Corona Curios: The throbbing member

Corona Curios - the throbbing member

Too early? Inappropriate response to a global emergency? Then this one's probably not for you. Give yourself a break and it a miss. I'm not sure my ego could take a flurry of disgusted single stars.

For the rest of you miscreants. Enjoy. My government has told me we all need to pull together. I assume their pun was intended. And where better to do that than here?

I've a couple more ideas for stories set against the current crisis. But if the concept grabs you and you want to join in, please do. I'm not precious. Comments, support and criticism always appreciated. And remember to wash your hands when you've finished.

*

Of course, like most blokes my age, I had one overriding concern, sitting at home at the end of week one of my isolation, watching things deteriorate world-wide. The blustering leaders, who only days before had been dismissing all worries and concerns, we're now playing catch up big time. Money, the primary concern of nearly all of them, was being promised in huge amounts to any legitimate science business or snake-oil grifter who looked like they had a plausible formulation which could be passed off as a miracle cure.

That, of course, was all very well for the plastic-clone newsreaders, the balding commentators in ill-fitting suits and the vox-popped interviewees - all elderly - spoken to over Skype. But for the rest of us? Younger and fitter even if already middle-aged. What about us? What was being done to get us answers to that constant nagging concern?

Would we ever get laid again?

For me, the whole ordeal, started by accident. My own fault again. I'd been visiting my neighbour the night before. Nice old boy. Bit lonely and certainly went on too much about the old days. There are only so many times you want to hear about all the Grateful Dead gigs there ever were. Am I right? You know I am. What redeemed him though was his stock of primo, home-grown grass. He had a great set-up, a foil-lined wardrobe held a hydroponic system warmed by ultra-violet tubes. Two or three healthy plants at a time gave a crop big enough for him and a couple of his mates. The only problem was the seeds. He complained every time I saw him that the modern hybrids were always more harsh than those he'd used in his youth, even though the buzz was so much stronger.

I thought about his words as I coughed my way to the office the next day, throat sore and head still a bit fuzzy. I wandered over to Gloria, our receptionist, like I did every morning. An accommodating girl, our Gloria. Her seat, set low behind the reception desk by an interior designer with a breast fetish, guaranteed a decent view down her cleavage. She did her bit by keeping at least the top three buttons on the company-issued blouse permanently undone. I wasn't the only guy who liked to start their day with a good look down the cleft between those double-Ds whilst ostensibly checking to see if there was urgent mail.

How was I to know that corona-steria had struck the company overnight? Turns out, someone in one of the satellite offices had had to be tested after going down with the right symptoms. By the time the negative result came through it was too late. WhatsApp groups were abuzz from the start with scare mongering. Desperate idiots went on and on about how they'd met her at a company retreat six months before and should they be tested too? In turn, their contacts started worrying. Everyone couched their concern in terms of wanting to protect children or elderly parents. The colleagues at her home base were in full-funk mode.

I was about to ask Gloria out for a drink after work like I did most mornings when the coughing fit started. By the time I got back from soothing it at the water cooler, it was already too late. My boss shouted at me from behind his half-open, plate-glass door that I should go home immediately and stay there for a week. I laughed, I genuinely thought he was joking. When I stepped towards him to explain more privately why I'd been coughing he slammed the door shut. I heard Gloria cry out and saw her emerge from behind his back.

I turned to try and find someone more sensible, but the situation was beyond salvaging. You'll have seen somber videos with CGI viruses bouncing from one person to another with a classical requiem playing in the background. Corona-steria spread through the offices like that too. People around me grabbed anything they could to clamp over their mouths and noses. The cleaner's old rags went instantly. Loose paper and company advertising leaflets were crumpled up and pressed into service. One of the girls started tearing at the bottom of her blouse - they all had to wear the flimsy garments, opaque enough to be arguably decent, but thin enough to display the clear outline of underwear especially when light shone strongly through the wall-to-ceiling office windows - she was soon naked from the waist up as desperate colleagues shredded her top for protection of their own. Two guys from the post room were pulling at her purloined bra, each wanting a rose-embroidered B-cup, virus protector, ideally sized to cover mouth and nose.

In minutes I was alone. Muffled shrieks were of women fleeing me, or desperate mask-hunters seeking to divest them of their clothes. The slamming of office doors and the scraping of desks pressed into service for makeshift barricades, echoed around. The poor cleaner, an elderly woman of Middle Eastern origin - she and I had always been cordial in the past - cowered in a corner. Too lowly to be allowed access to an office, she hid behind her trolley and waved an aerosol of a proprietary wood polish in my direction like it was some kind of military-grade tear gas.

My boss had taped up a hastily-scrawled note advising they'd e-mail me work I could do at home. Gloria was so obviously grateful he'd stepped up to save her from me, she was on her knees sucking at his dick like a congregant waiting for communion. My last work image was of them both toppling to the floor as he overstretched trying to reach the button which would change the Venetian blinds toscreen.

I thought about what had happened on the bus on the way back home. It was good to get out into a saner world. I did notice that no one was sharing seats, later passengers preferring to stand if there were no double-benches free. But conversation was lively as pensioners using their bus passes swapped tales of the war and blitz-spirit, unfazed by the fact that none of them were old enough to have actually experienced it. I called in at the supermarket to stock-up on whatever essentials were still available. The only evidence of hoarding I witnessed was a middle aged woman who barged me out of the way when she spotted a check out was free. She was clutching six large boxes of chocolates to her chest and was swinging a basket containing nothing but two smaller ones. Clearly a woman on a highly-tailored diet, I thought, probably something medical.

So by the time I got home, I was feeling pretty good about being forced out of the office. Watery sunbeams were shining through almost-clean windows onto bald patches in the carpet I never normally saw because of the times of day I was there. I ate a sandwich and tried to listen to the radio. The banality of the news was on a par with the music the overly enthusiastic DJs were playing on other channels. I decided to see what TV had to offer. If anything it was worse. The Botox-frozen bonhomie of the daytime hosts gave the same degree of trivial-inconsequentiality to all the stories they covered, be they mass deaths in China or the prospects of various football teams in games destined never to be played. There was nothing for it, I decided, I'd have to log on to my computer and see what work wanted me to do.

Nothing.

Or to be more accurate, absolutely nothing. I e-mailed my manager, copying in HR in case he'd forgotten to tell them I was not allowed back on the premises, and checked in once an hour for the next twenty-four.

You won't need me to tell you what happened next. A man on his own, with an open lap-top in front of him and nothing on other media to distract him (does anyone ever start binge-watching Netflix epic's during daylight hours?). It was a non-stop porn marathon. I watched everything I could think of. Strippers, bored housewives, girls next door popping in on the flimsiest of pretexts. I watched so many pick-up clips from Eastern European capitals I was beginning to recognise many of the major tourist sites. Threesomes, foursomes, gang bangs, you name it, I watched it.

I watched until my eyes ached. My underpants had crackly, overlapping stains from dried pre-cum and I'd produced about half-a-basket full of used tissues in the waste bin brought back for me, appropriately, from my brother's stag-do in Prague. When I retired that night, my willy was tender. I winced as I pulled on the lounge pants I customarily wear for bed, and slept with both arms outside the covers like a guilt-ridden schoolboy in a Victorian morality tale.

I woke up the next day feeling thoroughly relaxed. The world was not. Somewhere overnight, someone in the government machine had persuaded the front man for the alt-right who was running the show here that he had a real crisis on his hands. Gone were the half-baked stories about our country's exceptionalism. In was a new line about measures to contain, control and combat - el supremo was always a big fan of three-word slogans. I'd made an effort to get properly dressed that morning, but for reasons of penile comfort I'd forgone the tightness of trousers and kept the loungers on. I was still sitting there, hopping news channels and periodically checking-in with work when my stomach told me it was lunchtime. I made a healthy salad from many of the fresh produce I'd bought the day before - there was no press at that counter - and was feeling righteous enough to follow it with half-a-packet of custard creams.

More news followed. Work finally checked back to confirm what I'd long suspected - that I knew more about the mysteries of the black keyboard than anyone else there. No one could master giving me access to the company server and there was misplaced triumphalism in the tone of the memo announcing that everyone on my team should copy me in to e-mails using my home address. It took approximately ten minutes to acknowledge and comment on two days' work output. I turned back to my lap-top determined to continue the unfolding drama of the news. I'd have succeeded too if it hadn't been for Literotica.

The innocuous ping of an arriving e-mail turned my mind to work once more. That it was an update fromLit on the latest in a forum discussion I'd been following, I found timely. There'd been nothing really new to report and the repeat of the same basic announcements in more-and-more stentorian terms was no longer doing it for me. I'd checked out of the window a few times to see whether there were mobs with pitchforks and flaming torches on the street - that it's always best to bein the mob looking out, than outside looking dodgy to the respectable citizenry, has always been one of my ruling nostrums.

The Forum led to me checking in with New Stories and after that I was lost. Hunger drove me to eat well after nine o'clock, then it was back to checking on My Favourite authors. My bin was now full, and tissues, more greased by hand lotion than sperm, littered the floor around it. I was almost crying every time I touched myself, but I just couldn't help it. Some of the stuff on there is hypnotic. By midnight, I knew drastic action was needed. My logic, if logic it was, was that if I watched a few minutes of a 1970s porn movie- one of those with a story - I'd soon get bored and drop off to sleep. Schoolboy error. The sight of unshaven pussy and an innocent's journey - not that it took long - from new-in-the-city to nympho-party girl drew me in and held me captive. I fell into bed in the early hours - and very quickly had to turn over to give myself the merest chance of sleep.

The next two days were a blur. I didn't go out and only had two's knocks on my door: my neighbour downstairs and a delivery guy from the supermarket with an order I couldn't remember filing. The old guy came to cancel out evening session. He told me that he was in the government-advised isolation category, and whilst he wasn't too worried, he did think sharing spliffs was out. When I told him what happened at work he laughed at first, but returned later with a bag of grass and said he hoped it'd make up for the inconvenience he had caused.

I know I was dealing with work, 'cos I kept getting e-mails thanking me for my contribution. I was eating too, but mostly toast with stuff smeared on it. I even made myself follow the news by setting alarms for the main bulletins which I could only silence by exiting whatever erotica I was enjoying at the time. But aside from that I couldn't tell you what was happening. I'd run out of hand-lotion and the second of the two-for-one bumper packs of gentlemen's-sized tissues was getting worryingly low. My attitude towards kitchen roll had always been conservative and the increasingly-strident newscasts were telling me I needed all I had for wiping surfaces of every description.

So worried was I about my dwindling stock of essential supplies, I ventured outside. In baggy shorts. In the rain. It was a fruitless journey. Neither supermarket, nor corner convenience store, nor even the local chemists had anything in paper with a quasi-medical function. There were desperate people everywhere. I even spotted one old boy checking the small print on female hygiene products to see whether they might be pressed to perform whatever need he was thinking of. Younger customers were openly discussing whose responsibility it might be either to drive this potential disease-magnet back into his own home, or, preferably, to the local cop shop where strong bars and indifferent constables would prevent such peripatetic outrages in the future.

I returned with a bag of inessential sweets, cigarette papers and an inappropriate T-shirt bearing the slogan My Mum Went to Wutan and All I Got Was a Persistent Cough. Not work-wear obviously, but definitely work-at-home-wear. I'd also picked up a possibly useful piece of self-care advice from scrutinising the labels on the bare cosmetics shelves in all three outlets. To whit, aloe vera.

Now I'm not an aloe vera expert but I did know it was a common ingredient in many soothing and even medicinal lotions: thank you, the descriptive brand names behind which thewith aloe vera -label worked its magic. Admittedly, I'd been unable to track down anything promising to relieve a burning-hot male appendage, but my research had taught me that just about every other body part was covered. I also knew that I actually owned an aloe vera plant. It was actually sitting on a back window cill of my flat, right next to the kitchen sink. A birthday gift from one of my sisters, the last I'd looked at it, it was thriving despite my careful ministrations.

I'm a strong believer in the school of pot-plant maintenance which advises placing the offending flora near a light source and chucking the dregs of almost-finished coffees on them if they catch your eye and look dry, withered or desiccated. We don't have a high success rate, admittedly, but my aloe vera seemed to be thriving.

Fifteen minutes of the fastest bow-legged stumbling I could manage later and I was gently holding my cock by the base looking from it, to the leather-leafed, spiny succulent and contemplating my next move. One thing was for sure, that thing was never going to get near my throbbing member (You can imagine how I laughed some weeks later when, able at last to bring myself to access non-erotic sites like Wiki and YouTube, I discovered how close I had been to almost limitless supplies of natural soothing gel.). In the meantime, there was the issue of my throbbing member - there, I said it again. It was scarlet-red, I couldn't but notice it was dropping dry flakes of dead skin, it looked to me like it was pulsing in time with the snow. The only thing which stopped me calling an ambulance and demanding investigation of an as yet undiscovered auto-infected STI, was the fact it didn't hurt when I passed urine.

Throbbing member, Literotica cognoscenti will already be aware, is a descriptor used almost invariably to be followed by hotted-up action culminating in penetration, orgasm, eruption and long moments of blissful satisfaction. I was a very long way from that, but mere moments from a practical solution which had eluded me now since getting up some hours before. I was mentally calculating how long it would take - were I to dip said member into a mug of cold water - before the liquid would be hot enough to take a tea-bag and provide a satisfying beverage. When eureka, that was it. I laughed out loud when I realised the solution had been there all the time. Staring me in the face. The cold tap.

My kitchen was not state-of-the-art by any means. But it was highly functional and met my every need. I had a washing machine, dish washer and top-of-the-range coffee machine all of which were already plumbed in to the mains. So married to my lifestyle was the kitchen, that I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually needed to use the sink. But there it was, the mixer tap with retractable nozzle and two lever-pull controls for hot and magical, wonderful cold. I double checked to make sure I remembered which side controlled which, found a small stool in a corner where I'd left it after abandoning a belated attempt to remove ceiling-cobwebs, dropped my shorts, pulled out the flexi-hose and hello Nirvana.

I have no idea how long I stood there. It was definitely several minutes, for all I knew or cared it could have been hours. Most of the time I had my eyes closed, concentrating my every sense, my every tingling nerve-ending, on the ecstasy of relief which was flowing through my body in waves. For some time, the predominant, nay only, feeling was the pleasure of the instant ending of pain and the slow but steady diminution of the underlying ache around the joint between my shaft and the uncircumcised head of my cock. Then, I enjoyed the tingling joy as stray drops and trickles from the icy jet caressed my balls. The shrinking of my sac and the reduction in length of my already flaccid dick followed, each development bringing more relief to my anxiety - an interesting counterpoint to everyman's seldom-articulated concern with length, girth and all things mega where their own penis was concerned.

I found myself thinking of all the scenes I'd read over the preceding days of women pleasuring themselves in warm showers, often using steaming jets of power to get themselves off. I knew I was never going to cum, but in that moment, I could think of no higher enjoyment than that I was getting in the here and now. I laughed at the absurdity of the idea, then took to playing the spray over and around my genitals as if to underline the concept. It was the steady trickling of cold water down my thighs as a result of my over exuberance which finally made me open my eyes prior to bringing the treatment to an end. I remember, I had a fleeting thought about checking out hunks and babes having sex in swimming pools on my favourite porn site - a particular scenario I was sure I hadn't tried yet - when I lifted my head and things got even better. I saw her for the first time.

Melissa.

Of course, I didn't know her name at the time. But I blinked a few times, and she was most definitely there. Staring at me, directly opposite, in a window at the back of the next apartment block over. It was probably twenty feet or more away, but in my mind she looked so close that if I had reached out my arm I would have been able to touch her. And she was a babe. Not a babe in the Gloria sense, the goods-on-display, like-what-you-see-boys, try-me-if-you-dare way that voluptuous young women with a still-innocent zest for life and sex have. She was older, nearer my own age, a round, almost angelic, face fringed with bubbles of tight curls in one of those colours only expensive hairdressers know the names of. Her gray eyes seemed to shine and her perfect smile caused lines which told the world that here was a woman who was at peace with herself and magnificently entertained by all that life had to offer. And at that moment, what was on offer was me. And the pantomime of self-indulgence I'd just given myself.