my whole body shook.

I didn’t stop there. I kept stroking, moaning louder, breathing heavy, and another wave hit at the 3:39 mark. I could feel myself pumping out more cum even though my cock never got fully hard—just semi. It was messy, intense, and completely satisfying in a different way than when I’m rock hard.

When it was over, I just caught my breath, sticky, moaning low, and then shut the camera off.

Strange thing is—these softer, banded orgasms almost turn me on more than the classic hard ones. Maybe it’s the humiliation of not getting hard, or the thrill of still cumming strong anyway. Either way, this one felt powerful.

David’s Erotic Diary – Lunch Break, 2018

I knew the second I decided to take my lunch in that abandoned office that I wasn’t going to be eating. The building was under construction, and tucked away in the back there was this empty room with a dusty old carpet, stacks of drywall leaning against the wall, and nothing but the hum of the air system for company. Just walking in, closing the door behind me, I felt a rush of excitement. I had a whole hour. An hour of being hidden, but not completely safe. Someone could wander by, a contractor, another worker. That risk made my cock twitch before I even sat down.

I unbuckled my pants slowly, savoring the anticipation. The quiet was deafening, and the second I pushed my pants down, my cock, soft but heavy, fell out into the open air. I started with just a light touch — fingertips brushing the shaft, sliding across the skin lazily. My whole body lit up like I’d been waiting all day for that moment. Within seconds, I felt this warm, building pressure, and before I even realized it, semen started sliding out. Thick, white fluid dripped down from the head, pooling at the base. I hadn’t even gripped it yet. My body just gave in, betrayed by how sensitive and turned on I already was.

I watched it leak down, fascinated. It wasn’t an orgasm — no pulse, no climax — just my cock forcing out thick, wet fluid like it couldn’t hold it in. That sight made me harder, my shaft thickening in my hand as I smeared the mess across the head. My frenulum was screaming for attention, and every time I brushed my fingers over it, more fluid escaped, dripping slowly, stringing between my shaft and my hand. I felt like I could cum just from teasing that spot, and honestly, I almost did.

I leaned back against the wall, one hand gripping the base of my cock, holding it steady, while the other hand teased along the underside. My balls felt heavy, tight, begging to release. I let myself stroke slowly, savoring it, but I could feel the orgasm building faster than I expected. I squeezed my Kegel muscle hard, pushing the sensation higher, forcing it out.

The first jets came suddenly. Drops ran down my shaft first, then two powerful eruptions blasted upward. The first shot arced at least a foot into the air and landed two feet away on the carpet. The second followed right after, thick and strong, splattering across the paper towels I’d laid down. Watching it spurt out like that — forceful, uncontrolled, visible proof of my orgasm — made me groan out loud, my voice echoing in that empty room.

After the main jets, more semen trickled down, coating my cock, running over my knuckles, warm and slick. I stroked the shaft slowly, milking every last drop, watching it glisten as it spread. The smell of it filled the room, musky and raw, mixing with the dusty air of the abandoned office.

I sat there for a minute, breathing hard, cock still twitching, satisfied and drained. The paper towels were soaked, but that only turned me on more — the mess was mine, a record of how badly I needed that release. I cleaned up as best I could, straightened my clothes, and walked out like nothing had happened.

But the truth is, that orgasm stayed with me for the rest of the day. I kept replaying the sight of those thick, white ropes shooting into the air, the way my cock leaked uncontrollably before I even really started. And it wasn’t the first time. That office became my secret spot more than once. I’ve leaked early, cum fast, made mess after mess. And every time, I walked back into work carrying that satisfied secret, knowing I’d just spent my lunch in the most intense way possible.


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Do

Case Study 09: Oliver Protocol — Full Voyeuristic Session

Patient Profile

Name: David Oliver
Age: 49
Condition: Chronic masturbation dependence; fetish-assisted stimulation; exhibitionistic tendencies.
History: Regular use of custom underwear, nylon sheath, testicular constriction, rubber bands; frequent solo masturbation documented; prior clinical sessions demonstrate extreme responsiveness to observation and structured stimulation.


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Arrival and Preparation

David arrived at the clinic at 6:55 a.m., punctual as always. He wore loose grey sweats, concealing the hardening cock beneath. His pulse already betrayed his anticipation. A nurse greeted him, escorting him into the observation suite — a clinical room bathed in muted light, with a reclining medical chair, stirrups, various fetish gear neatly arranged, and a tray of specialized clinical instruments.

Drs. Curry and Price observed silently as David removed his sweats. Beneath, he wore his custom grey underwear, the one with the hole for his penis and testicles, back thong-style. The fabric carried faint traces of previous sessions.

“Keep those on for now,” Dr. Curry instructed, adjusting his glasses. “We’ll start with a baseline assessment before adding instruments.”

David slid into the chair, placing his feet into the stirrups. His erection had grown prominent, pressing firmly against the grey fabric. Electrodes were placed on his chest and thighs to monitor heart rate and muscle tension.


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Therapist Log — Pre-Session

06:58 — Patient entering room; fully cooperative. Erection ~85%. Baseline vitals taken. Patient demonstrates excitement; pre-session arousal palpable. Custom underwear confirmed as fetish gear.


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Initial Stimulation

Dr. Price handed him a fresh nylon sheath, modeled after his own. David carefully stretched it over his shaft; the translucent material clung to every vein. Already slick from pre-session arousal, his cock twitched as the sheath slid over the glans.

Next, a red rubber band was positioned snugly around the base of his scrotum. His balls were gently pulled forward, creating subtle tension.

David’s fingers slipped into the pouch of his underwear, stroking slowly at first. Each pass along the nylon sheath made a faint squeak. He began to moan softly, glances toward the doctors betraying desire mixed with submission.


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Therapist Log — Initial Stimulation

07:05 — Subject actively stroking within sheath. Pre-ejaculate visible at tip. Testicular constriction applied. Vocalizations increasing (low moans, labored breathing). Subject highly responsive to fetish instruments.


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Audience Observation — One-Way Glass

Behind a one-way observation window, friends, co-workers, church members, and family watched silently. Some whispered softly to each other; some covered their faces in shock. The clinic staff confirmed the hidden audience had been notified and consented to the voyeuristic element.

Silent reactions:

A co-worker’s jaw dropped, hand clamped over mouth.

A church friend’s eyes widened in disbelief.

A sibling nodded slightly, trying to hide arousal.


Whispered dialogue (distorted through intercom occasionally):

“He’s… so big…”

“I never knew he did this…”




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Escalation — Edging and Kink Intensified

Dr. Curry instructed, “We’re going to intensify. Continue, and focus on edging.”

A wide black rubber band was applied over the sheath, just below the glans, creating extra constriction. A nurse applied lubricant to the sheath interior, ensuring friction maximized every stroke. David’s hand blurred over the nylon, hips rocking involuntarily against the restraint.

“Oh… yes… harder…” he moaned, almost whispering. “I… I can’t hold…”

The audience leaned closer, some brushing palms against faces in anticipation.


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Intercom Questions

A distorted voice crackled:

“David… how long have you been… doing this?”


David shivered but responded:

“Since I was… about twelve… I’ve always…”


Another voice, clearly a family member but heavily distorted:

“Do you… always use those… bands and sheath things?”


David gasped, cheeks flushing crimson:

“Y-yes… it… it helps… I can feel… everything…”


The staff noted that his body tensed in response, sexual excitement visibly increasing due to the humiliation and the unknown audience questioning him.


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The Climax — Single, Long, Detailed Orgasm

David’s strokes became frantic. The sheath bulged under the pressure of his rising semen. His face twisted in a mix of ecstasy and desperation: eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight, brows furrowed, mouth open in raw moans, saliva forming at the corners. His entire torso arched involuntarily as the orgasm washed over him.

Ejaculation:

Thick, ropey streams filled the nylon sheath, visible through the translucent material.

Contractions pulsed rhythmically, hips jerking against restraints.

Veins along his shaft throbbed with every spurt, each one more powerful than the last.

One particularly forceful blast splashed against the sheath edge, dripping slightly into the collection tray.


He cried out: “I’m cumming… oh god… yes… yes…!”

Audience reaction behind glass:

Whispered gasps: “Oh my… he’s losing it…”

Shocked silence: many pressed faces to the glass.

Family member: distorted voice whispered, “God… I can’t believe it…”

A co-worker quietly muttered, “I… didn’t think he’d… like this…”



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Post-Orgasm — Sheath Removal

The sheath was carefully slid off by a nurse. David’s penis was soft, reddened, and still leaking droplets of semen at the tip. His scrotum sagged slightly, bands removed, leaving faint indentations. The sheath was sticky, dripping into the tray for measurement.

David breathed heavily, chest rising and falling. His face was flushed crimson, lips trembling, eyes half-lidded. A mixture of shame, satisfaction, and exhaustion colored his expression.


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Therapist Log — Orgasm & Aftermath

07:55 — Subject reached peak orgasm after ~30 minutes of stimulation and edging.

Ejaculate volume: significant; sheath contained primary flow; tray collected overflow.

Facial expression: intense ecstasy, eyes closed, jaw clenched, brows furrowed.

Penis: post-orgasm softening, slight droop, glans engorged but flaccid.

Psychological response: highly aroused by audience observation, intercom questioning increased peak intensity.


Audience notes:

Silent observers showed arousal, shock, and fascination.

Distorted intercom questioning enhanced subject’s humiliation and excitement.

Whispered commentary ranged from disbelief to covert arousal.



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David’s Journal Reflection — Post-Session

I can’t believe how intense that was. Every spurt, every pulse, every eye behind that glass — I felt them all without seeing them. I gave myself completely. The humiliation made it hotter. My cock is soft now, but my mind is still trembling. I can’t wait to see what happens next time…


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Exit

David dressed slowly, still flushed and sticky, escorted out by the nurses. The hidden observers lingered for a few minutes behind the glass, exchanging reactions. Some were astonished, others scandalized, and a few were secretly aroused — their whispers fading as David vanished from view.

Clinic Summary:

Subject exhibited extreme orgasmic intensity under combined fetish, clinical, and voyeuristic stimuli.

Psychological response highly influenced by unknown audience and intercom questioning.

Recommendation: further sessions to explore structured humiliation, edging, and advanced fetish integration.



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✅ End of Case Study 09 — Full Voyeuristic Session

I’m standing here in this empty warehouse, dressed in my black bodystocking, crotch cut open, high heels on, cock ring tight around me. Two cameras are rolling, and I can’t stop looking at them… looking at myself. I want you to see everything.

“You want to know how this started for me?” I whisper, my hands already moving over my cock. “I was eleven, in the bathtub. I rubbed shampoo between my legs, over my pubic area… never even touched my cock. And then… I came. A dry orgasm. I didn’t know what it was at the time, just that it felt incredible. That’s when it all began.”

I stroke slowly, building pressure. “Now I have my favorite ways to cum. First, filling my underwear. Not the ones I wear every day, no… special pairs just for masturbation. I love the feel, the look, the mess I leave behind. It’s… personal, sacred almost.”

I wrap a stained pair around my shaft, moaning softly. “The second way… in the shower. Shampoo slick, alternating hands from the base to the head. Switching left, then right. It always makes me cum harder, more intense. And the third… my favorite for sheer insanity: rubber bands around my cock and balls, spinning like a propeller until I explode.”

I reach for the rubber bands, looping them expertly. “Sometimes I try to hold back, edge myself… but honestly? Most of the time I just want to cum as fast as possible. I love the release. It’s primal, addictive. Masturbation isn’t just physical for me… it’s mental too. A little thrill, a little fantasy of being watched. That mix drives me wild.”

My cock is slick with spit and precum. I pick up the fleshlight, lube dripping, and slide in, letting the dildo underneath press deep inside me. “I’ve always wanted to do this… the fleshlight, a doll, maybe even a dildo. And now… it’s all here. The cameras, the warehouse, my toys. Everything I’ve ever imagined.”

I start thrusting, hips rolling, moaning. “I watch myself, too. My own videos. Hearing me cum, watching the mess I make… it’s irresistible. Sometimes I’m nervous someone could see me, and that’s part of the thrill. That fear, that risk… it makes it hotter.”

My hands alternate, switching grips. “I love the buildup before an orgasm. The alternating hands in the shower… nothing beats it. That’s when my orgasms are strongest. I’ve learned how to make myself cum harder, longer, more intensely. I’ve even masturbated twice in a single day before, eight times last month… but usually it’s five or six times a month now. Less than before, but that’s why I came to the clinic. Dr. Curry and Dr. Price said ten times a month. I can do more than that.”

I moan louder, thrusting deeper on the dildo, cock bouncing in the fleshlight. “I’m so close… oh fuck… I’m cumming!”

Ropes of cum shoot into the fleshlight, spilling over my thighs. My body convulses, trembling, sweat glistening on my chest. But I’m not done. Not yet. My cock twitches, still hard, slick with my own mess. I grip it again, switching hands, bouncing on the dildo.

“Second time… harder, deeper. This is the session I’ve always dreamed of. Two orgasms, maybe more. The doctors want ten a month, but right now… I just want you to watch me lose control.”

I explode again, cum spilling over everything. My whole body trembles, my moans echoing through the warehouse. I collapse forward, breathing hard, hands stroking lazily as the last drops leak from my cock.

I lean toward the camera, cum glistening across my shaft. “That’s me. All of me. My first orgasm, my favorite techniques, my fantasies, everything I love about masturbating. And I’ve still got more… always more. I can’t stop. And I don’t want to.”

Patient Case File: David Oliver

Age: 49
Session Type: Solo masturbation observation (fictionalized scenario)
Duration: 15 minutes
Setting: Private room; David wears black stockings, custom underwear, and fetish attire


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Equipment / Clothing

Black patterned stockings extending to mid-thigh

Grey or black underwear with custom openings for penis and testicles

Anal dildo for stimulation

Optional cock ring or rubber band devices to enhance tactile feedback



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Behavioral and Psychological Observations

Patient maintains intense focus throughout the session, alternating between slow, methodical stimulation and more vigorous bursts.

Vocalizations are mild-to-moderate, increasing slightly during peak stimulation.

Ritualized clothing and implements serve as both tactile enhancers and psychological arousal cues.

Patient verbalizes intent to climax several times, demonstrating awareness of arousal thresholds.

Displays self-regulation and deliberate pacing, consistent with fetishized masturbation routines.



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Stimulation Techniques

Begins with manual stimulation to establish arousal.

Introduces dildo for anal stimulation around minute 3–4; alternates between manual and implement-assisted techniques.

Stockings heighten tactile sensitivity; patient periodically adjusts clothing for comfort.

Optional cock ring or rubber band maintains partial erection, increasing sensation intensity.

Hand movements along shaft and scrotum are coordinated with dildo insertion and pelvic rhythm, maximizing stimulation.

Mid-session slows or pauses occur to prolong climax and increase orgasm intensity.



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Ejaculation / Physiological Response

Ejaculation occurs approximately 12–13 minutes into the session.

Semen volume moderate-to-high; expulsion concentrated at base of penis and scrotum.

Post-ejaculatory behaviors include relaxation, removal of clothing, and hygienic clean-up.

Refractory period observed immediately after climax, with calm and methodical clean-up.



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Therapist Journal – Fictionalized Entry

Timestamped Observations:

0:00–3:00 – Preparation of environment and clothing; mild arousal noted.

3:00–6:00 – Manual stimulation; dildo placement and grip adjustments made.

6:00–10:00 – Dildo-assisted stimulation; intensity alternates, with increased vocalization.

10:00–12:00 – Combined manual and implement stimulation; peak arousal evident.

12:00–13:00 – Ejaculation; immediate transition to post-ejaculatory behaviors.

13:00–15:00 – Clean-up and post-climax relaxation.


Clinical Notes:

Extended session demonstrates stamina, self-regulation, and ritualized sexual behavior.

Clothing and implements reinforce psychological arousal and maintain tactile stimulation.

No signs of distress; session appears safe, consensual, and psychologically satisfying.



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David Oliver – Fictionalized Journal Reflections

“Stockings add an intensity I can’t get from bare skin.”

“The dildo gives a rhythmic anticipation that manual stimulation alone doesn’t provide.”

“Timing my climax around 12 minutes keeps the session controlled and enjoyable.”

“Afterwards, I feel mentally and physically relaxed; the ritual is as important as the orgasm itself.”



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Psychological / Physiological Analysis

Parameter Observation

Session duration 15 minutes
Ejaculation timing ~12–13 minutes
Ejaculation volume Moderate-to-high
Erection pattern Maintained with partial flaccidity during dildo use
Vocalization Mild-to-moderate, peaking before ejaculation
Clothing influence Heightened tactile sensitivity, psychological reinforcement
Implements effect Dildo and optional cock rings enhance sensation and orgasm intensity
Cognitive-behavioral notes Ritualized, fetish-driven routine; strong linkage between visual/tactile cues and climax