Caught

I first started masturbating at around three years of age [one of my earliest memories is of humping the mattress when I was supposed to be napping or sleeping], and got quite obsessive about bringing myself off as I got older; by the age of fourteen I was jacking off two or more times a day. With all that wanking going on, the wonder is that I didn't get caught sooner. But when my mother finally did catch me at it, she caught me three times in two days.(!?!)

It started on a Saturday afternoon, when my morning chores were done and I had not much of anything to do. As was usual in such circumstances, my mind and hands eventually turned to the time-filling possibilities of auto eroticism. At first I just rubbed myself through my pants and engaged in a little sexy daydreaming, but after a while I got hard and horny and so I took off my pants and underwear and started stroking away.

Once I was fully hard, I oiled up my stiff cock and started pumping, slowly, just teasing the head with the palm of my other hand. My tempo gradually increased in proportion to my heat. My hips started to thrust against the strokes of my hands as I imagined that I was watching a woman playing with herself [fantasies, stories, videos, pictures, anything about female masturbation just sends me right to the moon, yikes....].

After teasing myself almost to orgasm a couple of times, to heighten my arousal, I decided it was time to come, and I really got into it then, flailing away with both hands, my ass bouncing off the bed as I thrust my cock upward. My breath was in short, ragged gasps when I head someone coming down the hall toward my room: I recognized my mother's step at the same moment I realized that I had neglected to lock my bedroom door before embarking on my little trip to wank land.

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I leaped up from the bed just as the door started to open and jumped into the doorway of my closet, as if I was looking for something in there. A pretty thin charade, undermined by the buckling of my knees as my balls clenched and a load of spunk blasted from my throbbing cock.

My mother asked some silly question as I tried to feign interest in the row of shirts in front of me. My hips thrust of their own accord in time with my spurts of semen, and it took quite an effort to modulate my voice into something like its normal tone. After what seemed an eternity or two, she left and I collapsed to the floor, grasping my pulsing rod and milking out the last of my load.

Of course, there was no fooling her with my standing in the doorway; a glance from her vantage point showed that she would have seen everything, even the semen splattering my clean shirts. I avoided her for the rest of the day, not so much out of shame--I wasn't taught by my parents to hate sex--but out of an earnest desire not to have to discuss the whole matter with her.

That night, she went out [mercifully, without any heart-to-heart about my masturbation habits] and I decided to indulge in another variation on my Onanistic theme: jacking off in different rooms of the house. Eleven-thirty found me lying nude on the living room rug, pumping away until I reached my usual creamy finish. Falling into that post-orgasmic stupor, I carelessly drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to the sight of my mother entering the living room from the hallway; she had managed to get into the house and past my semed-spattered body without waking me. I started, sitting upright and feeling my face try to go pale and flush a deep crimson at the same time.

I expected some sort of discussion at this point, but all she said was, "Mind you don't mess up the carpet." Then she said good night and went into her bedroom.

The next day one might think I would try to be a little more circumspect in my autoerotic activities, but the resilience of youth helped to forget the previous day's embarassments and the afternoon found me nude again, bracing myself up on my arms as I straddled a pillow, grinding my cock into its soft bulk. A couple of issues of Penthouse lay on the bed, opened to a couple of pictorials featuring women fingering themselves [my favorite fantasy, you will recall]. I was really into it, about to crest the wave and start spewing, when the door opened again [would I EVER remember to lock that damn thing?!] and in walked the mother figure.

I couldn't believe my bad luck. Three times in two days! Surely she must think me some sort of oversexed bizzarro by now.

I might have been able to stop my climax, had I made the effort, but my exasperation made me bold and so I pretended not to notice that she had come in and pumped my pillow to orgasm. I let out a few extra grunts as I rolled my hips in small circles against the pillow.

After a while, I lowered myself to the bed and lay there breathing softly, my softening cock bathed in its own cream, anI hazarded a look into the room. My mother had gone, quietly slipping out but leaving the door ajar, perhaps so as not to alert me with the sound of its closing.

I waited, with some apprehension, for that conversation on masturbation, how it was perfectly normal, but perhaps I was indulging a bit much...? But it never came. And, I noticed, my mother started knocking before entering my room.

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