There is something magical about watching a man masturbate. The whole process, from the first stroke to the final messy eruption is, I find, mesmerisingly hypnotic.
I love to watch a man as he slowly teases himself, transforming his soft, slightly comically, flaccid penis into that steel-hard, solidly erect pole that I long to feel inside me.
It’s such a simple thing, fingers wrapped around those inches of proud flesh, rubbing it, stroking it until he pushes himself over the edge. And yet, despite the inherent simplicity of the act, there are as many variations in technique as there are men. Some stroke lightly, from start to finish, keeping an even pace. Others start slowly and increase the pace as their climax approaches. Still, others beat frantically, turning it into a sprint to the finish.
Some men grip tightly, their fingers wrapped around their shafts, gripping it like a baton in a relay race as they pump up and down. Others circle their cock with their thumb and forefinger, teasing, caressing, almost coaxing their eventual climax.
I’ve watched quite a few men get themselves off, and every one did it differently, applying different amounts of pressure and beating out their own particular rhythms in the pursuit of their pleasure.
I love to watch the expressions on their faces. I love to listen to the various sounds that they make. I love they way that they are inhabiting their own worlds, and I have no idea what thoughts they are relying on as they travel to their orgasmic destination.
And then there are those little signs that speak so loudly of the state of a man’s arousal. The changes in his breathing, the tension in his thighs, the tautness of his lower torso, the tightening around the eyes; all indicating that the pressure for release is building inexorably inside him.
A soft sigh, a deep moan, a slight tightening of his grip tell me that he is on the brink. His free hand presses firmly against his inner thigh as the tension grows.
A grimace, a tightening of the jaw and the muscles around his eyes tell me he is trying to hold back, delay the inevitable, extend his pleasure.
And then there’s that magical moment, that split second when he succumbs to the inevitable, that briefest instant in time when he realises that, like King Canute standing before the incoming tide, he can no longer prevent the what is about to occur. There is something almost bittersweet for him in that moment; the sweetness of orgasm, the bitterness of ending.
And then he comes. Thick jets of sticky white loveliness erupt from his cock. As he sends this lovely substance shooting through the space between us, the tension visibly drains from his body. His breathing is laboured, his heart pounds in his chest, sweat forms on his brow; yet at the same time he relaxes, drained, content, satisfied.
If I weren’t so hungry for the feel cock inside me, I could happily watch men do this endlessly.