I saw my stepdaughter, Ashleigh, off through security on the Sunday morning following Thanksgiving. My wife and her ex-husband share joint custody of the adorable little thirteen-year old, and as they live in different states these days, Ashleigh lives with her father and his wife during the school year, and stays with her mother – my wife – and me during every holiday and vacation. The long summer vacation provides us all an ample opportunity to relax and develop a family routine, but the holiday breaks are always such a rush. During those, Ashleigh lives out of her suitcase.
With Thanksgiving behind us, I had begun to feel the pressure of preparing for the Christmas holiday. Thanksgiving had fallen on the 24th this year, today was the 27th, leaving me twenty eight days till Christmas Eve, inclusive. Barely enough time, if I was to reach my goal. But with diligence, it would be time enough.
Considering this sense of time pressure, you might wonder why I volunteered to take two hours on a holiday-season Sunday to get Ashleigh to the airport, rather than leaving the time-consuming chore to her own mother. You might also wonder why I lingered outside security, as the cute little seventh-grader wended her way slowly but surely through the rope-maze leading up to the security checkpoint, along with about a hundred other holiday travelers.
Well, the answers to both these questions lie in the fact that neither decision was likely to hinder my project; my time pressure was self-imposed, and both choices would in fact support my endeavors immensely.
First, I had volunteered to drive Ashleigh to the regional airport so that I would have time alone with her suitcase when I put it in the trunk. While she dawdled inside, saying goodbye to her mother, her aunt, and other relatives, I had rummaged through the bag and secured a treasure indeed: a pair of just-worn panties, which the abbreviated vacation had not allowed my wife to launder, and which sported a yellowing, drying crust where yesterday the gusset had been pressed into her adolescent crease.
Alone in the garage with my prize, I re-zipped her suitcase, pocketed the panties, and slammed the trunk shut. Then, unable to resist, I extracted the cute little cotton skivvies from their hiding place to press them into my face, and inhale. Exquisite: musky, tangy, erotic. And if the tip of my nose, which was buried in the pubic panel, didn't deceive me, they were still moist with the mucous of yesterday's juvenile discharge.
I was tempted, of course, to lick that ambrosia right off the fabric, as I had on so many occasions during her three-month stay last summer, but today I mastered myself. Those leavings were too precious, and too important to the cause, to squander in such a short-sighted (but delightful) self-indulgence.
So now you understand why I volunteered to take Ashleigh to the airport – it was the only way, given the hectic household, to secure her poon-infused underpants before she left for the next several weeks. But why, you might still ask, was I also wasting time at the airport, after Ashleigh was already on her way?
The answer to this second question lay in the sweet little outfit Ashleigh wore. She had changed right before handing over the suitcase and commencing her good-byes, so although my digital camera was already loaded with imagery, both in still shots and video, of the 80-pound darling's weekend (some taken with her knowledge, others not so much), this additional chapter was just too sexy to leave out. Therefore, as she slowly moved through the line, I surreptitiously operated the camera strung around my neck on its long strap, taking several dozen photos and several minute's worth of video, all without Ashleigh or anyone else being any the wiser. Thank goodness for those rotate-able view-screens!
First, I captured the young teen smiling sweetly at me, and waving goodbye. Her curly, honey-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, but left visible her budding breasts, which poked coyly out against the ribbed material of her light top – a top, incidentally, that she had chosen to wear on this brisk November day, despite the fact that it left her midriff exposed. Her tanned, tiny waist flared gently into pre-woman hips, themselves made partially bare by her low-riding pants; the waistband of baby-blue panties peeked out above these, decorating her protruding hipbones and accentuating the flatness of her nearly-concave thirteen-year old tummy.
By now, I was covertly using the camera's powerful zoom capability to focus in on her nubile midsection, just in time to capture the turn that presented her buttocks to my lens. I mentioned that her pants were low-riding. I don't really know what to call those pants. From the material, a fleecy sort of thing, I would say that they were sweatpants, but not from the cut, which was tight enough to separate her cute, spherical buns into competing globes. The material was pink, and her light blue panties peeked out even further in this rear view. But the most interesting thing about those pink pants to me was their message, described in appliqué lettering across the rise of her rump. "FLIRT!" was spelled out in a two-inch high, sparkling, cartoonish font that would have drawn my eye were it used on a mortgage company's billboard; imagine its attention-grabbing lure when scrawled across my sexy stepdaughter's sweet little bottom!
I got an excellent 30-second video clip, focused right on her astonishing little ass, as she impatiently shifted her weight from side to side. This motion caused her buns – and their coquettish caption – to undulate up and down, back and forth, side to side. This clip would definitely help me succeed in my project, and it was for its sake that I lingered at airport security, no matter how long it might delay me.
Once home, I postponed my pleasure, in order to make some progress on my more public Christmas preparations. I am happy to say that I was able to string all of our outdoor lights that afternoon.
That evening my wife, exhausted from her Thanksgiving labors and numerous guests, retired early. I retired to my study, to continue my Christmas preparations, now of the more personal sort.
Downloading the massive data card I had filled over the weekend, I proceeded to sort, edit, crop, and save the family history. First, I divided the photos into an "official" and a decidedly "unofficial" folder. The first included the entire clan at the Thursday feast, a variety of candid and set-shot images of all of our guests, including young Ashleigh. This folder was stored on the family network server, so that my wife could enjoy them, too.
The second folder included only "special" shots of my stepdaughter Ashleigh, and it was hidden, password-encoded, and kept on my personal hard drive.
I spent the next two hours sorting, selecting, resizing, and cropping these to my heart's content. I also worked on the video files, editing nice little segments to save separately. I have gotten pretty good at this, and my "Ashleigh folder," initiated only this past summer, has swelled to almost forty gigabytes of photos and videos, some of them quite breathtaking. It's amazing how much you can collect, secretly, when you get to live with an adorable moppet for an entire summer, especially when you happen to have a swimming pool. It also helps when, like me, you are already well-known as a shutterbug vis-à-vis more legitimate subjects and purposes. That way, your ever-present camera arouses no suspicion.
Among other things, I had documented the growth of my stepdaughter's breasts, from walnuts to apricots, over the course of the summer. Now, I added a November update, which unfortunately did not include bikini shots for a perfect comparison; nonetheless, it was clear that they had by now grown into mouthwatering peaches. What a miraculous age thirteen is!
Further, I had an assortment of excellently cropped images of Ashleigh's fat little mons, swelling within shorts, bikinis, and even underpants (we're an informal family, after all, during the summer months.) These are hard to capture perfectly, of course, while maintaining your cover, but given the hundreds of photos I had taken over the warm months, I was able to glean several that exhibited that ideal, split-bulb shape so aptly called a "camel-toe." Those masterpieces were segregated into their own special subfolder, for I found them "handy" whenever I wanted to give myself some relief.
Speaking of hands, while one of mine had spent the past two hours working my mouse and keyboard, sorting, sifting and editing my collection before my avid gaze, the other had spent the same period slowly stroking at my cock, which was by now a dark, angry red and seeping pre-cum. I had prolonged my pleasure long enough. It was time to move forward.
Taking a few seconds to ensure I had everything I needed for my "project," I selected the "film of the day." I had prepared an excellent twelve-second video loop, taken from that afternoon's shooting, and it was with this that I decided to resolve my need. When I double-clicked the file, it filled my 19-inch flat panel screen and began to play. With my right hand, I proceeded to steadily stroke my prick, from base to tip, running my thumb across the piss-slit at the end of every pull.
My eyes, of course, were transfixed by the image before me: a thirteen-year-old's tight little ass, swaying back and forth, almost filling the screen. Again and again the twelve-second loop cycled before my eyes, the subject perfectly framed by the camera work, its middle-school form perfectly shaped and prominently displayed by the tight, low-slung, pink stretch pants. Every twelve seconds her youthful impatience was replayed, which caused her to shift her weight from one foot to the other. This in turn caused, every twelve seconds, a saucy hip swish, and a concomitant deflexing of one bun, followed by the complementary flexing of the other. Altogether, this motion caused, every twelve seconds, the word "FLIRT" to ripple provocatively across the forbidden fruit of my stepdaughter's sassy young bottom, like a banner waving in challenge. And every twelve seconds, in a primal response, my balls tightened further, my knob tingled more anxiously, and my hand pumped more energetically.
I had, at various times throughout the evening's tasks, sampled the aromatic delights of Ashleigh's soiled knickers, but I had been careful to avoid overload, always setting them aside after a sniff or two. I certainly had not wanted my olfactory nerves to develop a tolerance threshold for the wonderful substance. Now, however, it was time to overdose.
While my right hand continued to work rhythmically along my tensioning manhood, my left hand raised the purloined panties once again to my face. My earlier discipline had been worthwhile for, as the musky fragrance of my stepdaughter's precocious cunt again assaulted my sinuses, it hit me like the very first scent.
I was immediately dizzied by the experience, becoming light-headed from either my self-induced hyperventilation, or the drug-like effects of my step-daughter's rich pheromone-laden quimstain. Probably, both factors played their part; in the event, there is but one description for the sensation: intoxication.
I think my eyes crossed in a daze of delight as they struggled, over my feverishly inhaling nose in its nest of crumpled cotton panties, to keep an attentive focus on the pink-clad bottom swishing across the screen before me. In exultation, I came, and huge gouts of stepfatherly semen spewed out of my delighted prick, to splatter all over my heaving naked chest and belly.
After this climax, my real task began. Using a plastic spoon, I scooped the cooling dollops of semen off of my torso and, after ensuring that each spoonful was free of stray hairs and lint, I tapped it into a glass specimen jar I had picked up at the drug store. When this task was complete, I screwed the cap onto the jar and immediately put it in the freezer portion of my study's mini refrigerator.
Next, I placed the wonderfully pungent panties into a zip lock bag, which I sealed carefully. I have found that this expedient will serve to prolong the period over which a fresh pair of soiled schoolgirl panties can retain their erotic aromatic charm. If I took care of this pair, they would "work for me" all the way until Christmas Eve, when Ashleigh would once again be in the house.
Finally, I shut down my computer and went to bed.
The next day, I went to work, came home, ate dinner with my wife, and when I had "communicated" with her long enough, I skulked off to my study. On this night, I gently stimulated myself while reading porn stories from my favorite website, which happens to focus on topics like incest and the despoilment of young teenaged girls. After stroking myself for about ninety minutes in this fashion, and thus building up a great deal of seminal pressure, I again unwrapped Ashleigh's panties, and I again enjoyed the intoxicating inhalant that her underage Ooze Groove had so recently produced.
This time, I selected a nice slide show of special "camel-toe" photos for the visual accompaniment, and the ultimate result was that I again blasted forth a prodigious load of a stepfather's contribution, gasping in my orgasmic two-fold enjoyment of the seventh-grader's sweet little pussy – experiencing it this night in both sight and scent.
Once I had caught my breath, I reached over to the fridge, and removed the collection jar from the freezer. I had to take care while executing this motion, in order not to dislodge any of the pools of cum on my back-leaning torso. It would not do at all for any of that liquefying substance to run off of me before it could be properly collected. I unscrewed the jar top, glanced inside to see a frozen layer at the bottom, and then scooped today's deposit in on top of the first. Quickly, I returned the jar to the freezer, its contents now doubled.
I dutifully tidied up, and went to bed, to rest my body for the next day's exertions.
On the third night, after my wife had gone to bed, I enjoyed some Japanese porn. I have a great collection of this stuff, downloaded directly from the Internet in some cases, and purchased through DVD exporters in others. The ubiquity of young-looking JAV Idols being "molested" in their sailor-type schoolgirl uniforms assures me that I am not alone in my appreciation of this aesthetic. On this night, I selected a video by a very petite, very young-looking star named Minori Aoi, who is definitely over eighteen but looks much younger. In this video, as in so many others of the genre, the female star is stripped of her school uniform, in this case by two men, and then put through a variety of paces. She is forced to fellate the men; she is bound up in red rope; she is fucked in a variety of positions and combinations; and finally her co-stars give her a double-barreled blast of cum across her adorable, innocent-looking face.
I replayed that last bit, this time while sniffing the carefully-preserved crotch panel of my stepdaughter's panties, and blasted an impressive single-barreled load of my own. Again, I took care to properly save and store my copious spend.
I guess this whole fascination of mine had started with Japanese porn. For the longest time, I had collected it, along with other matter to my taste, off of the internet. At first, the whole "bukkake" thing sort of eluded me. But then, one day last summer, while masturbating to a slideshow of Ashleigh playing twister with one of her girlfriends, the stray thought of coming all over her elfin face crossed my mind, unbidden, at the precise moment of my orgasm. From that moment I was hooked.
The first time I gratified this despicable urge was by simply adulterating her hair conditioner with a teaspoon full of my fresh cum, minutes before she got out of our pool and took a shower.
Half an hour later, as she joined my wife and me at the dinner table, I couldn't help but smile, so foolishly that both Ashleigh and her mother asked the cause. I gave no answer, but couldn't stop grinning.
Although I gave no answer, there was an answer: Ashleigh's hair was still wet, and I was certain that contributing to that moisture in some small portion was my own sperm.
After this success, I tried other things. Like depositing a fresh glob of my cum into a bottle of her hand lotion. Later, I actually saw her rubbing white goo – part lotion, part spew -- in to her hands, innocently play-acting for my enjoyment the final scene of one of my fantasies: an Ashleigh-administered handjob.
I snuck into her bathroom the next day to pour a good cumload into her face cream. I realized just in time that I had to mix that in a bit, as it was pooling in an obvious way on top of the cream. She might not have known it was my cum, but she would certainly have known it wasn't face cream. A few swirls of my fingertip, however, successfully folded the special sauce in. I didn't get to watch her use the cream, but the next morning, when I meditated upon the knowledge that this gorgeous little thing had slept all night with my own sperm seeping into the pores of those glowing, clear-complexioned cheeks, I sprung a SERIOUS hard-on.
A few days later, my summer descent continued. I snooped around her bathroom, seeking a new thrill for my depravity. Of course, I found it: her toothpaste. I retrieved an eyedropper to successfully introduce my teeming seed into a tube of Crest. Again, to prevent a watery pool of clearish liquid from dribbling out and onto her brush, I put the cap back on and squeezed the tube this way and that, to mix it all together nicely.
Apparently this worked, for although Ashleigh is a diligent and frequent brusher, I never once heard a complaint about the texture or taste of her toothpaste. What a joy it was to gaze upon her freshly-brushed pearly whites every morning after that, as she smiled at me in her dazzling way. Thereafter, every few days, I made sure to recharge her Crest with fresh sperm.
From the point of employing toothpaste to convey my uninvited sperm directly into her bubble-gum sweet mouth, it wasn't much of a conceptual leap to begin seeking a means to unrighteously transport that step-paternal spooge all the way into her adolescent tummy. I wanted Ashleigh swallowing my cum, and lots of it. But I had to be very careful
First, the chosen comestible had to be very selective. I certainly didn't want to accidentally lace MY dinner with any sperm, even my own!
Additionally, I didn't want to bear any risk of Ashleigh accidentally switching plates or glasses with my wife. Firstly, because what's the fun in watching your wife of five years swallowing your cum, especially cum that had been specifically collected for the benefit of a thirteen-year-old girl?
Secondly, I had no idea how much my semen might alter the taste of the food or drink. I was pretty sure that Ashleigh had never tasted semen – well, other than my own, unwittingly. My wife certainly had, knowingly. She just might recognize the taste, and it wouldn't take a sleuth to track down its source in our household! Now, how on earth would I answer the obvious question, "Why?" if that happened?
So first I thought of Coke. My wife doesn't drink it, she drinks iced tea. So one evening I stood at the kitchen counter and poured a can of Coke into a glass to serve up to Ashleigh with dinner. I pulled a vial out of my pocket, opened it, and poured a decent dram or so of slurpy white cum into her glass.
This was a mistake.
Semen and Coke do not mix. I watched in alarm as my stringy cum revolved like a stellar nebula through the translucent brown liquid, never separating, never dissolving, just branching and rolling. I quickly tossed it all down the drain and, smiling at my inquisitive family, said, "A fly landed in it." I poured a new glass for Ashleigh and sat down to dinner. Unfortunately, my stepdaughter was not afforded a dietary supplement that evening – it had been wasted, literally down the drain.
I was so disappointed by this setback that I decided to conduct experiments into the matter. I will share the results, so that if you are blessed with a young teenaged girl in your own household, you can avoid my mistake and enjoy immediate success, once you realize just how hot it would be to get her to unknowingly swallow your cum before your very eyes.
Semen does not blend in with soda. Not even if you stir it vigorously. Sure, this action will separate the strands, until the particles are so small as to be unnoticeable. But then, as the drink settles, something unsettling happens. Almost as though semen possesses a sort of hive intelligence, the particles are somehow attracted to each other, until the ultimate result is some kind of alien-style reconstitution of the original glob!
A similar result is found with other clearish liquids: iced tea, water, apple juice, etc.
So then I tried milk. Milk works much better, but again, take care! Even in milk, and even after a vigorous stirring, the glob will reconstitute, although it seems less coherent in this medium. More importantly, milk is not translucent, and it is closer to the color of the semen. Milk works fine, if you follow these precautions.
1) Do not use too much semen. This mix is never perfect, and too much semen will be obvious, forming a floating moss-like layer near the top if it is allowed to settle long enough. However, you can put up to an ounce of semen in an eight-ounce glass, and get away with it, if you also:
2) Mix it thoroughly, right before giving it to your recipient, and
3) She drinks it relatively quickly thereafter.
The first time I watched young Ashleigh gulp down a glass of cum-laced cow-juice, I almost came in my pants.
For the rest of the summer, a day hardly passed but Ashleigh either had her toothpaste re-charged with a fresh dose of eager sperm, or she drank a glass of milk lovingly prepared by her doting stepfather, or both. And it all became rather humdrum.
Now don't get me wrong – having started down this path, it had practically become an obsession for me. Psychically, I could no more blithely skip a day of introducing my semen onto or into my stepdaughter's body than I could happily ignore an obvious gap in a treasured set of porn pix. Sure, it happened from time to time – for example, when I occasionally had sex with her mother, and "wasted" my production. Or when she had Coke with dinner, instead of milk – in which case she'd get a double dose on the morrow. But the practice developed into enough of a compulsion for me that I experienced a degree of anxiety every day, nagging at me until the moment I witnessed my cum being safely taken into her petite body through her pouty lips and down her accepting throat. Weird, huh?
However, like I said, the anxiety of a "collector" notwithstanding, doing the same thing every day got a little boring. Sure, I spiced it up with variety when I could, like when I made her a sundae, covered in chocolate sauce, nuts, whipped cream, and three day's worth of refrigerated semen.
And then there was the variation I tried at the end of the summer, right before she headed back to school. The variation? Raw quantity.
The idea came to me from watching bukkake videos, which in light of my new-found hobby had begun to take a more central role in my entertainment repertoire. If you don't know, in a classic bukkake film, a young woman is forced to kneel in the center of a room, as man after man jerks off into her face. By the end of the film, she might have the semen of twenty or thirty guys oozing down her hair, face, and chest.
A variation on this theme is "gokkun," which is a Japanese word like the English onomatopoeic "gulp," whose meaning it shares. In gokkun films, the girl swallows, or gulps, the collected semen, often after playing with it, spitting it into her hand and then slurping it back up, perhaps even passing it back and forth, mouth-to-mouth, with another girl several times.
Sometimes, all the ejaculation happens off-screen, and the video concentrates solely on the female consumption of cum – sometimes the pretty little thing chugs a whole wineglass or even a BOWL absolutely brimming with the viscous stuff.
In one favorite video of mine, the name of which I believe translates into something like "Rapid Fire," the viewer can watch an adorable Japanese girl, who is over eighteen but looks maybe fourteen to my Western eyes, as she successively swallows 100 loads of cum over the course of a two hour movie. The exact figure can be relied upon, because a running scoreboard "pings" off her progress, from "001" to the celebratory "100," while the camera captures her cumplay throughout, into which she incorporates spoons, glasses, fingers, food, and, most especially, various contortions of her spermified tongue.
So I guess it is more accurate to say that it was gokkun, rather than bukkake, that I was attempting to emulate towards the end of the summer. In fact, it was a nefarious, depraved, and obscene form of gokkun, to be perpetrated on an unsuspecting, innocent young girl. In other words, it was hot as hell!
My plan was to accumulate a full ounce of my cum, storing it up by immediately freezing each day's offering until I had enough. I thought this would take me four or five days, but up until that point, I hadn't really measured my ejaculation.
In practice, it took me over a week before the collected specimen reached the "1 Oz." line on the graduated vial. Frankly, I was lucky that I had embarked upon this project two weeks prior to her departure, or I would not have made it.
As it was, one Friday evening, late in August, my thirteen-year old stepdaughter drained before my delighted eyes an eight ounce glass of milk, her throat gamely bobbing up and down as she gulped the beverage down.
Oh, did I say an eight ounce glass of milk? Make that seven ounces of milk, plus a full fluid ounce of her own stepfather's cum.
During her Thanksgiving visit, the fascination of the summer's end returned to me, but we had far too many other relatives underfoot for me to successfully deliver Ashleigh repeated helpings of my protein supplement.
But I did pull off one caper. I prepared a special batch of whipped cream, when we "ran out," which included about a half-ounce of collected sperm. But that was spread pretty thin. I put a generous dollop on every piece of pumpkin pie, and then carefully stuck with mince meat myself. Not only did Ashleigh have the pumpkin, but so did my wife, her cousin, and her much younger sister, Tammy. Now, I've always wanted to fuck Tammy, and she's got a sweet rack of tits, so it didn't displease me to watch her lap down, with apparent relish, my whipped man-cream. But Tammy was no competition for thirteen-year old Ashleigh. I mean, she was like, at least twenty-four years old!
What did make me hard enough to cut diamonds was watching Ashleigh dig into her own piece of pumpkin pie, and in so doing get a fluff of whipped cream stuck on the tip of her button nose. It perched there, teeming with my sperm, for a minute at least before her mother pointed it out. Without embarrassment, my sexy stepdaughter wiped it off with a fingertip, and then LICKED HER FINGER CLEAN. After dinner, I found a little "me time" as quickly as I could, to zestfully relive that memory, cock in hand.
But it was the next day, with all the talk, television, and advertising about the next holiday, Christmas, which heralded my masterwork – my magnum opus – my Christmas Pageant.
After my late-summer discovery, about how long it takes to collect an ounce of semen, I had been doing some research. In the hopes that I can save you some trouble, should you try to duplicate or surpass my accomplishments, let me share some findings with you.
Most men ejaculate between 2 and 6 milliliters of semen at a time, depending upon a variety of factors. One of these factors, of course, is the man himself: his age, natural tendencies, etc. Second, there is the time between ejaculations. I have found, through experimentation, that three or four days between "harvests" is enough to maximize the content of a load. However, I have also found that this will not produce as much, over a fixed period of time, as will daily deposits. If you are in a hurry, as I was under the circumstances, it won't do to "give it a rest" of more than a day between collections. You must pace yourself, but keep up to pace, too.
A second factor is the length of time one spends stimulating oneself before finally letting go. The longer you prolong the masturbatory act, the more semen, basically.
A third factor, which I am unable to test scientifically, is the intake of zinc. During this holiday season, I took PLENTY of zinc supplements, and they must have helped. I just can't prove that part.
So, here is what my experiments, prior to Thanksgiving, had already taught me. I can ejaculate on a daily basis, provided about an hour's worth of masturbation, accompanied by visual porn and a good fuck story or two, between a dram (about 4 ml) and a teaspoon (about 6 ml) of semen. If I keep my hands off of myself for a couple of days, and then subject my gonads to the same exquisite, prolonged torture, I can coax out something like 1-1/2 teaspoons.
On the day after Thanksgiving, I did a quick calculation of how much time I had, including the Sunday following Thanksgiving, my proposed start date, and the late afternoon of Christmas Eve itself, my last possible opportunity "to give." Twenty-eight days.
There are twenty-four teaspoons in four ounces.
There are thirty-two drams in four ounces.
Twenty-eight days. On average, I'd have to split the difference to make it. I'd have to produce a full teaspoon one day for every day I produced only a dram. In other words, my balls (well, actually, my prostate gland) would have to produce and expel, on average, 5 milliliters of semen a day to reach my goal of four ounces in time. And as I've mentioned, to consistently reach even these levels, I would have to commit to an hour or so of self-stimulation every day. So you see why I felt so harried this Christmas season – I had a LOT of work to do, and not a lot of time.
I was doing alright. Each evening, I'd spend an hour or so in my study, wanking my wang and gawking at porn, or at photos of Ashleigh, or video clips of either, and then I'd bring myself off and collect the slimy results, taking care to keep the growing supply well-frozen.
Naturally, I intended to completely avoid sexual contact with my wife during this period, and I assumed that this wouldn't be too difficult – we've been married a few years now. But wouldn't you know it, one night during the second week of my diligent efforts, she made some noises about going to bed early – together. I made some excuse about having a ton of work to do in my study.
Now, don't get the wrong idea. My wife is still in great shape, and under different circumstances, I'd be happy to slide my fuck-tool into the jelly sheath of her highly-practiced vagina and release myself within her mating organ. But not this night – not this month!
I could not countenance losing a wad of semen, a solid day's work for my highly taxed genitalia, inside a grown woman's cunt! Besides, I had discovered the previous evening a forgotten little home video clip from the past summer, and I had been looking forward all day to the prospect of beating off to the moving image of thirteen-year old Ashleigh, walking away from my zooming-in camera, as her bikini-clad bottom swished with an instinctual invitation. I wasn't going to deny myself that tonight!
Luckily, I got away with the excuse, and didn't have to have real sex.
As the days went on, I kept at my preparations, and slowly but surely, the specimen jar began to fill up. Peering within it every evening, I observed a growing gray-streaked, whitish solid that represented my progress, my countdown to Christmas Eve.
And by the end of each evening, like a child opening a new day's flap on a paper Advent calendar, I systematically marked another day by adding another layer of hot cum atop this mass, to be quickly cooled and preserved, bringing me closer to four ounces, and to Christmas Eve.
On Thursday the 15th, after adding another layer of scum to the cause, I took note of my progress. I was beginning to worry about diminishing returns. I resolved to tease myself longer before cumming, in order to coax a greater flow from my overwrought organ. I had only nine more ejaculations to go!
The next evening, Friday the 16th, was my company's Christmas party. Finally, finally, after all these months, Cindy Hobson from reception, a delicious big-titted morsel no older than nineteen, got back to me on an almost-forgotten proposition I had made weeks earlier. I guess the Cosmopolitans were getting to her, for she cornered me in a conference room and practically tried to tear my clothes off!
Luckily, I fended her off. Damn it! Why now? I'd been hot for her holes for months, and now I had to turn it away. I didn't think I'd get another chance. After I tried to kindly refuse her, she begged me to accept a blowjob. You don't know how hard it was to turn that down! I suspected that come morning, a sober and now humiliated Cindy Hobson would dislike me very much, and vow to never give me another shot.
I can tell you that I didn't like myself very much in the morning, either, for when I arrived home, pretty much snookered, I fell asleep without completing that day's installment. I felt like a damn fool the next day. There was no excuse. I had to reach four ounces by Christmas Eve, and now I'd squandered a precious day.
Seeking a way to make up the shortfall, I pored through internet articles and postings of dubious academic rigor, until I thought I had finally found an edge. I had never considered such a thing before, and the very prospect was embarrassing. Perhaps I was intentionally drawn to the shame of it all, in order to expiate my guilt over missing a day. But the situation was desperate, because as I already mentioned, with or without the missed day, I was not sanguine about my accumulation rate.
I have masturbated quite a bit in my life. In fact, I think I deserve some kind of Honorary Doctorate in the field. But I've never subjected myself to such a rigorous program, beating off for an hour or more every day and driving myself to produce such a continuous supply of semen. I was seeing a decline, on average, in my daily production. Some days I produced a mere three milliliters (I had taken to measuring each day's spend before adding it to the jar). I had to reverse this trend.
So, the day after the infamous office Christmas party, I made a shamefaced visit to a seedy adult book store in an unincorporated district of the county, and made a purchase.
That night, after devoting myself to a full two hours of enhanced stimulation, my efforts and embarrassment were rewarded. I came in buckets – or at least in milliliters. ELEVEN milliliters, or almost TWO FULL TEASPOONS, spurted out of my hyper-stimulated loins, an effluence which was so welcome that I carefully scooped it up, measured it, and added it to the jar before I even bothered to switch off and remove the slender but relentlessly buzzing, prostate-stimulating butt-plug I had reluctantly slid up my rectum more than two hours before.
It is embarrassing, but it worked. With one week to go, I committed myself to at least ninety minutes of anal stimulation every night, to make sure I finished strong on the homestretch.
The vibrating butt-plug did indeed seem to increase my output significantly – I scooped up six or seven milliliters every night for the rest of that week, and I noted with satisfaction the inexorable progress in my jar of frozen specimen. With the addition of the battery-powered toy, to tickle and tease my prostate, it looked like I'd reach my goal of four full ounces by Christmas Eve.
But I'm afraid I have to admit something else. Even if I discovered that the butt-plug was NOT adding to my flow, I wouldn't have given it up at this point. Because, you see, I had discovered that it felt fantastic.
If felt GOOD each evening, as I worked the greased, flanged toy in, stretching my by-now accommodating sphincter.
It felt WONDERFUL for over an hour – some nights, more like two -- buzzing away inside me, stimulating my prostate gland and vibrating throughout the jangled nerves of my entire pelvic region – from deep in my colon, through my scrotum, and along my shaft – as I dutifully built myself up, pulling on my prick and reading or viewing my porn. Some nights I had to change its batteries before I was finished, to keep it going full force.
But the pleasure was INDESCRIBABLE each evening as my orgasm hit me, and the pent-up, mechanically-enhanced tension was finally released in a veritable seizure of ecstasy.
First, my scrotum would snap tight and drive my testicles up into my groin like an angry kick to the crotch, which despite that accurate description was not unpleasant in the slightest. This scrotal contraction propelled my accumulated sperm from the epididymis atop each gonad up through my vas deferens ducts to my agitated prostate and seminal vesicles, where it mixed with the now-abundant fluids the prolonged, deep-seated teasing had generated.
Next, my asshole would clamp down and, finding its progress unnaturally impeded by the inserted intruder, it would spasm around the rubber, vibrating tool in an epileptic fit.
This fluttering action, deep in my guts, added to the violence of my ejaculation, as my now well-mixed spooge was explosively ejected through the length of my urethra, spouting through my gaping piss-hole and launching itself through the air in an impressive trajectory, to finally spatter and spray across my heaving, naked torso in a fountain of mastubatory lava.
I tell you, you really must give it a try!
On Friday, December 23rd, I spent the day at work in anxious anticipation. My jar was effectively full, although I intended to add one more load that evening, and perhaps a fresh warm one, last minute, on Christmas Eve itself.
The skin on my dick was worn, red, and chapped, and there were a couple of spots where my excessive rubbing had worn the skin into angry scrapes. I administered moisturizing lotion at several points throughout the day, just to relieve the discomfort under my dress pants.