My wife sees all of me
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
Yesterday, my wife walked in on me while I was sitting at my computer, completely naked except for the pulse of arousal that had kept me there all afternoon. I had been lost in my own world, scrolling through a marathon of risqué images, articles, and the occasional deranged forum post, when the door opened and she appeared, arms crossed, a knowing little smirk on her face. For a moment, I froze, a deer in the twin headlights of her periwinkle gaze, caught with one hand poised over the mouse and the other cradling what could only be described as my thoroughly unashamed erection.
She didn’t miss a beat. She just strode across the room, not even pretending to avert her eyes from my display of self-indulgence. I braced for the usual scolding — not real anger, just the playful admonishments that made up our love language — but instead she gave my cock a gentle, almost clinical squeeze, as if testing a fruit for ripeness at the market.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she said, then glanced at the screen. “Anything good today?”
I grinned, my embarrassment melting into the warm, familiar sort of shame that was sweeter for being so shared. “Actually, yes,” I replied, and pulled up the image I’d saved for just such an occasion: a cartoon I’d had commissioned of ‘me’ — or at least, my digital avatar, rendered with exaggerated biceps and, of course, a comically oversized penis — lounging naked on an animated tropical beach, sipping a cartoon margarita, my beloved Gush cock sleeve featured prominently in the scene like a trophy.
She laughed, a genuine bark of delight that made her nose scrunch up. “You’re such a dork,” she said, but she didn’t look away. “I love it.” Then she looked at me, and for a moment, something electric flickered in her eyes: the unspoken joy of seeing someone you love in their most vulnerable, ridiculous, and honest form.
I watched her take it all in — the cartoon, my boner, the mess of tissues and lube on the desk. And instead of recoiling, she just shook her head, leaned down, and kissed the crown of my head, like a benediction. “Have fun,” she said. “I need my phone charger.”
She bent over to unplug her charger from the wall, affording me a full view of her pert ass in yoga pants — a deliberate little encore, I was sure — then padded out of the office and back to the kitchen, humming to herself like this was any other Tuesday.
I stared at the closed door for a while, my heart thumping with the mixed cocktail of lust and gratitude that only someone truly seen can feel. I returned to the image, but it wasn’t the cartoon that kept the heat in my core — it was the echo of her touch, the memory of her smirk, the knowledge that there was no need to hide, no secret to keep. She saw all of me, and loved me not despite my perversions, but because of them.
I finished quickly, as one does when the fantasy is suddenly matched by reality, and tidied up the evidence before joining her in the kitchen. She looked up, smiled, and wordlessly handed me a mug of coffee. Even now, hours later, I could still feel the phantom weight of her hand, that effortless squeeze of approval. It was, hands down, the best orgasm I’d had in months.
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