I am an attractive 29 year old professional woman with a
reasonably good income. I live in New York City in a
nice apartment near Washington Square. About four years
ago I started having an insatiable craving for sex.
That’s a pretty dramatic way to start this little story
but I might as well get right to the point.
I have become obsessed with getting orgasmic relief. It
seems that I can’t go for more than a few hours without
making myself cum or getting some male acquaintance to
fuck me.
I live with a persistent fullness and throbbing in my
genitals. It has been this way most of my life. I
thought that I was just a horny teen girl and it would
pass when I became mature. But it didn’t. It was always
a joke between my former husband and I. When I started
dating him I never needed a long foreplay session before
making love. I was ready at a moment’s notice.
We joked that I could go from 0 to 60 in one second
flat. I was not satisfied after having an orgasm. I
could never get enough sex. The throbbing would begin a
short time after lovemaking and build up once again to
an unbearable level.
Even when he and I had regular sex I still had the need
to masturbate at least once a day, sometimes several
times a day. This was not a desire for pleasure but a
very large need. I had to masturbate frequently to be
able to concentrate on my studies and lead what I
assumed was a normal life.
As I aged my need for climaxes seemed to increase. By
the time I finished college I was masturbating four,
five, sometimes six times a day. There was no emotional
gratification in these climaxes. They were just a
physical necessity. I ran through the full muscle
twitching, cunt filling, delightful agony of a climax
but there was an empty feeling in my heart and my head.
My craving for climaxes cost me my marriage when my
husband came home early and found me in bed with a man.
He was our Puerto Rican doorman and he was short enough
to fuck me and suck my tit at the same time. I was in
the middle of a screaming orgasm and didn’t even realize
that my husband was in the room.
He watched for a while, looked at me thrashing on the
bed, then he turned and started packing his belongings.
I tried to explain that I was being driven by an
addiction but he turned a deaf ear. My only
communication with him after that was through his
lawyer.
I talked to several psychotherapists over the last two
years. It appears that I am not a nymphomaniac in that I
am not compelled to copulate with a variety of men to
get assurance of my desirability. Rather I appear to
have a case of PSAS, persistent sexual arousal syndrome.
Some women with this condition have an almost constant
need for sexual stimulation suffering up to 300 orgasms
a day.
It is not as erotic as you may think. It becomes almost
impossible to get anything done. Tight clothes, car
rides, casual touches trigger off an immediate need for
sexual gratification. Women with a severe case of PSAS
are held prisoner by their own genitals. I’ve heard that
some women with PSAS have even contemplated committing
suicide.
In my case my symptoms start with a feeling in my pubic
region. Almost like an itch that no amount of scratching
will relieve. It becomes increasingly intense, spreading
throughout my body. My breasts become engorged and my
nipples erect and become extremely sensitive. I can’t
function until I get relief. An orgasm is the only thing
that helps.
But it is very difficult trying to lead a normal life
when you have to give yourself six or more orgasms a
day. Several years ago I only had to do it four times a
day and I could handle that. I would rise, eat breakfast
while still in my robe, and just before I dressed to go
to work, I would suck my tits and finger fuck myself to
a climax. That would hold me until the lunch break.
At lunch time I would excuse myself, lock myself in a
stall in the woman’s lavatory, and finger my cunt until
I came again. I was so unemotional about masturbating
that I could eat a sandwich with one hand while plunging
the fingers of the other into my wet cunt. I even joked
to myself that I was taking a “funch” break.
About mid afternoon I would again head for the restroom
and repeat the process. From then on it was a struggle
to contain myself until I could get back to my
apartment, plop myself in front of the TV, and watch
stupid sitcoms with a vibrator buzzing away in my cunt,
while I fingered my nipples until I climaxed.
That was fine when I only had to “do” myself four times
a day. But I just couldn’t fit more climaxes into my
work schedule. For a while I took to haunting singles
bars. I would sit at the bar and nurse a drink until
some man took pity on me and offered to buy me a round.
Invariably a proposition followed. I was very compliant.
I would spread my legs for anyone as long as he looked
reasonably clean and non threatening. My favorite
hangouts were the student bars near the university.
College students have the stamina to go a couple of
rounds with a sex starved “older” woman. They caressed
my legs, sucked my cunt, nibbled my nipples, and fucked
me until I couldn’t stand. But then they had to go back
to the dorm and attend classes.
My psychotherapist suggested aversive therapy. Basically
the idea was for me to excite myself sexually and then
trigger off an unpleasant stimulus. Something that hurt.
After a while I would begin to associate sex with pain.
In the lab she said they flashed pictures of an
attractive person on a screen and paired it with an
electric shock. I would have to find an equally
unpleasant stimulus to give to myself when I started to
masturbate. But what?
I made a detailed inventory of the things I did to my
body when I satisfied myself. The first thing I usually
did was play with my breasts. My boobs are large. Big
enough for me to suck my own nipples. I enjoy doing it
and it starts my erotic motor. I can get enough breast
flesh in my mouth to lightly chew the nipple and areola.
My nipples are sensitive and I enjoy playing with them.
I would probably do it even if it weren’t a precursor to
giving myself a climax.
When I get hot enough I finger my labia and clitoris,
gently at first, then harder and faster until my moving
hand becomes a blur. If I don’t cum right away I’ll
insert the fingers of my other hand into my vagina and
finger fuck myself to a climax.
But the critical thing is my breasts. If I can
discourage myself from touching them I might have a
chance of aborting the entire masturbation sequence.
Perhaps if I associated touching my breasts with pain I
could condition myself, sort of like Pavlov’s dog. What
I feared worst was mutilating my body. I needed a way of
causing pain to my titties without actually damaging
them. How about if I used my breasts as a pincushion?
I know that people stick pins in themselves all the
time. It hurts but it doesn’t seem to leave any lasting
effects. So when I felt the urge to masturbate I would
try sticking pins through my turgid nipples in the hope
that the pain would suppress my arousal.
After a shower I sat on the stool in front of the
bathroom mirror so that I could see what I intended to
do from all angles. I rolled my nipples and watched them
get stiff. Ever conscious of sanitation, I doused a
sharp pin and my nipples in alcohol. When everything was
ready I grasped the pin and put the point against the
nipple intending to stick it in. But I couldn’t do it.
I knew it would hurt and I didn’t have the guts. My
nipple had gotten soft and the point slithered across
the surface. Still I was determined. If my body was that
afraid of pain, nipple torture might abort my desire to
pleasure myself. What to do?
Perhaps if my nipple was firmer, I could stick the pin
in. Ice, that’s it. My nipples got stiff in the cold. I
could make one cold with an ice cube. After it got hard
I could put a little tourniquet around the nipple that
could keep it stiff long enough to stick a pin in it. I
must confess that I got so caught up in the mechanics of
the problem that I almost forgot that I was preparing to
torture myself.
I took an ice cube from the fridge and rubbed it over
the end of my breast. The cold made the nipple firm but
the moment it warmed it softened up. I stiffened the
nipple with the ice cube again, then before it had a
chance to get soft, I wrapped half a rubber band around
the nipple two times, stretching it as I encircled the
fleshy base, then tying it off. I did the same to the
other nipple.
The contracting rubber bands squeezed the nipples and
kept them hard and stiff even after they warmed. The
nipples bulged out as big as I had ever seen them, each
the size of a large grape. They begged to be played
with, even sucked, but that was not my intention today.
Still, the bondage made them feel so good and they
looked so inviting that I had to fondle them for a
little while. Binding the nipples made them even more
sensitive. I raised them to my mouth and sucked the
hardened, swollen teats, biting and chewing the
sensitive ends. The texture of the bulging flesh was
resilient and my slight bites sent little sharp erotic
twinges throughout my body.
I must admit that I got caught up in playing with my
beautiful tits. My boobies looked so good and my nipples
were so erotically sensitive that they begged me to
snack on them, sucking and biting while I squirmed in
ecstasy.
This wasn’t what I intended at all. I intended to hurt
myself not pleasure myself. I realize now that I was
still afraid and was just putting off the inevitable
pain that I would feel. If that’s how my body reacted to
thoughts of torture my plan might work after all.
I had to do it. No putting it off any more. I moved a
low stool right up to the edge of the bathroom counter.
Leaning forward I rested both breasts on the edge near
the sink. I was just being practical. If I bled I wanted
the blood to run into the drain, not on the white rug on
the bathroom floor.
The bright lights and the sight of my full breasts with
their bound, reddened and swollen nipples resting on the
white formica counter top made me feel as if I was in an
operating room or a medical laboratory. I tried to make
believe that they were no longer my breasts. I wasn’t
was doing it to myself but to a lab specimen. Just like
I did in biology class in college.
I gathered my courage put the point of the pin on the
base of a nipple while I held it in position. The pin
indented the skin. Then I pushed. The pin penetrated
into the flesh with a little pop. I watched myself do it
with a mixture of horror and fascination. It hurt when
the pin pierced the skin but not as much as I feared. I
pushed the point entirely through the nipple. I tried to
make myself believe that It was like sticking a skewer
through a hot dog.
Once the pin had penetrated the skin it moved through
the nipple flesh easily. I watched it bulge out the skin
and come out the other side. That hurt. While I still
had the courage, I did the same to the other nipple. I
couldn’t believe that I was actually sticking pins into
myself, into my sensitive nipples, but I would do almost
anything to get control of my desires.
I took off the rubber band tourniquets and looked at my
tortured boobies in the mirror. The nipples were blood
red and each had a long pin sticking though it. I was my
own S&M porn model. But instead of getting repelled by
the scene, I was strangely excited. This wasn’t working
the way I expected. I was getting desperate.
I needed to torture my tits so much that it would wipe
away any thought of masturbation. I saw a long hat pin
on the counter, raised my full breast with one hand, and
with a single stroke shoved the pit entirely through the
meat of the tit. I had skewered myself like a
Thanksgiving turkey.
I simply couldn’t believe what I had done. The pain
simply excited me. It made my need for another orgasm
even more intense. I didn’t feel as if I was punishing
my body but merely arousing it in a different way. It
hurt more as I pulled the pins out of my nipples than
when I put them in. One pin came out without incident
but a bit of blood spurted out when I pulled the other.
The hat pin took a little more effort.
I raised the bloody breast to my mouth and sucked the
nipple clean. I saw that in a vampire movie once. The
blood simply tasted salty but seemed to have no effect.
I didn’t become a vampire. I could still see my image in
the mirror.
I only did the pin through the nipple trick once for a
couple of reasons. First, because it simply didn’t work
the way I wanted and second, because I cringed at the
thought of mutilating myself.
Overall, I discovered that while I couldn’t turn off my
insatiable craving for sex I learned to exercise some
control, at least when my arousal was at a moderate
state. But I still need some help in coping with my PSAS
urges. So if you are in a bar in New York, near NYU, and
you see an attractive 30ish lady seated by herself
nursing a drink, it is probably me.
Come over and introduce yourself. You will not be
disappointed.