The Charitable Copulation Foundation
A satirical erotic fantasy in four chapters (entire), for adult masturbators.
by Richard Lovel – Copyright 2025 – All rights reserved
Wherein a virgin pussy-free chronic masturbator is awarded a Pity-Fuck Grant to have real sex with a real female.
Chapter 1: The Masturbatorium
Bathed in the glow of multiple screens, Timothy Small sat on the edge of his chair in his high-tech asturbatorium. One hand guided the computer mouse while the other engaged in a methodical, solitary practice. He navigated through tabs of explicit content—his nightly ritual, caught in a cycle of isolation and chronic self-pleasure.
Around him, the accoutrements of his obsession: the open jar of Albolene, glossy magazines with spotted and stuck-together pages, sex toys of various shapes and designs, each chosen for their specific ability to heighten and prolong his masturbatory experience.
Behind his thick glasses, his eyes darted from one explicit image to another. He fixated on images of confident, muscular men engaged in intense and passionate lovemaking, their partners moaning with pleasure. He wondered, what would it feel like to have his penis buried deep inside a woman like that? Timothy’s own arousal increased, but deep down he knew he could never measure up to those dominant alpha males in the pictures.
He grabbed his favorite Fleshlight, a silicone sleeve, a pitiful facsimile of the vagina he craved, and slid his small erection inside. He began to pump in time with the relentless rhythm of the moaning porn stars on the screen, his mind consumed by the humiliating knowledge that this was as close as he’d likely get to the real thing.
As he slipped in and out, he recalled the last time he had attempted to have intercourse. The woman, a kind-hearted librarian from his local bookstore, had sensed his nervousness and tried to reassure him with a smile as they undressed. But when she saw his small, limp penis, her expression changed to one of disappointment and then amusement. It was clear that intercourse was not an option for either of them. She was a good sport, and attempted a quick hand-job as consolation prize, but he was too anxious to even become fully aroused for that. It was she who gave him nickname, “Tiny Tim”.
The experience had been mortifying at the time, but over years of celibate frustration, humiliation had become a fetish. Now, he used his few memories of failed attempts to copulate as background for his edging sessions.
“Masturbator, masturbator,” he mumbled his mantra under his breath, his movements becoming more frantic. “No pussy for masturbators.”
His hand moved with mechanical regularity,
Hours passed in this state of suspended gratification, edges blurring as Timothy teetered on the precipice of climax. The fantasies playing out before him reinforced the void between real men and chronic masturbators. He imagined himself as others saw him, ‘Tiny Tim,’ the pathetic small-dick, limp-dick, pussy-free beta male.
With each withheld release, the tension within him coiled tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point. At last Timothy’s testicles tightened, and he knew the familiar sensation of impending orgasm. His hand pumping the plastic pussy, milking himself to the edge of release. Sweat beaded on his brow as he fought the urge to climax.
And then, with a final, shuddering breath that tore through the silence of his apartment, Timothy succumbed to the inevitable. He crossed the threshold so long avoided, and he ejaculated deep into the Fleshlight. It was a momentary apex of pleasure, but also a pathetic imitation of real intercourse, what he longed for and what he feared, he would never know.
As the waves of euphoria receded, they left behind the familiar detritus of shame and self-loathing. With a grunt, Timothy removed his spent penis from the Fleshlight and stared at it, limp and shriveled in his hand.
“That’s all you’ll ever get,” he whispered, as he began the long, lonely descent into another frustratingly unsatisfying night. There would be no reprieve, no miraculous deliverance from the cycle of arousal and shame. The real world belonged to the confident, the strong, and the sexually adept. And Tiny Tim would forever be relegated to the shadows, a mere spectator in the great sexual game of life.
Chapter 2: The Pity-Fuck Grant
On the day of Timothy’s 40th birthday, he pulled out his college yearbook and flipped through the pages, feeling nostalgia wash over him. He began masturbating his erect member to images of sexy coeds he had lusted after, imaging himself as their boyfriend, hearing them moan as he sank his penis into their fresh womanhood. When he came to the photo of his special crush, he ejaculated, splattering the page with his semen. Suddenly, a surge of regret hit him hard. “I’m forty and I’ve never even been inside a woman!” With that realization, he resolved to make one last desperate attempt at experiencing real sex.
An Internet search turned up a long list of sex therapists and psychologists, all promising to treat “erectile dysfunction” and sexual performance issues. Timothy had no confidence that merely talking about his problem would result in success. And sexual a surrogate was beyond his budget. But he stopped with amazement at the website
“Charitable Copulation Foundation”
The Charitable Copulation Foundation aids the sexual rehabilitation of male chronic masturbators and sexually-arrested virgin or beta males.
Applications Open Now for Pity-Fuck Grants!
Recognizing that the overcoming the deficits in sexual performance caused by extensive reliance on masturbation and pornography may require expensive personalized therapy, CCF endeavors to bring dignity and companionship in reach through our Pity-Fuck Grant Program. Qualifying beta males will receive structured interactions with our Personal Copulation Providers, at no cost. Apply now to see if you qualify.
The words ‘Pity-Fuck Grants’ captured his gaze immediately, a title so blunt it felt like a slap and a caress all at once. A foundation dedicated to helping men like him overcome their sexual struggles? By providing women to give pity-fucks? The program connected chronic masturbators with Personal Copulation Providers (PCPs) to help rehabilitate their dysfunctional sex drives. He had often masturbated to the humiliating fantasy of a pity fuck.
Timothy couldn’t help but furtively grip his stiffening member through his pants as he envisioned the training sessions described on the website. Beta males like himself, with their pathetic deficits in sexual performance, would be guided by confident, experienced women who would teach them the ropes of real-life sex. The idea of being under the control of a strong, sexually liberated PCP both aroused and terrified him.
The application form for the Pity-Fuck Grant demanded to know his deepest insecurities. It delved into questions about how often he pleasured himself, what type of porn he indulged in, and the reality of his interactions and failures with women. Timothy could almost feel the scrutiny of some unseen judge, a confident woman perhaps, dissecting his answers with clinical detachment.
“How often do you masturbate?” Mere numbers would never capture the countless hours, the relentless pursuit of fleeting ecstasy that left him hollow and yearning.
“Please provide measurements of your genitals.” Timothy retrieved the measuring tape from his desk drawer—a tool of both curiosity and despair—and complied. He found himself hard-pressed to admit, even in the anonymity of the online form, that he’d never successfully penetrated a real vagina, relying instead on the plastic orifice of his synthetic sex toy.
The questionnaire continued, delving even deeper into Timothy’s innermost sexual preferences and fetishes. His heart raced as he answered questions about hand-jobs, foot jobs, CFNM (clothed female, naked male), bondage, and tease and denial. He was almost embarrassed by how quickly he filled out the sections dedicated to his most shameful desires.
Finally, the submit button — Timothy’s finger held in a moment of paralysis. Was this a scam, a hoax, that would expose him to ridicule or blackmail? His mind raced with the possible outcomes, each scenario a different shade of hope or humiliation. He squeezed his throbbing penis, closed his eyes, and then, he clicked.
Days stretched into an agonizing silence, punctuated only by the fervent clicking of the refresh button on his email inbox. Every new message that wasn’t from the CCF pricked at him, a tiny barb reminding him of the vulnerability he had exposed to strangers.
At last, when the wait had frayed his last nerve, the notification arrived.”Congratulations, Timothy Small. You have been awarded a Pity-Fuck Grant.” Sexual arousal swelled as he read the email again. “Taylor” was her name—the Personal Copulation Provider assigned to him by the Charitable Copulation Foundation. A photo accompanied the text, displaying her striking green eyes, blonde hair and bold breasts.
“Please refrain from any form of masturbation for 48 hours prior to your session,” the email instructed, its words imposing a challenge far greater than Timothy had anticipated.
As he awaited the day of the session, he kept himself busy cleaning and wiping down surfaces cluttered with lubricants and sex toys. His mind was consumed with thoughts of Taylor. Would his years of frustration continue with yet another humiliating failure? Or would he finally experience the fulfillment of a real man in real pussy?
Chapter 3: A Personal Copulation Provider
The day had finally arrived. A gentle knock — the door opens — Taylor, a stunning 20-something. Blonde hair and green eyes, trim body and bold breasts — she exuded warmth and confidence. Timothy shy to hold her gaze, looked down and saw pretty sandaled feet and perfectly painted toes., Timothy,” she chirped with a grin and a voice both bratty and cozy, “Super stoked to meet you. I just feel it we’re gonna vibe so well together.”
She walked in without prompting and scoped out the apartment. “OMG, is this your jerk-off den? Where’s all your stuff? Like, lube, toys, ya know… for jerking?” I bet you tidied it up just for me. Oh that’s so sweet.”
Timothy blushed a deep shade of red,”Y-yes, I cleaned up a bit,” he stuttered, her casual acknowledgment of his masturbation habits made his heart race and stomach churn.
Taylor laughed lightly, her voice musical and teasing. “Don’t be so shook, Timmy. We’re all here to have a good time, right? I’ve totally checked out your application, you know. Crazy! You’re quite the jerk-off enthusiast! But hey, you’re in the dark about me.” With a confident stride, she made her way to the sofa and gave the cushion a friendly tap. “Let’s do some intros, shall we?”
Taylor shared with Timothy her beginnings as a Personal Copulation Provider. A college junior, she needed to supplement her income. “Babe, I’ve banged so many dudes, like the entire football squad is on my list. Renting out my goods was a no-brainer. Plus, I dig guiding losers through their first times and punching their V-cards.”
“Okay, sweetie, like, let’s kick this off by having you stand right here in front of me and strip down. Jay-bird for me.
Timothy hesitantly removed his clothes, exposing his slight frame and his male organs. Taylor’s gaze honed in on it. “Looks like you’ve earned the nickname Tiny Tim from the ladies. That why you struggle with getting some pussy, sweetie?”
His modest manhood withered further from embarrassment.
“Aww, don’t be bummed Timmy. You’re fine just the way you are. But hey, I’ll teach you how to make the most of that little cutie pie. Now to start. I wanna hear all the dirt about your solo rodeos. Don’t hold back on any of the juicy stuff.”
Timothy’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He looked down at the floor, unable to meet Taylor’s gaze as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. “I… I can’t seem to stop,” he finally admitted. “It’s like I’m always needing to… masturbate. And I can’t control what I think about, it’s like my mind just goes to these fantasies and fetishes …
Taylor encouraged, “Oh, I get it, babe. Your dick loves a good fantasy, huh? Tight pussies, bondage, BDSM stuff? CFNM like we’re doing right now?” She slipped off one sandal and wiggled her toes. “How about girls feet? That do anything for you?”
Taylor knew just which buttons to push; Timothy had spelled it all out in his Pity-Fuck Grant application. Soon his little penis was jutting stiffly out in front of him. Taylor gestured towards his erection and giggled. “Looks like Tiny Tim there is ready for some business.” Taylor announced, a segue that felt both abrupt and entirely necessary.
She began to undress — removing each piece of clothing — revealing flesh only imagined — curves that no plastic could replicate, swaying breasts a revelation, body a landscape he’d only traversed in masturbatory reveries.
She lay back on the couch an spread her legs. “It’s pity-fuck time, babe. Mount me,” Taylor instructed, her voice a mixture of encouragement and command. Timothy approached with trepidation, his heart pounding against his ribcage.
As he positioned himself between Taylor’s welcoming thighs, his mind ricocheted between frantic desire and crippling doubt. His erection, once a proud flagpole of arousal, now wavered like a reed in the wind of his anxiety.
“Relax, Timothy. Let it happen,” Taylor said, sensing his inner turmoil. But Timothy’s attempts at following her lead were clumsy, his movements stilted, his breathing erratic. He managed to align his body with hers, an awkward dance that brought him a fleeting moment of success as he entered her warmth.
“Just breathe, Timothy,” he reminded himself. “Inhale the scent of her, exhale the doubt.”
“Come on, Timmy. You can do it. Push harder. Slip it in before your dick goes totally limp.”
He tried harder, thrusting his hips with desperation, willing his body to cooperate. But the more he tried,the more his mind raced with thoughts of inadequacy and failure. His erection, already waning under the weight of his insecurities, threatened to retreat further. His inner critic chortled, “See? I told you so. You can’t even fuck a beautiful woman when she begs for it!”
Taylor cooed in his ear, “Visualize that porn you watch. Those big dicks fucking pussy deep and hard, making girls moan and scream. You can be one of those studs, just try harder.” Her words, meant to be encouraging, only served to add pressure to his already overwhelming anxiety. “Think about a real pussy, right here, hot and wet, needing to be fucked by a real man.”
“Think about a Fleshlight,” he thought, “Rubber pussy, pliant, safe.”
Timothy’s erection seemed determined to betray him. It would rise in brief spurts of arousal before deflating into flaccidity once again. With a shaking hand, he guided himself towards her moist opening, parting the folds of her labia majora to reveal the glistening petals of her labia minora, trying to squeeze the tip inside with his fingers. “Almost there,” he breathed, both a prayer and a mantra.
He steeled himself, willing his body to respond. Slowly, so very slowly, the head of his penis breached her entrance, encountering a resistance unlike anything he’d ever known. “I’m inside! Inside a pussy!”
“Yes!” Taylor’s voice, laden with relief and approval, spurred him on. He pushed a little deeper, feeling himself being sheathed in Taylor’s warmth. The sensation was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, both alien and yet strangely familiar.
“That’s it, Timothy,” she cooed, her tone encouraging. “You’re doing so well. You’re in the pussy now.”
He could feel her gripping him, her vaginal glands engorged with arousal – or so he told himself – greeting his every tentative thrust. It was a feedback loop of sorts: the more she purred, the harder he strove, and the tighter she became around him.
“Oh baby, you’re making my pussy feel so good. All the girls will want you to fuck them when I tell them how good you do it.”
Timothy’s breathing quickened, his heart pounding in his ears like a tribal drum. “I’m actually doing this,” he thought, a surge of pride swelling within him, blissfully disregarding the four-inch steel-reinforced barrier between them. For an instant, triumph bloomed within him, a sweet taste of what manhood could be. For a brief, shining moment, Timothy thought he might actually do this.
But then … it wasn’t the same. Not what he was used to. The real pussy, unfamiliar, judging, demanding satisfaction, not the comforting Plastic Pussy that never demanded, never judged.
As quickly as it had appeared, his brief moment of success evaporated. His erection, never truly ironclad to begin with, began to flag. His penis softened, collapsing like a deflating balloon, slipping out of the pussy, leaving him knocking at the gates Taylor’s body.
“Oh, fuck, what happened”?” she said. “Wait, this isn’t working. You’re not in my pussy,” her voice growing impatient. “Stop humping. You’re just tickling my clitty, now. It’s really annoying.”
Timothy stammered out an apology. “I’m sorry… I just can’t seem to…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud.
Taylor took a deep breath. “It’s okay, I didn’t mean to get shirty with you. It’s just it was starting to feel good and I was looking forward to a good fuck when you went limp.”
She managed a sympathetic smile.
“You’ve just got a bad case of PPAD — Pussy Penetration Anxiety Disorder. I guess I rushed you too fast.” Taylor cooed, meaning to sooth him, but her words unwittingly twisted the knife of humiliation deeper into Timothy’s psyche. His stomach churned with self-loathing, his skin prickled with shame.
“Let’s take a break,” Taylor suggested after a moment, her voice sympathetic, yet tinged with practicality. They separated, and Timothy curled inward, both protecting his bruised ego and hiding his failed manhood.
They sat on the couch a while, still naked. Taylor talked about PPAD — Pussy Penetration Anxiety Disorder, and how chronic masturbators had such a hard time overcoming it and staying hard in a pussy. Taylor notices his gaze was not at her breasts or pussy, like normal guys, but was directed much lower. And his penis had twitched back to life.
“Are you looking at my feet, Timmy? You are! I’m sitting here with tits and pussy bare, and you’re afraid to look at them. And you’re getting a boner looking at my feet! You silly dork.”
She giggled and raised her foot to his lap with its long, sensual toes, found his arousal with an explorer’s precision. She touched him lightly, a playful flick that sent his penis bobbing.
In an instant, Timothy’s control shattered. Ecstasy ripped through him, unbidden and fierce, a spurting ejaculatory release both mortifying and undeniable. Hot shame washed over him as he came, the tension of his chronic struggle reaching its peak in this most unexpected way.
Left panting and spent, Timothy cringed in post-orgasmic vulnerability.
Timothy’s breath came in shallow gasps, the air thick with the musk of his unexpected climax. Taylor watched him with a blend of sympathy and amusement dancing in her striking green eyes. She leaned back on her heels, her posture relaxed despite the charged atmosphere.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she said, her voice a soothing balm to Timothy’s burning cheeks. “These things happen, Tiny Tim. It’s all part of the process. Next time, we’ll try something different,” Taylor continued, her tone light and encouraging. “I’ll be back tomoorw and give you another shot at pussy. We just need to find what works for you.”
“Thanks,” he finally managed to stutter out, the word carrying the weight of his anxiety and gratitude.
“Of course, Tim.” Her smile was genuine, warm enough to temporarily ease the cold of inadequacy that clung to him. “That’s what I’m paid for.”
As she dressed, each movement assured and graceful, Timothy’s mind a cascade of conflicting emotions. The session had ended in disaster, yet it planted a seed of change. He was a beta male, a pathetic pussy-free masturbator. But Taylor would return, and Timothy Small dared to imagine a life beyond the lonely confines of his lonely masturbatorium.
Chapter 4: The Safety Pussy
Timothy’s hands were trembling slightly as he fumbled his apartment door open to reveal Taylor standing there with her trademark sunbeam smile. She breezed past him, the discreet bag in her hand barely warranting a second glance from anyone who didn’t know its intimate contents.
“Hey Timmy!” she chimed, tossing her strawberry blonde hair over one shoulder. “Ready to rock your world today! I know you kind of choked it last time, but I guarantee promise you’re gonna fuck some pussy today!”
His heart skipped a beat as he felt a surge of excitement. This was really happening – he was about to experience real, live girl pussy for the first time in his life. But then she reached into her bag and pulled out something that he immediately recognized: a Fleshlight.
Her grin didn’t waver as she brandished it before him like a trophy. “Got your safety pussy here,” she declared, her tone light and breezy. “No need to worry about any fuck-failure this time around. It’s like zero pressure. No scary, demanding, or judgy vibes, you know? Just pure chill.”
The term ‘safety pussy’ felt like a slap, his fleeting excitement doused by the cold reminder of his shortcomings. Timothy swallowed hard, the flush creeping up his neck telling its own story of shame.
“Uh, yeah,” he managed, voice a croak. “Safety first, I guess.”
“Look, don’t trip about last time. This babe right here is your ticket to paradise – no stress, no drama.” Taylor’s words were meant to comfort, but they only etched his embarrassment deeper as he realized the real deal was still off-limits. A real man wouldn’t need a silicone substitute that never frowned at his performance—or lack thereof.
“Right,” he said again, forcing a nod, as if he could convince himself as much as her.
“Alright, let’s get you back on the horse. Keep it simple and start with missionary again” Taylor suggested, peeling off her tank top in one fluid motion, followed by her snug blue jeans. The reveal of sheer pantyhose hugging her curves had Timothy’s mouth going dry. He gazed at the sheet triangle of nylon that barely hid her sexual parts.
“Consider these babies your pussy protector,” Taylor quipped, tapping at the taut fabric covering her crotch. “They’ll keep your little dickie from going rogue and poking where it shouldn’t.”
“I’ll be keeping this outfit on,” Taylor said, tapping at the taut fabric covering her crotch. “It’s my pussy protector. Keeps your little dickie ffrom going rogue and poking around where it shouldn’t.”
Timothy felt every ounce of blood rush to his face. The ‘pussy protector’ was a barrier, a reminder that he couldn’t be trusted with the real thing—not without risk of failure or, worse, annoying her.
“Got it,” he replied, the words feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. His eyes darted away from her, unable to meet the kindness in her gaze that was so at odds with the reality of his situation.
“Remember,” she added, “it’s just practice. No pressure.” Taylor, with practiced ease, lay back on the bed and wedged the flesh-toned plastic pussy between her thighs, right atop the pantyhose that she had dubbed his ‘pussy protector’. “Come here, stud, and fuck my pussy” Taylor beckoned with a playful flick of her wrist, the Fleshlight held firmly in place.
Timothy shuffled forward, mounting her in imitation of the men in sex scenes he had masturbated to. As he positioned himself at the threshold of the fake orifice, The absurdity of the situation—the synthetic pussy poised as if it were a part of her—washed over Timothy in an uncomfortable wave. his body refused to cooperate, his manhood lay limp, an unresponsive witness to the farce.
“Aw, poor dickie,” Taylor cooed, her voice sugary with mock concern. “Don’t be scared of the plastic pussy. It’s not like it’s gonna bite. It’s not like a real girl pussy—no judgment here.”
Her fingers reached out, dancing along the sensitive skin of Timothy’s member. Slowly, under her persistent tickling, life began to stir within him, a reluctant firmness taking hold. “See? There you go. Just let yourself feel it. Now come on, let’s get this show on the road.”
He pushed forward, he penetrated, and the sensation of rubbery warmth enveloped him. It felt oddly comforting—a controlled space where his inadequacies could do no harm. His hips began to move in awkward, halting rhythms.
“Easy there, champ,” Taylor guided, her hand steadying his hip. “Remember to breathe. You got this.”
The struggle to maintain the fragile erection was palpable, each tentative thrust accompanied by Taylor’s chirpy affirmations.
“Like, you’re totally doing it, Timothy! Keep going, you’re rockin’ it!” Her enthusiastic words were meant to bolster his confidence, but they only magnified the gulf between this pathetic simulation and true fucking.
He continued thrusting,practicing the in-and-out movments he had seen in the videos. He tried to pace himself so he wouldn’t be a premature ejaculator. He looked at her face and noticed with worry that she seemed to be staring at the ceiling, distracted, not paying attention.
“Does it… um, feel good?” he managed to ask, his voice strained with effort.
“Oh,totally! You’re doing great! You’re fuckin’ a pussy, sorta. You’re not a fuck-failure with this one,” Taylor replied, another unintentional jab at his performance, and resumed her distracted stare. Yet as the session progressed, something within him began to surrender to the rhythm, the physical need to climax gradually overpowering his mental barriers.
“Almost there, Timmy. Just let it happen,” Taylor said softly, sensing his nearing peak. And then, with a few final desperate thrusts, Timothy’s body tensed, and he spilled into the safety pussy, the release flooding him with relief. But as the last tremors faded, so did the fleeting sense of victory; he pulled out, the fleeting satisfaction dissolving with his deflating penis, leaving behind a residue of emptiness.
“Good job, Timothy,” Taylor praised, her smile warm but unwittingly lined with pity. “You totally rocked that pussy. Even if it’s just silicone and plastic, it’s a start, right?”
“Right,” Timothy echoed. The safety pussy had been conquered. Good job. Yeah, right.
As the afterglow of his climax waned, Timothy sat on the edge of the bed, the discarded Fleshlight resting beside him like a mocking trophy of his shortcomings. Taylor, ever the empathetic soul, perched next to him, her hand gently patting his knee.
“Timmy, we need to talk. Look, babe, I hate to say it, but maybe you’re just not cut out for the whole real pussy deal. You’ve worn a groove with all that jerking off and got kinda stuck in a loop of fuck-failure. Pussy is just too much pressure and that little dickie just won’t play ball when it counts.”
Timothy felt the sting of her verdict, his heart sinking as he acknowledged the truth in her candid assessment.
Taylor continued, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a fulfilling life. The Charitable Copulator Foundation has a sort of Plan B for chronic masturbators. Masturbator Maintenance Support. It’s like this program for dudes who thrive better jerking off than dealing with the stress of actual sex,” she explained, enthusiasm lighting up her features.
“MMS?” Timothy’s voice was barely a whisper, curiosity piqued despite the humiliation.
“It’s for beta males, that decide to go pussy-free. They help you embrace your chronic masturbator status, give tips on how to rock solo sessions, and keep that dickie happy without needing pussy, ever” Taylor beamed, convinced of the program’s merits.
“Maybe that’s just who I am,” Timothy murmured, the idea sinking in, heavy yet oddly liberating. “Pathetic, virgin, beta male. I don’t deserve pussy.”
“Only if you see it that way. Some dudes find power in letting go of that alpha bullshit.” She patted his knee, her touch both comforting and patronizing.”Embrace the beta, baby. There’s no shame in rocking what works for you.”
Resignation washed over Timothy as he envisioned a future free from the anxiety of sexual encounters, a life where he no longer had to pretend to be something he wasn’t. The decision was forming, a silent acquiescence to his reality. Pussy-free. For life. Oddly, his penis stirred at the thought.
“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll sign up for MMS,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.
“Yay!” Taylor squealed. “I’m so proud of you, Timmy! And don’t worry, I’ll still come by. But I won’t be your Copulation Provider. I won’t put you under any pressure like that. I’ll just hang out with you while you masturbate. I’ll show you my feet and you can jerk to these toes in my Friend Zone.”
“That sounds … amazing.”
“But you’ll have to take the No-Pussy Pledge. Swear off pussy forever. Even though you’ve never had any. You’ll have to promise never to ask me for pussy, or any other girl. A pussyless virgin for life. Can you do that? Will you go pussy-free for me?”
“Guess I’m officially pussy-free then,” Timothy sighed, the phrase both liberating and frightening.
“Yass! That’s my boy!” Taylor cheered, and pointed at his growing erection. “See, embracing your beta can be dope.”
“Thanks, Taylor,” he said, offering a small smile as he accepted the MMS contract she handed him. Timothy filled out the registration form for Masturbator Maintenance Support, his signature at the bottom a final admission of his beta male status. He paused only a moment, and signed the No Pussy Pledge. He was pussy-free, and perhaps, just maybe, that was okay.
“Here’s to you, Timothy,” Taylor replied, raising an imaginary glass. “Just remember, no pussy, no problem.”
And with that, Timothy embraced his new reality, finding solace in the bittersweet symphony of his life’s most complex melody.
~~~ end ~~~
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The Charitable Copulation Foundation | by Richard Lovel | Copyright 2025 | All rights reserved
RL-2025-01-25