Rules of Masturbation
by Jason Kason

 

RULE NUMBER TWO

In the politically correct world we now live in, a boys’ boarding school issuing its pupils with a list of ‘Rules of Masturbation’ might seem at best archaic and at worst offensive, but back when I was learning how to knot my school tie and reciting my sevens-times-tables, it seemed perfectly reasonable for there to be rules about such things.

After all, we had rules about what food we could have in our bedroom lockers, how much money we could keep and how often we had to polish our shoes, so I took it for granted that we were also told how much time we should spend exercising our wrists.

Some twenty-odd years having passed since my schoolboy days, I was standing in my kitchen with the sheet of paper we’d called the ‘hand book’, now yellowed and faded, lying on the table.  I put the kettle on to make a cup of tea, and read rule number two while I waited for it to boil:

  1. Boys must not spend an excessive amount of time masturbating. Ten minutes of brisk exertion applied once per week is more than adequate for most normal young men.

 

That rule had caused a huge amount of amusement across the school.

First of all, there was the word ‘exertion’.  Whenever a teacher in class would call out, “More exertion, boy!” it became a sort of school tradition that as soon as the teacher’s back was turned, the same boy would thump his fist up and down against the front of his trousers.  It always caused widespread merriment and so just about everyone who was told that they weren’t exerting enough would give his crotch a good bashing like he would if he was wanking off.

It even got a name – it was referred to as giving the ‘five-figure salute’.

I did it a few times myself when I was caught slacking off, making my wrist go at it a few times against my trouser zipper, much to my classmates’ eager amusement.

Early on at the school, I heard some boys laughing about this little guy called Mousey, saying that after an ‘exertion’ quip from a teacher, he’d done the five-finger salute in an unfortunate way.  He’d inadvertently revealed to the whole class of grinning lads what a tiny little prick he must be packing away in the gusset of his standard school-issue white briefs.  As soon as the teacher’s attention had been diverted, he’d grinned at his mates and pretended to give his todger a few tugs.  Only he’d done it using just his pinched together forefinger and thumb and had rubbed them up and down a length that was barely an inch in size.

“He must have a little kiddie-dick,” one boy was chuckling to the others. “He must need tweezers to wank himself off and a microscope to find his pecker when it’s gone soft in his bush!”

They’d all guffawed with laughter and I’d thought, “That’s worth knowing!” Like Mousey evidently did, I used just my finger and thumb to pull my foreskin back and forth when I played with my dick most nights, but at least my up and down movement was already a good five or six inches.

From then on, whenever my exertion was publicly criticised and the class turned to watch me give the five-finger salute, I’d make sure I used my whole hand for the jerk-off motion and that my grip was stretched wide enough to hold onto the trunk of a young tree.  I even swung my wrist up and down across and upward nine or ten inch curve so it looked like I was used to wanking some great colossal rod of meat every night.

My classmates would suppress not only giggles but surprise too, marvelling that my innocuous school trousers were concealing such a sleeping giant. They must have thought my little pecker must grow to be the biggest cock in the room, including whatever the teacher had stashed away down the front of in his big bulging Y-fronts.

I actually found I loved making my friends and classmates laugh by pretending to have a good bash on a monster manhood arching upwards from my trouser fly.  I was quite a little lad – by no means the smallest in the class – and my short height and slight build must have made it so funny that I would grow this big brutish hard-on I could hardly get my hand around.

Funny, and maybe a bit horny too.

I noticed that a minute or so after my over-exaggerated display, some boys would be adjusting their own dicks through their trousers and others would be giving themselves a sly grope by pretending to fish for something in their pockets.  I don’t think it was a homosexual thing as such, but more that in a school crammed full of boys and men the air was saturated with testosterone and the place was on a knife-edge of sexual tension.

I guess what I’m saying is, pretty much everyone was horny pretty much all of the time.

That’s why rule number two was almost universally ignored.  If the ‘hand book’ had recommended ten minutes once a day, some boys might have taken it at least slightly seriously.  But ten minutes once a week – who the hell were they trying to kid?!

I suppose a minority of boys probably tried to stick to the rule.  Some of the specky nerds who only wanted to study and a few of the boring ones who wouldn’t question authority.  I can imagine lads like that ‘briskly exerting’ themselves for ten minutes each week over a toilet bowl, perhaps on Saturday evenings after our social with the neighbouring girls’ school.

The prefects certainly didn’t stick the rule.  One of the prefect perks – unwritten as far as I know – was that they were allowed to “disburden” themselves, as one of our form masters once delicately put it, in the single rooms they were granted instead of having to queue up in the bathroom like the rest of the plebs.

All the prefects I ever knew exploited that perk to the absolute max. Whenever their bedroom doors were closed you could hear them going at it, perhaps letting us mere mortals know that they had the luxury of cranking one off whenever they liked.  And whenever I’d had to visit a prefect for whatever reason, there’d always be a sharp cock stink in their room like they’d just been giving their bell-end a good airing.  Sometimes there’d be a spunky odour too from the bin overflowing with scrunched-up sticky tissues.

So rule number two was rubbish and everybody knew it.  You only had to go into any of the bathrooms after lights-out and you’d see how utterly unrealistic it was.  There were four cubicles in the bathroom nearest my dorm and they’d always be engaged for at least an hour after bedtime.  The gentle thumping and quickening breathing coming from inside them made it obvious to the queue of boys waiting their turn that nobody was in there to take a dump.

It was kind of funny that, actually: before breakfast there’d be a queue of boys waiting outside the four locked cubicles and the noises coming from inside them would be farts, plops and splashes.  At bedtime a different set of boys would be waiting by the same cubicles, but this time from behind the locked doors there’d be the steady, persistent rhythm of four wrists bashing against four pyjama fronts.

A boy would emerge, red-faced and still recovering his breath, and the next one would file in to take over his place.  Sometimes the next lad in the queue would hopefully mutter, “Ten minute rule, buddy!” but once inside, the boys would take full advantage of their brief moments of solitude and some would stay there with his hand pumping away in welcome oblivion long after the rest of the queue had given up and gone to bed.

I say ‘solitude’ but sometimes boys would go into a cubicle in pairs. Again, it wasn’t a gay thing – at least usually it wasn’t – it was just a way of speeding things up for those who didn’t mind sharing and had a friend in the queue.

I was lucky that I was put in a dorm where wanking off before sleeping was as much a part of our nightly routine as getting undressed and brushing our teeth.  But sometimes, like when we had an especially fastidious prefect or when there was a bed swap and we ended up with some fun-sponge who believed in following the rule book, I’d have to take my place among the queues in one of the bathrooms on my corridor.

I did a deal with a boy called Peter Cruddis who I used to sit next to in French and whose dorm was on the same corridor as mine.  We agreed that if I was in the queue behind him, he’d let me into the cubicle with him and that I’d do the same when he was behind me.  Obviously this only applied last thing at night; in the morning when the toilets were being put to their intended us, the two of us would very much do our own thing!

I don’t know how masturbatory etiquette arises but there were clear and concrete rules governing shared use of a cubicle by two boys needing to ‘disburden’ themselves.  Perhaps there was a second page to the ‘hand book’ that I’d never received a copy of, or perhaps it was taught in a biology lesson from which I’d been absent.

In any case, the rule was that you stood back to back and did your own thing with as much isolation as you could.  You didn’t face each other which would mean you looked at each other’s cocks while you were both wanking off, and you sure as hell didn’t stand one behind the other so that one of you got to look at your companion’s arse.  It’s a pity it was never done that way because I think I’d have rather liked it.  I’ve always thought arses look a bit like tits and I think I’d have enjoyed wanking off looking at Cruddis’ fat little bum, imagining my cock sliding up and down between the two pudgy mounds.

But it was never done that way and I wouldn’t even have dared suggest it. When boys went into cubicles together, other smart-aleks used to look over the tops of the cubicle partitions to see if they could catch them cock-sucking.  If I’d been seen standing behind Cruddis, jerking my dick off as it poked towards his dumpy butt-cheeks, I’d have been the talk of the assembly hall the very next morning.

So this is how it worked.  We’d all be stood there in the bathroom, listening to other boys forearms going at it from behind the four locked doors, and then one of them would gasp – finally – and we’d know that a place was about to become free.  After some wiping and flushing, the wank-off merchant would emerge tying his dressing gown up and, as he went off to bed, the next in line would file into the cubicle and close the door.  Then his rhythm would join the thump-thump-thuming of the other three hands and we’d wait silently, trying to figure out from the depth of the panting and any changes in pacing which of the four cubicles would be vacated next.

When it was my turn or Cruddis’ turn, we’d head into the cubicle and gesture for the other to follow us in.  Some of the boys would likely make jokes about us making sure to wipe our mouths before going to bed but that was pretty standard – the joke was always that two boys going into one cubicle must be about to suck each other’s cocks.  It’s odd that there was hardly any mention of boys doing it up each other’s bums and if that sort of thing did go on – well I say ‘if’ but I know full well it did – it was kept deliberately well under the radar.

So we’d get into the cubicle, lock the door and whoever was nearest the toilet would pass the other a wodge of loo roll.  We’d take off our dressing gowns and hang them up and then turn our backs to each other so we didn’t have to see each other’s brisk exertions.

I suppose we regarded it as a bodily function, a bit like going for a crap. You didn’t want to see your mate doing that so it stood to reason that you didn’t want to see each other jerking off.  Except with Peter Cruddis, I kind of did.  I used to want to see if he did it the same way I did or whether all these years I’d been getting it totally wrong.  I never gave into the temptation to take a peak, though.  The unspoken rule was that you faced away from each other and that was very much the way the two of us always did it.

We’d both start beating off, trying not to let our arses touch together too much.  Sometimes our bum cheeks did rub together and, do you know something, I actually quite liked it when they did!  But mostly we stood far enough part to do our thing on our own, matching each other’s rhythm on our dicks and wondering which of us would be the first to shoot.

I preferred wanking off in bed but doing it in the bathroom had a certain appeal too.  The sound of all the other boys’ hands slapping away at their cocks was amplified by the tiled walls of the bathroom and it was fun to be part of that – contributing to the noisy rhythm that those in the queue were listening to.

Mostly there’d be three other dicks to listen to having their foreskins tugged, but if there was a lot of doubling up on a particular night, you could get eight stiff knobs being jerked off all together.  That would kick out a hell of racket and a prefect walking past the bathroom after lights-out would hear, even through the door, the unmistakable thumping of eight of us frantically disburdening at once.

Another thing I liked about a bathroom wank-off was that everyone’s dicks were up at full-mast, apart from the odd boy coming in for a pee or a latecomer at the sink brushing his teeth.  Certainly all the boys standing in the queue had boners otherwise they wouldn’t be here, and those of us in the cubicles were merrily rubbing away at our bonk-ons.  All being grouped together like that, all hard and horny, was a fun part of jerking off among the other boys on my corridor and gave the bathroom an exciting, sexy ambiance.

That atmosphere of male arousal was intensified by the gathering smell of so many foreskins sliding back and forth across shiny helmets and so much spunk squirting out from all our different shaped slits.  By the time the last boys staggered off to bed at around midnight, the whole room stunk like the inside of a pair of briefs which had been worn for a week, night and day.

Whichever of me or Cruddis shot our load first, we’d wipe up with tissue and let ourselves out so the other could finish off in private.  There was an etiquette here too: if the one facing the door spunked first, he’d put the sticky tissue in his dressing gown pocket and let himself out so the other could re-lock the door.  You didn’t put the tissue in the toilet because you might get a glimpse of the boy wanking off and that was something that had to be avoided at all costs.  If the boy facing the toilet came first, he’d throw the goopy paper into the bowl but leave it unflushed so as not to suggest to the queue that the cubicle was about to be freed up.  Then the two of you would do a weird back-to-back rotation, switching places so that the one with the empty bollocks would be facing the door.  Again, the aim was to avoid a dreaded glance at the masturbator’s prick – ironic, really, since we’d just listened to each other beating off at full crank.

As I poured the milk into my tea and took a first sip of it, I smiled at how ridiculous rule number two had been.  I reckon even the housemaster would have been playing with his prick more often than the ‘hand book’ stipulated and so all of us teenaged boys stood no chance whatsoever.

 

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