a masturbator wrote:
Agreement with my wife
a confession by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by a chronic masturbator
I have been contemplating, with a kind of slow-burning obsession, the possibility of entering into an agreement with my wife: that I will only ever masturbate with her express knowledge and, whenever possible, her explicit permission. I think about it at strange moments—when I’m drinking coffee in the kitchen and hear the bathroom door click shut, or when she’s putting on her makeup and I catch a glimpse of her arched spine in the mirror. Sometimes the idea arrives with a forceful, embarrassing clarity, like a dirty daydream that won’t be banished by the cold shower of reason. But it’s not just a kink. (Or perhaps it is, and I’m only dressing it up in the language of marital respect.)
The terms, as I imagine them, would be simple but strict. If I felt the urge to jerk off and she was home, then it would have to be in bed, next to her, and only when she was either uninterested or actively refusing sex—usually during her period, which is maybe four or five days a month. If she was out of the house, then even the thought of self-pleasure would require a digital request for authorization. I would have to send her a message: “Can I?” And she would have to reply, in words or emoji, with a yes or a no. No more secret bathroom sessions. No more late-night, stealthy expeditions to the guestroom with my phone on mute and a roll of toilet paper at the ready. Everything out in the open. Everything, in theory, under her control.
The more I thought about this arrangement, the more I realized it was a reckoning, a kind of sexual audit. After all, we’ve been married for twenty years. When we were young, both of us masturbated a lot—so much that any sort of exclusivity pact would have been impossible, laughable even. We used to brag about it, in the way that young couples sometimes do, as if our mutual horniness was a guarantee that we’d never need to stray. But time does what time always does: eros fades, or at least flickers; desire gets channeled into more efficient, less adolescent routines. I started masturbating less. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was afraid of losing my appetite for her. I’d read somewhere, probably on Reddit or Quora, that too much self-love could ruin a man for his partner. Sometimes, after a particularly good wank, I’d feel a kind of post-orgasmic regret. Not because I was ashamed, but because I’d robbed the next night’s sex of its urgent edge.
That’s when I started to really dwell on the idea of telling her everything: every urge, every fantasy, every twitch of my cock under the conference table at work. The thought pulsed in me all day long, and at first I tried to suppress it. But then I realized that the very act of hiding was part of what made masturbation so addictive. The privacy, the secrecy, the almost adolescent thrill of getting away with something. What if I gave that up? What if I let myself be fully known, fully exposed?
The idea made me anxious, but it also made me incredibly hard. I would imagine myself texting her from work, asking for permission to go into the men’s room and jerk off during my lunch hour. She’d reply immediately, sometimes with a teasing “Only if you send me a selfie after” or, more often, with a flat, managerial “No. Wait until you’re home.” The denial was exquisite: the ache, the anticipation, the forced abstinence. Sometimes I’d picture myself getting caught, not by her but by a coworker, and the humiliation only intensified the arousal. It was as if every act of masturbation became a performance, an act of submission to her authority, and I couldn’t get enough.
Of course, we haven’t actually formalized the arrangement yet. I’ve only hinted at it in conversation, usually after sex, when we’re lying in bed and my hand is still wrapped around her thigh. She always laughs and calls me a deviant, but her voice is warm, not judgmental. One night, when she was riding me and squeezing my balls in that way she knows I love, she whispered, “You’re not allowed to come without me, got it?” I came instantly, almost painfully, and she laughed again, kissing me hard. Even after twenty years, she has this uncanny ability to read my mind and weaponize my perversions against me.
But what really excites me, what overwhelms me with both dread and anticipation, is imagining how it would feel to truly give up all privacy. To have her as my gatekeeper, my confidante, my executioner and my priest. Would it make me a better husband? Would it make me love her more? Or would it just amplify the weird, lonely pulse of my libido? I don’t know. But I want to find out.
Can anyone relate to this? Has anyone else tried this—and survived the psychological fallout? I’m curious if it becomes routine, or if it stays erotic and terrifying forever. I guess I’m just looking for a roadmap, or at least a warning.
What I do know is that the idea of being exposed, of having my desire regulated by someone I love, is the most intensely erotic thing I’ve ever imagined. There’s a perverse thrill in the deprivation, the self-denial, the ritual of asking and waiting and submitting. Sometimes, when I’m feeling bold (or perhaps just especially horny), I’ll text her from the next room and ask outright: “Can I jerk off?” And sometimes she says yes, and sometimes she says no, and sometimes she doesn’t reply at all, which is its own kind of torture.
But when she does say yes, I feel a kind of electric permission coursing through me, as if even my most private acts are being watched, tallied, approved. It’s a form of discipline I never knew I craved. Even when I’m alone, I’m not really alone—her presence hovers, an invisible hand guiding my own. I find myself savoring the anticipation, drawing out the moment, relishing the sense of being controlled. If she denies me, the ache only grows, sometimes for days, until I am so ravenous with lust that the next time we fuck, I practically explode.
And so the cycle continues: desire, denial, confession, reward. I find myself addicted to the process, to the thrill of exposing myself, to the discipline of waiting for her command. I imagine what it would be like if she shared my confessions with her friends, if my most private urges became the subject of gossip and laughter. The thought mortifies me, but it also makes me harder than I care to admit.
Maybe I am a deviant. But if so, I’m a deviant in love—a slave, paradoxically, to the woman I adore. And the more I give up my secrets, the more thrilling it becomes, and the more I want to give.
I wonder what she would say if I told her all of this, without filter, without shame. I wonder if she would laugh, or if she would take me seriously, and start making rules, keeping a ledger, doling out permissions and punishments with the cool precision of a judge.
I hope she does.
Because the more I think about it, the more I realize: there is nothing more erotic than being completely known, completely seen, completely at her mercy. And there is nothing more intoxicating than the discipline of submission, the bittersweet agony of wanting and waiting, and the knowledge that every pleasure I take is a gift from her.
This is my confession. I hope it’s not the last.
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