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Message-ID: <42078asstr$1051294207@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: stardog105@hotmail.com (Bob)
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
NNTP-Posting-Date: 25 Apr 2003 12:16:11 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} true story: discovering masturbation (solo preteen/teen boy)
Date: Fri, 25 Apr 2003 14:10:07 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Puberty Pleasures

As the only child in a traditional Catholic family, it should come as
no surprise to learn that I was masturbating before I knew what it
was. My parents insulating me from sexual information had worked so
well that I had no inkling getting nude and experimenting with my
genital area was sexual. I knew that I should not get caught, but that
was true of eating between meals, watching too much television,
reading comic books and a host of other house rules.

I was presumably in the fifth grade, something early or middle of my
tenth year. At infrequent times I would be home alone in the late
afternoon, after school but before my dad came home. My mother would
go out visiting or something and the whole house was mine, if briefly.

bathroom discovery

One such afternoon without any apparent influence or model I went into
the bathroom, locked the door and took off all my clothes, even shoes
and socks, to sit nude on the toilet. Possibly I saw myself naked in
the mirror above the sink but would not have noticed since I did bathe
by myself and saw how I looked getting into and out of the tub. (I
looked on the frail side, not fleshy or muscled or robust. I'd have
shown some ribbing above a perfectly flat stomach and nondescript limp
genitals, a little nut sac and a doodle of an immature, foreskinned
penis.) So there I sat on the toilet nude, possibly the first time in
that position, alone and with no chance of being discovered. I might
have handled my genitals, ah fluffing them or so, letting them dangle
freely, enjoying my being naked all over. That was the extent of my
first secret adventure. But my mind was racing forward.

For the next chance, and these were always uncertain events separated
by many days, I had the idea that I should use a hand mirror to look
at my behind, as I sat on the toilet. When I got the opportunity I
quickly locked myself in, shucked off everything and reached for the
round hand mirror. Looking up there was not as easy as I'd envisioned.
I had to stand, bend over and separate my legs and do additional
contorting to get an obscured shadowed view (one that I can't recall
now, but easily reconstructed as a boy's round behind with a cinched
disk in the crack). As an incidental activity I was moving my genitals
this way and that to get an unimpeded view in the mirror. When I sat
back on the toilet seat to unkink from the bending over, I used the
mirror to check how my scrotum and penis looked from underneath. I
fingered them and lifted them to see how they changed appearance in
the mirror. They looked different from that angle anyway. I could see
the special curves of the organs, their sag and weight. I could see
how the penis was tightly covered as it hung there. A predominant
teardrop bulge near the end. This examination became more engaging
than the bent-standing one.

At some point in this play I noticed that my penis was acting funny.
It had become obstreperous, not limply dangling or flopping about, but
now poking out like it was objecting. Its insolence could not be
ignored. I put the mirror down, giving me a free hand to deal with it.
Hunched over to get a close look, I grasped the offender in my fist,
squeezing it tight and moved my hand so that the foreskin slid up and
back along the shaft, letting some of the head peep out blushing in my
grip. I released it, saw it was still standing up, possibly even more
now. So I gave it another chastisement in my fist, making sure it knew
it was thoroughly punished. But it not only stuck up, it started
swelling as if from indignation.

I was alarmed by this turn of events. My mind lept forward that I
might have permanently hurt myself, would have to tell my parents and
be taken to the doctor. Still, there was a general sense that I was
feeling OK and my penis felt OK too.

I decided that probably if I continued working it over that it would
settle back to its dormant self.

I returned to grasping the stiffened penis, moving that skin back and
forth with determined force.

It was amazing that the penis had to my mind grown enormously. I was
less aware that it had hardened or colored or changed shape than that
it was much much bigger. I thought that my handling it was a form of
massage and that if I were to massage my arm or leg it too would
balloon up. Wow, who would have thought it? Maybe I was the first to
discover this. Maybe it was something scientists should be told about.

I returned to my experiment working my penis over in the same
persistent, vigorous way.

Suddenly something changed. Inside me. I felt a severe impulse. Not a
pain but equal in intensity. Not something I could understand. I had
this sense of gathering pressure, a pending eruption, explosion. As it
came closer to me, it was a total black out of senses, as if I'd
fainted and come back. There was no sense of pleasure or completion or
release. Just that something very dramatic was about to happen and now
had passed. I was OK. Or was I?

I focused on the streamers of white stuff that has shot from my penis
over my legs and the toilet seat. That was not good. At least it
wasn't blood. But it wasn't pee either. Something was wrong. I broke
something. Would I tell my parents, get taken to the doctor? Maybe it
would heal on its own. Boy, I better not mess with it again. I had a
close call this time. Can't afford to risk things like this again. And
maybe there was something wrong with me now, something that would take
time to show up. Wow, I really better be more careful.

So I cleaned up. Got back in my clothes. Pretended nothing had
happened and waited to see if any problems developed. Another whole
day went by. My mother left me alone again. What should I do?

I quickly mulled over the possibilities. First nothing had developed.
Everything worked as before. Next, I wondered what it was all about,
what it meant. Only way to understand it was to do it again. Now I
knew what to look for. That was a plus. So I rushed into the bathroom.
Locked up and sat naked on the toilet to check everything out
carefully this time.
 
Again my penis dangled there, the image of innocence. But I knew
better. I handled it and its two pendent accomplices. Getting them all
accustomed to being scrutinized, rubbed and fingered. The penis, as it
was wont, started to lose its composure. It drooped longer, became
more substantive, began to expand. Time to renew its education. It
found itself once more in my wrapped fist. From its limp squiggle it
had become a stiff rod.  It became perturbated, wondering why it was
getting picked on. Sticking out in pout. I would give it no time off
for good behavior. It would get its due. I started in with the up and
down motion. A good long session to make it pay attention before a
breather to check its condition.

It looked very much beleaguered from its thorough handling. The moist
head was sticking out of the foreskin now showing its dark red blush
of shame, a marked contrast from the tiny pink pee slit. The revealed
head glistened in a slick coating, like an oiled ball barring. The
skin was much more loose this time, rolling back easily to near the
flanged corona. The penis shaft was very springy, thin like a reed or
bamboo. It had doubled or even tripled size from its sedentary state.
It all looked great to me. A wonderful play thing.

I resumed handling it. While I may have done another check or two, I
doubt it. I hurried forward with the complete workout feeling the
build of pressure and pleasure. Yes, pleasure. This time I knew what
was happening. I was observing it closely. I was in control. There was
a growing sense of warmth, of deliciousness, of gratification with the
penis getting rubbed up and down. And it built quickly. It was going
someplace, and I knew where. I felt the gathering of the impulse, that
sudden reaching of the cliff edge and knowing the fall was
inescapable.

Festoons of white stuff again, not as fulsome as yesterday but still
forced streamers of it ejected straight up to dribble down my hand and
bursting penis. A flood of pleasure rippled though me everywhere. It
was a flash of heat, of light. It was past. I slumped forward, let the
sensations seep through all of me, feeling the sense of exhaustion
take over from so much power rushing out.

I had made it happen again. It was wonderful. It was me. 

aftermath

In the next few hours of that day I had a chance to review what was
going on. First, from the slump after ejaculation, I felt guilt. If
not before than now I realized that this was not just something that
my parents would disapprove of (to put it lightly) but that anyone who
knew this about me would know I was evil and doing sin (though I was
not sure which sin).  I decided I should "give it up." But that of
course could not happen. At the first opportunity to get in the
bathroom with little chance of discovery I would rush in to
masturbate. Still the guilt ate into me. I was committing sin.  But
next my mind caught on that I now had a perfect pastime. A perfect
pleasure that was available whenever I could get in the bathroom. It
was so great. It cured everything. No boredom, no loneliness. I came
down on the side of I'd do it because it felt too good to be bad for
me (apart from the sin thing).

My next worry was that somehow my parents would ah "know." They had
special adult knowledge and would see something in me, a look around
my eyes? a special mark? that grownups could recognize but kids did
not know about. I decided to risk it. Luckily I was right, nobody
could see anything but a little boy, someone who had never had
anything sexual mentioned to him. Someone who knew nothing about life.

Over the next few weeks I began to diversify my activity. Realizing
that I could not wait for a vacant house everytime, I started
masturbating when I'd sit on the toilet during regular bathroom
visits. Then I'd masturbate while I was bathing, though it was
annoying to try to get the sperm threads to wash down early enough
when I drained the tub so I would not be found out. Finally I started
very stealthily to masturbate in bed.

bedtime capers

Masturbating in bed was not something I easily thought of. The idea
came slowly. What if my parents were deep asleep? What if my door was
closed? What if my covers were pulled up to my chin? It seemed safe
enough then.

I slept in underclothes and pajamas. Once in bed, once the house was
quiet (though no telling if my parents were really asleep after saying
their Rosery), I'd slip down my pajama bottoms to my thighs. Then my
briefs came down too, leaving me with my genitals available for
whatever I thought they needed most. My legs were flexed, first to
give me a tent to move my hands without any rustling sounds against
the sheets, but more likely it mimicked the seated posture I'd
experienced on the toilet. This position had the great advantage (at
least later) of allowing easy access to all areas of my groin to
inspire sensitivity along the creases of the scrotum, the inner part
of the thighs.

So in the dark quiet house I'd take my clothes down, make a tent of
the covers and using both my hands explore myself. I got lots of
pleasure from all the areas of my genitals (I avoided the anus as it
was "dirty") circling in on rubbing the stiff penis for longer periods
of time, but would break off to examine how each testicle slipped
easily in its bag, how different funny little tubes ran in the bag
under the skin, how the skin wrinkled up and finally firmed tight over
the balls, after which I'd return to that baldheaded bastard to give
him another jacking to show him who was boss. Finally when the
patience of my penis was exhausted, I received hot spurts over my bare
stomach as payment for my tormenting it so thoroughly. The sense of
completion, a special restful glow, settled over me. It was a panacea
to my gray life. It brought contented sleep.

My house did not have Kleenex. We used cotton handkerchiefs which were
washed until they were thin enough to read through. I never figured
out how to ejaculate without leaving evidence. Most often after my
stomach was wet with clearing fluid, I'd just slip my shorts up which
served as a wick or blotter to soak up the spermy liquid. It left
stains and smell. I'd use them several nights in a row and have yellow
blotches on each for the wash. Possibly when I started my ejaculations
were not as copious as when I became a teen but at some point it
became a laundry problem and I coped with it by rinsing my tight
briefs out before hand or hiding them and putting them in the washer
myself when a load was being done. Regardless, it was never a good
solution and caused some curiosity from my parents I did not want.
When I left for college I abandoned in the recesses of my closet a
shoe box stuffed with smelly, yellowed shorts.

fantasy island

Almost from the beginning when I handled my stiffened penis I used
images to get me to ejaculate. I'd pretend this was being done to me
by a friend or that I was doing this to a friend. My very first
fantasy was that I'd take my classmate, friend and neighbor Johnny out
into the undeveloped areas behind our homes, out where no one could
see us and show him what I'd discovered.

We would sit side by side in a sheltered place (I'd picked it out, an
abandoned gravel storage yard). I'd explain that we had to get our
pants and shorts down. We'd each slip them down to our thighs, our
bare behinds directly on the sandy ground. Once we were both exposed
I'd handle my penis, then handle his as a lesson and then supervise
him as he handled his own. I guess I shot before I went to the next
fantasy step where he'd handle me. I used this fantasy again and again
as I lay in my covered bed. I'd feel the hot sun on our naked places,
feel the grit on our behinds and see how his penis looked once I
worked it over.

It was not too much later that a new neighbor Jamie cultivated me into
a sex partner and soon after that I was able to do the same to a boy
cousin, Malcolm, who was slightly younger than me. Malcolm, and
eventually other boys, became the focus of my sexual fantasy life. 
Early on I had long stretches of no partnered sex and in those dry
spells would spin off images of what I wanted to do next with Malcolm.

Here are a couple.

Malcolm and I would be left alone in his home while our parents went
to the market (it happened in reality several times). We strip and go
into the bathroom to look at each other. We both have drank a lot of
water and when we needed to pee we would each insert our stiff penis
into the other's behind to pee there, filling our partner so he'd have
to sit on the toilet to empty it.

Malcolm and I would be left alone for days in our grandmother's home
to look after it while both our parents took her to the hospital etc
etc. Once there, I lay down a rule that we had to spend the whole time
with our penises sticking outside our open briefs/pants and that at
anytime either of us wanted he could examine the other in whatever way
and for however long he wanted. I'd be able to see when Malcolm's
penis got stiff or see him when he needed to pee. He monitored me just
as closely, day and night.

a non-Malcolm fantasy

It so happened in reality that one sunny afternoon when I'd been
outside playing I noticed a couple of youngsters, boy and girl,
directly across the street in their front yard. The little boy, for
reasons unknown, had a very distracted look and in that diminished
state pulled down his blue shorts (he wore no underpants) to his
tanned knees. This was not in particular connected with the girl in
the yard who was distant from him. No one else was around. Being
"mature" I walked over to him and helped him slip his shorts back up
to his small waist. I behaved, as anyone from any window could see,
with appropriate care for him.

But my mind as I walked to him was filled with the sight of his
genitals. The tiny circumcised penis and tiny scrotum, his pale bare
thighs. I knew he was showing a bare behind too, thin and prefect.

I did not linger. I did not say anything. He did not react to me, but
did not pull the shorts down again either. I walked away. Again my
mind was overpowered, transfixed, by the perfection of him, his
boyishness.

In my following masturbation fantasy I'd have spoken to him. Asked him
what the trouble was. He'd not be able to say. I'd take him by the
hand to the side yard, to a place out of view and again ask. Again
he'd be unable. I'd slip the briefs down to check. "Does it hurt here?
Here? Etc?" and move my hand first over legs and tummy then over
scrotum and penis, then the wonderful behind. I'd separate his legs,
look at him from different angles. He'd be like a doll, would hold
each position as I examined him, felt him tenderly. He does not know
what any of this is or means. He is overcome that someone is concerned
for him, someone cared for him. He sees me as an important friend and
will from now on go anywhere with me and let me do anything I need to
do with him.

In reality I never saw him again, could not act on the impulse (and
presumably would not have if given the chance). But the image of him
was like a trap that sprang shut on me, one I could not be freed of.
My mind circled over and over on him, the Perfection, the Perfection.

activity as I matured

Well only Jamie and Malcolm were my partners until I was in college,
just those two. But Malcolm was a big outlet. As we grew we had sex
with lots of variations. Our opportunities increased as well.  But
because constant sex was a requirement for me, I still was a
proficient masturbator.

Probably with input from Jamie and with my access to school books,
even dictionaries, and then from the general locker room environment I
was able to piece together a workable understanding of sex and how
masturbation fit into that. It happened gradually, but at a point in
junior high I was able to see the Big picture, know what was happening
with my body and for the most part enjoy it (secretly of course). I
got the boy lingo down after a few mis-steps: Jack off, Jizz, Prick,
Balls, Nuts, Queer, Cherry. As well as the more academic: Sperm,
Semen, Masturbate, Virgin, Homosexual.

My maturation process went in these steps: enlarging penis, beginning
of pubic hair, under arm hair, bigger testes, chest hair, deepening
voice, filling out and thickening of erection. As noted, I had an
ejaculation before I got any maturing characteristics. I never had a
wet dream before the first masturbation and was probably so drained I
could not produce one after. I would rarely get spontaneous erections
in provocative situations. In sex I'd start soft, would need to handle
myself to get erect. In this way I have had ejaculations before
erections if too excited.

A milestone at the time, but the memory now lost to me, is initial
retraction of foreskin.  In the beginning masturbation sessions I
would jack with the hand grazing the covered corona at each stroke and
on ejaculation I'd spurt through the partly retracted skin still
covering the corona. Judging from others I can see that over time the
sleeve of foreskin as stretched through masturbation against the
flange of the corona and loosens on its own. Before this automatic
loosening, to pull the skin tight against the glans especially one
that is swollen in erection causes discomfort. Even tearing or
bleeding. So from my adult perspective I can reconstruct that I
continued for months to masturbate and ejaculate through the foreskin.

This would have changed when I began masturbating regularly in the
bath tub. There I could soap up the penis, even retract the skin over
the head for a complete washing then hurry for a good rinse to take
the sting away. I was able to see how the foreskin worked easily down
the shaft, to gather at the base leaving the penis a smooth nub, just
like on the circumcised Johnny. Once I had this experience I would
have masturbating in bed automatically retracted more of the skin
until it peeled back behind the corona on the shaft, leaving the head
bald. From then on at the time of ejaculation if not before, I would
consciously remove the foreskin completely, stretching it down the
shaft to add sensation to the glans as my semen spewed.

I remember peeling back the skin when I was soft to keep my penis bare
inside my briefs and pants for periods of time. I could endure the
unusual sensations on the head but in a matter of moments with walking
the foreskin would return to its usual protective place.

As I got older and had more contact with my peers especially in
relatively wild settings of boys restrooms and junior high PE locker
rooms I became very aware of how much of an oddity I was as an
uncircumcised Anglo. True, some ethnics like Hispanics were never cut
but all the rest of the "whites" had decidedly clipped dicks. This was
another thing for me to worry about in my seemingly being always out
of place.

As if attracting bad luck I remember a morning walking laps alone
around the track when two other classmates passed me, one saying
"We're gonna have to circumcise you." Yikes. I did not need this. I
was able to pal up with another student so on the next circuit I
encountered the first pair, neither mentioned the subject.

I really liked not having been cut, did not what to change my status,
but did not relish the distinction either. Luckily Malcolm was
uncircumcised too, for the same reason, so this gave me reassurance
once we became active, but that sense of security was centered close
to him not with me alone at home or at school. There being
uncircumcised was isolating. It probably served as a cover anxiety for
my deeper worry that if my classmates learned of my compulsive
masturbation they would marginalize me even more (if possible).

As a practicing if reluctant Catholic I had to report my sins,
including those of masturbation. I hit upon the bland "I did impure
actions with myself and others x number of times" as my way to rush by
the stickier aspects of the mortal transgression, for which I'd
receive a nominal set of Our Fathers and Hail Marys to recite. It was
always traumatic to confess and I would go in less frequently as I got
older. I had more and more guilt problems, even giving me
hallucinations at one point after masturbating in bed of hearing my
thumping heart as a beating against the outside wall. Gratefully this
was an isolated incident. Most often I could tune the guilt out, as I
did with the relevance of confession. One way I kept count of the
"number of times" was to put some ambiguous mark on my wall calendar. 
Then add them up before I went to church. That is the one way I can
report with confidence now that on a pure week I'd masturbate 5 or 6
times while in a very active one it would be 9 to 12.

Of course I could not masturbate in bed 12 times a week. 

In the bathtub I had the great pleasure of seeing myself naked and
excited, growing to full arousal and the fireworks of ejaculation. 
Later I'd add to this centerpiece the pleasure of anal/rectal play.
After some casual remark regarding hygiene from my mother (at the time
I was told to start using underarm deodorant) I began to use soap on
my "dirty" anus. I guess before I thought "what's the use?" anyway the
sensation was not bad, and my esthetics were not compromised. I
progressed rapidly from chaste washing to using a soapy finger
inserted through the ring to rub the inside of the rectum. This was a
great leap of faith for me. I still had in the back of my mind a
childish version of the human body: The body was like a stuffed toy
where the cotton batting could come out through the seams or like an
inflatable beach toy where air could hiss out the opened plug. I
thought that band aids were to keep the blood from gushing out of you.
Poking my finger through so obvious a barrier was fraught with
unexpected results.

I did not get damaged. The soap stung but was not long lasting as I'd
continue to withdraw and reinsert the finger until the loosened
channel rinsed out somewhat. While I did not get any instant
gratification through penetrating the fleshy ring of muscle, the
exotic feelings permeated the whole region heightening sensitivity. To
do this special exploration to maximum benefit I'd put only a couple
inches of water in the tub. I'd do the initial soapy insertion above
the waterline, then the rinse out below it. I was also able easily to
soap up the scrotum this way, getting delicious languid feelings as
the testes slipped under the skin and the skin slipped under my soapy
handling. It's unlikely I developed the technique of masturbation to
ejaculation with a finger inserted in the rectum. (If so it was not
with prostatic contact. I am sure I did not figure that one out until
adulthood.) Regardless my semen jets landed on a face cloth I'd
prepared over my belly and chest making clean up a snap. For the rest
of that day I'd carry with me at my seat a certain "raw" feeling, not
exactly a soreness or abrasion or tingling, but possibly a mix of all
three that was unique to when I had given myself a good soapy probing.

Also behind the locked bathroom door I would slip in a few more naked
toilet experiments. I got to wondering how it was I could pee or
squirt but not get um mixed up. I decided to masturbate till I got
real hard while at the same time I needed to pee. I was at first
afraid I couldn't aim because my recalcitrant erection refused to bow
down to the toilet, so I laid across the seat to pee that way. It did
not work. I gave up. I let my erection deflate. Then sitting on the
toilet I'd hold my rubbery penis so it would point up at my face,
slowly getting it to release its golden pressure. Misjudging its force
as the surprisingly hot liquid quickly climbed up my chest, I covered
the stream with my hand to get the flood under control, rippling down
my belly and thighs, until it was just a trickle welling up from the
pee slit to cascade back on the fleshy head, spilling over the cupped
foreskin, down the shaft to tinkle below into the toilet. A great
display. Of course my slippery companion was then given a vigorous
jacking to force it to make the other display to our mutual
satisfaction.

I got delight in getting in position to pee then sealing off the edges
of my foreskin so once I got started the sleeve would balloon up with
the liquid, forcing its way down to the deepest creases before
bursting the light hold of my fingers at the top fringe. It was a kick
to watch and had the added, if dubious hygienic purpose, of flushing
out the increasingly itchy secretions under the corona, a problem
especially noticeable during hot summers as I matured and as I
masturbated several times a day.

The other venue of masturbation was my closet.

I felt more and more confident as I grew up into high school age that
my closed door to the bedroom would be respected ("busy studying") and
if not, then my closed closet door would not invite anyone to look for
me inside. So I'd go in there and in the dark, unzip and pull my penis
through the gap in my briefs to masturbate into some old shorts or a
handkerchief. It could be done with ease and speed. I could time it so
my family was still at the dinner table and unlikely to call me or
look for me. Often I would also be able to ejaculate easily twice in
an afternoon and again once at bed time. The bed was my constant
masturbation partner.

Once as an early teen I was sick in bed for a school day. The bedroom
door was closed to keep me quiet. I decided that I would probably not
be caught if I handled myself under the covers. I did so to a sticky
conclusion and rather than lay there wet and cold got up to blot my
still stiff penis off, which I kept protruding from both briefs and
the gap in my pajama bottoms. The door opened suddenly as my mother
strode in. I crumpled to the floor saying I was looking for a toy that
had rolled under the dresser. It might have been believable to her,
not sure. Not sure if she saw my erection bobbing in the air either.
She said nothing. I did not do that again.

As a late teen I could masturbate both before going to sleep and on
waking up early in the morning. But since I was more drained now than
when younger I developed the expedient habit of masturbating with my
legs together (covers folded down), so that at the critical moment I
could clamp them tight to force an ejaculation that would otherwise
stall out.  I had been taking more and more risks and certainly this
last noisy practice (squeaky bed) led to my getting "discovered," a
very embarrassing encounter with my father, and our going that
Saturday to church for my confession. Luckily he was as uncomfortable
as me, and between my being more quiet in my habits and his discomfort
we never had another "man talk" again.

Once I moved out, and in fact on the very first day away by myself in
hotel room in a distant city before the dorm of the university opened,
I could masturbate with total freedom. I turned down the covers on the
bed, stripped naked that afternoon and lay there under streaming
daylight jacking away to a huge ejaculation squirting head and pillow
high in perfect liberation from home, from parents, from Church, from
all of it. I knew I was free to do this anytime I wanted. No one could
object. I knew for the first time that it was not bad. That I was not
bad. It was a great feeling.

Comments? Questions? Enjoy trading true experiences? Contact me:
stardog105@hotmail.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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