He had delayed it as long as he could, proudly conscious of the way he had learned to sustain the rigidity of his cock. Now the tingling sensation on the underside of his knob couldn't be denied any longer. She'd been good, giving him anything he wanted, and he'd wanted a lot. But he was no longer in control. An unforeseen clap of thunder, the insistent ring of the phone, a wailing siren in the street outside, nothing could have interrupted the onrushing climax. Then it was there, the repeated pulse as the liquid surged from the depths of his loins to escape in spurt after spurt from the engorged tip. Nameless joy. The big O.
When the slow detumescence was complete and his breathing had almost returned to normal, he opened his eyes. He saw that his cum had left a trail across the picture of the woman who had been the subject of his fantasy, the photograph disfigured by the sticky mess. Discarding the magazine, he made his way to the bathroom for a shower.
Masturbation had become something of an art form for Harry. Although he hadn't reached the age of thirty-one without a number of sexual encounters, some casual, some of longer duration, all had ended in one form of disappointment or another. Ideals formed in his mind and were pursued but he was never quite able to achieve them. He reached for the shampoo, rubbed it into his scalp and reflected on some of his failures. The litany was well-worn, frequently pondered over in moments of frustration and loneliness. He had no difficulty in calling them to mind.
There was the very first one, a girl with a reputation. Harry took her to the cinema, guided her into the back row, which she seemed to expect. She waited for the lights to dim before pulling him to her for a deep, tongue-searching kiss. When they broke apart she looked to see that there were few people around them and then calmly opened the buttons of her blouse. Harry hurriedly plunged his hand into the opening and cupped the breast nearer to him. The nipple was soon hard. The girl leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
This first contact with a female bosom had the predictable effect on Harry, causing him to remove his hand in order to rearrange a cock that was straining against its confines. He would have liked to get it out but wasn't sure if that would be premature. Rumour had it that his partner had done this dozens of times but Harry was a novice, didn't know the protocol. He waited for her to take the initiative, which she she did by returning his hand to her breast. After a while, she moved it to the other side. Was this the thrill Harry was expecting? Up to a point it was, but there was only so much fondling he could do without wanting something more. He withdrew his hand and put it on her thigh.
Instantly, the girl opened her eyes, glared at Harry and removed his hand. Bewildered, he waited a few moments and then tried again. No go. Her knees were firmly clamped together. All Harry's attempts to prise them even a small distance apart were fruitless. They watched the rest of the film in sulky silence, she offended because Harry wouldn't play to her rules, Harry upset because he didn't know there were rules. He saw her to the bus stop and they never spoke again.
The shower was running too hot. Harry turned the control down a notch, waited for the temperature to adjust while recalling another of his disappointments.
During the final year of his teens, bolder but little more experienced, Harry found that women wearing spectacles began to take a prominent place in his masturbatory fantasies. Inexplicable but there it was. Sooner or later it was sure to find a focus. Her name was Mandy. She was the sister of one of Harry's team-mates at the rugby club. After games he developed a technique for casually insinuating himself into her group at the bar. It took a while, and it needed a degree of feigned insouciance in the face of suggestive comments from his friends, but Harry's determined charm eventually beguiled Mandy.
Getting into her knickers required more patience. Certainly, Mandy was no prude, not averse to a fumble and a feel in the Rugby Club car park after dark. The savings he had splashed on an elderly saloon seemed amply justified. Mandy had no qualms about making her tits available, nor did her knees clenched shut when Harry explored under her skirt. The wetness he encountered at the top of her thighs emboldened him to open his zip and encourage reciprocation. This resulted in an unfortunately premature conclusion and a stain on Mandy's skirt she had to conceal as best she could on her return home. Harry apologised, asked Mandy to take it as a compliment to her allure, and the embarrassment passed. But the experiment wasn't repeated.
Several frustrated weeks passed before an opportunity presented itself: Harry's parents went away for the week-end leaving him in charge of the house. He took Mandy to a disco where their dancing became increasingly intimate. Having ensured that she had enough but not too much to drink, he whispered the good news in her ear.
Mandy was slim, narrow-waisted with small breasts which had responded encouragingly to their car park stimulation. Her dark hair curled forward at the ends to frame an oval face with high cheekbones and a generous mouth. And there were the rimless spectacles. They might have seemed severe to many but they merely inflamed Harry's long-nurtured passion. In his mind they would be perfectly complemented by silky black lingerie.
They returned to the house late enough to sneak in without disturbing the neighbours. No reason for Harry to feel guilty but he wouldn't have wanted his parents to know. In the sitting room the curtains were already closed and two lamps provided subtle lighting. Harry had prepared the scene before going out, having reluctantly abandoned a plan to persuade Mandy up to his bedroom. In that he was probably wrong for she settled immediately on to the settee, put her feet up and let her skirt slide halfway up her thighs. Harry sat on the floor and began to stroke her calves.
That was as good as it got. Mandy shed her dress without fuss but her underwear was a let-down. Instead of the black knickers and suspender belt of Harry's overheated imagination, she was wearing matching tan briefs and bra. Neat and not lacking in provocation, but a disappointment to Harry. The skin-tone stockings should have warned him what to expect. Worse still, they were hold-ups. No suspenders required.
In endeavouring to conceal his disappointment, Harry overlooked his pre-planned scenario. While Mandy was nearly naked and ready for action, she had to remind Harry that he was still fully clothed. He undressed In an awkward silence. Seeking to make amends, he knelt at Mandy's side and embarked on a series of caresses which brought him to the centre of his ambitions. His fingers probed, discovered wet fabric. Mandy lifted her hips, slid the briefs down her legs, reached behind her and unclasped the bra. She was ready for him - but he wasn't quite ready for her. Although he had remembered condoms, they were still in the pocket of the jacket he had dropped on to a chair on the other side of the room.
Opening the packet and extracting the rubber wasn't the nonchalant exercise he wanted it to be. During the distraction, his erection subsided. It took some cautious massage from a pouting Mandy - who hadn't forgotten the episode in the car park - to restore firmness and permit the application of the condom. That was when the next miscalculation revealed itself. The settee didn't adapt easily to the sexual manoeuvrings of a six-feet-two rugby player. When he placed the soles of his feet against the arm and prodded between Mandy's legs with his now rampant cock, his head rested uncomfortably against the arm at the other end. He tried dangling his feet over the arm rest only to find he couldn't generate enough purchase to fuck with the drive he believed essential.
They moved to the floor where Mandy complained her back was reacting uncomfortably to the carpet. After another hiatus while Harry brought a blanket and spread it under her, he finally set about his business - but without repeating the foreplay that would have restored her full lubrication. When he entered her they were neither of them happy. The problem was, having waited so long in rising anticipation, Harry couldn't bring himself to admit defeat and wait for more propitious circumstances. Unsurprisingly, he didn't last long.
Looking back, he saw it was worse, far worse, than the fiasco with the girl in the cinema. He drove Mandy home in silence. At her door he apologised, she told him not to worry. But both knew the relationship was doomed and both were privately relieved when they drifted apart.
When Harry stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself it was as though he believed the rough towelling could rub away the depressing memories. But the sequence, once begun, rolled inexorably on.
In fairness, it had seemed for some while that Priscilla might live up to Harry's febrile imaginings. He met her after he had moved to London. His first job, with an Insurance company, had shown him that an instinctive gift for figures was a valuable commodity in the marketplace. Accelerated promotion was offered but Harry turned it down in favour of an opportunity in the City. Quickly at ease among the big-numbers traders, that side of his life gave him the same kind of satisfaction he had enjoyed when bullocking his way past opponents on the rugby field. The money helped, too. The elderly saloon was replaced by a high-powered sports model.
A similar philosophy applied to Harry's need for a partner. A series of experimental relationships following the Mandy fiasco had taught him that many women were impressed not only by the sexual stamina he was cultivating but more basically by the size of his cock. Although none had come close to matching his blueprint of the time - a long-lasting relationship with his current fantasy queen - they had given him a taste of the alternative: fucking for the sake of fucking. Which he was never one to turn down. Nevertheless, the search for the elusive ultimate she was never far from his thoughts. The girl-next-door, sister-of- a-friend type had lost her appeal; now Harry's quest could only be satisfied by a more exotic creature.
Priscilla, who worked for a PR outfit in the City, frequented the same wine bars as the traders and brokers. Harry's prototype dream girl had mutated from brunettes with glasses to blondes with long legs. Priscilla was blonde and wore skirts that proclaimed she wasn't ashamed of her legs.
Their courtship was a somewhat staccato affair. Harry earned his ludicrous salary by working long hours. Priscilla's role with her agency often took her away on projects for days, even weeks, at a time. The result was to make their opportunities to be together infrequent and irregular. When they did meet they seemed always to be making up for what they had missed, notably sex. Discovering Priscilla had reopened the doors to Harry's private world. When the hair colouring and the legs were added to the balance sheet, Priscilla was an authentic asset. Every meeting, whether after a long or brief interval, was consummated with passionate and abandoned coupling.