Sunday, October 30, 2016

The After-work Ritual

Somewhat similar memory to the Mower Kid.

The summer I was 16,  I worked at a church camp. One of our jobs was to mow the large lawn around the flagpole and alongside some of the buildings. Several guys rotated at this job, mowing for a while and then passing the job to another boy.

On my first time, the guy who preceded me beckoned me behind one of the restroom shacks. As soon as we were out of sight, he grabbed himself with both hands and said, "This is freaky. Hold the handle right here (he indicated his crotch) while you mow. It'll do you good." Then he quickly walked off, walking kind of bow-legged and adjusting his junk. I did what he said, and it was a hell of an arousing feeling. My dick got hard, poking out longer and longer and more insistently. My balls felt weird and crazy.

When my turn was over I knew exactly what I was going to do. I went into the restroom shack and locked myself in a stall. Within seconds my system produced a majorly memorable ejaculation that spurted again and again while I grooved on a wonderful and excellent climax. From this beginning, I enjoyed myself in the same way every time I mowed. The strange thing about all this, is that the guy who showed me what to do was one of the most religious dudes I ever knew, and not really a close friend. I think the mower got him so horny that he just had to tell somebody, no matter who it was.


Saturday, October 29, 2016

Soccer Guys Locker Room

Yesterday in our newspaper was a nice picture of our local 7th grade soccer team. Apparently they won their school league championship.

It made me recall that exactly 10 years ago I was on that 7th grade soccer team. It was the first time I was required to take showers after practice and games with classmates or teammates, so it was really the first time I ever saw a lot of other boys my same age all together and completely naked.

Not only was I secretly fascinated sneaking as many peeks at their cocks as I could, but thinking about what I saw after I got home quickly gave me erections. It was during that soccer season that I discovered masturbation and had my first orgasm and ejaculated for the first time. Looking at the boys in that picture made me wonder if any of them had gone through the same time of discovery during their season, just like I did.


Friday, October 28, 2016

The Humming Mower

Reading about his early discoveries of unusual manipulations to his penis that would bring him pleasure (like, closing it in a book), it reminded me of a similar discovery I had at age 10.

That was the age in our family when boys were felt old enough to use a gas engine lawnmower. The first day I mowed the lawn I innocently pressed my body against the horizontal bar handle of the lawnmower. I remember that the feeling of vibration in my young dick from that handle was nothing short of amazing!It was customary to bathe after such a sweaty event. Strangely as my undies went down my penis was extra sensitive, which required extra soaping in the tub.

This presented additional pleasure to the tingling initiated by the humming mower. So, I suppose I looked forward to having to mow the lawn because that's apparently how I initially masturbated in that tender age.


Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Whole Lot of Nothing

This is the third chapter of the stories by Author Agent-N-. You can catch up on PART I and PART II. He now progresses into teen years when life gets mega complicated. Especially when you meet someone, and you know they want the same thing you want........but getting to the part when it might happen, makes for huge challenges. It's awesome, but it scary as hell.

Story: “Whole Lot of Nothing”

There was a Senior in my class who sat next to me, and he was absolutely enthralling to me.  He was everything I was afraid to be; this blatantly gay guy who was banging a sleek girl Senior who looked like she was all of 30.  He was just fucking her to fuck her even though he was gay.  He wore whatever he wanted
without caring, his hair was a beautiful rich blond (dyed from dark brown), tall, self-confident but clearly disturbed.  His name was so mundane, but he was so exotic and expertly toxic.
John had these scars up his arms that I noticed pretty early on.  I was always naive, so it didn't occur to me that he was a cutter/burner.  I figured that, John being such a square peg, someone had inflicted these wounds on him, and I became incensed.  I wrote him an anonymous letter vowing revenge on his tormentor, and expressing my devotion and raptness with him, put it into an envelope, took it down to the office and used the secretary to call him to come pick it up during class change (I thought it was pretty hilarious to be using the office to deliver my faggotry).  I was, of course, certain he'd have no clue who wrote it, otherwise, I wouldn't have ever written it.

I sat next to him at a table of four, and couple days later, John leaned over to me, whispering, "I got your note."  His tongue flicked my ear as he leaned away again.  I thought I'd have a heart attack. How did he, wait how dare he do this, right here right now. But holy crap he knows!

For a while after that, things were pretty much the same as they had been. John sat there telling outrageous stuff to we three, I sat there enraptured, the other two Juniors at the table were generally astounded or disgusted.  Then, the teacher--and even though this is anonymous I just want to put in print that she was a goddamned bitch--changed the seating arrangements at the end of the semester.  Some self-impressed macho turd got put next to John, and he immediately objected, so I said I didn't mind sitting next to him again.  Oh, coy boy.  The teacher knew exactly what was up and she gave me the most disdainful look she could muster, but really it wasn't any more disdainful than every other look she gave me; she hated me and my sister.

Now I remember why things were different the second semester sitting next to John that the first: My sister was at the table with us in the first semester, but not the second.

So, at the back-center of the class, there we were.  We flirted almost constantly, but so discretely that only the teacher knew.  I really don't know how no one else noticed. Oh, they all knew John was gay, and they had all been calling me a faggot for years, but no one ever caught us.

John was the more adventurous of us, and he was constantly screwing with me. We'd be going over the FOIL method and suddenly his hand would be on my cock, rubbing over my jeans as I squirmed and tried to look nonchalant.  Once, he was biting his finger (a hangnail or something) and it started to bleed.  As I
watched him nursing it, he grabbed my worksheet and made a little blood blot on it, circled the stain, and wrote his initials followed by "HIV neg"--I shuddered with pent-up desire; he could've done anything to me.

I'll never forget one thing, when he leaned over like he was getting a pencil off the floor and licked my hand, right there with 25 homophobe kids and one disapproving bitch teacher in the very same room.

We almost always had one or the other of our hands on each other's thigh. When I thought the coast was clear, I'd cop a feel on him, but much less often than he did to me.  One day, I was just over the caution, and moved my hand around to his inner thigh, stroking and fingering his cock pressed against it in his tight jeans.  He sort of let out a long breath, but we were silent.  I moved my hand around to the small of his back, and got up under his shirt.  For all his devil-may-care about fondling my crotch, he'd never touched my skin and I'd certainly never touched his.  It was everything I thought, supple, tender. I moved down, under the elastic of his waistband, and ran my fingers up his crack for several minutes more.

When I sobered-up I removed my hand, realizing the-- hahaha!  realizing the danger of the situation.  The direness?  I don't know, you figure it out. Anyway, I got my hand off his heavenly ass, and he leaned over and whispered, "I loved it."  I turned my face into his leaned-over head and inhaled the scent of his hair.

Looking back that episode is so silly.  Neither of us got off, there can't be but so much pleasure in getting a finger run up your crack, but he said "I loved it" and it was the first time I had ever done anything quite so far. I figure he was lying.

Later, one day he'd been feeling me under the table, and I got a pass out of my binder.  I filled it out for the restroom, gave him a look, went to the teacher with it and looked at him again over my shoulder as I left the room.  I waited a few minutes, but he didn't arrive after me.  Most teachers didn't allow two students out of the room at once, but I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't come just because he didn't want to.  I was physically beyond the point of no return myself, so I went into the stall and jerked off furiously, the first time
I'd ever done it in school.  Whether he couldn't or just didn't come, I didn't care, I knew he had all the fuck he could get from his girlfriend and I was a doormat in every other aspect of life, anyway.

At one point, John had his wallet out, and I got him to get out his license so I could look at it.  The bell rang, and I ended up left with his license.  A certain percentage of you are giggling--oldest trick in the book, you're
saying--but I was (again) naive. It was Friday, I had no other classes with him since he was a Senior.  I started feeling bad he wouldn't have his license all week. So, I used his address to find his phone number online, called a few times and got no answer.After a few hours I decided to just take it to him (the ones who weren't giggling before now see what I mean, but I didn't put it together until 5 years later when my uncle was telling me about a girl who used the same trick on him).  He lived in a gated community, but I explained to the geriatric guard what had happened, and he gave me a knowing look (more knowing than I knew).

I found his house, and from the porch I could hear loud music. I rang the doorbell. Rang it again.  I guess I spent just under 10 minutes trying to get an answer, but in the end the music was too loud for him to have heard the bell. I balanced the license on top of the banister. What a retard, I should've just gone in.

I alluded that John was kind of disturbed, and he was. He had pretty wide swings, and eventually toward the end of the year Instant Messenger drama put an end to our fumbling fondling.  

 The closest I ever got to what I really wanted came a year after I graduated when a mutual friend forwarded me photos of John's dick that he'd sent her.  It wasn't really everything I'd imagined, but I'd still let him do anything to me. Pathetically, these little passes over the course of 18 weeks about 10 years ago are the most action I ever had before or since.

Submitted, Agent-N-

Sunday, October 23, 2016

My Earliest Years

 “My Earliest Years” is Part II in following My First Freak-out.

As I said in my first story, almost all of my stories are solo.  I am paranoid of touch because of abuse, and though I'm still conservative as I approach 30, I was probably more conservative about sexuality when I was a teenager.  Neither of those variables every precluded me from masturbating.

Masturbation is really a hugely obtuse word.  It's millions of things more than pumping your fist over your cock, so of course we "first" masturbate once, but here are several masturbation firsts.

Second Grade

The first time that I know I masturbated--knowing only now as I look back with perspective gained--was in second grade.  Stay in your chair, this is not about to become some wildly false boasting of 7-yr-old boners.  On the contrary, it was the furthest thing from sexual even though it is sexual, and I had no idea what I was doing.

Our teacher did the same thing so many of you have gone through: Every couple of days, instead of working from our desks, she'd call us to her big cord rug with our readers or our social studies book, and she'd take turns reading the lesson out loud with us.

One day, in getting up or something, I closed my book on my crotch, sort of pinching my penis. End of the story for almost every person on the planet.  But I loved it.

Every week, I looked forward to lessons on the rug.  As we read, I sat anxiously waiting to be done with that so we could get on to discussion.  Then, no further need for the book to be spread open on my lap, I'd close it on my penis. Open and close, open and close.  I'd lean into the book, it's corner jabbing my chest, and squeeze the book as hard as I could and hold it until my arms were tired.  Let off a minute, then shut it in again.

Seven years old, I had no idea of the motivations behind this, just that for whatever reason I couldn't get enough of the feeling.  After that year, I didn't do that anymore; I didn't consciously stop, it just turned out leaving second grade removed me from the setting, and I just stopped.

 Fifth Grade

The next masturbation first I can recall began a few years later.  I was in 5th grade.  We did "family life" class in 5th grade, so I knew that "changes" were on the way, but since it was a 5th grade course, the most exposure we got was that we could expect to start needing more showers and maybe start seeing hair
under our arms and to get taller.  So, I was still pretty sexually unaware.  I knew what sex was theoretically because I'd had THE Talk, but it didn't have any real bearing on me.  An asshole in our class was always saying "Go in a corner and spank your monkey" and we all knew it was something "gross" but I was
flummoxed.  You get the idea.

Nonetheless, I was a bigger freak in 5th grade than I have been since.  I have no remembrance of why I started doing this, or how it occurred to me to do it.  I've said I was abused, but it wasn't a conscious continuation of any of that--we moved when I was 6 so the abuse stopped without anyone ever knowing it
happened, I didn't even realize it until I was about 15.

Late at night, when I was sure that my siblings down the hall were asleep, and I knew my parents figured me for zonked-out and therefore wouldn't come bothering me, I'd slip my hand under my sheets and head for my "dick" as I'd recently learned it could be called.  As in the last recounting, I don't recall that I was yet experiencing erections at this point, though I was by that summer.

I followed the same routine for a few months: I'd play around for a bit, fondling my little dick and just enjoying it.  Then, I'd pull my briefs off, and check the lock again.  Returning to my bed, I'd grab a highlighter off my desk, and twisty-ties out of the drawer.  Back in bed, I'd lay there a little more, running my fingernails over my balls and dick and stomach, feeling my nipples get erect in the cool air out of the covers. Settling in, I would get the twist-ties, and go to work binding my testicles.  My testicles were really more interesting to me than my penis, then, I'd say.  I would separate one in my left hand, and cinch it off with a tie, repeating on the other, leaving each one in its own numbly-throbbing compartment.  Sometimes, I'd pull them both together, and wrap just one tie and the base of them both, leaving them mashed together with nowhere to go, the light pain making me breathe deep.  From either of those starting points, I'd add more ties; maybe wrapping up my penis, maybe wrapping the base of the whole setup.  As the constriction continued, my genitals became ultra sensitive, and I laid there rubbing and gasping, turning on the lamp to gaze at my purple handiwork.

Next came out the highlighter.  With the ends of the twist-ties poking into my skin and the chilly-feeling that comes over a constricted member engulfing my dick and balls, I'd uncap the highlighter, a yellow one, and inexplicably I always colored the whole deal; penis, scrotum.  After about an hour of the whole thing, I'd unwrap everything and revel in the feeling that fresh blood brought rushing in, but never reached orgasm. On a few occasions, I fell asleep with the ties still strangling my little member, I panicked those mornings, to be

I did this for months, then one day it came to an abrupt halt. 

"Honey, ummm, I don't want to embarrass you," my mom began that day,
"but, are you, um, shaking after you pee?  Because--I don't want you to feel bad--but a lot of your underwear has yellow stains on it."

I guess I could have continued without the highlighter, but that was the end of that.

Fifth Grade Summer

By 5th grade summer, I had moved on to a new method, one which is much more mundane than the previous two and probably which many of you have done yourselves.

Our shower had an extended head that came off the wall, and it was a massaging Waterpik brand with 3 settings.  This became the summer of 45-minute showers. 

I was still mostly taking baths at this point--I found it tiresome to have to stand up for a shower.  But, at the end of my baths, I would turn the water back on and rinse my self off with the extended shower head.  One of the settings was a fast rotation of hard squirts out of three outlets, around the head.  If you didn't turn the setting ring all the way, instead of a rapid massaging action, water only came out of one of the three outlets in a very strong jet.

One day, rinsing off in this manner, the jet hit my frenulum (the triangular bit of skin under the hole) and as you can imagine it was fireworks.

As I continued my love affair with the Waterpik, I found that by sitting in the tub I could hold the shower head and hit my penis as long as I could take it.  As the high-pressure jet hit my frenulum, it of course continued up, and in its course it also forced its way through my hole.  Not into it, but through it like a river through a valley, which is a feeling that is too intense to describe. Once I discovered manual jacking off I stopped using the shower-head, but to give you an idea as to how intense it was I have tried since to repeat
it, and I can't do it, it is too sensual.  It's almost noisome.

Similarly, a relative whose house I spent a lot of time at had a bathtub with waterjets on the side, and I'd find an excuse to take a bath and sit on my knees in front of the jet letting it pleasure me.  Pool jets were an enticing possibility, but of course too public to ever try for more than a second.

Middle school

Into middle school, I started jacking off.  It comes pretty naturally to everyone, and like just about everyone I just sort of figured it out.  The Waterpik was thus obsolete, I'd abandoned the twist-ties for discreteness's
sake, and I didn't even remember the second grade textbook til a few years ago. I jacked off a lot, "a lot" being a relative term, but falsely relative because as we all find out at some point everyone masturbates a lot. (It's so weird and funny that boys deny what everyone is doing and everyone knows everyone is doing; it's like a sex version of the Holocaust).  I'd stand in front of the mirror and masturbate like Narcissus, enthralled with my pubes and newly-low-hanging balls.  I'd jerk off under the covers at a sleepover hopeful everyone was asleep.  Under a blanket at a sleepover where a kid had HBO and everyone was definitely wide awake.In the woods. 

Ohhhhh so woefully in hindsight, though I was a Boy Scout, unlike so many other authors here I never masturbated with a buddy.  I did discover on one campout when I just couldn't wait 3 days to do it again that I could orgasm just by rubbing my head and frenulum without all the noise and motion of fist-pumping.  By that time I loved my own cum and I was happy to do it that way and sleep in my own mess.  Looking back, there were overtures I ignored and opportunities I passed up, but I was awkward and shy.

Submitted, Agent N

Saturday, October 22, 2016

My First Freak-out

Recently a comment reminded me of an author from our earliest days of OOTS. Indeed this revelation appeals to our very beginning efforts allowing our authors to explore their past with a measure of release, awareness and potentially forgiveness. This selection is deep from the darkest corners of the OOTS Library. It is comprised of 3 parts. The following is the very first story submission from August of 2010 (currently never released on OOTS4U). Due to the sensitive nature of the saga, the Author chooses to remain anonymous,. I feel this power trilogy explores some valid and thought provoking issues for us to ponder or compare. 

As I write this, I do it knowing full well that some things are traceable. It's terrifying, but I've been reading for a few a long time now, and I guess I think it's my turn.

I have a lot of stories, so I'm submitting them all in succession as I write them, but maybe they'll be broken up, I'll leave that to the admin. Some of them are short, and they're all weird.  They're all solo, or if they involve another person, that person didn't know. 

Before I get to the stories themselves, I'll give them some depth.  I found out when I was about 15 that I'd been sexually abused for years. After that, a lot of things I'd been doing to myself made more sense to me, and I also . . . I can't really find a suitable phrase . . . I guess I shut myself off; that is, the idea of anyone ever touching me again became repulsive and terrifying.  In fact, I'll segue into my first story there.

My First Freakout:

 As I said, when I found out I'd been molested, I just cut myself off.  It wasn't conscious, I can just look back 12 years and see that it happened.  I just stopped wanting to be touched; not just sexually, but at all. My nuclear family has always been very touchy, though.  My mom has always "rubbed" us, and we've always rubbed her--scratching backs, massaging, running fingernails over skin.  It sounds sexual in my meager language, but I'd liken it to ape grooming.  I am extremely averse to insulting anyone, so even after I became so repulsed by touch, I never told my mom to stop, and if I got uncomfortable I'd just find an excuse to get up--a glass of water, something on TV, whatever.

  One evening, I was sitting on the sofa with my mom beside me, dad in his chair, and my little brother on the other sofa.  Everyone just watching TV. Typical zoned-out suburban evening of everyone in one room and no one aware of anyone else. My mom began absentmindedly rubbing my leg (I was in shorts) and it began to drive me insane.  It felt like: If you were ever held down when you were a kid and someone took your own hand and did the "stop hitting yourself" thing, or if you've ever been smothered or couldn't breathe.  Extend your arm, and scratch the inside of your elbow for a minute or more. 

 It felt like those things.  I was going crazy with desperation, trying not to be a jerk and trying not to give away how pent-up-animal I felt; I broke.  My extreme passivity thus far explained, I also become vilely nasty, sarcastic and caustic, wheedling, make-people-cry with looks and words when I want to. Broken, feeling like a horse locked in a burning stable, "stop it," I hissed, pushing my mom's hand off my leg.  I wouldn't look at her. My mom is ignorant.  She isn't stupid, but she has absolutely no sense of a person's status until she's walked neck-deep into a situation like Goofy.  She thinks she's funny and she's not.

"Welllll, sorrrrry!  I thought you liked to be rubbed, you always have," she said in mock emphatic tones.

"I don't want to be touched."

"Ohhhhhhhh, well, if only I'd known," she continued in her idiotic fake voice. 

God, I could have jack-slapped her. I went nuts.  She wasn't hearing me.  My voice could have cut a steel rod in half but I was talking to a brick wall, not a steel rod.   

By this time my brother (a few years younger than me and oblivious to my past) and my dad were
watching us."Stop being a creep," my little brother rejoined.  He hates me, my manic mood-swings having taken their greatest toll on him; at 12 or so, he was taking every opportunity to start a pissing match.

"Shut up," I seethed, "you don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, you're being a weirdo."

"You don't understand.  I'm telling you to shut up."

"Son," my dad entered the simmering situation, "ignore your brother.  Stop
arguing.  He's 12." 

"Honey if you don't like it just tell me," my mom chimed in, the reality of the situation finally penetrating her thick head.  "Just calm down." 

"Yeah, stop acting like a freak."

I abandoned my hiss as I launched myself upright, shrieking, "Shut uuuuuuup!"

Always quick to open his mouth, my brother shrank in fear; like a hamster when you stick your hand in the cage.  I have never hurt him, but he knew I took pills for something and he was terrified of me when the rubber hit the road. "All of you!  None of you knows!  None of you knows anything!  You shut up you
little bastard; you have no idea what!  You can't know what was done!"  My face was red and my voice crackled perilously at the strain of my screaming.  I wheeled on my mom, then, and jabbed my finger at her.  "Don't touch me.  Don't touch my leg, don't touch any of me without asking!  Never touch me!  You have
no business on my leg!"

My heart fluttering, I surveyed them all: My brother cowering on the sofa, my dad dumbfounded, my mom bleary-eyed.  I felt my heart pounding, and my head rushing like I was going to faint.  I felt like the odd-man I was. I began to slump as I stood, and, gasping, rasped, "None of you will ever know what it's like."  Then I crawled up the stairs, to my room, under my bed where I'd taken to going when I was falling apart, and passed out.

Agent -N-

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

What the Teacher Won't Speak of

I had an interesting experience as a middle school teacher back in the '70s.

One Friday afternoon, I was showing the last class of the day a geography movie. I had the curtains closed and lights off so the room was fairly dark. As I was seated at my desk at the rear of classroom, I noticed one of the 13 year old boys at the back corner desk squirming about in his chair.

I could also see that his right hand was moving up and down. Immediately I realized that he had unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis and was furiously masturbating. He wasn't aware that I could see him and the desk hid his actions from the other students in the room. I thought momentarily about quietly going over and putting a halt to his "happy time" but then I thought back to my own teenage years and decided to let him continue. In about 2 or 3 minutes, he straightened up in his chair and leaned forward. His hand movement slowed down and his body shook slightly. I could see a small squirt of liquid shoot out and land on the floor under the desk. He leaned back on chair, took a Kleenex from inside his desk, wiped off his hand, slipped it back into the desk and zipped up his fly.

As the movie ended, the end-of-day bell rang, the lights were turned on and the students filed out of the classroom. Once all the pupils had left, I closed the door, walked to the desk at the back of the room. Looking under the desk, I could clearly see several shiny little puddles of fresh teen semen. Reaching into the desk, I retrieved the damp Kleenex and used it to mop up the evidence on the floor. I slipped the Kleenex into my pocket as a souvenir.

A month later, the boy in question transferred to another school.


Friday, October 14, 2016

What a Little Dork

Maybe you guys can relate to this?

A considerable time ago, in 9th grade. I was going to junior high school. One day I was in the library which there was a couple rest rooms with doors opening only from the library. They were little rest rooms, boys room had only a pot in a stall also a sink and mirror.

 I am heading for the rest room to take a leak. Because it was safe compared to the big rest rooms. I am just reaching for the door handle and it opens right in my face. I step back and its some little guy coming out, must be no more than 7th grade. He stands there right in my way looking surprised, maybe even a little guilty.

 Then looks up at me and said watch out, somebody squirted Elmer's glue on the wall in here. He quickly looks away and then scampers off.

 I think,  What a little dork,  and go on in. Well, what I find in the stall is some good size shots of cum on the wall all running down, and drippen on the floor. That must be what the little guy called glue only it is "cum".

 The more I look at that fresh cum the hornier I get so I pump one out only shooting it in the pot, not on the wall. I am real sure this little dweeb shot the wad and called it glue just to try and explain it.

 Some weeks go by and I am watching him all the time because he got me horny by me seeing his cum. One day he is sitting at a table in the lunch room. I sit across like nothing is up. Then I think this will be wicked. I say kind of soft, you squirt any glue in the bathroom lately. He looks at me scared and I do my hand up and down a little on the table and laugh. Well not that time but before long we got to be budies if you know what I mean. He would shoot a lot for a little thing.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

My Aussie Mate Paul

One of my best jacking partners at the American school in Mexico was a handsome Aussie dude with sun-bleached curly blond hair and a super tan. "Paul" talked like he was 100% straight. We were the kind of friends whose conversation drifted immediately to sex whenever we were alone. Paul had his eye on certain of the most sexy girls in school and would describe how he looked forward to kissing, fondling, and finally entering them. He was captivated by the desire to puncture a girl.

I think he believed I was just as straight as he claimed to be. He described his erections to me, saying he was always ready for action. He claimed to have bought rubbers at a Mexican pharmacy, to have explored a girl's inner sanctum with his middle finger, to have shown admiring girls his erect dick. The truth was, at 14 when we began our relationship he had never had the slightest physical contact with a girl, never even had a fleeting glimpse of a mammary nipple. It was all fantasy or wishful thinking with no action to back it up.

Here's what I found curious: all these conversations began with talk of hetero conquests, but Paul led every one of them to diverge quickly and invariably into delightful mutually-assisted masturbation. With "straight" Paul I experienced the most fulfilling male partnership that ever produced an ejaculation.

As we discussed various girls and the possibility of mounting them Paul would tell me the details that he was imagining about propelling his stiff dick into a begging lass. He became erect as he talked, necessitating that he frequently rearrange his fly right in front of me. As if I hadn't noticed for myself, he invariably called my attention to the ridge developing in his pants as his peter expanded into a large bulge, saying "See that, Mate?! You see that?!"

His erection (and not the girl talk) triggered my own erection which would then in turn draw Paul's focus to my crotch while I tried to make room in my pants for my growing boner. He would watch me closely and then observe "You've caught it too, eh?"

Paul's family had a swimming pool, complete with a bath house that was separate from the main Casa Grande. He was magnificently tanned as a result of sunning himself in the pool and on the deck. We conducted most of our naughty conversations (and masturbations) in the bath house where we could recline on the lounges, play with our boners, and see in advance if anybody was headed our way.

When Paul was fully erect but still wearing his pants, he invariably asked me sort of apologetically to squeeze his boner, saying "Want to give me a hand with this, mate? There's enough of it for both of us." Sometimes we were wearing bathing suits; sometimes street clothes or school uniforms. I gladly did as he asked, wrapping my hand around the ridge in his pants and delivering a few little squeezes. Soon he would say "Allow me, mate?" and without waiting for an answer he clamped a matching grip on my boner and began to rub back and forth on my still-hidden prod, saying "We better take care of this."

Before long our zippers would go down with Paul staring at my fly while my boner came into view. "Ah, there it is in all its beauty," he would sometimes say in that devilish Aussie accent. Soon our shirts were up, our pants were down and our crotches were completely exposed. One of the things about Paul was how obvious his tan line was. Everything except the area covered by a tiny Speedo was perfectly bronze, while his crotch was starkly pale. I loved watching his pants reveal the stretch of untanned territory as he slid them down and his boner popped rigidly into view. With two swollen peters out in the open, we began to stimulate each other's bodies. Paul would reach for my dick with both hands, gently feeling and caressing me in an unusually tender way for another guy.

Paul continued to talk about girls while we played together, but at the same time he was fully attentive to my stiffie, wanting to know if I was feeling good yet, telling me my dick felt larger or hotter or stiffer than usual. The bath house was stocked with towels and we each grabbed one to catch our cum in. We took turns kneeling next to the other guy's lounge and playing with the contents of his crotch in every way we could think of. Paul was sensitive to my needs, intuitively adjusting his grip or speed to my degree of arousal. He was a master at tickling my nuts during that exquisite moment when all the sensations reach their peak but the ejaculation hasn't quite begun yet. He would keep me just at the trigger point, kneading my balls, fingering my boner and asking "How's that, mate? Almost there?"

In one way Paul was different from my other buddies. He was interested in my navel. He would sometimes slide the towel out of the way and wiggle his finger around in my belly-button. A few times he aimed my dick so that my cum shot into my navel. He said "Bull's eye!" as the ejaculate squirted out and collected there.

I was in heaven during these encounters, both from the ecstasy I felt as Paul ministered to my horny organs and also from my role in assisting him with his. Paul's pubic hair was a darker blond than his head. It was a shade of gold that fascinated me. I would run my fingers through his curly golden bush, swirl my hand around to enclose his tight round testicles, and then give his hard boner a squeeze. Repeat again and again while his erection tries to outdo all its previous hardness. After a minute or so we changed places so each of us could have equal time.

We kept track of whose turn it was to ejaculate first. Some of my best memories are of this "straight" friend with his stiff dick and glistening golden pubic curls bending over me and sliding his hand back and forth on my needy dick, asking softly whether I was ready for the end yet.

If it was Paul's turn to cum first, I would be fully enjoying the privilege of bringing him to an ejaculatory explosion. As he approached his climax his peter stiffened harder and harder until I felt like I was rubbing the limb of a tree. He would ask me to slow down and help him maintain the almost-ready feeling for a few seconds. I'd stop and tickle him with my fingertips. And then his body would accept no further delay. He'd beg "Give it a stroke, mate! I can't stand no more!" I would resume pumping and the erect tool would triumphantly blast its contents onto the towel while Paul trembled all over and whispered unintelligible noises.

When the two of us had properly serviced each other we wadded the towels and dropped them in the wicker basket for the maids to deal with. (Years later I suddenly wondered if those maids guessed what we'd been up to.)

Sometime in our junior year Paul succeeded in laying a girl, a rather plain and withdrawn one. He described the experience to me in minute detail. Such minute detail, in fact, that we capped the conversation with one of our best pool-house masturbation sessions as we lay side by side on a single lounge and catapulted thick loads of cum onto our towels.

Paul continued to hunt cooperative girls, occasionally making a very rare score. But he also continued to recount those scores to me, including descriptions of how hard his condom-clad dick became and whether the humping procedure matched a good masturbation with me. Soon we would both be stiffly erect and proceed to help each other achieve sticky gratification. It was almost as if his hetero escapades were just a minor bit of foreplay leading up to the main event which was our wonderful male intimacy.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

The Old Splintery Outhouse

To Farm Boy and all the country boys out there:  This recent story reminded me of a time way back.

I had an experience in the country that you might identify with. It was quite a while back when I was just settling into the enjoyment of jacking off. My family went to a country cemetery for a reunion every year.

Everybody cleaned up the graves and then we all had a potluck meal together. There were two sets of restrooms. One was in a concrete block building that also contained the kitchen and was relatively new. The other set was a pair of splintery old wooden outhouses from way out back. A boy that was some degree of cousin to me always wanted us to go pee in the old outhouse. He wanted me to come in with him and hold the door shut.

Seems it would take a long time to come around,  but over several years we began to go to the outhouse for the purpose of jacking off together. The place was really out in the sticks. A few old houses were nearby but no town. I always liked that graveyard with its barbed wire fence and cattle guard on the dirt road. And of course because that other guy and me would look for each other and eventually end up sharing a wank that we shot into the hole in the old wooden seat.

He was my first jacking partner and the outhouse was where it happened.


Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Quick....Hide the Evidence

Shortly after I turned twelve, a new family moved in down the street from us. Like my own family it consisted of two "older" parents and an only son. Even though the kid was a grade ahead and a year older than me - exactly a year older, in fact, to the day - we quickly became fast friends and, eventually, jackoff buddies.

We were not horndogs, by any means. Our activities consisted only of lying side-by-side with our pants bunched around our knees and our shirts hitched up to our armpits, and jacking ourselves, or each other, off. And we only did it when we were certain that we had his house or mine to ourselves for a definite period of time - which worked out, I think, to something less than three times a month. Still, his was the first jizz I ever saw, and he was the first person ever to see mine.

Our parents became friendly through us, and after a while it became our habit to have one dinner together every other weekend, alternating between the two houses. After dinner and cleanup my friend and I would go to his room or mine to play board games or work on models or some such, and our parents would sit for a few more hours in the kitchen and get hammered.

After one such dinner my friend and I went to my room, as usual; but then he made a strange request. He was tired, he said, and he wanted to go to sleep. I thought at first that he wanted to lie down together and read quietly, as we sometimes did, but no, he said, he wanted really to sleep. In fact, he wanted the lights out and he wanted me to lie down and be still as well, at least for as long as it took him to nod off. I objected, but he insisted, so we pulled down the bedspread, took off our shoes, and lay down on top of the covers.

In a few moments my friend was quiet and seemed to be asleep. Not me. It was only about nine o'clock, and I was wide awake. Lying next to my partner in masturbation made me horny, and I got hard. My mind was racing. I wondered if my pal was really sleeping, or if he was trying to get me to sleep, or if he wanted to do something else but wanted me to take the initiative. Finally I couldn't stand it any more. I got up and walked over to his side of the bed.

 I felt the front of his pants: he was hard. Good sign. I slipped the socks off his feet: no reaction. I unbuttoned his shirt and began to take it off. Now he gave himself away, because, although his breathing remained regular, his body limp, and his face slack, he "shifted in his sleep" in exactly the ways that were most helpful to my removing his blouse. Emboldened, I unbuttoned his pants, and slipped his trousers and shorts all the way off.

There he was, flat on his back, stark naked, his boner levitating over his lower belly. I was crazy horny. I wanted to do something, but what? I stripped off my clothes. It was the first time I'd seen him fully nude. It seemed a waste just to jack him. Finally I climbed on the bed, straddled my friend, and carefully lowered myself until our dicks were touching. I started gently to hump him. He thrust back, also slowly, without a lot of pressure. For several minutes we had an intense, pleasurable rhythm going. Then I felt his dick swell, jump, and spit, and mine immediately did the same.

But now, with my sexual tension dissipated, I was overcome with panic. Our parents were only thirty feet away! Our house was on one level, and L-shaped; if I had looked out my bedroom window I would have seen our parents in the kitchen. That meant that if one of them looked out the window, he or she would notice that my bedroom lights were off, which would cause an immediate investigation. Worse, my bedroom door had no lock, so any visitation would be swift, silent and unannounced.

Frantically I shook my friend and "whisper-shouted" at him to get up. But he persisted in the fiction that he was asleep. I became angry. Finally he "woke up", but slowly, and with a big grin on his face feigned "surprise" to find himself naked, with semen all over his chest and belly. Now I was furious. Didn't he care that at any moment his parents might walk in and find him naked, with another naked boy, dripping with sperm? I picked up our shorts and wiped off his front as best I could. I balled up his clothing with a fresh pair shorts from my drawer - fortunately we wore the same size and brand - and told him to check that the coast was clear, and then slip into the bathroom next door, where he could wash at the sink - the shower would make too much noise - and get dressed. He did so, although it seemed to me that he took his sweet time about it; but finally he came back, and I was able to get to the bathroom, stow the cummy undershorts in the hamper, and clean up and put myself together.

When I got back to my room, my pal was again lying on one side of the bed, seemingly asleep. Whether he was or not, I didn't care. After a hugely intense orgasm and twenty minutes of sheer terror, I was wiped out. I lay down and was unconscious within a minute. When his parents came in a couple of hours later to tell him it was time to go home, that's how they found us, fully clothed, on opposite sides of the bed, fast asleep.


Monday, October 3, 2016

The Vibrator Ways

Oh Hey, this blog is ver-r-r-y interesting. Found it while I Googled some stuff.

Want to know how I got my first cum? Maybe younger than normal, b'cos. I was 11, and "Always" having a hard-on.

Tried a lot of ways to play with it but don't know what could happen. There was this vibrator that we got at home, you'd strap it on your hand to give somebody a rub. One day I put it on and took hold of my dick that was already hard. Just holding onto my hard dick, not jerking. I let the buzzy machine do all this crazy jiggling. I felt the frenzy of tickles and some excellent feelings make me want to keep vibrating my lil dork.

  My dick starts to get funky. It feels some crazy ways like never before. Then I wondered if I was feeling maybe sick. I quit the vibrater and go messing around but my dick, its awful hard and I got to rub it on things. In a while the clear cum runs out on my pants, which scares the B'Jesus out of me. I'm thinkin' something real bad happened to my dick. I decide that happened all  b'cos the vibrater, so I am not ever doing that thing again.

But in a few days like an idiot, I want to go and do the vibrator some more. That time I keep doing it and although sometimes think "What if I die?". But then I get all funky again. In a minute it keeps feeling WILD. I kept the button mashed hard. I didn't expect it, but then it's the first climax ever! The stuff keeps on shooting out all over,  like it won't even stop.

 Again I think to myself, that's not good, you hurting yourself, don't do it any more. But pretty soon I go and use the vibrator on my dick just about every day to get my cum. I sure liked it to happen.

 In a while showed a bud how to do it. I'll have to tell that later.


Welcome New reader, and thanks for your story.

Sunday, October 2, 2016

Parking Patrol

This story is about almost getting caught.

My dad worked in a building downtown and parked in a lot nearby. Same parking lot, same space all the time. A lot of days I took a bus downtown after school and went to the library, then walked to his car to catch a ride home. At that age I was always thinking about wanting to drive. Usually I sat in the driver's seat and played like I was driving.

Along about eighth or ninth grade I found out how to stroke my peter and get one out. Now two things was high on my list, wanting to drive and shooting a load. A lot of times I would JO while waiting in the car. At school I could sneak a PE towel into my book bag. When I was ready to play with my peter I spread the towel over my lap to hide my dick and catch the stuff. My little peter was still very small at that time. It did not stick far out of my pants, mostly surrounded by the open zipper. I could get only a couple fingers on my little stiffy and get it stirred up real good. When the stuff was ready to come I bunched up the towel around my dick and caught the load. This all while sitting in the driver's seat of the car.

Now there was a teenage boy working at the parking lot. I figured he was a dropout because he seemed to be there all the time. He was always sitting in a little shack to take money and keep his eye on the cars. So on this one day I had just got my load out and was squeezing the towel around my dick to absorb the wet stuff. Here comes that guy, wanting to talk!

He asked questions and hung around not doing much, just standing and leaning on the car. And I have got that towel on my lap with wet cum in it. After that first time he always had to come stand by the car and talk if he wasn't busy. I feel like he knew exactly what I was doing.

 The guy did not catch me but I think he guessed.