We still find plenty of time to masturbate together
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
Even though I have been pussy free for 16 years and my wife has a boyfriend she sees regularly, we still find plenty of time to masturbate together. We still found ourselves carving out hours, sometimes entire afternoons, for these endless gooning sessions—just the two of us sprawled on the king-sized bed, laptops propped on our knees, the familiar soundtrack of seventies porn filling the room with its synth-heavy slaps and moans. There was something especially electrifying about our favorite films: the raw, unscripted energy, the garish set design, and of course the presence of her sister, cooing and writhing her way into Adult Film Hall of Fame immortality. My wife would pick the titles, deliberately choosing her sister’s most infamous scenes, and we’d watch together, savoring the sleaze and nostalgia. She’d narrate behind-the-scenes trivia—who was high that day, who accidentally broke the prop dildo, which takes had to be reshot because someone’s cumshot hit the camera lens. All the while, I’d stroke myself to her running commentary, feeling her hand snake over to squeeze my thigh or tease my balls. Sometimes, she’d get so turned on by her sister’s onscreen debauchery that she’d mount my face, grinding against my mouth while I jerked myself furiously, desperate not to finish too soon.
Often, the sessions would stretch for hours, neither of us wanting to break the spell. I’d edge myself to the brink over and over, sweat slicking my palms and thighs, my cock angry and swollen. She’d laugh at my restraint, mock-scolding me for leaking on the sheets, then lean over to lap at the drops with her tongue. Sometimes, we’d rewatch the same scene half a dozen times, memorizing every grimace, every grunt, every splatter. It was performative and intimate in a way that actual fucking rarely was for us—we were both so much more naked in those moments, so much more ourselves.
If we weren’t watching her sister’s porn, we’d kill an evening with her rehashing graphic details from her latest rendezvous with her boyfriend. She’d recount every inch of his body, every slap, every command, each time he’d pull her hair and dribble spit into her open mouth. She’d describe the way he came, the volume, the taste, the mess. I’d listen, stroking myself beneath the covers, sometimes slow and idle, sometimes with a furious intensity, depending on how hot her story was. She’d touch herself too, fingers rubbing lazy circles around her clit, sometimes sliding inside her, always with that half-smirk of self-satisfaction. We’d nap tangled together afterwards, our bodies sticky with sweat and whatever we’d wrung out of ourselves.
Solo or together, masturbation wasn’t just a pastime for us; it was a kind of religion, a shared liturgy. We’d set aside Sunday mornings for our marathon sessions, brewing coffee and settling in for hours of edging and teasing. Some weekends we’d forgo the porn and focus entirely on each other, narrating our fantasies and swapping filthy confessions. We had an arsenal of toys—wand massagers, butt plugs, milking sleeves, nipple clamps. My wife especially loved the sound of them, the mechanical whir and buzz layered over the soundtrack of our own labored breathing. There was no shame or secrecy to any of it; the act was as routine and cherished as brushing our teeth or making the bed.
I kept my own private rituals too. Late at night, after she’d fallen asleep, I’d go into the bathroom, lock the door, and edge myself in the dark, sometimes for hours on end, never fully letting go until the urge was almost unbearable. When I finally finished, I’d be shaking, spent, and stupidly happy. She understood that impulse—sometimes I’d catch her in the living room with her favorite rabbit, legs thrown over the side of the armchair, eyes closed in bliss. We respected each other’s private time, but nothing compared to the electricity of sharing it, side by side, knowing that this was our bond, the thing that made us more than just another asexual couple drifting into middle age.
Masturbation was the core of our intimacy, the engine of our marriage, the one thing that never dried up or grew routine. We celebrated it, amplified it, made it the foundation of everything else.
Either alone or together!
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