Hardons

Ever since I started getting hardons, I have loved just the sensation of having a hard cock. First the feeling of my dick itself: now grown to more than twice its resting size, practically defining the word yearning. The tension of my hardon with its stretched skin and fevered heat demands release. Second, the feeling of my hardened cock held fast against my lower belly by clothing, with its warm rigidity and light pulse, pulls my focus instantly to the almost external heat pressed against my own skin. Third, when hard, my cock’s nerve endings are all on high alert and the brush of clothing confining it only makes it harder, makes it strain more to be freed, makes it feel even better having it as my own.

I remember some pretty hellacious hardons from my high school days. Sitting in class, my cock would suddenly start expanding and needing adjustment as it got thwarted in its growth by my briefs and tight, low rise pants. (This was the ‘60s.) Low rise styles gave a growing cock very little room. If it was winter, I could sometimes get away with positioning it straight up, held in place by my waistbands and belt and hidden behind my shirt and sweater, though binding my hardon like that often made it strain even more to grow. Those hardons probably cost me points on my GPA as I struggled to find a comfortable position in the chairs with attached desks, struggled to keep my mind off my imperious prick.

Walking with a hardon held close by my pants and underwear made my cock harder. All that friction from clothing against the frenulum and glans, and along the entire topside of my cock as it nuzzled against the warm skin of my belly, could bring me a step closer to orgasm. Getting an erection near the end of class created extra problems because I would be stuck walking through the halls with my boner. Being surrounded by teachers and other students as my cock was getting lightly stroked in its confines was agony. Delicious agony. If only I could have been alone.

I remember many days when the half-hour walk home from school was 29 minutes too long, when I could barely keep my hands off my cock as I unlocked the front door, stepped inside, dropped my books, ran to the bathroom, locked the door, whipped my cock out, and furiously stroked it until my cum erupted. There was no “foreplay” on those days. My hard cock had been teased long enough.

Other days, if my hardon had been more patient and waited until near the end of school to arise, I could get home and pull out my father’s Playboy magazines and the bottle of Cornhuskers lotion, and stroke my cock silly to the sight of gorgeous women whose skin and curves and (did I really see that?) hint of public hair drove my hand faster up and down the shaft of my cock.

Summers in my younger teens were the best. Both my parents worked so I could luxuriate in the pleasure of my warm hardon. Whether just sitting alone in my room, idly stroking it to keep it hot and hard, or outside and alone in the forest near my house, wandering naked, when I dared, loving the feeling of it bobbing up and down. When it bounces, my hardon pulls on my scrotum as it bounds up and stretches its own skin tight as it bobs down, and I revel in each of those sensations as they happen over and over again. I’d wander around a small clearing, my shorts in my left hand, my right hand ready to give my cock a tug when it needed it. While the feeling in my cock when it was hard was amazing, I also loved the sensation of my erection against the palm of my hand. It’s like two sensations at the same time, one deliciously arousing from the inside and one more external gained from the pleasure of touching a hot, hard, throbbing cock. I’d get to the point where I could no longer hold back and stand on the edge of the pond in that clearing, shooting my milky semen into its clear waters. 

Sometimes I’d get a hardon watching television at night with my family. I’d often be laying on the floor, especially when I was still in junior high. I’d roll over to put it underneath me which only made it harder and more difficult to deny. I’d slowly grind against the carpeted floor, loving the stiffness and heat underneath me. In those days, my bath or shower time was at night before going to bed (we had one bathroom in the house), so I’d go in, strip all my clothes off and play with my hot cock until i came in the tub.

I still love the feeling my cock gives me when it gets hard, whether in the morning when I’m naked in bed, or when dressed and it struggles against a fabric prison. The heat and intensity of a hard cock is a feeling I still enjoy on its own, apart from any need for release.