The PeterFiles: A (fictional) clinical study chronicling the activities of Peter, a lifelong habitual masturbator. Copyright 1995-2017 by Onania.Org/asm. Click to Read All Stories in the PeterFiles.
In which Peter finds the diary of his great-grandfather and learns how masturbators were treated 100 years ago.
(Editor’s Note: The role of heredity in the development of masturbatory addiction has received insufficient study; whether nature or nurture is predominant is still an open question. At the Institute for Correction of Sexual Misbehavior, we hold that, while genetic factors may predispose a man to masturbation dependency, expression of the trait is not inevitable. The development of unwholesome habits depends ultimately on deficits in the personal character and self discipline of the masturbator, and may be avoided by appropriate early corrective intervention. In this chapter, Peter discovers the diary of his great-grandfather, which indicates a family history of habitual masturbation and describes corrective measures common in the last century. While we do not endorse every particular of the treatment described below, we entirely agree with its emphasis on the personal value issues of masturbatory addiction. == Dr. Margaret Wilson)
I recognize that I am a man of unusual sexual tastes. My preference is for the delightful practice of masturbation: for me nothing can match the pleasure of my own penis warm and throbbing in my hand. It’s true what they say that the practice is addictive, and I must confess that I have become completely enslaved by my masturbation habit. Even as I write this, my pants are pulled down so that I can lovingly stroke my penis, well lubricated with Johnson’s Baby Oil.
In this enlightened time, there is no penalty for inclinations such as mine, except perhaps personal embarrassment if my secret addiction should become known. It has not always been so. In times past, masturbation was strenuously discouraged, and those unlucky masturbators discovered in the act were subjected to the most severe punishments.
A few days ago I was in the attic of my home, looking through an old chest that belonged to my great-grandfather. Among the memorabilia of his life, I found quite by accident a secret diary that he kept as a teenager at a New England boarding school. One incident he records riveted my attention.
The diary reads:
=========================September 23, 1896
I entered the office of Mrs. Crane, the Headmistress, with trepidation. She sat at her desk, wearing a high-necked white blouse and a black skirt that reached to her ankles, not quite covering the high-top black shoes. The blouse swelled in front, asserting the presence of her magnificent bosom that was famous among the boys of the school, almost as famous as the severity of her punishments. I handed her the note I was carrying from my classroom teacher. She read it with arched eyebrows and a grim, determined smile.
“So, Peter, Miss Adams has sent you to me for ‘special’ discipline. You have been very, very wicked. Do you admit your offense?”
“Yes ma’am, Miss Adams . . . saw me.”
“And will you please describe your iniquity to me?”
“I … I was in the cloakroom … you know, touching myself.”
She drew in her breath sharply. “I see. Peter, that practice is not only disgusting and immoral, but more harmful than you can even know. I shall have to punish you very severely, for your own good.”
Mrs. Crane led me into a small adjoining room, and closed the heavy door behind us. In the center of the room was a straight-backed wooden chair, of curious design I had not seen before. A large U-shaped gap bit into the front edge of the seat, so that an occupant would be supported along his thighs and buttocks, but his crotch would hang suspended over the gap. A low stool stood in front of it. An assortment of whips, paddles, and rods of various shapes hung on one wall. I knew that I was in for a whipping, but the array of implements puzzled me: they all seemed too flimsy and light of weight to do much damage to a teenage boy’s buttocks. I began to have an ominous sense of foreboding, without understanding why.
“What … what are you going to do to me, Mrs. Crane?”
“This is your first time to receive ‘special’ discipline, isn’t it, Peter. Of course, you are to be spanked, but I think that you will find that it far exceeds your expectations. Now remove your britches and underwear, please.”
School spankings were always administered on bare flesh, and I was not surprised at her order. I dropped my trousers and stepped out of them, standing shyly before her, naked from the waist down. I expected the usual “bend over and grab your ankles”; but instead, she set me in the half-bottomed chair and produced four short leather straps with which she bound my hands behind the back of the chair and my ankles to the chair legs. Finally she took a wooden rod that terminated at each end in a padded “Y” and placed it between my legs, looping leather thongs around each knee to keep it in place. The rod held my legs widely apart, and my naked genitals, dangling above the gap in the seat, were fully exposed to her. I was terribly anxious at these proceedings.
“What is that for? Please, Mrs. Crane, what are you going to do to me?”
She smiled, and explained, “The discipline you are about to receive is ‘special’ because it is applied to the ‘special’ parts of a young man, on which whipping is most effective. This brace will keep your legs separated, and your privates readily accessible.”
I could scarcely believe what she was implying. “What… what do you mean, Mam?”
“Don’t you understand yet? I mean, Peter, that you are to be whipped on your male organs of generation.”
I shuddered in horror. “No! Please! I couldn’t bear it!”
She looked at me with genuine sympathy, and gently stroked my cheek. “Then pray for courage, Peter, for bear it you must.”
She withdrew from the wall a short rod that broadened at the end into a small paddle, rather like a miniature carpet beater. She drew the stool up in front of me and sat down. “Now Peter, we are ready to begin. I have secured you into this position so that you may watch the proceedings. I’m sure they will interest you greatly.”
She held her implement in front of my eyes. The small paddle on the end was cupped, rather like a soup ladle, and I shuddered to think for what purpose. “We call this the ‘slapper’, and you will come to know it well; it will be your faithful friend in leading you from the paths of iniquity.”
She moved the slapper between my legs and brought it up slowly to my testicles, which fit neatly into the cup of the paddle, and hefted them in a gentle, almost caressing motion,. “It is appropriate, is it not, to apply the discipline here, for these small glands and their little appendix were the seat of your offense. Perhaps you did not know, as you were engaged in that loathsome act, that they can provide agony even beyond the wildest ecstasy?”
In spite of my fear, the gentle oscillation of my organs began to have an effect. My penis stretched and reared its head. “Peter! What is the meaning of this lewd insolence! Do you flaunt your carnality even in my face? Cease this disgusting display at once!”
I pleaded, “But Mrs. Crane, I can’t help it when you… you’re making it …”
“What, do you blame me for your wantonness? I’ll make you sorry!” She lowered the rod and then with a flick of her wrist brought it up sharply between my legs. There was no doubt of her practiced skill as the paddle made precise impact with my testicles in a clearly audible “spat”. A searing pain gripped my viscera and I howled in misery.
“There, that’s better. Your member has lost its lascivious tension. What, are you in pain already? But we’re just beginning. Watch, Peter.” I tried to close my thighs to protect the vulnerable targets, but the brace kept them apart. She delivered three more quick slaps to my manhood, leaving me shivering in agony.
“Now, young man, as I have your attention, we will discuss the loathsome practice of self-abuse.” She began telling me of the evil and injury resulting from the practice of my vice, punctuating her words with regular assaults on my genital sacs. She applied the punishment in unhurried, measured strikes. Each began with a swift upward flick of her wrist, executed with a practiced skill, catching my dangling testicles precisely in the cup of the slapper with a quiet but devastating “spat”. As the resulting wave of pain and nausea washed over me, she held the slapper against my glands, cradling them in a soothing gesture. As the agony began to gradually subside, she slowly lowered her wrist and began again.
The torment I suffered was awful, worse than I could ever have imagined. Yet after some time, an unexplainable transformation began to take place. The pain was no less, but its very intensity confused and altered my senses. I felt a glowing heat at the core of my manhood, and the ache crossed over and became an indescribable sweetness. With each upward sweep of the slapper I began to welcome the blows on my tender bulbs, to relish being tied helplessly before this terrible but beautiful woman. I felt myself opening to her, spreading my legs and sliding my hips forward, offering my vulnerable maleness to her intimate caress. Through a haze I thought I saw just the trace of a smile on her lips.
Finally she ceased, put away the slapper, and allowed me to catch my breath. “You took that well, Peter, with humility and acceptance. Now we are ready for your next lesson.”
Returning to the wall, she took down another implement, a wooden rod about a foot long to which a half-dozen short leather straps dangled from the end. She sat down and pointed the rod at my penis, a shriveled bud after the punishment of my glands.
“Now we shall address another part of your person, Peter. It is this small member that was the object of your lascivious mischief, was it not?”
“Y . . .yes ma’am. Are you going to . . . beat it like the other?”
“Yes, and no, Peter. We will whip it, certainly, but our purpose will be somewhat different as you shall presently see.”
She began flicking the whip back and forth across my flaccid penis. The punishment was surprisingly gentle, producing a light stinging that was almost pleasant, and certainly stimulating. My member, well trained by the regular but unsophisticated attentions of my own hand, began to respond the novel sensations. I recalled her earlier displeasure at this response and tried to suppress its insurrection by force of will, but it rose rebelliously in my lap.
“Well, Peter, it seems as if our work is not yet finished. Would you care to explain this manifestation?”
“Please, ma’am, I’m sorry! I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it.” I knew better than to imply that it was her actions producing my insolent erection.
To my surprise, Mrs. Crane accepted my apology. “I know, Peter, I know. This organ is surely the seat of a young man’s temptations. It recognizes no master, but arises disobediently at its own impulse, and subordinates his will to its own voluptuous needs. See how it lewdly swells and puts itself forth to my whip, though I know you struggle against it.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m trying to make it .. . go down, but it won’t.” I was thoroughly off balance now by her unexpected sympathy. She continued to flick the whip across my erect penis from side to side, with increasing intensity. The whipping leather stung and turned my bobbing organ an extraordinary shade of red, but I found the sensations far from unpleasant.
“No, Peter, it is too strong for you alone. Do you feel how your member throbs and stings, Peter? The very Devil is in your flesh, and we must draw him out. We must whip the Devil out of your member, Peter, and make your organ humble and obedient once more. Will you work with me, Peter? Will you work to push the Devil out?”
I had no idea what she was talking about. I only knew I wanted the delicious stinging whip to continue nipping at my ruddy penis. I could feel myself becoming increasingly excited, and my member was emitting small clear droplets of arousal. “Please, ma’am, tell me how!”
“You must bear down as I whip you, Peter, and press the Devil out. Your male organs are full of the Devil’s own spunk, and we must rid you of it. We’ve loosened it up in your glands with the slapper, and now I’m going to whip the spunk out of your member.”
She maintained the maddening stinging rain on my penis, as I arched my hips in the chair to meet the whip. I could not believe this was happening, but I did not question it. The combination of pain and pleasure in my organ transported me into an almost unbearable rapture. “Please, ma’am, whip it, whip the spunk out. Oh! Mrs. Crane! I feel . . . Oh!”
“It’s starting, Peter, the Devil is starting to let go. Press him dear, bear down and push the Devil’s spunk out.”
She continued to whip my penis from side to side as it throbbed and jerked, and the spasms of release began. But when the first pearly stream burst from the tip of my penis, she withheld the whip, and encouraged me only with words. “There, that’s it, Peter. Push for us. Push the Devil out of your member.”
I was wild with urgency as she stood idly aside, watching my penis ejaculating nakedly by itself. “Please, ma’am, please! Whip it! Whip it some more!” I begged, desperate for her touch.
“No, Peter, I’ve done my work. We must not tempt the Devil with further whipping, because he is making it feel too good right now. Just go ahead and squeeze inside yourself, and express all the spunk for me.”
I thrashed in my bonds, trying desperately to find a way to rub my spasming penis on something. In an agony of frustration I watched my naked and lonely organ, untouched, spurt jet after jet of sperm into the empty air.
As I sat in the afterglow of release, covered in my own male juices, I thought that there was an end. But Mrs. Crane had one more surprise for me. Turning to the wall once more, she took down an ivory-handled knife, with a short blade that curved at the end into a cruel hook. The light gleamed on the blade, which I saw was sharpened on the inside of the curve.
She reached down and encircled the neck of my scrotum with thumb and forefinger, pinching my aching glands painfully. Her other hand took the knife and held the wicked curve of the blade against my sac, gently feeling for the precious testicles hidden but vulnerable inside. I shuddered at the touch of the cold steel on the wrinkled skin of my scrotum. “We have covered much ground today, Peter. I hope that you have learned enough. But if these arguments have not convinced you, there is one final measure I will take. Castration will surely put an end to your vicious habit. I would rather prune these fruit of carnality with the gelding blade and let you live you live as a neuter, than allow them to lead you to utter ruin.”
Her words filled me with indescribable terror. I had no doubt of her earnestness. “Please, please, Mrs. Crane, don’t! I promise to be good!”
She slid the razor-sharp knife over my scrotum, shaving off the hairs. A few flicks of the blade, and I was as smooth and hairless as a newborn babe. “There, that will serve as a reminder, when next you feel inclined to yield to your unnatural urges. Remember that if you are caught abusing your organs of generation again, I shall take more than your pubic hairs.” I looked down at my pink, denuded maleness and blushed in humiliation.
There was no more punishment that day. She released me, and told me to reflect carefully on what she had said. I left her office, walking slowly and awkwardly, wincing with every step at the lingering ache in my testicles, but as I walked and relived the incredible punishment in my mind, another feeling grew within my loins, welling up and consuming all else. I rushed into the hall lavatory and locked myself within the W.C. Beside myself with urgency that belied my recent release under her whip, I tore open my trousers and stroked my member to a furious, shuddering climax, spraying the walls of the W.C. with the jets of my spending. Finally at ease, I rearranged my clothing and returned to my room, amazed at the conflicting torrent of feelings I had experienced that morning.
Well, that was the excerpt. You may guess that I read the passage with a “conflicting torrent of feeling” myself, recoiling at my ancestor’s brutal treatment and yet experiencing a dark, unexplainable excitement. I too ripped my own britches open and jerked myself to a throbbing, spurting release that drenched the front of my clothing. Luckily, I did not soil great-grandfather’s diary, for it contains much else of interest. Now, if you will excuse me, I think it is time to take care of a certain matter at hand….
* end *