Maynard's Secret

After Fred got married I knew it would be wrong if we went on having sex together – at least for the first two years of marriage – and I seriously weighed up the options of getting married myself. My mother was keen, maybe because I was still living in her house, but it was convenient for both of us and she was used to having me around. I worked hard at my job and I missed Fred but in no way did I resent what he had done. But there was an emptiness within me which was not easily satisfied by wanking and yet I didn't want to strike up a new relationship with another guy, so I was in a sort of sexual limbo which came to an end in a rather unexpected way.

Maynard and I had been neighbours all our lives. His dad had died soon after his birth; and his parents had waited a long time for his birth, his mother being nearly 45 when he was born. She told my mother that he had been conceived "on the turn of life" as she put it and that she was unaware that she was pregnant until she was about six months gone. It was the most wonderful thing in her life, as she had given up hope of having a baby and this late son was to be the cleverest and handsomest baby there ever was. She loved him to distraction, and when her husband died he was her sole consolation. He was well formed, good-looking and peaceful and it seemed that all her wishes had been granted until he went to school, where it was discovered that he had difficulty in learning to read and write, and his speech was never fluent or prolonged. Nevertheless he was a popular lad - popular with the girls because he was so good-looking and trusting; and popular with the lads because he was good at football and a good sport. He always looked up to me because I was a year older and made good progress at school.

However, while I was at University I lost touch with him. He had left school at 16 and got a job with a local factory which turned out cigarettes by the million. He didn't smoke himself but it was a safe job and he didn't have any scruples about supplying cancer sticks to the great British public. His job was to mind and repair the machines which made the cigarettes so he didn't come into contact with the tobacco. I saw him from time to time during my vacations : he left home on time for work and came back promptly to his mother for his evening meal. Then, when I finished university, I got a job as a trainee manager. My mother was on her own because my father – to our great grief - had died suddenly just after I started my job, and two of my sisters had married and moved away, another was abroad and the youngest was still at University. So I continued to live at home.

One day, not long after I'd started my new job, I came home in the evening to see Maynard struggling with a large cardboard box at his front door. It turned out to be a new television set which he had bought as a present for his mother who was away, looking after her elder sister who had fallen ill. The box containing the new TV was so large that it would not fit easily through the front door, and it was so heavy that he could not trundle it by himself through to his living room. I offered to help him and he said "Thanks" and between us we managed to get the set out by opening the top of the cardboard box, turning it upside down and removing it bodily from the TV inside. We then carried it proudly into the living room. The old set was still on its stand, so we removed it and the new one just fitted, with some overhang on each side. I re-attached the aerial, took out the handbook and read the instructions for the automatic tuning and soon it was working. Maynard was grateful, as he would have found it difficult to do himself, and he offered me a beer.

I said "Thanks" and added that before we drank it, it might be a good idea to dispose of the old set. He agreed and said he had planned to take it up to his bedroom. So we took it upstairs (I had often been in his house as a child) and placed it on a table he had prepared for the purpose. He had forgotten about the aerial so I promised to return the next day and fix one up. I looked round his room, which was very simply decorated. There were no books, no pictures on the wall and I could see why he wanted a television up there. By his bedside there was a small table with a lamp and a box of tissues on it. The bed was neatly made and the work clothes he had changed out of when he got back to the house were arranged on a chair on the other side of the bed. But what grabbed my attention was the waste paper basket by the bed : it was full of tissues scrunched up into damp-looking balls! As he didn't seem to have a cold – or to have had one recently – it was an easy guess about their use and, of course, he knew himself what he had used them for.

So, because he had seen me looking at the crumpled tissues, he was quite flushed and embarrassed when we got downstairs. He handed me a can of beer, then sat uncomfortably on the sofa while I sank into a chair opposite him.

"Er .. I didn't think you would be going into my room, Urlen, and I'm sorry …" Here his words petered out, so to encourage him to admit what he found so hard to talk about I said disingenuously "What is it that you do up there?"

He blushed again, looked down at his lap, put his hands in his pockets and then said shortly "You know ….." Then, while I waited for him to go on, "It's my secret."

"Your secret, Maynard? Tell me about it."

Again he looked confused and I realised he had never talked about wanking with anyone else and was feeling acutely embarrassed.

"I do something there." His hands were deep in his trouser pockets and he was not looking at me as he spoke.

"Do what?" I asked, innocently.

"You know …" – and he took a hand out of his pocket as if to gesture at his crotch, but he couldn't go through with the action so he put it back in his trousers.

"Is it something that worries you?" I asked – again as innocently as I could.

"Yes …. And no," he said uncertainly, still avoiding eye contact.

"What do you mean? It's something you like doing, isn't it? Is it something you do with your hands?"

"Yes" he said, at last looking guiltily up at me.

"Is it something that makes you feel good?"

"Yes" he said, with emphasis.

"And do you think that nobody else does it?"

"I don't know. It's something I found out for myself."

"Everyone finds out about it for themselves" I said wisely. "It's called wanking."

For a moment he looked shocked. Then he relaxed a little. "Is it? When my mother caught me doing it one day she was cross and told me I must never do it again. So every time I do it I feel guilty."

"No need to feel guilty," I said. "Everyone does it, though they may not admit to it. How often do you do it, by the way?"

Again that hanging head. "Pretty often."

"How often is 'pretty often'?"

More embarrassment. "Several times a week."

"Well, lots of guys do that. I do sometimes."

He looked up in amazement. "You do?"

"Yes. It's not just your secret, you know."

And now he took his hands out of his pockets and I could see a surprising bulge beginning to make its appearance in his trousers. I continued. "Have you ever shared a wank with anyone else?"

A shake of the head.

"No-one ever put their fingers round your dick?"

More embarrassment and a shake of the head.

"Never touched anyone else's?"

Another shake of the head.

"Would you like to touch someone else's?"

A pause, then an almost imperceptible nod of the head.

"Would you like someone to touch yours, maybe to bring you off?"

Another pause – and another imperceptible nod of the head. And one of his hands was now covering and gently rubbing his crotch.

"Would you like to see mine?"

Again a pause, then he looked up at me and nodded slowly.

"If I show you mine, can I see yours?"

Another nod.

I had a raging hard-on by now and there was ample evidence that he was excited too. But he was quite timid and it was his first time so I knew I must proceed gently.

I got to my feet and sat by him on the sofa. Then I took his hand and placed it on my dick so that he could feel it under my jeans. Then I slid my hand slowly up his inner thigh and touched the enormous bulge in his trousers.

"Is that nice?" I asked.

He nodded again so I knelt in front of him as he lay back on the sofa. I undid his leather belt and he helped me undo the top button of his trousers before sliding the zip down. He looked terribly embarrassed as we did this. The fly parted under the pressure of his hard-on and his underpants showed whitely, hugely tented by the unseen dick within. I put my hand on it and fondled it through the cloth and he sighed with pleasure and leaned further back on the sofa.

I wanted to see it in all its glory so I said "If you'll take your pants off , I'll do the same."

He didn't need any further persuading – just stood up, stepped out of his trousers and pulled down his pants. And I was electrified by what I saw. I had had no idea he could be so big – that anyone could be so big. It was truly massive, long, thick and veiny; and it looked well used because the skin moved easily on the shaft when I put my hand on it and pulled back the foreskin to reveal a fabulous knob of ample dimensions.

"Is it OK?" he asked, uncertainly.

"I think you're fabulous" I said, sincerely. "I've never seen anyone so big. And it's really hard too."

He looked embarrassed again, but also pleased. Then a little sheepishly, "Can I see yours now?"

I had no hesitation in whipping off my jeans and revealing my stiff cock. Though I was accustomed to thinking it quite long at eight inches, it compared neither in length nor in thickness to his, but it was the first he had ever seen (except his own) and he was fascinated.

"It's nice" he said.

"Not as nice as yours."

He looked down sheepishly at his enormous dick and said "Mine's the only one I know. It's my secret. I thought I was the only person who kept doing it into their twenties."

"Everyone does it," I said, "Even if they pretend not to. It's quite natural. No need to feel guilty about it. And now you can share your secret with me. It will be fun."

We were sitting side by side on the sofa and he still had his fingers round my dick and was fondling it with small wanking movements. I was doing the same to him and the excitement was intense. I didn't want to disgrace myself by cumming there and then so I said "Shall we go upstairs and lie on your bed?"

Again the silent nod, so we set off upstairs and he shut the door of his bedroom behind us and we proceeded to take off our clothes just as if we were changing for a football match. When we were sitting side by side on the bed I reached for his dick and again marvelled at its size. I could have got both my fists round its length. I can encircle my dick with my forefinger and thumb easily but they would not have met round his thick shaft. It was quite wrinkly with loose skin and the foreskin was fairly short and flexible, but the sheer massiveness of it made me gasp. It seemed twice as long as mine, and twice as thick. As I watched he placed his hand on the shaft under the knob and eased back the foreskin. Now everyone has their own idea of a dick's beauty, but this one seemed perfectly proportioned. The knob was broad and wedge-shaped - just wonderful to see. I said "With a tool like that, Maynard, you could make your fortune in porn films" but I don't think he even knew of the existence of porn films and he'd never compared his dick with anyone else's before. He still looked uncertain and embarrassed. "What do you think?" he asked again, uncertainly, "Is it OK?"

I thought it was very much OK (!) and said so, adding "Tell me, how does it perform?"

He looked at me, taking my question seriously, and then said "Shall I show you?"

And so I was treated to the most extraordinary spectacle. He grasped his thick pole with his fist fairly close to the top (his finger and thumb didn't meet round the middle either) and he stroked it with a long, slow downwards motion so that the foreskin kept covering and uncovering that beautiful glans. It was fantastically exciting. My own dick was rock-hard and I was wanting to join in but was not sure how Maynard would take it if I did, so I watched avidly. His stroking started to go faster and then he stopped and said it would be better if he stretched out on the bed and would I mind if he did. Would I mind! Not at all! I made room for him and he swung his legs round and on to the bed, closed his eyes and really went to work. It was a sight I shall never forget. I looked up into his face, his eyes were closed and he was concentrating on every sensation of pleasure he could extract from his dick. Faster and faster went his hand, and faster and faster slipped his foreskin, up and down on that magical glans. Then he groaned and gasped "Here it is .... now" and, while I watched, a sudden jet of white spunk erupted from the broad tip and shot high onto his chest, leaving a ribbon of white cream where it landed. Then another shot, describing a perfect arc and landing even higher. Two more spurts followed, as long as the first ejaculation, leaving in all four ribbons high up on his chest. After that more spurts welled up without flying into the air and there must have been about ten in all, with the last few dribbling down onto his fingers and thumb and forming a creamy pool in his pubic hair. I was in awe of his performance. His load was twice the volume of mine. What fantastic virility the guy had! What a secret to keep to himself!

I glanced up into his face. It had a touching expression of mingled emotions on it : part embarrassment for having cum in front of someone else for the first time; part pride in the achievement; and part anxiety as to what I might think. I sought to reassure him. "That was fantastic, Maynard" I said. "And you do it how often?"

His answer was different this time. "Most nights" he said, simply; and then "And sometimes when I come home from work. I find it relaxes me."

"You're amazing" I said. "I wish I had a load like that!" I'm not sure that he understood me, because discussion of sex, including its nomenclature, was new to him, but in any case his thick, turgid tool started to deflate and - curiously - I found that mine, which had been so urgent for an orgasm, started to do so too.

"Pass me a couple of tissues" he said, and when I did so, he cleaned up, threw the crumpled tissues in the waste paper basket and sat up.

"So am I OK?" he said again, anxiously. I repeated that I thought he was fantastic, perfectly normal and lucky to have such a dick. He didn't seem convinced, as if he had a problem he couldn't adequately express; then he reached for his clothes and put them on. Then we went downstairs, and I went back to my home just about reeling from the excitement of what I had seen. That night, reliving it all, I treated myself to a wank that was one of the best I had ever had.

The next day, when I got home from work, I could see that Maynard was looking out for me, so I went round to see if he was any nearer to being able to tell me what his problem was. He was sitting in an armchair, watching his new television set, beer in hand and with another waiting for me. It was not an easy subject to rush into and anyway it was he who broke the ice. "You're not mad with me for what happened yesterday?" "Not a bit" I said, "I enjoyed it enormously." He looked relieved and I rather enjoyed the pun on "enormous" which passed him by. I said "You OK after yesterday's heroics, then?" He smiled, looked a little embarrassed and said "Of course." Then, after a pause, "Actually I did it again when I went to bed last night." I laughed. "So did I. I was so excited seeing you cum like that that I pictured it all in my head and had one of the best wanks in my life." He looked pleased and his hand went to his crotch and I could see the bulge there start to grow. A nervous silence grew between us - an anticipation on my side (and on his) that we might do it again. I felt a tingling in my balls and I think he did too because he started gently to rub the swelling bulge in his jeans.

I had a sudden inspiration as to what his problem might be. "Are you afraid that you might be gay?"

He looked up at me, then slowly nodded.

"Messing about with another guy doesn't make you gay," I said. "It's good fun and hurts no-one. Most people are basically bi-sexual, anyway – that is, interested in sex with both men and women. It's just that most people repress their interest in people of the same sex."

I don't think he understood what I was trying to say but he quickly caught on when I said "By the way, I owe you something for yesterday. Shall we go upstairs so that I can pay you back?"

He didn't hesitate for a second; just put his beer down, got up and led the way out of the room and up the stairs. Arrived in his bedroom, he took his clothes off and that massive dick sprang out to view, fully at attention, sticking stiff and straight out from his body as if demanding to be stroked. I made him sit on the bed and put my hand on it just below the knob, pulling the foreskin back. "Look," I said, "A dick as superb as this is meant to be used. I'd be proud if mine was this size. I can think of lots of men who'd give their eye teeth to have one as big as this; and to be able to wank it - or watch you wank it."

He looked reassured. He knew what a good erection meant and the feelings it could generate and he was soon stroking himself. He swung his feet onto the bed so that he was lying on his back with that massive pole sticking into the air. Long strokes up and down, with his hand just reaching the bottom of the glans on the upward stroke and that wonderful knob appearing and disappearing as the foreskin slipped over it, increasing in momentum until he groaned, his face contorting almost as if in pain. But this time, when he came, his expression was less embarrassed and more triumphant. Just before his orgasm he again said "Here it is ….. here it is, now!" and once again four jets of white cream flew upwards and adorned his chest with long ribbons of spunk while the ensuing dribbles created a splurge of spunk on his fingers and thumb and a pool in his pubic hair.

After it was over he said "Thanks …. I enjoyed that" and cleaned up as he had done before. I asked him when he had learned to masturbate and he told me that he had woken up one night feeling pressure in his balls, with his dick as stiff as a ram rod. He had touched it and it had exploded in his hand. He said it had felt as if his insides were falling out and he was terrified about what his mother would think about the mess in the bed. "Didn't you have wet dreams before that?" I asked and he said "Yes - but the mess always went inside my pyjamas and my mother understood about that."

The next day when I got home from work I avoided him. I saw that he was looking out for me but I neither wanted him to get too dependent on me for his sexual excitement nor did I want to depend on him. It was a strange experience for me because we had grown up next door to each other and he had always looked up to me. Now, in terms of sheer male virility, I was having to look up to him! It had been extraordinarily exciting to see that enormous cock letting go its load and that night I replayed it again in imagination and once more had a most satisfying orgasm. I determined, while I was at the stage in my stroking when I knew I was close to cumming, that I'd go to see him at least once more in the hope that he would allow me to wank him to a climax and get him to do the same for me. So the following evening, when I saw him looking out for me, I said I'd be round for a beer and to fix the tv aerial in his bedroom after I'd had my tea. He smiled and said "OK". It didn't take us long to head for the bedroom. Whether he suggested it or me I can't remember but there was a mutual excitement about our meeting and when we lay on the bed together, both of us fully naked, I was getting used to his rhythm and he allowed me to fondle and wank him. Not long before his orgasm I leaned over and gently cupped his great balls with my other hand. He groaned with delight and I could feel them tense at the bottom of his shaft and then jolt with the intensity of his first and second spurts. Later, when he had recovered, he told me that letting me do it had given him (he had to hunt for the word) an "extra edge" which he didn't have on his own. I knew what he meant! Now that I had brought him to a climax he was more interested in wanking me, so I lay back while he tried his hand on me. It felt a bit strange at first because he was unused to it, but by guiding his hand and helping him get the right timing I came much more quickly than him. My load was poor in comparison with his, but he was so pleased with what he had done that he didn't seem to notice.