The Disappointment
You give in to your carnal desires and decide to relieve yourself sexually. You settle in at your desk and open up your laptop. After several years of regularly jerking off to increasing levels of hardcore pornography, you find that these days you can't even stay aroused unless you watch something that would most likely be banned by the UN.
A few clicks later and you've found a video that looks promising: it involves four elderly Japanese women, several small octopuses and a tall glass of ipecac. You lean back in your desk chair, quickly pulling down the stained briefs that you've been wearing for three days in a row now. As the horrific images on the laptop worsen, and you increase your strokes to meet them, like a frenzied conductor leading an orchestra of filth. You hope that the Federal Police don't catch a glimpse of what you're watching, but you take comfort in the fact that you're browsing in "Incognito Mode". At last you climax, letting your seed dribble pathetically between your legs. You're in ecstasy, pushing the last few squirts of white caviar onto the carpet.
Suddenly the door bursts open. You twist in shock towards the doorway, sticky erection still in hand. There stands your mother, still in her faded work uniform carrying a tall glass of orange juice. In the space of a second, you see the sheer shock of what she's seeing hit her, turning her expression from horror to disgust. "Sorry...um..." she stammers, her eyes turning to the vomit-soaked floor before she swiftly backs out, firmly slamming the door behind her.
Shame burns your face. There's no VPN that can secure your bedroom door. You desperately rake your brain for an excuse for the situation, but nothing is yielded. You're just going to have to live with it.
A few clicks later and you've found a video that looks promising: it involves four elderly Japanese women, several small octopuses and a tall glass of ipecac. You lean back in your desk chair, quickly pulling down the stained briefs that you've been wearing for three days in a row now. As the horrific images on the laptop worsen, and you increase your strokes to meet them, like a frenzied conductor leading an orchestra of filth. You hope that the Federal Police don't catch a glimpse of what you're watching, but you take comfort in the fact that you're browsing in "Incognito Mode". At last you climax, letting your seed dribble pathetically between your legs. You're in ecstasy, pushing the last few squirts of white caviar onto the carpet.
Suddenly the door bursts open. You twist in shock towards the doorway, sticky erection still in hand. There stands your mother, still in her faded work uniform carrying a tall glass of orange juice. In the space of a second, you see the sheer shock of what she's seeing hit her, turning her expression from horror to disgust. "Sorry...um..." she stammers, her eyes turning to the vomit-soaked floor before she swiftly backs out, firmly slamming the door behind her.
Shame burns your face. There's no VPN that can secure your bedroom door. You desperately rake your brain for an excuse for the situation, but nothing is yielded. You're just going to have to live with it.
