My Most Epic Orgasm

Oh, dear God, my penis. 

I just knew I had broken it.

Lying there in the dark. Under the sheets.

Mortified.

Because it wouldn't stop.

Pumping. Spewing. It covered my hand, my hips, and the sheets under me with that hot, sticky stuff that had starched so many socks and towels before.

I'd been playing with myself for at least an hour.

I was probably 14.

I'd recently discovered this new favorite game. How many times could I reach that edge but, at the last second, stop myself?

I squeezed my throbbing shaft as hard as I could to interrupt the orgasm. And then I'd tease again. Over and over. Intoxicated by pleasure until at last, I succumbed to release.

Afterwards, I always journaled. "Dear Jesus, I'm so sorry."

But shame couldn't stop me from playing again.

I had LOTS of journal apologies to Jesus.

This time was different though. I went longer, seeking a new edge.

I didn't expect to erupt like that.

Once it started, no amount of squeezing could stop it. At first, it felt good. Amazing, even. But as my orgasm persisted and my fluids started to soak the sheets around me, my heart sank.

"God is judging me."

Mom did all the laundry. She'd know.

It just kept pumping.

My fingers ran over the wet sheets at my sides. The consistency was different somehow. Thinner and crystalline.

"What have I done?"

And it kept pumping.

"I'm going to end up in the hospital."

Pleasure became torment.

Not physical.

Mental.

The most epic orgasm of my life, drenched in shame.

Shedding shame around my sexuality is a big reason why I now write. Putting my sexual thoughts into stories helps me, and if you read one of my books, I hope it helps you. Or inspires you. 😉

There's way too much shame surrounding sex.

F*ck that noise.