More Perfectly Normal
All my stories take place in a parallel world, very similar to our own, where STI’s do not exist, so my stories are filled with practices that are highly unsafe in this world. I’m not going to say don’t try this at home, but take care of yourself.
All my characters are of legal age, and you should be, too—do not read my stories if you are under the legal age in your country/area. Any resemblance to real persons, locations, or events is entirely coincidental.
This story is brought to you by my wonderful Patrons. I love you guys!
And now, our feature presentation…
I left Doctor Wellington’s office and started to drive home in a daze. I’d gone my whole life without masturbating, and I’d just done it four times, right in front of my doctor. Thinking back to it, to writhing on that couch as he watched me do it for the first time, then the second, third, and fourth time, I realized that it wasn’t enough.
I needed to masturbate again.
“It’s normal to masturbate all the time,” I muttered under my breath, one hand on the steering wheel, and the other working to clumsily free my erection. Even as I did it, I realized that people in the other cars might see. If I didn’t stop now…
But the idea of them seeing was making me want to do it even more.
Freed from its confinement, I started slowly working my dick over while I drove, getting a little thrill of excitement every time I noticed a guy in another car. They all masturbated, too.
“Masturbating is normal,” I reiterated. “I love masturbating!”
The drive melted into a blur of pleasure, and before I knew it, I was pulling up to the apartment building that I lived in. It was catered to students at the local colleges and universities, but you didn’t have to be a student to live there, fortunately for me.
I put the car in park and settled deeper into my seat, my hand gliding up and down, the motion slicked by the precum that was gushing from my cock with each burst of pleasure. I had parked right in front of the volleyball court, and there were a couple of groups of guys playing a game, barefoot and shirtless as they ran through the sand.
I wonder if they’ve masturbated today.
My eyes rolled back into my head, and a prolonged, high pitched squeak escaped me as my cock exploded. I actually managed to cum on the ceiling of my car!
“Aww, yeeeahhhh, fiiiiiive!” I gasped as the pleasure started to fade and my vision cleared. There was cum everywhere. The windshield, the roof, the seats… All over me. I gasped again and felt my cock lurch. My car was surrounded by leering, shirtless college boys. From this close, I could see sweat and sand clinging to their flesh.
I wanted to masturbate again, right there, with all of them watching, but that wouldn’t be… That wouldn’t be right! I gathered myself and got out of the car, pushing my way through the group of leering guys.
“Haha, fuckin’ homo.”
“What a faggot.”
“Bitch all covered in cum.”
“Aww, come back, don’t you wanna play with us?”
“Yeah, we can make some room for you.”
I made it inside my door, threw the latch, and pressed my back against the solid wood. Those guys, had they wanted to do sex with me?
I need to masturbate again!
I pulled my cock out, leaning against the door for support, spat in my hand, and started pumping again. It felt like the more I did it, the better it was feeling. I just couldn’t understand why my parents had been so against something so good and normal.
“Masturbating is normal,” I said automatically, barely registering the fact that I’d even done it.
Those guys had all seen me doing it. They’d watched me cum all over myself. They had laughed at me, and made fun, because masturbating was normal.
“Masturbating is normal,” I repeated, my fist frantically flying up and down my engorged, purple, meat.
“I need to masturbate!” I yelled, spraying a few squirts of cum down onto the patterned, industrial carpet. “Yeah, that was six!” I panted, stumbling over to the couch to sit down and catch my breath. My cock was still out of my pants. It wasn’t hard, but… It never looked like this before. It’s like it really was swollen—it looked thicker and longer than usual—red, puffy, needy.
Had I masturbated too much?
Did I have to worry about that?
Doctor Wellington said to see how many times I could do it!
He would have told me if you could do it too much.
I got up and pulled off my clothes, the cool air from the AC sending gooseflesh across my shoulders as my nipples both hardened into delightfully painful nubs. I walked naked into the kitchen and opened a drawer to pull out a little moleskin notebook I’d purchased for some odd reason a couple of years before. It had a few notes in it, but I tore those pages out. On the first blank page, using the flat little pen that fit in the notebook like a bookmark, I began my tally. I stood there for a few moments, staring at the six little marks on the page.
One for every time I’ve ever masturbated.
Since I was already in the kitchen, I grabbed a chicken salad sandwich, a glass of water, and took the pill Doctor Wellington had prescribed. Maybe it would help me now, since I’m masturbating like I’m supposed to.
I felt bad for making Doctor Wellington work that hard just to get me to do something that was so perfectly normal and felt so good. I should have just masturbated for him from the start!
Sitting at the table, I struggled to ignore my erection as I ate my dinner. I wanted to masturbate so bad, so I hoovered the sandwich and went to my room, falling naked onto my bed. The sheets were still a little damp, and I could smell all the cum I’d squirted out in my sleep the night before. I closed my eyes, huffing, and started masturbating again, my world dissolving as everything but my cock disappeared.
I passed out before I reached ten, and even though I had masturbated all day, I still woke up several times during the night with additional orgasms.
But that didn’t bother me anymore.
A week later I was sitting in the parking lot of Doctor Wellington’s office. I was staring down at the notebook, counting the tally marks tracking how many times I’d masturbated so far.
I’d masturbated 83 times! Was that good enough for Doctor Wellington? Was that normal? Was that too much? I’d long since stopped wearing underwear. I hooked the leg of the shorts up over my dick to liberate it, pausing to watch my already-well-abused erection twitch and bounce. It didn’t matter that I was exposed, sitting in my car.
All that mattered was 84.
“So, Jacob, how was your first week as a masturbator?” Doctor Wellington asked as I settled onto his couch. My face went red, and my cock throbbed.
“I… Uh, it was—” I began.
“Let me stop you right there. Masturbating is normal. You are a masturbator, and there is no shame in that. Say it.”
“I’m a masturbator, and there’s no shame in that!” I obeyed, and my hands went to the crotch of my pants, opening them up as fast as possible. Before I knew what was happening, I had started masturbating on my doctor’s couch.
Doctor Wellington just grinned over at me. Even though he was smiling, there was something dark about his expression.
“Ohnno,” I slurred, struggling to stop stroking myself. “I’m sorry!”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Jacob. Masturbating is normal,” he reminded me. I sighed in relief, and my hand started gliding up and down my shaft in earnest.
“Yeah!” I gasped. “I need to masturbate!”
“Of course you do, Jacob. It’s normal to masturbate.”
“Fuck, yeah it is!”
“Have you still been having wet dreams?” He asked me, still watching as I pumped away on his couch.
“Yes!” I confessed. “It’s like my brain is masturbating in my sleep!” I added.
“That makes sense. After all, you need to masturbate all the time,” he said reasonably.
“Uh, yeah, I need to masturbate all the time!” I agreed.
“Did you?” He asked. I didn’t understand.
“Did I what?” I asked, my hand slowing down as I struggled to think.
“Masturbate all the time, silly,” he clarified.
“I think I did. I’m just not sure how much is normal.
“Well, an average man your age should have masturbated roughly once for every day he’s been alive. How many times did you masturbate?” He asked.
“I, uh, 84 times,” I admitted, not sure if that was good or bad.
“Well, that’s not bad for your first week of masturbating, but you’re still really behind for your age.”
“I… How many times should I masturbate every day?” I asked, my fingertips tracing up and down my erection—I didn’t want to cum yet.
“Well, an average boy your age should have masturbated roughly 8,000 times, and a good masturbator would have done it a lot more than that, so I’d recommend masturbating all the time until you catch up.” I stared at him slack jawed, my hand freezing.
“Eight THOUSAND times?” I asked for clarification.
“For an average masturbator. It would be a lot more for a good one, and less for a bad masturbator…” He gave me a suspicious look. “You aren’t a bad masturbator, are you?”
“N-no! I was just scared! I’ll catch up,” I said, my hand gliding up my erection in long strokes. “I want to be the best masturbator!” A few spurts of cum erupted from my cock and splashed across my shirt. I wiped my fingers through the cum, gathering it, and then started masturbating again, using it as lube.
“Hmm,” Doctor Wellington said, sounding concerned. “That wasn’t very much.”
“Ohnno, there should be more?” I asked.
“Masturbating is more fun when you cum a lot, isn’t it?” He asked, and I thought about it. It was like a lightbulb had been switched on.
“Masturbating is more fun when I cum a lot!” I agreed.
“In that case, I have some different pills for you. You’ll want to take them first thing in the morning, and right before bed. You’ll be cumming more than ever before, I promise.
“Uhn! Yeeeeeahhhhh!” I cried out, another spurt erupting from my dick.
“Good job, Jacob, you’ve made a great start, but you’ve still got some blocks that we need to work through.” He said, and my stomach dropped.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, Jacob, it seems that the origin of a large amount of your trauma is your witnessing how your parents treated your older brother,” he explained. “I know you keep in touch, so I want you to bring him in with you next time, to help you.”
“Bring my brother?” I asked.
“Of course. Think about it, Jacob. You know your brother was masturbating, even though he got in trouble, right?” He asked, sounding reasonable. I felt my cock throb in my fist. I’d never thought of it before, but it was true, he was masturbating! That’s why he kept getting in trouble!
My brother masturbates, too!
I grunted and shook as I had another orgasm, this time with nothing left to come out.
“There you go, think about it—your big brother, hard, horny, stroking himself. Think about your big brother masturbating,” he chanted, sweeping me along with his words. I was helpless against the mental images playing in high definition across my brain. “Masturbating is normal,” he reminded me.
“Masturbating is normal!” I repeated.
“You need to masturbate,” he reminded me.
“Yeah, I need to masturbate.”
“You’re addicted to masturbating.” His words rang through my brain like a gong.
“I’m uhhhhhhhdicted toooo masssturrrrrbaaatttttinnnngggggg!” I cried out, another dry orgasm wracking my body.
“Yes you are. I’ll see you and your brother next week.”