Confession to my Therapist Dave - Virginia

Dave and I meet every other Thursday at noon, so walking into his office should have felt routine by now. It didn’t. That day, I knew I needed to talk, but I had no idea where to start. I just knew I couldn’t keep carrying it by myself anymore. Whatever had happened was sitting heavy on my chest, gripping me, refusing to let go. I didn’t even fully understand it yet, and that scared me. Why did it happen like that? Why did it hit me so hard?

As I sat down, it hit me that once I opened my mouth, everything might spill out. Not in some neat, controlled way, but all at once. And that terrified me. I wasn’t just afraid of what I might say. I was afraid of what he might hear, what he might reflect back, and what it would mean once it was finally spoken out loud.

“Hey man, how are you?” He asks.

“I’m good. How are you?” I respond back.

“I’m good,” he says. “Are you back, back home? How was the rest of the trip,” he continues.

“Yeah. Back home.”

“How was the rest of the trip to Georgia and Thanksgiving?” He questions.

“[Sigh] I’ve been kind of all over the place since I got back, honestly. I’ve tried to explain it to myself and still don’t have a clean way to say it. A lot of it is stress. Work didn’t stop even though I was supposed to be off for Thanksgiving week, which already had me on edge. Then there was the financial stuff. The Christmas trip, the house costing more than I was told, and seeing better deals pop up after I paid just pushed my anxiety and frustration higher.”

“Right,” he says.

I continue…“Being at my mom’s house added another layer. I had almost no privacy and felt constantly needed. She was glued to me the entire time, to the point where I had to say our last session was a work meeting just to get space.”

“Really? She wouldn’t give you privacy at all?” He questions.

“No. I know a lot of this connects to grief. This was the first Thanksgiving without my dad, and my mom was lonely, and she leaned on me more than usual and brought it up during the holiday. By the end, I felt drained, restless, and like there’s a lot underneath all of this that I need to be honest about,” I share.

I continue…” Can I be honest? Like completely honest? Straight forward? With no judgment about some stuff?”

“Me? Of course. Ha-ha.” He laughs.

“Alright so, on the trip I was extremely horny. I had mentioned that in our last session while I was there in Georgia. And I assume that had to do with that fact that it had been about 4 weeks since I had sex or jerked off. I had the flu, work, stress, and a lot going on leading up to the trip and time just got away. And I always feel challenged to do stuff at my mom’s house these days cause she’s extremely religious. For god’s sake I’m a grown man in his 40s.

So, by the time we get to Thanksgiving, I’m having a tough time. I’m having sex dreams and stuff like that, and I recognize that my tone and attitude is different, and I’m having to pull myself out of that.”

“Your tone, meaning like your short with people?” He questioned.

“Yeah. Definitely very short with people. I was horny as fuck with zero privacy, it made everything feel more intense, more irritating, and harder to manage than I expected” I say back.

“Yeah, you kind of mentioned the horniness last time. So, you can’t just lock the door or go to the bathroom,” he says.

“The lock on the door to the guest room doesn’t work. But I was so fucking horny, man.”

He laughs a bit.

“Seriously.”

“I was…My dick woke up at 3 in the morning the day I was supposed to leave for Virginia, throbbing, veiny, and as hard as a brick. Precum dripping everywhere. I needed to CUM!”

Caught off guard, he swallows before I continue. His face looks so shocked because of the bluntness but he knows this about me.

I continue…“I finally gave in, slid my hand into my shorts that morning, wrapped my hand around my dick, and the mess in my boxer briefs and that’s when my mom knocked and opened the door before I could respond. She started asking about the Christmas lights in the living room like nothing was happening. I stopped, answered, and went back to sleep, sexually frustrated and annoyed in every way possible. I figured I’d be at my hotel later that day and would just get on an app and handle it then.”

“She didn’t uh?” He asks.

“No. She didn’t catch me.”

“Whew. At 3 o’clock in the morning she came to ask you that question.” The relief was painted on his face.

“Yup. So, I woke up at 6 a.m., still horny. Got out of the shower, looked down at myself in the mirror, and thought, it’s about to be your time. I got dressed, said my goodbyes, and hit the road. I didn’t even make it out of town before the rental got a flat. After hours of calls and waiting, roadside assistance showed up and sent me to Savannah to swap the car. I was dirty from helping with the spare, exhausted, stressed, and sweating while moving everything from one car to another. I was supposed to be at my hotel by 2 p.m. Waze now said after 6.”

“Out of all things. Okay,” he says.

“By the time I pulled into that Savannah rental lot, my balls were aching like they'd been kicked—swollen, heavy, full of four weeks' worth of pent-up cum that I just couldn't shake. Dried sweat soaked through my shirt, plastering it to my chest, and every step made my dick twitch against my thigh inside of my sweatpants, still semi-hard from the early morning blue-ball tease. It had been a rough day.”

“Oh man,” he says.

"I’m still kind of energized about making it to Virginia. I’ve been edged for days. Dick's about to burst."

His eyes widen. He leans forward like he's hooked. There is a smile and then he laughs. But I'm not done.

“With stop-and-go traffic on 95, my destination that was supposed to be 2 p.m. and it dragged closer to 10 p.m. at that point. My brain fried, fogged with road rage, headlights, and the throbbing between my legs. Every pothole made my nuts shake, pre-cum soaking through my sweatpants in a sticky trail down my thigh. I’d grip the wheel, fantasizing about pulling over, yanking my dick out, and spraying ropes across the dashboard just to breathe.”

He looks shocked at the rawness.

“Um hmm,” he manages to say before swallowing again.

“I made it to the hotel. I take the elevator to my 3rd floor suite. The door clicks shut behind me. My dick is already hard, pressing against my pants like it’s trying to break free. No hookup apps. No more waiting. I threw my bag on the couch. And before I know it, my sweatpants and underwear are yanked to my ankles in one frantic shove. My dick swinging free—veins bulging like ropes, and the head is so fucking big and slick with a glistening stream of pre-cum that strings from the tip to my right thigh. I grab it. I’m smacking that 8 inch motherfucker against my other hand, nasty, glossy smear of early juice that catches the light creeping in from the opening in the curtains like melted sugar. My balls are aching. hanging low and furry, churning with that thick, dangerous load I've denied myself for weeks. I needed to cum. I needed to beat my dick right there.”

“Um hmm,” he says again. [Dave], repositioning himself in his chair, thighs shifting like he's fighting his own stir.

“The room was pitch dark, warm and preheated—like a sauna of my own filth. It smelled like my sweaty balls. Like me. Like DICK! A ripe, musky dick-sweat mixed with the sharp tang of leaked pre-cum, thick in the air. I could smell it with every inhale. I was getting high off my own scent.”

I pause.

“I find myself holding my dick with one hand and cupping my balls with the other, running my fingers under them down to my taint and bringing it back to my nose before sticking them in my mouth.

This is how I taste.

Sweaty, salty, like meat. Before I know it, I’m stroking myself with the pre-cum, slowly, up and down—my fist gliding over my slick, veiny thickness, that fat head flaring even bigger and glossy, my piss-slit winking open with each pass, oozing fresh ropes of clear slime that stretch like spiderwebs between my knuckles. I hawk a fat glob of spit into my palm. It was warm, stringy saliva mixing with the mess—and I slap it down, start pounding my shit right there. Slow, deliberate pumps turning to wet, obscene schlurps, the room echoes, and I’m grunting like a beast in heat. Pre-cum webbing my fingers, bubbling frothy at the base where my hairy bush mats down sticky. My dick swelled even more. FUCK!”

“Um hmm,” he says again while blushing a bit.

“I manage to waddle to the bathroom, hand tight around my meat, it’s throbbing. Underwear and sweatpants hobbling like shackles around my ankles, balls swinging heavy and slick with every single step. I snatch a towel—rough, bleach-scented—and clumsily kick free of the pants, dick bobbing free for a split-second slap against my thigh, smearing pre-cum there like a slut's mark.

Edge of no return incoming?

“Back to the couch in three stumbling strides, towel flung down to soak up the impending flood. I flop ass-first—thud—legs splayed obscene, hairy thighs quivering. Dive into my bag one-handed, teeth ripping open the Astroglide cap with a pop, squirting a cold, viscous rope of lube straight onto my meat—globs cascading down the shaft, pooling in my pubes, overflowing to drip off my balls in shiny rivulets. No lights. No nothing. Pitch black amplifies every filthy sensation: the squelch of lube-fist gliding, air thick with ball-musk and chemical slickness. My head falls back on the back of the sofa like thousands of men probably have before me in this very spot, in this very same hotel suite, doing what all men do with they need to pound the nut out. The heat is crawling up my neck, my ears, my everything. I’m in control.

It feels dirty but I need this.

I’m stroking myself, jerking myself, edging myself—slow, sloppy wet strokes dragging out for nearly 30 minutes, torturing that piss-slit with thumb-circles, veins pulsing like they're gonna burst under the pressure. I’ve found the rhythm that I enjoy most, 1, 2, 3…123…1,2,3…as I star at my ghost-reflection in the turned-off TV across the room, a shadowy silhouette of my fist blurring my engorged dickhead, and the mirror to my right catching side-glints: my face twisted feral, lips curled in a snarl, chest heaving slick with sweat, hole winking visible in the glass as my hips rut up involuntarily. 1, 2, 3…It's like an out-of-body rape—watching this desperate man ruin himself, 1, 2 3…balls drawn up tight then forced to drop, precum-lube foaming white at the base, every denied throb screaming cum or die, but I deny it harder, growling curses at my reflection…1, 2, 3…this is what I look like when I jerk off, this is what I look like when I need to get the cum out. The tension is building and I’m fighting myself. 1…, 2…, 3…Fighting not to lose control. My head drops back harder on that sofa, eyes shut, lips parted—and I can feel the veins along my shaft twitch with every pull. There’s a drop of pre-cum glistening at the tip. I want to taste it. My other hand is tugging at my balls, gentle but insistent—like I’m teasing myself the way a good mouth would. 1, 2, 3. I’m desperate now, like I’m chasing my edge…1, 2, 3.”

“Hmm,” He replies. Dave leans forward in his chair, elbows on knees, eyes locked with that mix of shock and pull—chair creaking faintly as he uncrosses his legs. He clears his throat softly. "So you're there, masturbating in the dark with the mirrors... did you finally let go, or did something interrupt?"

His question hangs, but I'm deep in it now, words tumbling...

There is no escape now.

“I could feel my breaths, deep and rough with every stroke up and around the head in a circular twist—milking that sensitive ridge, foreskin peeling back to expose the raw, shiny glans, twitching like it's alive. My eyes shut tight. It's an out-of-body haze, yet so instinctual—dick pulsating like a frantic heartbeat, veins ridged and iron-hard, balls slapping up against my taint with sloppy thwacks, sweat beading down my crack to lube my puckered hole. So primal. So animalistic. So bold—I'm a grunting, leaking machine, chasing that ruined orgasm on the edge...”

“Hmm,” He says.

“I’m edging harder, quivering, convulsing. Stroke slows to torturous squeezes, balls tightening like fists, that cum volcano building. Mouth open…I'm grunting more and more, and moaning like a whore now, room reeking of dick and ball musk and desperation. The slick, wet sound of my hand sliding up and down my thickness echoes against the walls and throughout the room. Finally, I reach the point. I can feel it coming. One last twist. Slick loud jerks that echo. I let go. My eyes close tight, then open and I watch myself... SPLAT, my dick explodes right there in my hand. “FUUUCCCCKKKKK,” I moaned and it was guttural. My breath shaky –deep inhales, then sharp exhales like every stroke hits a sweet spot. It pours out of me like a fountain. The first rope shot of out my dick like a rocket thick and pearly white, smacks me right under the collarbone, so hot it steams. SPURT…the second arches higher, lands that hot white gooey Cum glazed rope on my beard, it clings, then slowly slides, leaving a glacier-white trail that catches every hair. SPIT…the third rains down like hot lava and splattered my bottom lip like icing from a Cinnabon, DRIP…the fourth is weaker lashing  my t-shirt, another my thigh, and then pools at the base of my dick and my pubic hair, dripping over my knuckles like icing. The room reeked of bleach, cum, and sex. I scoop it up, paint it across my lips so that I can taste myself, again: briny, warm, a little sweet. The thought makes me jerk off almost the edge of the couch. A low growl crawls out of my throat. I keep stroking, milking every last pulse, reluctant to stop. I throb pulsating each rope from my nuts so hard I feel it in my teeth. The denial felt like cruelty but the air tasted like satisfaction.”

Dave’s eyes say it all. He stops breathing. A bead of sweat slips from his temple to his jaw as he watches the mental reel. He wipes it. It was as if he had been in that room that night watching me.

He swallows hard, notepad forgotten in his lap, leaning back slightly but eyes intense. "Holy shit—that sounds explosive after all that denial. What rushed through your mind right in that peak moment... relief, or something deeper?"

“I lay there in the mess for a minute, filthy, open, vulnerable, waves of shameful bliss came crashing and then immediately feel tears streaming down my face. I’ve never felt anything like that. I couldn’t tell whether the crying had to do with the fact that I finally had the opportunity to do something, to please myself or what?”

Dave lets the silence sit for two heartbeats and then leans forward again, voice softer. He nods slowly, his face softening with understanding—pen poised but not writing, fully present in the chair. "That's profound, man—the body holds so much, and that kind of release can crack everything open, tears and all. No shame in it. Was it like grief bubbling up with the pleasure, or pure overwhelm from the buildup?"

“Or it could have been stress. I’ve been wrestling with a number of things. It was just very odd,” I say softly.

Dave tilts his head, voice gentle. "Totally understandable. Sometimes the body vents the backlog of stress before the mind can name it.”

Before he could continue, “Um…and that’s on the couch,” blurts out of me, breath ragged. “But then I immediately grabbed the cum soaked towel I had been sitting on, toss it in front of me, drop to my knees on the cheap hotel carpet, ass up, face inches from the mess, taking the fresh load that just came out of me and start stroking my dick again. My left-hand snakes up, shaking, clamps my throat—fingers digging into neck flesh, choking air to heighten the edge.”

Dave’s eyes go wide, a sharp inhale—chair shifting as he processes. “Sounds like the release didn’t satisfy the urge. I mean…Wow... kneeling in it, masturbating again with what came out, choking yourself. Intense. What drove that immediate second round—the emotional release shifting to need?"

“I was finally having a moment. A moment alone. A moment where I could be free. And in that moment, I start fucking my hand. I wrapped it around my dick on that floor and I start thrusting in and out, faster, and faster, and harder and harder. Hips bucking. Cum dripping splattering everywhere. I’m not done. There is still more.  I cum again. This time it’s harder than before. This time I could feel my hole clinch. It pours out of me on to the towel, spraying everything. The towel on the floor is soaked. I let the biggest fucking grunt/moan escape. It’s so nasty there. Cum is everywhere. It’s raw. I milk out every last drop. I can make more I think to myself. “   

Dave's jaw slackens briefly, notepad clicks shut in lap—he leans in, voice steady but laced with awe. "Intense—two orgasms so hard, grunting it out. How did your body and mind feel in the aftermath?" He asked.

“My body was free. My hole still pulsing, cum cooling sticky everywhere. Balls empty. But my mind was spinning—relief crashing into 'what the fuck was that?' guilt. Felt alive, but haunted. And out of the blue I just started laughing, oh how ridiculous I must have looked.

Dave lets the hush settle, then leans forward again, voice softer. "Haunted how? Was it the grief, the guilt, or something else in that room? What was the laughing about? What do you think it meant?"

The question cracks it open.

"Ever since that night, Dave, I've been jerking off to the memory of being in that room, boning alone. Every replay makes me cum so intense it scares me. Sheets soaked, neighbors banging on the wall. And honestly, man, right now I'm dripping in my sweats talking about it. Don't know what to make of it."

Dave exhales slow, pen resting flat on his notepad. "Well it sounds like you were overdue and like you needed it. Sounds like the room became a safe, charged space where all the pressure could detonate. The intensity isn't wrong; it's information. Maybe next time we unpack why that scene holds so much power over you, what it’s feeding. For now, let’s pause here and let the dust settle, okay? We’ve covered a lot of ground today."

He glances at the clock. Our fifty minutes are up.

Dave, if you’re reading this…I just needed to get it out in words on paper.