THE HAND OF THEATORA They always told me, and I didn't want to believe it. How many times they repeated to me that "don'

THE HAND OF THEATORA They always told me, and I didn't want to believe it. How many times they repeated to me that "don't touch there", "don't pull your little thing", "you're going to get hair in your hand." But I did not listen, for these warnings were they forgot every time he caressed me, since I was a virgin, that is, when the foreskin still covered the glans, until he was gradually discovering what pleasant it was to feel the caress of my hand on the skin of my banana. First it was the gentle rubbing of my hand, then it was the craving for finish what had begun, to hasten my movements until I got that feeling of placidity and relaxation that made me sleep so at ease. But the greatest gratification that produced my hand, was when I had my first liquid orgasm, after a few moments of masturbation, of busy breathing, of feeling "death little girl, " to stop the up and down of my hand, to keep feeling those mixed sensations that detach from this exercise, which are, the fact of wanting to finish and to move on, and to stop again, for later follow, because he wants pleasure to continue for all eternity, but not it may be so, even if one wants to remain wrapped in the divine aura of pleasure, there comes a time when we can't control ourselves anymore and, abandoning ourselves, we seek the supreme delight that comes when our milk comes out, dragging with her all our strength, so we were exhausted, ready for the rest, which will replenish our energies for a new enjoyment. In view of this picture, who could listen to the recommendations that were made to him? I, no. And so I kept giving myself pleasure, enjoying caressing, sobaring, squeezing, slipping out of my hand, of up down, on the skin of my sex cylinder, waking up more and more intense sensations, increasingly prolonging the moment of orgasm, until exploded with the enjoyment that accompanied the flow of my semen through my conduit ejaculation. I went on and on, no matter the warnings that from very little one had received, above all, the one who prayed, "you're going to get hairs out in hand." Until it happened. In the center of the palm of my hand right, had sprouted a hair, not too thick, nor was it very flashy, more well it was faded and pretty thin, but there it was, and that, that was the denunciation that I masturbated, showing that I, alone, made "bad things, " which locked me in my bedroom to use my hand to caress me, in a word, to punch me, or as they say in Spain, to make me a Straw. I couldn't believe it, my own hand, my companion of so many days of pleasure, she, my childhood friend, my boy years and moments so beautiful, he was denouncing me, shouting, though silently, at all world, that I was one more puncher in this fucking world. And if she had daring to display myself, I had to put an end to it, I could not let all the world would learn of my addiction, everyone would point me out as something innoble, as something everyone had to turn away from, if they were sorry to acquire the same vices and that, that I couldn't allow, so, wanting to end this curse of once and for all, with my left hand I took some sharp scissors and directing them menacingly towards my treacherous hand, with a certain click, which I thought it was the music of the anthem to freedom, I cut that hair, that threat, which rolled lifelessly on the ground.