Onan Alone - A story of despair.

He'd lost everything; job, family, fortune, self-respect. He told me that, short of the need to support basic life functions, his life had been reduced to the single, endless act of compulsive masturbation.



He rented an office, empty apart from a desk, a chair and a computer. The room - a temple of despair, his computer - an altar to soul sacrifice. Enter now that room - more a tomb - in which hours a day are slaughtered as he sits, masturbating - cumming over and over, never sated, feeling sullied and awash with shame.



The piercing pain, the depletion and shame merely evoke arousal and the impulse to go online and gaze at clits being thrummed and cocks being stroked; these images of arousal, a mirror to his own despair. Endlessly rubbing and stroking that last bastion to his manhood it becomes a pitifully chafed, open-sored, weeping victim of the incessant pumping away of his misery!



His hands, soft like a woman's hands, stained with the blood and yellowing semen oozing from the satin skin of his priapic penis, screaming out his pain through the strangled throat of his cock! His balls, painfully tight with erotic urgency, spewing forth an endlessly repeated and momentarily captured life-line of relief that wraps itself tightly around a core of unremitting torment!



The carpet beneath his chair, a graveyard for sperm lying in coffins of scrunched up tissue! An atmosphere of impenetrable gloom hangs in the air; stale, foul and stinking of fish.



All of this lonely hopelessness hidden behind a locked door somewhere in Edgware. A door that shuts out life and hope and locks in pain.



Each stroke of his shaft a grasping for a key that may release him from the cell that imprisons his heart.



Each orgasm, the resounding thud of another door slamming shut!