This is the text of a post I had put up on Orgasmanic.com but it seems to be applicable here as well:
Being a chronic masturbator practically from birth, with a penchant for doing the deed in new and exciting places, it stands to reason that I have been discovered in the act a numerous times over the years. (I say ‘discovered’ as opposed to ‘caught’ because in my house growing up, being found masturbating was awkward and embarrassing, but it was not–thank the gods–grounds for shame or punishment.)
One of my earliest memories is of being found masturbating in my bed. It’s just an impression, not a full recollection, but I remember my parents turning down my blankets to find me nude below the waist and rubbing against the bed. I don’t recall my parents’ reaction, but it must not have been anything traumatic for the exact reason that it left no lasting impression.
I was a bed and pillow humper for my first years as a masturbator, until at around first grade I discovered my hand. Virtually every night I stroked my young boner until I got That Good Feeling (for which I had no name) and drifted blissfully to sleep. By age seven or eight I had stopped wearing pajama bottoms to bed in order to afford easy access to my favorite plaything. Even at that age I preferred to masturbate in the nude (as I do to this day). My masturbation practice also expanded beyond bedtime, and I started to enjoy myself at other times of the day.
It was around this time I had my first real “busted” moment. I must have been about eight years old. One afternoon I was lying nude on my bed, happily stroking away, when in came my mother with an armload of laundry for my dresser (it must have been Sunday morning; that was laundry day back then). There I was, in all my naked glory, hand around my erect penis, surprised out of my wits.
My mother could not have handled it better. Saying something like, “Looks like somebody’s having a lot of fun this morning!” she put my clothes in my dresser and left. It wasn’t much of a moment in words, but it was very influential. At that age, I had never heard the word masturbation or had any idea that my pleasure ritual had that name. But I did know that anything involving one’s private parts was, well, private. By reacting to her masturbating little boy as if it were the most normal thing in the world, she insured that I would grow up without shame or guilt about my self-pleasuring. A blessing indeed.
As much as I loved to masturbate during my grade school years, it was during my teens, with their attendant raging hormones, that I blossomed into the full-out chronic masturbator that I am to this day. Every morning before school; every afternoon after school; every night before bed; and any other time that the urge arose, I was at it. I had numerous close calls, where I was not actually busted masturbating but it clear enough what I had been doing. Then when I was about fifteen I had the most memorable busted moment of my young life.
I had a desk in my room, with a wooden armchair left over from some old dining room set, and many times I sat nude in that chair, copies of Playboy or Penthouse spread on the desk and blissfully stroking away. By tipping the mirror above my dresser and using a smaller mirror on my desk, I could watch myself as I jacked off from the point-of-view of a voyeur–very exciting to imagine one of the cute girls at school spying on my solitary pleasures.
During one such episode I was interrupted at the exact moment of orgasm by my mother. I was slouched in my chair, feet planted and hips thrusting my cock through my slippery fist and feeling that exquisite feeling of toppling over the edge when my bedroom door swung open and my mother walked in. The perfect timing of the climax and being startled by the interruption caused an amplified reflex in my pelvic muscles and I came like a hydrant–cum flew in hot jets into the air and rained down in my hair, my face–everywhere! My orgasm had me so consumed that I couldn’t even stop pumping my cock; I could barely turn my head to register her presence as I twitched and panted and sprayed.
Mom, as surprised as I was, said, “Sorry! Sorry!” and quickly retreated. I sat panting and dripping with sweat and cum, too shocked and dazed to be embarrassed. To my amazement after such a strong orgasm, I stayed hard and within a couple of minutes I was stroking again. The moment had had a strong effect on me, and I replayed it as I masturbated again, except that in my fantasy version my mother was replaced by the model in the centerfold open on my desk, eagerly watching me jack myself off.
I was really getting into it, on my way to popping another load, when there was a knock on my door.
“Yes?” I said, hoping my exasperation rang in my voice.
The door opened and I realized too late that I should have said something like, “Just a minute,” or “Hold on.” What must my mother have thought as she walked in: thinking she’d waited long enough for me to be cleaned up and instead to find her son still jacking off!
With a muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake!” she left again. I felt a mix of embarrassment and ire at being bothered while I played my favorite game. Why couldn’t she just leave me alone? In an unfocused impulse of defiance, I opened the door and stood naked in the hall with my hard-on in my hand. After a few strokes I left the door open and finished myself off on my bed.
About a week or so after this incident I lay on my bed, stroking away in the morning light while I paged through a girlie magazine and waited for my mother to leave for work so I could get into a really serious masturbation session. I thought I heard my mom coming down the hall; still bugged about her barging in before, I impulsively decided to keep jacking even if she walked in.
She walked in.
“Mom, please!” I stopped stroking but kept my hand wrapped around my boner.
“Sorry dear, I just wanted to ask you if you’re going to be home this morning?”
Giving her my best teenager eye-roll, I said, “Uh, yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, if Louanne calls, tell her I’ll call her from the office.”
I said I would and she left me in peace. Finally, she drove away and I had the house to myself.
I padded naked across the living room to the kitchen; I ate my Wheaties and skimmed through the newspaper, reaching down from time to time to stroke my cock and maintain its hardness. I thought about taking a shower, but reconsidered because I would have to take another later, as I was planning to make quite a mess of myself before I was finished. After a little more of my pensive stroking, I slouched in the kitchen chair and really went at it, gripping myself lightly and gliding my hand up and down. I jacked my rod until I felt the familiar tightening in my groin, then stopped, backing away from my climax.
I went back into my room, added some lotion to the situation, and watched myself pumping in the mirror on top of the dresser. I stopped short of cumming again, but I could feel the increasing tension familiar to the proficient edger. I got out my collection magazines and paged through the nude photos while I pumped myself. I had to stop a little sooner each time, and the insistent twitching of my rod after I took my hand away signified my heightening arousal. I jacked off to Playboy lots of times, but I really preferred Penthouse. In those days the pictorials often showed the models posing as if they were masturbating, and female masturbation was (as it still is) intensely exciting to me.
Part of the fun of having the house to myself was expanding my masturbatory boundaries; I took a couple of magazines into the living room and beat off to them on the couch. That kept me going for quite a while, but after I don’t know how long, my body was aching for release. The day had turned out to be warm, and I was alone. Our rear deck behind the house faced a dry wash and a thicket of trees; it was totally private. I put the mags back in my room; my long edging session had me ready for climax without any additional stimulus.
The sunlight filtered through the trees and fell on the deck in soft dapples. Though it was around noon, the day was quite comfortable, not too hot. I sat on a deck chair and lubed up my erect cock. I have always enjoyed an extra thrill from masturbating in the open air; something about being exposed to nature and, of course, to possibility of being observed in the act of self-pleasure. I kept teasing myself for a while but my cock had other ideas; I had given myself a serious case of blue balls, and they ached in their fullness. I finally got into the short strokes, thrusting my hips to push my dick through my hands, grunting with each pump.
I emptied my balls with a sharp cry, jet after jet of spunk arcing across my chin, my chest and my abdomen. I literally saw stars as I squirted my seed; my skin had cooled in the open air, and my semen felt hot as it fell across my body. Finally I had milked out every drop, and with a sigh of contentment I closed my eyes, still fondling myself….
I guess I must have dozed off for a while, because the next thing I knew I heard voices through the open sliding glass door. Eyes still closed, I listened and recognized the voices of my mother and three of her friends, Tina, Nancy and Louanne. Peeking past my eyelids, I could see all three of them in the dining room sitting around the table drinking iced tea. (My mother, it turned out, had traded days with another agent in the office so she could meet her friends at home for lunch).
I could feel a flush creeping into my face as I saw myself in my mind’s eye as I must appear to them: an adolescent boy nude on the chair, lotion sitting nearby, and my torso still crisscrossed with visible streams of semen. They could see clearly that I had just masturbated. Since I’d gone out there nude to begin with, I had nothing to put on to cover myself, and the sliding glass door to the dining room was my only way into the house. There was no way around it.
A loud laugh from inside the dining room made me start; there was no point in pretending to be asleep any more. I sat up, furtively smearing some of the semen into my skin to make it a little less obvious, and then stood up and —with a nonchalance I certainly did not feel—entered the dining room.
All four women, God bless ’em, reacted nonchalantly to the sight of a nude teenage masturbator as I mumbled a greeting and felt myself blushing furiously. A snaky remark or laugh would have stung deeply in my vulnerable state, but they were nothing but cool about it all.
“Taking care of business, huh?” Tina asked, looking amused. I said nothing; I was quite tongue-tied. And in addition to my burning red face, I felt another rush stirring.
“He’s a teenage boy,” my mother said, as if that said it all–and maybe it did.
As I stood there, jizz-splattered and naked, part of me wanted to run away and hide; but another part of me was feeling an erotic thrill from standing there, jizz-splattered and naked. Jacking off where I might be caught was a favorite masturbatory enhancement, as were fantasies of watching masturbation and being watched masturbating. In this moment of raw exposure I felt myself getting hard.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I said, moving toward the living room and feeling the blood rushing into my swelling cock. I didn’t want my mother’s friends to see me getting hard, but I wanted my mother’s friends to see me getting hard!
Once I was through the door I hid just around the corner and listened as my cock swelled to full erection with shocking speed. I desperately wanted to hear what they would say about me.
“That kid sure loves to jack off. I think he gets that from me.”
“All teenage boys love to jack off.”
“Not just boys, I was quite the diddler back when I was younger.”
“Back then? I still do it now.”
Their discussion had me hard and stroking again. They talked bout masturbation and I masturbated, just out of sight in the next room.
“I did it this morning before I got out of bed.”
“When I was in boarding school my friends and I would meet after lights out and put on masturbation shows for each other.”
That last was too much. The fantasy image of the boarding school girls taking turns masturbating for their friends sent me cumming. My knees buckled slightly as I caught my load in the palm of my free hand. My orgasm complete, I crept away to the shower and cleaned up.
Though there were a few close calls and minor incidents after that, the next notable instance of being busted in the act was when I came home for the holiday break during my freshman year of college. A friend had given me a ride home in his car, and between the crowded freshman dorm and other factors, by the time I got home I hadn’t had a chance to masturbate for almost two days.
The moment I arrived my parents informed me we were going out to dinner with some family friends, and we had to leave straight away. But I really wanted to masturbate! –if only to steady my nerves. Saying I wanted to change into a clean shirt, I took my bag into my bedroom and closed the door.
I was already hard. I pulled off my shirt, dropped my pants and underwear to my ankles and started pumping. I just needed to rub one out and get on with the evening; I would indulge in a more pleasurable session of self-pleasure later. I stood at my old desk and furiously jacked off onto the desktop that had received so many loads in years past. I had barely finished cumming when the door opened slightly. My mom hadn’t intended to look into the room, but even with the door barley open it afforded a perfect view of the scene.
“I’ll be right there,” I said.
“I’d tell you to take your time,” she said wryly, “but it looks like it’s too late for that.” She closed the door.
I put on a clean shirt and sport jacket from my closet and went out to the car with my parents. “I guess you really needed that one,” my mother said.
“You have no idea,” I said, thinking about the fun I’d have that night revisiting the Pets and Playmates waiting in my closet.