tagGay MaleThat Was Quick!

That Was Quick!


I never saw his prick and I only held it in my hand for about 45 seconds, but I heard the sharp intake of breath and felt the upward rush of spunk as he spurted and I was never quite the same again!

It happened like this.

I was nineteen and had been taking a year out between school and University. So had my friend Ollie, who was slightly older than me and had a dull, temporary job in London. He wrote to me to say that he was feeling lonely and bored, so I wrote back and invited him to stay with me for a long weekend. I had five sisters, a Danish mother, and I was the only boy in the family. Ollie's parents were divorced and he had lived with his mother and sister before finding "digs" near London. As my two eldest sisters were away from home my mother agreed for Ollie to come and stay and gave him the bedroom which normally my eldest sister slept in. We had a large house and the room was some distance from where my parents slept.

At the time I, too, was going through a bad patch. I had all these sisters and so girls were never an exciting mystery to me. I knew them too well and noticed how they learned to make-up and put on the charm for their boy-friends. I thought how artificial it all was. What they had between their legs didn't impress me as exciting – there was so little to see and nothing to hold! Nevertheless I liked girls and as I grew older I didn't consider myself unusual or gay in any way except that I continued to masturbate past the age when – wrongly as it turned out – I thought boys stopped doing it. I don't know how I got this idea in my mind, but I do know that I felt badly about it and wondered if other boys actually did it at nineteen. I was also preoccupied with trying to ensure that each orgasm I had was the very best I could contrive and I experimented with different ways of producing them. I knew the first one was usually the best and that I had to work harder for the second; also that the first orgasm was better if I hadn't had a wank for a couple of days beforehand. I wondered, too, IF others boys continued to masturbate into their twenties, what different techniques they employed, how long they took to cum, how much and how far they shot, how many ejaculations and so on.

Now that Ollie was coming to stay I thought I would try to find out some of the answers from him.

He was not exactly a prepossessing subject for this experiment because he was one of those people who give no hint of sexuality at all. At school we had never discussed sex, though we were always good friends. He was overweight, wore thick lenses and was an excellent conversationalist. His father had laid down the law for him at school and chosen the subjects he had to take. These included all the sciences and maths, which was silly because his talents lay in words and writing. He used to write me long, soulful letters, immaculately written in his neat handwriting. I didn't think there would any trouble talking with him and baring my soul about my sexual difficulties but I was unsure whether he would let me compare our techniques and performances. In this I was to be both right and wrong.

He arrived at my home on the Friday evening and before we went to bed that night he said he would have a bath. I went into the bathroom with him to do my teeth but when I looked to see what kind of a dick he had I found it modestly covered by a flannel. I accompanied him to his bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed after he had got in. We talked about all kinds of things until eventually I turned the conversation onto sex and some of the problems I was having. I was quite shy about this. I remember that I was concerned that my dick, when stiff, stood out at 90 degrees from my body whereas the few other guys I had seen with stiff cocks had theirs pointing more or less parallel with their bellies. I thought that they would be more able than I to slide into a vagina. Was something wrong with me? Ollie considered this and then said that he thought everyone was "different" and that as long as it worked, I would be OK. He hadn't had sex with a girl, so he couldn't really help. When I asked him how his stood when erect he said it pointed along his belly, but he wasn't going to show me and if I wanted to fiddle around with him, then I'd made a mistake.

I felt rebuffed, took the hint and went, sadly miffed, up to my own bedroom, none the wiser.

Saturday night I made no effort to reopen the matter. However, as he was to go on Monday morning, on the Sunday evening I decided to make one last attempt. I sat on the edge of his bed and once again we got round to talking about sex. This time I talked about the mechanics of ejaculation and the specially sensitive skin, full of nerve-endings, which appear nowhere else in such concentration on the body and which was to be found on the glans. I don't think he had thought of this before and it got him excited. His hand went down the bed to cover his rising erection as I continued to talk about the different cocks I had seen. "You should see me" he said excitedly – and I knew my moment had come. "I'd love to" I said. "Move over in the bed, I'll put the light out and I'll come and lie beside you." I gave him no time to regret what he had said, even though, after I had put the light out, he hadn't moved in the bed and I had to lie next to him on about three inches of mattress. He just lay there and I thought how strange it felt to be lying next to him, both of us with stiff pricks, but neither of us with any experience of how to proceed.

Gradually, as I lay there next to him, it came to feel less strange and more comfortable. I put an arm over his chest, felt for the buttons on his pyjama jacket and slowly undid them. He did nothing to restrain me but just lay there, breathing quietly. When the jacket was open I fumbled for the draw string of his pants and undid that too. Again he did nothing to stop me. I opened the fly as wide as I could and then slowly slid my hand over his belly and onto his dick. It was a great feeling! To my surprise he was circumcised and leaking so much pre-cum that I was able to slide my fingers all round his glans and up and down his shaft. It was long and straight and narrower than mine, but fantastically stiff. I brought my fingers back to his slippery glans again and was gently massaging it when he stopped me, holding my hand away from his dick. I knew that he was on edge and was stopping me from making him cum, which made me all the more urgent to get my hand back on his dick. I returned to it as soon as I could and – after a few more strokes – he stopped me again. Then, when I returned to it for a third attempt he put his hand on my pyjama pants and started to undo them. I was thrilled – he WAS interested after all. Unfortunately he was so close to cumming that he didn't have time to reach my dick. I could feel his glans swelling under my fingers, I heard his quick intake of breath and then "Careful, Urlen, careful, I'm going to ejaculate." "Great!" I thought and I felt his orgasm erupt under my fingers. I continued to stroke him but almost immediately he stopped me, saying "It's not pleasant to go on after it's over."

"That was quick" I said; surprised because I liked to go on rubbing myself until all the spasms had finished. This was obviously not the case with him. I put my fingers on his belly and searched for the spunk that must have shot out but I couldn't find it. "Where's it all gone?" I asked. "All over the place" he replied vaguely, but I still couldn't find it. To this day I don't know whether he was a dribbler or a shooter. For all I know, the spunk might have been up round his neck or soaking the underside of the top sheet.

"Was it a good one?" I asked, and he grunted "Yes." I felt fulfilled : here was man of twenty who, like me, was still masturbating. He hadn't set my mind at rest about the angle of my cock but I no longer felt alone and isolated. He made no attempt after his orgasm to reach for my dick, so I had to relieve my own excitement, lying on my side in the confined space of that single bed. I'd been so excited by masturbating him that my own orgasm took much longer to achieve than usual and – when it came – it made a deep puddle of spunk directly onto the bottom sheet between our two bodies. He still said nothing and I feel a little ashamed of it to this day. With hindsight I'd much rather he had done me.

I said "Goodnight" to him, promised to come back in the morning so that he could "have a go at me" and went to my own bedroom. Once in bed I relived the recent events so vividly that I masturbated again, taking even longer this time, and went to sleep.

When I woke up the next morning I remembered I had offered to let him have a go at me, and after I had done a pee I went into his room and sat on the edge of his bed again. He was just waking up and asked me to hand him his glasses so that he could see. I asked him "No ill effects, I hope, from last night's excitement?" and he shook his head and said "Of course not." I said "Some people feel shagged out the next morning after masturbating. Don't you?" and he said "No – never." This was really reassuring for me and yet, somehow, I don't know why, it seemed inappropriate for me to climb into bed with him at 7 o'clock in the morning and the opportunity passed. There was never to be another.

Before he left to go back to London we agreed that we should not repeat the "experiment" and we never have. Afterwards I went to inspect his sheets, curious to see if I could find out where his spunk had gone. There was not a mark to be seen, except the large stain where I had cum directly onto the sheet. So I never saw his dick and never discovered where his spunk went, but I've never forgotten what happened. Nowadays he's a great petticoat chaser; and I've learned there was no need for me to worry about the angle of my dick!

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