Rules of Masturbation
by Jason Kason

 

RULE NUMBER THREE

The third instruction on the ‘Rules of Masturbation’ I’d found from my old schooldays read:

3. Boys’ trousers must never show evidence of their masturbatory habit. Trousers bearing semen stains must be handed into matron and a clean pair borrowed if necessary.

 

This was the first rule that was mostly taken seriously.

Boys would often ask to go to the bathroom during lessons to take the opportunity of having a tug in the quiet privacy of a toilet cubicle.  It was so common for pupils from all form-groups to do this, that there was talk of queues developing at peak times in the various boys’ toilets located around the study buildings.

I don’t know if that was true – I certainly never ran into any – but so many of us were constantly horny that sneaking out of lessons to relieve both boredom and boners was routine.

When a boy was given permission to go to the toilet and was on the way out of the class, there was a running joke – so often repeated it had long since ceased to be funny – of those nearest to the door whispering, “Ten minute rule!”  The teachers must have known that the inference was that the loo break was going to be used for discharging balls rather than bladders, but if they did then without exception they chose to ignore it.

On return to the class, the boy’s crotch would be peered at by all his classmates as he walked back to his seat, and the teachers probably took a glance at it too.  Everybody was hoping to see a sticky white smear, evidence that not just a penny had been spent.

The vast majority of times there’d be nothing to see on the trousers other than perhaps a small dribble of piss from a cock which had been tucked away too hastily.  Very rarely, though, some oblivious youth would stroll back into the lesson with a wayward gob of cum on his conspicuously bulging crotch.  I say ‘very rarely’ because those who were caught out by a teacher parading their jizz for their classmates were likely to be called to the front of the class to be used as an example.

I remember one poor sap – a scrawny kid with thick glasses called Jeremy Patterson – being summoned to Mr Dunning’s desk, a bloke in his thirties who taught us Maths.

The teacher went through his book with him, helping him with whatever it was he was struggling with and then asked him loudly, so all of us could hear, “Tell me, Patterson, have you been masturbating in those trousers you’re wearing?”

The whole class went quiet as Patterson blushed and replied, “Er… no, sir.”

“So why is there a patch of white residue alongside your zipper?”

Patterson glanced down at his crotch and went a darker shade of red.  He muttered, “I don’t know, sir…”

“Is it your sperm?” the teacher asked.

“No, sir.”

“Is it another boy’s sperm?”  That brought a few chuckles from the class which Dunning had obviously expected.

“Of course not, sir.”

Patterson looked mortified at being singled out like this in front of his classmates and while one or two of us were amused by his uncomfortable predicament, the rest were only thankful that it wasn’t the fronts of our own trousers receiving the teacher’s scrutiny.

“So what is it then, Patterson, if it isn’t your masturbatory discharge?” Mr Dunning asked him.

“Custard, I think, sir,” the feckless boy sputtered.  “I… er… splashed it on my trousers at lunch yesterday.”

I remember thinking that Patterson should have just said yes when he first asked if it was his spunk.  A simple, “Sorry, sir, I thought I’d wiped it all off,” would have got him fifty lines or put on uniform report, but that would have been the end of it.  As it was, his claims of innocence only made it worse for himself.

Dunning didn’t like being lied too – we all knew that well from his lessons.  Any attempt to mislead was taken as a personal insult and, like a lot of teachers back in the seventies, he was not above publicly humiliating those who crossed him.

Dunning stood up and pulled his chair out from his desk.

“Get up on here, Patterson,” he ordered the boy.

Patterson climbed onto the chair and stood with his head almost touching the strip lights hanging down from the high ceilings, peering down at our surprised faces.

Dunning leaned forwards and applied his nose to the white stain next to the boy’s fly.  He sniffed two or three times at the dried-on splash and then, dissatisfied by what little he could smell, pressed his nose more firmly against the front of Patterson’s trousers and inhaled deeply to draw in any odour that he could.

Patterson blushed so much his cheeks were plum-coloured, cringing at having a teacher sniffing his wank-splash in front of the class.  Even if it wasn’t spunk next to his zipper, this man would be smelling his privates through the material of his trousers, getting a noseful of the pissy dribbles on his undies and the sweaty stink of his cock and balls squashed up inside them.

Dunning pulled back and announced, “It certainly does smell of custard, young man.”

Patterson breathed a sigh of relief and quite a few of us joined him.  Some boys, though – perhaps me included – were disappointed that he’d got off so lightly with flashing a big white stain on his fly.  We were all so careful to avoid even talcum powder getting anywhere near our crotches, so for Patterson to get away with having the teacher just dick-sniff him seemed a bit unfair.

He made to climb off the chair but Dunning stopped him.

The teacher said, “I suppose our next query in solving this enigma must be: does your sperm also smell of custard?”

Patterson wavered, unsure of what Dunning was suggesting, as the teacher smiled at us and explained his logic.

“It stands to reason, class, that for us to be sure of Patterson’s innocence, he’ll have to prove to us that his sperm doesn’t smell of custard.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Unzip your fly, boy, and masturbate yourself into my handkerchief,” the maths teacher commanded him, passing up the hanky from his jacket breast pocket.  “If your discharge smells of custard, it will reveal you to be the liar I strongly suspect you are.”

These days Mr Dunning would have been marched from the school for such conduct and banned from teaching for the rest of his life.  But these were simpler times with more lenient attitudes and if any of us had complained about how Patterson had been treated, we’d have had a clip around the ear and been told off for our insolence.

Patterson had no choice but to unzip himself and pull his floppy cock out of his trouser fly.  It was much bigger than I’d thought it would be and hung down a good six inches even though it was soft.  His foreskin was much longer than it needed to be and puckered into a long, thin nozzle drooping underneath the swollen head of it.

“Come on then, Patterson,” Dunning urged him.  “Masturbate yourself to issue.”

Patterson just stood there looking gormless, his face like beetroot from having his dick poking out in front of all the other boys in his class.

“You do masturbate don’t you?” the teacher asked.  “Most boys at sixteen have developed a regular habit…”

“Yes, sir,” Patterson said.  “Once a week for ten minutes, as written in the school rules.”

A few of us chuckled; we knew that was bullshit.

“Well, this week you can indulge yourself a second time… but be quick about it, Patterson, we haven’t got all day!”

Patterson grabbed his big limp cock between two fingers and his thumb and looked plaintively at Mr Dunning, perhaps hoping this was the moment his teacher’s uncustomary request would be revealed as a joke.

But Dunning just got more impatient and snapped, “Come on, boy, start rubbing back and forth!  You’ve no need to be shy – all your classmates do the same thing to themselves – and we’re all men together so there’s no point in blushing!”

Patterson started jerking his long stretchy foreskin up and down his floppy prick, looking around the room at us all with his face horrified that he was pulling his pud in front of us.

“That’s the ticket!” Dunning encouraged him.  “I can see it getting thicker already… in no time at all you’ll be rattling down the home straight!”

Patterson’s cock slowly hardened up and it soon became obvious, once it was curving upwards from his fly, that his foreskin was actually perfectly proportioned to the generous length it was capable of achieving.

For a thin, skinny boy with jam-jar glasses, he soon had a hell of meaty cock raised at full-mast from the front of his trousers!

He must have seen how we were all ogling at him, and perhaps that some of us were fiddling with our own growing crotches, because his embarrassment quickly gave way to a naughty smirk.  What had been a hesitant fondling became a more confident rubbing and soon his hand was wrapped tightly around his big cock and he was pounding his foreskin up and down his thick shaft with a rough, rapid rhythm.

“Keep your pace firm and steady… use strong, hard strokes!” Mr Dunning said, as if coaching the cricket team.  “When you feel your scrotum start to tingle, cup the handkerchief around the head of your penis… I don’t want any mess!”

The head of Patterson’s penis was now a throbbing purple helmet, the paired lobes of it shiny and bloated and looking like two ripe plums.  The long slit down the middle was weeping a thick, clear ooze which formed syrupy bubbles as his foreskin swept back and forth across it, and dribbled down onto his hand, smearing over his fingers.

Patterson grinned at us, by now loving that he was wanking his big dick off in a maths class, and I noticed Mr Dunning’s trousers were raised prominently upwards between his pocket and his fly and realised he was enjoying it too.

“The lesson bell will be going soon,” Dunning informed him.  “Come on, crank it up a bit… let’s see your juices start flowing, young man!”

He put his hand up to the back of Patterson’s trousers and I guess like most of us in the room I assumed he was urging the boy on by gently pushing him forwards.  Afterwards, though, Patterson told us that the teacher had pushed a finger between his bum cheeks and it was the feel of that, pressing right against his pookie, which had made his cock swell rigid and start erupting.

I still remember his nut-off face: it was a sort of frozen grin, but strangely manic and twisted.  I suppose these days the whole class would have their phones out, snapping pics and taking videos of their study-buddy jacking off, but in spite of the lack of technology back then, I can still picture vividly Jeremy Patterson’s rictus cum-face.

He caught all his spooge obediently into Mr Dunning’s hanky and when he’d finished jazzing off and was hunched on the chair recovering his breath, the teacher removed the cupped material from his hand.

He sniffed it, looked puzzled and sniffed it again.

Then he offered it to the closest boy, outstretched in his palm, to seek the opinion of a second nose.

“What does it smell like?” he asked the boy who sniffed at Patterson’s fresh seed.

“Like the bathroom on my corridor about twenty minutes after lights-out,” he replied.

The rest of us laughed and the matter was settled.

“Well, it seems you were telling the truth,” Mr Dunning told Patterson after he’d climbed off the chair and was trying to pack his big, firm cock back away in his trousers.  “It was indeed custard that you’d spilled on yourself.  You’ll have to be more attentive, young man, with pale-coloured foodstuffs.”

Patterson abruptly stopped, frozen in mid-grapple pushing his dick through his zipper.

“Oh no,” he called out without moving.  “Now I’ve got two white blotches next to my fly!”

He was right: a belated dribble of cum out of his snake-eye had made a sticky smear on the black material of his trousers.

“I’ve got Mr Turnbull next,” he went on.  “If he gets me to stand on his chair so he can have a sniff of it, this one sure won’t smell like custard!”

“Now all you boys should take this as a warning,” Mr Dunning told him just as the end-of-lesson bell rang out and we all started packing up.

“Rule number three is to be taken very seriously,” he called out over the developing racket.  “If I suspect any of you of breaking it in one of my lessons, you’ll get exactly the same treatment as Patterson here!”

I think a few of us were tempted to dab a splodge of custard on our fly so we’d get to stand on the teacher’s chair and wank off in front of our gawping maths class.  But if the prospect of having to be the follow-up act to Jeremy Patterson’s huge wanger wasn’t off-putting enough, the thought of Dunning sniffing around our meat packs and wedging his finger between our bum-cheeks certainly was.

 

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