Johnny, a quiet, conscientious type

I thought I was managing my condition well enough; I set a three hour timer on my phone and excused myself to my bedroom or the nearest bathroom whenever it when off to, uh, "take care" of myself. My family was supportive, learning my schedule and respecting my privacy during my "treatments," and Mom even took to carrying a few spare cum-socks in her purse when we went out. But, apparently, they were concerned that I didn't take a more... proactive approach. The girls even sat me down one evening for an intervention, asking why I'd never used any of them.

I explained that, while I appreciated their eagerness to help, I simply wasn't comfortable taking advantage of their sense of obligation. I had tried to talk myself into it a time or two, but I couldn't bear the thought of anyone - especially my own flesh and blood - allowing me to **** them because of a medical condition that I can handle perfectly well with Internet porn and a handful of lotion.

They seemed to understand, but Mom wouldn't drop the issue. She started wearing skimpier and skimpier things around the house, "accidentally" rubbing against me when she knew my three hours were coming up, and talking loudly to her friends about what a big, handsome young man I was when she knew I was in earshot. Try as she might to tempt me, I held out; though I will confess her healthy figure started to appear more prominently in my medically-required masturbatory fantasies.

Finally, she turned to one of her Facebook groups, EDPs and the Moms Who Love Them. Evidently, my case was not uncommon; a few other moms' sons had been just as **** to use their family and friends as I was, and they all swore by this Take-A-Bitch Foundation as a surefire way to bring me out of my shell. Mom filled out an application immediately. She tried to keep it a secret, even claiming that one of my favorite cum-socks got "lost in the laundry" when she sent it off as a DNA sample, but it was obvious that something was up.

The day eventually came, and Mom none-too-subtly ensured the entire family would be home. We sat together in the living room, watching TV and halfheartedly making small talk, until somebody knocked at the front door. Mom, sporting her best silk negligee, pressed down the hall behind me with excitement as thinly veiled as her erect nipples.

At the door was an attractive young woman in an impeccably tailored pantsuit, who smiled at me with the gentle understanding of a particularly kind nurse, flanked on either side by competing local news crews, who had evidently caught wind of a potential heartwarming story. They had each sent their most attractive female reporters; I recognized them from when they covered my diagnosis. Videos of EDPs using local news agents during interviews invariably went viral, but I had yet to give them the satisfaction. Or, take my satisfaction from them, I guess?

"John Doe?" the woman bent slightly as she shook my hand, drawing my attention to an ID card around her neck, carefully positioned inside her half-open blouse draw the eye either to or from her impressive cleavage; I wasn't sure which, but either would be appropriate in her line of work. "I'm Vidalia Woolard, from the Take-A-Bitch Foundation. We help Ejaculation Dependent People like yourself come to terms with their new lives by... breaking the ice, shall we say?"

Ms. Woolard glanced at the cameramen frantically setting up around her and leaned in to growl directly in my ear, "Let's go inside and get comfortable so I can explain how this is gonna work."

She didn't even wait for an answer before slipping an arm around my waist and marching me inside to sit on the couch, leaving Mom to shut the door on the journalists in the yard. Ms. Woolard cuddled up against me, resting on hand on my thigh and draping the other arm lavishly across my shoulders, her exposed chest inches from my blushing face.

"So, Ms. Woolard," I swallowed, keeping my eyes straight ahead and pretending I didn't feel her hand creep closer to my rapidly swelling crotch.

"Please, John, call me Vidalia."

"Okay, Vidalia. I also prefer Johnny, by the way. Um, when you say 'breaking the ice,' do you mean... with you?"

Vidalia laughed, making her breasts shake in an enticing way that definitely did not make me stare at them briefly.

"Oh, Johnny! You're welcome to use me, if you'd like -- just like you're welcome to use anyone else -- but I'm here to offer you so much more than just my own body. Before we get down to business, would you like to get down to business?"

Vidalia grabbed my chin and turned my face toward hers. Her sparkling eyes locked onto mine and, from mere inches away, she grinned and whispered "You wanna fuck me, Johnny?"