a confession by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by dongaddict.
Masturbating nonstop does have some benefits for a pathetic masturbator like me. It’s like a specialized training, a downward spiral that only I can appreciate. After weeks of making myself cum two, three, four times a day, my dick is always in this half-wilted, raw, hyper-sensitive state. If I touch myself unprepared, it stings; but if I’m patient, if I warm myself up with endless porn and humiliation fantasies and careful edging, I can achieve this astonishing plateau: a phase where my cock is limp or almost limp, but the pleasure is exponentially more intense than when it’s hard and eager. I never would have figured this out if it weren’t for Richard showing me how to be a real failure.
It’s not just the physical sensation that gets me: it’s the psychological depth, the depravity and helplessness and self-hatred all braided together into something like a religious experience. When I start, it’s usually in my bedroom, headphones on, slow at first. I scroll through chat logs, fake emails, the endless archive of my own humiliation. Sometimes I make myself watch old videos of my dick leaking on command, the sound of Richard’s voice in the background, telling me I’m a tragic disappointment, a perfect waste. My limp dick leaks at the memory alone, and I reach down, not to stroke but to massage it, squeezing and playing with the tip while my whole body shudders.
At first, I thought it was a fluke, a dysfunction. Now, I know it’s a higher calling. When I get to the point where my cock is a useless, spongy little thing, flopping around, barely even able to twitch, that’s when the pleasure starts to bloom. It’s not even a regular orgasm—it’s like my entire body is cumming from the inside out, in slow, shivering, tidal shocks. I can’t even tell when it’s technically over; the aftershocks continue for minutes, sometimes longer.
The best part is, thanks to Richard’s coaching, I’ve learned to make it even more intense by narrating my own downfall. If I say it out loud—tell the empty room that I’m a loser, a limp-dicked chronic masturbator, a literal nobody—it hits me with a force that makes me sob, sometimes for real. It sounds so pathetic, but it’s the only time I feel genuinely alive. Sometimes I record myself: I have a folder of voice memos labeled “loser sessions.” The most humiliating ones are the best; I play them back when I’m desperate for release, and the sound of my own shaky, broken voice pushes me over the edge every time.
Finding the right time to do this is almost impossible. I live with roommates, and even with a lock on my door I’m always afraid of being caught. The risk makes it hotter, but it also means I have to ration my precious alone time. I plan for days, save it up, fantasize for hours on end. Sometimes I can’t wait, and I end up doing a quick, unsatisfying session in the shower or under the covers late at night, but it’s never as good as when I can set the stage, dim the lights, prepare myself for a marathon.
Last night was a rare opportunity. Both of my roommates were at work for the evening, so I had the apartment to myself. I started with edging while watching loser humiliation porn, then recorded a few new voice memos: “I’m a pathetic limp-dicked masturbation addict. I’ll never please anyone.” I listened to them on repeat, letting my cock hang uselessly between my legs, leaking and twitching at the sound of my own voice. It was the best, most intense ruined orgasm I’ve had in months—my vision went white, my ears rang, and I ended up curled in a ball on my bed, blubbering like a little kid.
But there’s a trade-off: after a session like that, I get this crushing, empty ache that sneaks up on me in the quiet moments. I want more. I want to be told what to do. I want someone to see me like this, to make it real. Richard used to do that for me, but now it’s just me and my phone and an endless swipe of pathetic, lonely sessions. Sometimes I daydream about someone barging in and seeing me at my most vulnerable, limp dick in hand, voice cracking as I beg for release.
I wish I could say it was enough, that I could just keep jerking off and narrating my own downfall forever, but I know I’m going to need something more soon. I can feel it building, like a storm in my gut. I can hardly get through a day without thinking about my next session, the next chance to really lose myself. I want to be humiliated. I want to be destroyed. I want to find out just how low I can go.
So now I lie in bed, hands still sticky, dick still twitching, listening to the echo of my own voice on loop: “pathetic, limp, useless, loser.” And I wonder how long it will be before I need it again.
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