Rules of Masturbation
by Jason Kason
RULE NUMBER FIVE
- Boys must not masturbate into the dirty underpants they put in their laundry bags. Prefects are entitled to make checks on boys’ laundry bags and notify the housemaster if deposits of semen are found.
I’m not sure why this rule even existed. Perhaps one of the women who came in to work in the school washroom complained that she kept getting white goop all over her hands when she grabbed handfuls of undies out of the boys’ laundry bags. Or maybe some prissy third-former wrote home to mummy that his dormitory stunk of the older boys’ spunk-filled briefs.
It now strikes me as unnecessarily prescriptive to tell young masturbators – of which our boarding house was replete – that they mustn’t grab the most obvious item at hand to contain their spunk once it started shooting. Even in my forties I sometimes forget to get some tissue lined up when I embark on a wank-off so back then I had no chance of planning ahead.
During the five years I was at the school, I only knew one prefect who insisted on using the powers vested in him to examine boys’ laundry bags. He was a notorious dipstick called Travis Perkins and he was the prefect for our corridor when I was in the fifth form.
He’d come into our dorm like he thought he was our sergeant-major and call out, “Laundry bag inspection! At the double, men… I haven’t got all evening!”
The six of us would lay our dirty pants out on our beds so he could poke his fountain pen into any pairs that caught his attention and raise them up with it to more carefully examine the degree of soilage.
He’d say, “These seem a little crusty, Johnson!”
And Johnson would blush and say, “Just another of my… er… waterworks infections, House Captain.”
Perkins would glare at him and mutter, “You really should go and see matron…”
And Johnson would throw him a tepid smile and nod like he intended to.
When it came to my briefs, though, Perkins would always spend far longer peering at them from all angles with me standing alongside him shuffling uncomfortably at how stained they were.
I always got really sweaty around my balls and arse – maybe it was the cheap material they made school underwear out of back then. Worse than that, I was a bit of dribbler after I’d taken a pee and, no matter how attentively I wiped my arse, the rear gusset was never as pristine white as when I’d put them on. By the time I was pulling my trousers off at bedtime, the front of my underpants always stunk like a crowded locker room right after rugby and the backs reeked something chronic where they’d been wedged up between my cheeks.
I just happened to be a very smelly lad and for the most part I couldn’t help it.
So Perkins would inspect my undies especially attentively, turning them this way and that to take a good look at my sweaty piss stains and the skid-marks streaked up the back gusset. And I’d be standing next to him blushing bright red, hoping all the lads in my dorm wouldn’t be thinking what a skank-bag I was.
Not that anyone ever did make fun of my whiffy pants – I don’t suppose they much cared. We were all stinky lads in our different ways and we were largely oblivious to each other’s particular odours. I don’t suppose my mates who sat next to me in class even noticed the smell wafting up from the front of my trousers, and if some poor sap was stupid enough to push his face into my arse-crack in a rugby scrum, let’s just say he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice!
Anyway, Perkins would say, “I think there might be traces of semen on these underpants, Kason.”
And I’d assert, “There can’t be, House Captain. I don’t… er… use them like that.”
Which was true enough: when I was caught by surprise, it was my pyjama bottoms that ended up spattered in spooge.
Perkins would always insist, “I’ll have to check them, Kason… see if I need to inform the housemaster that you’ve broken rule number five…”
I’d nod and he’d skulk off, taking two or three pairs of my undies back to his single prefects’ room and I’d wonder when I’d eventually get them back.
The bizarre thing was, he never had to confiscate the underpants of any of my dorm-mates. One of them – Paul Clarke – was always using his to jazz-off into and another – David Johnson who I mentioned above – would brag that it was the leakage from his all-day hard-ons that made the crusty patch Perkins would invariably notice.
But Perkins never seemed that interested in their dick-stained briefs but always seemed completely fascinated by my piss- and bum-stained ones. He never took theirs away for ‘checking’ but nearly always left our dorm with a varied selection of mine.
He’d keep them for ages so that I kept having to badger him about it when I was running short, and he’d never give them back to me directly but would always hand them in to the washroom with the rest of his laundry. They’d find their way back to me because all our clothes had little tags with our names sewn into them but I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just return them directly.
One day when I was ill and excused from class, I took a look through the other boys’ laundry bags to see if they would shed any light as to why Perkins kept homing in on only my dirty undies. It felt a bit weird to be rifling through my dorm-mates’ private things but I was getting really fed up of having my whiffy briefs carted back to his single prefect’s room, and anyway since everyone else was in lessons there was no way I was going to get caught.
Not that there were many secrets between us as far as jerking off went. We all got into our beds just before lights-out like six good little boys, said goodnight to the prefect when he came to check we were nicely tucked up, then would lie in the dark with our hands thumping hard against our bedsheets, all panting together and smiling up at the ceiling.
We knew our dorm-mates’ smells as intimately as our own and could figure out from the flavour of cock stink that would gather in the room, which combination of us was wanking on a particular evening. We knew each other’s rhythms and inflections; could tell every night who was most horny. And from the characteristic musk that would steadily build with successive gasping climaxes, we could deduce whose pair of balls had just emptied themselves and how many of us were left still stroking.
Paul Clarke was the oldest of us and not surprisingly I found that his underpants were damp and slimy with the spunk he’d offloaded into them. He always kept the pair he’d been wearing that day close at hand when he went to bed so he could cup them over his cock when he was spurting, filling them up with his latest outpouring of seed. He’d laugh in the morning at how wet they still were before tossing them into his laundry bag to slowly ferment with all the other gunky pairs he’d similarly soaked.
Perkins had once asked my dorm-mate why his dirty undies were sticking together with a white, viscous goo, to which Clarke had replied, as cool as you like, “I give my nose a good blow before I chuck them in the bag, House Captain.”
Perkins had nodded sagely and said, “Very good, man… far more hygienic than leaving handkerchiefs lying around.”
And that, to my surprise, had been the end of the matter.
Now, looking at Clarke’s dirty briefs here in the empty dorm-room, I could understand why Perkins might believe that they were full of snot rather than spunk. They had pretty much no smell to them even though they were literally oozing with gunge – just a vaguely musky, perhaps salty, tang wafting off them which reminded me of my aunt’s dog when it was wet.
My cum always stunk really strong and at home I always had to open a window after I’d been jerking off. But then, Paul Clarke also had really smelly goop and the whole dorm knew without a doubt when his cock had shot its load last thing at night. So I figured that unlike mine, Clarke’s jizz must steadily lose its odour and wondered if that’s why Perkins wasn’t too interested in his spunk-filled briefs.
I took a look at David Johnson’s dirty undies, feeling really pervy to be rifling through other guys’ laundry bags, and found that in spite of how much dried-on cock leakage there was up near the waistband, they too were largely odour-free. The same was true of all the other guys’ pants in my dorm: there was the odd stain and the occasional curly hair in the gussets, but as far as cock and arse stink went, none came anywhere close to mine!
In woodwork, I stood next to a lad called Martin Wallace who shared a dorm a couple further down my corridor. A few days after I’d returned to classes from being ill, the two of us got onto the popular subject of Perkins being a prick. To my surprise, Wallace told me how fed up he was with having his underwear confiscated for so-called ‘checking’.
“I”ve worn the briefs I’ve got on now for three days,” he whispered over at me. “That dickhead has nicked all my other cacks and taken them to his room.”
“He takes mine too!” I told him. “I’m down to my last couple of pairs.”
“I don’t know why he homes in on mine,” he said glumly. “One of my dorm-mates uses his as a wank-rag but he told Perkins they’re just wet because he gets sweaty down there, and that idiot believed him!”
“Same in my dorm!” I blurted out. “What is it about our undies that makes him take them?”
“Do you jerk off into yours?” he asked, blushing a little at how personal the question was.
“No,” I said back. Unlike him, I had no qualms about talking about wank-off habits – we all did it, after all, even those who pretended they didn’t.
“Me neither,” he agreed. He thought for a few moments and then he asked, “Do your pants smell pretty strong when you take them off?”
Now I did blush. This was much more embarrassing.
“Er… yeah…” I stammered. “I take showers all the time but I guess I’m just a bit… er… whiffy down there…”
He nodded. “Same for me. No matter how clean I try to be, the front of my briefs smell of… well…”
“Dick stink?” I suggested and we smiled at each other, tacitly acknowledging that we were both wearing underpants that reeked of our dribbly cocks and sweaty bollocks.
“And the backs?” I asked, grinning more naughtily. “Are the backs of yours always a bit…”
“Ripe?” he grinned back and I chuckled and nodded.
After looking around to check that nobody could overhear us, he whispered, “They ride up into my crack and by the end of the day they look really nasty…”
“Mine do too,” I admitted and we smirked at each other mischievously, enjoying that underneath the backs of our school trousers we were both smelly between our cheeks.
“Did Perkins see how dirty they were when he did one of his inspections?” I asked him.
“He couldn’t miss it,” he chuckled. “He held them up with his pen and he could see how skanky they looked and they reeked so strong he could probably smell the stink of my dick and my arse…”
After we’d got back on with sanding down the letter-racks we were making, I said across to him, “You reckon all the stink we both leave on our undies might be something a prefect might want to examine more closely in the privacy of his single room?”
“Yeah, with his nose… and with his boner poking through his fly…” Wallace grinned.
“Using his left hand to lift our pants up to his face,” I laughed back, “’cause his right is so busy doing something else!”
The next time Perkins did one of his inspections and had taken two pairs of my dirty undies along with a pair of football shorts Martin Wallace had by then resorted to wearing, the two of us gave him five minutes of alone time in his room before creeping up to his bedroom door intent on proving to ourselves what his motives were.
“Do we knock?” Wallace whispered to me, standing outside the door. The number one rule on one of the countless other lists of do’s and don’ts we had to follow was to always knock at a prefect’s door and wait to be called into his room.
“Of course not!” I snapped. “He’s hardly gonna call us in if he’s in the middle of jazzing off sniffing our dick splashes!”
So we both barged into Perkins’ room, knowing we’d be dragged straight to the housemaster if our suspicions weren’t correct, and there kneeling in front of his bed with his hand pounding away at his prick was our trusty prefect.
Our underwear was laid out on top of his bedsheets, the name bands raised upwards so he could choose which boy’s stink he wanted to wank off to. Mine and Wallace’s were both in prominent places and both colourfully stained, but alongside ours were the dirty underpants of several other boys on our corridor, some which had even yellower crotches than ours and some showing off rear gussets far more luridly soiled.
Perkins turned to us and, taking Wallace’s football shorts from his nose, barked, “How dare you barge into my room unannounced!”
Wallace fired back at him, “How dare you wank off with my shorts in your face!”
It was only then that Perkins seemed to realise the predicament we’d caught him in and his angry demeanour gave way to embarrassment and uncertainty.
He tried to manoeuvre his hard-on back into his fly and stammered, “I was just… er… checking them for semen…”
“By sniffing them and rubbing your dick?” I enquired.
“You… er… should just be grateful that I haven’t found any on them… that I won’t need to inform the housemaster…”
“It’s the two of us who should be informing the housemaster,” Wallace asserted. “Taking boys’ pants so you can sniff their piss stains…”
Perkins stood up, still stashing his dick back into his trousers. It was getting easier for him now that his stiffie was looking a good deal more withered.
“Look… er… maybe we can come to an agreement,” he said, glancing at all the pants laid out on his bed and blushing deeply. “I’ll return all these and I promise I won’t take any more…”
“And you’ll turn a blind eye to our two dorms,” Wallace said. “Even when we have grog or fags, you’ll just let it go…”
Perkins nodded and I added, “And you owe us both a bottle of decent plonk if you want us to keep quiet…”
“Okay,” Perkins snapped, “but don’t push it! That’s all you’re getting.”
We snatched our dirty pants from his bed, grinned at his gormless face and then made to leave his room.
Before we did so, though, I couldn’t resist turning and asking: “Just one more thing, Perkins…”
He peered at me suspiciously.
I held up a pair of my briefs, stained front and back.
“Which part would make you cum… sniffing here…?”
I pointed to the saggy crotch, stained with my piss and smelling strongly of my pube sweat.
“Or here?”
I moved my finger lower down to between the two leg holes where the discoloured material stank where it had rubbed up against my arse.
Perkins blushed a deep scarlet, letting us both know the answer. He fantasized about sniffing the dirty bums of the boys in his charge and so pressing the backs of their stinky undies to his nose would make his own stiff pecker start spurting as he furiously wanked it.
I suppose we could have let it be known around the whole school that House Captain Perkins sniffed other boys’ pants but it was much more useful to have a regular supply of prefects’ perks from him. We got wine and cigars and crib sheets for exams – even free passes for parties they’d have at the girls’ school – all in return not only for our silence but also for the occasional well-soiled gift left discreetly in the top drawer of his desk.
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