Tony

byzaphod40©

The Adventures of Urlen – Chapter 5

It's funny how differently men grasp their cocks when they masturbate. Maybe it's in the genes or maybe it's happenstance and perhaps it also has to do with whether or not they're cut or how tight their foreskin is. I guess there's no school for masturbators because no-one ever teaches us how to do it. My friend, Steve, was an uninhibited wanker and only too happy to let me grasp his fantastic dick and let rip into a tremendous orgasm; whereas Tony, who really liked me (and the liking was mutual) had been led to believe that all wanking was lustful and wrong and that physical contact between men was to be condemned. And yet a mutual friend, who knew him better than me, said he masturbated almost every night before he went to sleep!

Looking at him in the shower I could well credit this. He had one of those dicks that looked somehow shrivelled and wrinkly with use. Low-hanging balls swung between his legs and his dick hung slackly above them, the large glans covered by a loose-fitting foreskin. It looked somehow red and well-used. I could imagine it increased hugely in size when he got round to stroking it.

I remember two things very clearly about him. One was his love/hate relationship with his mother. During the University term Tony neither wrote home to his parents nor phoned them. I did this from time to time - and looked forward to my mother's reply. But Tony never did, nor did he receive many letters. One that did come, I remember, enclosed a stamped, addressed card inside the envelope together with a short note "Dear Tony - please return the enclosed card asap. Love, Mum."

On the card, together with his parents' address, was written "I am well/ not well* (*Please cross out whichever does not apply.")

I don't think he sent it off.

The other thing I remember was that he wrote poetry. I can't remember what he wrote but it was soulful stuff, full of frustration and loneliness.

During my first year at University I got to know him really well and was able to sense his feelings of frustration. We were both good games players and were well matched at the game of squash, which we used to play vigorously whenever we could. It was therefore a simple matter for me to suggest that during the long summer vacation, especially as he seemed lonely, he should come and stay with me so that we could play a game. He jumped at this opportunity and his mother even phoned mine to arrange it. He came by train and I met him at a nearby station. He was to stay one night.

Meeting him outside the pressure cooker that was University life was enjoyable, I think, for both of us. We were more relaxed, more "ourselves". We had a great game of squash, though it was a very hot day and squash is a hot and exhausting game even in cold weather. My mother made him welcome and my father even offered us beer and wine at the evening meal. And I was able to talk with him about his home life, learning that his father was often abroad for long spells and that his mother seemed unhappy. He was an only son and not interested in his father's busy life of financial affairs, nor in his mother's social circle of coffee mornings and afternoon tea. They lived in a large house with a large garden, and employed a gardener and a part-time maid. This was out of my class, but I warmed to him in that he disliked it too. He had no idea what he was going to do when he left University and said, rather lamely "I think my parents would like me to marry someone rather rich ….."

This was a long way ahead of my thinking. Instead I was concentrating on how I might make the most of the night to come. He would have to be "wooed" if I was to get anywhere with him.

He preceded me to the bathroom when we went upstairs, and I had a bath while he went to bed. My mother had given him a separate bedroom, next to the bathroom, so after I had washed and dried myself, I put on my dressing gown, knocked gently on his door and went in to see him. He was reading a paperback by the light of a small bedside lamp. A dim light filtered through the drawn curtains and it was such a hot evening that he was lying with just the top sheet covering his body. I could see the mound made by his dick under the sheet and when he caught me looking at it he carefully covered it with his hand. He had told me sometime that he always slept in the nude and I thought that one gentle touch from my hand might awaken his interest. I was too shy to try at once, though, so I sat on the side of his bed and asked him about girlfriends. He said there was a girl who interested him but he hadn't spoken to her yet. He didn't think his mother would approve of her. So I asked him point blank if he shagged himself (that's the phrase we used at the time for masturbation) while thinking of her. He said "No - that's lustful. That would be wrong." I thought this strange, and it was even stranger when he went on to say that if I was interested in having a shag with him, that was lustful too. It was a distinct brush-off. I countered with "But you do shag yourself occasionally?" (knowing full well that he did) and he sighed and said "Unfortunately, yes." Well, I could appreciate when I had lost out, so I bid him goodnight and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

When I got to my bedroom I felt really frustrated. I had badly wanted to see his dick stiffen to its full size and - if possible - to see him shoot his load, and now my best opportunity for a year - maybe for ever - had gone a-begging. I didn't have any of his hang-ups about lust or engaging in cock play and I thought "What if I try again?"

So I tiptoed to his bedroom door and very gently eased it open. Enough light was coming through the curtains from the street lamps outside to let me see dimly into the room. To my amazement and delight he had thrown back the single sheet that was covering his body and was hard at work on his tool. I say "hard at work" because he was so engrossed in what he was doing that he did not immediately realize that I had come into the room. His thumb and forefinger were placed delicately round his knob and he was gently rubbing the foreskin up and down with short, even strokes, so that I could only get occasional glimpses of his glans. I didn't masturbate like that, preferring to roll the foreskin down and concentrate on the sweet spot underneath the head.

Suddenly he noticed my presence and, with a start, covered his dick with his hand. "Carry on" I said huskily, "It looks wonderful." I thought I might get another lecture from him on lust, but no, either he was too far gone, or being caught red-handed had removed his inhibitions. Either way, he smiled and said "I think I will - I can't stop now" and I realized that he had been milking his dick for every last sensation and was close to orgasm. It didn't require much further stimulation. His strokes varied neither in speed nor length and very soon I noticed a small gob of white cream appear at the tip of his knob. This was then pushed out by another globule, and this in turn by a thick ooze of spunk. He didn't seem to shoot in spurts like me. "Great" I said - and meant it. His dick was like an extended triangle in shape. It was thick at the base and much slimmer at the point just under the head. Then the head itself was a magnificent mushroom. It was more than I could have expected it to be and I felt that I had achieved an ambition in seeing him jack himself off. Knowing that he would say that he was not interested in seeing me cum, I asked him if he ever did it twice. "Often" he said, simply. "Will you do it again tonight?" I asked. He considered this and then said "Not in front of you anyway." And then, after another pause, "I hope you're satisfied now."

I was - and I went to my own bed feeling very content with what I had seen and was soon doing some hard work of my own. I slept well that night!

In the morning, after my father had left early for work, I crept along to Tony's bedroom again and knocked on the door. "Come in" he called. He had pulled back one of the curtains and light from another fine day was flooding in. The sheet covered his body but I could see that he had a morning hard-on and this time he did nothing to hide it. "Having another go?" I asked. "You'd like me to, wouldn't you?" he said, looking me in the eye. Unabashed I said "Yes" - not thinking that anything would come of it and bearing in mind his feelings about "lust".

"OK" he said "Look your fill" and he folded back the sheet and there in all the glory of the morning light was the dick I had so much wanted to see. The broad knob, with the foreskin pulled back, was like a section of a slightly convex, elliptical saucer with a pronounced purple edge to it - a wonderful shape, bigger than mine and something I would have longed to have had. And his performance? Just the same as the night before, a long, long ooze, only I could see it better this time.

When he'd recovered he said "And that's it", meaning "An end to all this tomfoolery." I reckoned he'd done me a service and enjoyed two good wanks at the same time, so life couldn't have too bad for him!

He went home after we'd had another game of squash (both of us a little shagged out, I'm sorry to say) and when we met back at College in the September term we made an agreement not to repeat our "experiment" nor to talk about it to anyone. I kept to the bargain and so did he, for after he graduated I never saw him again, but I've always been puzzled by how he could categorize masturbation as "lustful", yet do it so delicately AND let me watch him.

But I'm glad he did!

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