By Elise Taylor

I sat there with duct tape wrapped three layers deep around my hands. I had the door locked, the TV on and enough food to last me at least a few days. Of course I hadn't really thought about how I was going to eat with all this tape on me, but … it was just three days. I had read a lot about kicking habits and I was determined to go cold turkey.

I have been a chronic masturbator for three years now. At first it wasn't a habit, not even a chip. Once in a while I'd just be exceptionally horny and go for it. Hands only, no non-bodily stimulation, just the basics. I didn't talk about it, didn't even really think about it. I just did it.

Then I got a job; work was stressful. I would come home and relax in the tub, masturbating with the water pressure, or maybe I'd watch TV and find my hand slipping down my pants. Before I knew what was happening I was doing it without thinking twice. My fingers would find their way on their own. I would count the minutes until work ended, just thinking of the time I would get off. I made sure there were extra charged batteries in the house. I gave my vibrators their own shelf.

By this time it was getting out of control. I wouldn't answer the phone, finding myself alone for hours, days, huddling underneath the blankets, on the couch, even on the floor. Just me. I hid extra batteries in my bottom drawer at work.

Then, I stopped going to work completely. It was like a bad after-school special. My friends were worried, my mother thought I was gay and I had earned more free movies at the video store then anyone else in the neighborhood. Finally, when all my money had been blown on glossy magazines and lube, I decided I needed help. I thought about just cutting down, tapering off slowly, not shocking my system. One day of that, and I was tearing my hair out and crying like a baby. I considered seeking professional help, but didn't have the cash or the time.

It was then that I decided to take matters into my own hands. I took a few days off work, holed myself up in the apartment and sat back. I wasn't going to open the door for anyone and if I was crawling up the walls then so be it. There would be no more fucking myself. Or if there was, I would do it in moderation.

I lasted about an hour. Two episodes of Baywatch and I was gnawing at my thickly wrapped hands. Those bathing suits, that beach, those boobs! The duct tape wasn't budging. I pressed my thighs together as tight as I could and squeezed, but I was way past that point. I started dry humping the arm of my couch, rubbing my crotch frantically against the upholstered fabric. Goddamn pants, always in my way. I straddled the thing, determined to get off.

I shut my eyes tight as one of the lifeguards dove into the ocean, then came up for air, water dripping down her face. I was almost there—bumping and grinding the sofa. Who needed hands? I plunged on full cunt ahead when suddenly a full facial smack of guilt was brought upon me by a knock on the door.

I froze, paralyzed by possibilities. Should I stop and try to keep up my regimen of one-handed celibacy, or continue and get off, screaming and shaking into the night?

"Katya?" a man's voice yelled. "It's Billy, your mother's neighbor, she sent me over to make sure you were all right."

"Uh…" some sort of extremely unattractive gurgle was trying to make its way out of my throat. Billy, the good neighbor, must have taken it as a cry for help. He broke down the door and was unwrapping my hands in no time.

"What kind of monster did this to you?" He asked, aghast by the vast waste of tape on my hands.

I cried, I sniffled, I made him feel sorry for me. Three minutes had hardly passed before I was in his arms allowing him to comfort me and by the time that minute hand had reached the next number we were naked on the floor. His cock was thick and smooth and slid easily into my soaking wet crotch. Billy, my mother's neighbor, was a great fuck—the ultimate dildo.

He just lay there while I worked my wet snatch up and over him, rubbing my rock hard clit against him just the way I like to. He offered a few involuntary groans and that was all I needed. I pressed my still mostly taped hands into his chest and slammed my body up and down as hard as I could. Within seconds my over-stimulated clit was throbbing and I was shaking and moaning, coming all over his non-plastic prick.

He lay there, startled. I climbed off and offered my hands to him. He sadly finished unwrapping them. We both knew I was too far gone and that, in the overall horniness of my life, he was just another tool on my descent into masturbatory madness. He left and I reached into my food supplies, suddenly extremely turned on by the slight curve of my spoon as it dipped delicately into the ice cream.