Rob's Ruinous Erection Ch. 01

I'm still not quite sure how I let myself get suckered into a masturbation contest. There had been multiple opportunities to make an exit out of the mess, not all of them graceful to be sure. But "graceful" has never been my middle name. I had had chances.

It more had to do with dumb stuff - my stubborn male pride, an unwillingness to even appear that I was considering a retreat, maybe my ingrained defiance in the face of a challenge - something along those lines.

But here I was, with just a tee-shirt on, my penis out erect in front of me, standing in front of an audience of four other guys, right next to my "competitor." A glorious, stupid, fucking catastrophe.

At the very least I had insisted on no photos, no cameras, everyone had to leave their phones in the next room. And luckily Steven insisted too, for at least that I had to be grateful.

Steven - all six feet plus of dirty-blond, dopey surfer-boy - was standing slightly to my right, his skinny, long penis also hard, it looked uncomfortably so, poking out straight but curved slightly upward at the end. Scuffed, coffee-stained carpet lined the floor of John's student housing apartment. The other guys were all lounging on a beat-up sofa against one wall, except for big John, standing and leering at us from one side of the room. Fucking John.

Officially this red-bricked set of buildings here in Boston was known as Dempster House, named for some famous rich alumni of the college, but of course it had almost immediately been dubbed "Dumpster House."

Our spectacle was being held in what passed for the living room. John's third-floor flat as an upper-classman was shared with his roommate Ron, a slender, dark-haired, dissolute finance major with long calculating fingers and a perpetual smirk.

It was late spring, the windows open, the late-afternoon sun streaming in. I was hoping we were far enough away from the windows that no one would be able to see us from anywhere outside. At least it wasn't a basement or ground floor apartment.

I tried to think back to the last time I had masturbated with a witness around. It had to have been with my buddy Lenny, maybe six years ago when we were fifteen, before we had managed to hook up with our first girlfriends. We spent our lives with perpetual hardons back then.

My penis was now in that twitchy, expectant stage just short of full arousal. It was hard, not impossibly so, but close. The veins on my shaft stood out clearly, like blue rivers on an old map. The head of my prick had gotten a reddish color. It was engorged, aching for attention. The nerve endings on my cockhead were alive, sensitive to any touch at all, even the slight humid breeze coming through the windows.

Officially Steven and I were in our "warm-up" phase, getting our cocks ready before John issued us the rules of engagement. It appeared that the contest couldn't begin until we had decent erections.

I like my penis. It is attached to me. It has done its share of good things. Never enough, to be sure, but I was twenty-one, the whole world of sex still in front of me. Plenty of lascivious experiences still to come. I watched my noble rod twitch stiffly with excitement in the spring air.

Despite valiant attempts at training, I had not found a single girl, not even Melanie Russell with her smooth talented fingers, who could play my penis - my Magic Flute, my Kosmic Kazoo - by hand as well as I could. My fingers knew my prick better than, well, the back of my hand. I knew all the best ways to tease my supreme appendage close to a climax, build my testicle-pressure to bursting, prolong the arousal and then launch a pleasure-sodden load of semen. I didn't even want to guess how many times sperm had coated my fingers up til now, it was surely well into the three-digit range.

My balls were drawn up, their pressure had been building slowly. There was a climax around the corner, and the deal today was going to be connected to how impressively my orgasm was launched.

It's just that I'm not used to having my erect prick on display, at least to anyone other than my immediate, proximate lust-interest - the girl at hand, so to speak. I thought back to those earlier times with Lenny, although they were quite different than my current situation.

Lenny and I had done all manner of what we had felt obliged to call "experimentation." We wanked a lot together, dropping our drawers at the slightest provocation, often more than once a day.

He was one competitive bastard, and we had conducted contests of every variety: how long we could prolong a climax, how quickly we could erupt, how far we could shoot our semen, whether we could hit a "bulls-eye" drawn in chalk on the inside wall of his family's barn while keeping our toes behind a line two feet from the wall. At least the straw on the barn floor would absorb our semen.

I looked over at Steven's tool, his arrow-shaped cockhead emerged from his foreskin all smooth and anxious for release. The other guys had gotten shit-stupid grins on their faces while Steven and I each had gotten ourselves "ready" for our challenge, our hands and fingers pressing, stroking, manipulating our tools. The band of voyeurs' eager eyes had been riveted on our pricks as we coaxed them into warrior stiffness.

And of course, even that preliminary phase had been dicey too. Steven and I had jockeyed for an advantage, trying not to get to that impossible-hard state that would mean a quick ejaculation, trying to let the other guy get there first.

But damn, I had enjoyed watching Steven's nice tool go from entirely limp and dangling like a discarded sock on a chair-back, his cockhead hidden beneath his foreskin, to hard and stiff, the head poking out all red and menacing-like. The way he fondled his balls, with their thin blond hair thicket, and worked them, getting ready.

Steven didn't look like he was enjoying himself. He had a tight, tense expression, his surfer-boy face with a three-day stubble revealing some of the same thoughts crashing around in my own head - how the fuck had we gotten stuck wanking off in front of a crowd of these guys?

Ron was there since he shared the flat with John. Mike and Roger were just there, well, just because they were buddies and added to the spectacle. But they were just spectators, along for the ride. Or so I thought.

John was the cause of it all.

It turned out John, the bastard, had within the same week, managed to catch both Steven and I, independently, in the act of wanking.

I had been in the gym Friday night. I thought I was alone in the shower after lacrosse practice, I'd already had an extended whirlpool session in the trainer's room for my aching knee, but the trainer had locked up the room afterward and gone home and I assumed the rest of the gym was mine. I was standing under the shower, letting the hot water soothe my shoulders and the rest of my muscles.

Of course it wasn't the first time I had ever wanked in a shower, and I would have guessed that it would have been difficult to find a guy on the team who hadn't done so, one time or another.

But my timing was lousy. John had been watching me, probably most of the way, since after an initial look around to make sure I was alone, I had had my eyes closed while I attended to business. My sperm had erupted in a good blast, one hand on my cockhead squeezing out the last drop, my other hand on my soaped-up, slippery balls.

And I opened my eyes to see him at the entrance to the shower room, fully clothed with his gym bag over his shoulder, big smile on his wide Polish face. He had returned to the gym to fetch some forgotten piece of clothing or equipment.

"Nice work," he had said drolly, while my face turned red.

John played defense on the team, over two hundred pounds, beefy and strong. He was big, dumb as a rock, and a bully who had one of those buzz-saw calculating minds always looking for his own personal advantage or, barring that, a chance to humiliate someone else. I never liked him but he was on the team and he played good defense. He swung his lacrosse stick with authority, and he had whacked me hard on my arms more than once in practice, trying to jar the ball loose from my stick. I played attack, small and fast, and was maybe half a head shorter than him.

I quickly tried to come up with some sort of face-saving comeback. "Thought I was alone here," was one obvious if rather lame option.

"Ah, I was just thinking of Jennifer Strait, and what I'd like to do to her," was another, that blonde big-chested wench who often came to see us at practices and games. But my damn tongue stayed put in my mouth and I just stood there like a cow looking at a gate.

John lingered at the entrance to the shower room for a moment, big taunting smile on his face, while he watched my penis shrink from rock hard to dangling limp, a drop of sperm still clinging to the tip, then abruptly turned and walked away. I had a bad feeling that this wouldn't be the end of the scene.

It turned out he had found Steven wanking at Dempster a few days before. That Monday night John had barged into Steven's bedroom, looking for repayment of an overdue loan, fifty bucks worth. Steven had been stupid enough not to have locked his door.

John approached each of us later, separately. I don't know how he handled Steven but with me he was smooth and confident. I still don't know exactly how he got us each to agree. It wasn't precisely blackmail, not explicitly, but he had steered the talk to masturbation, how all guys - everywhere in the world - did it, how good it felt to ejaculate, what you thought about while stroking your penis, various techniques, on and on. He sounded like a masturbation encyclopedia, and had a silky-smooth salesman's manner, patient and encouraging.

Before I knew it, I was set to have a contest with Steven, just a "friendly" he called it. I thought it was just going to be for John's benefit, but now it turned out was a bunch of other guys John had spilled the story to, all gathered together in the room.

Of course there were "criteria" and John explained the deal with exaggerated detail to Steven and me once our cocks were deemed "hard" enough.

Once it started, each competitor had to keep at least one hand on his cock, moving, at all times or he would be declared the "loser." We each were allowed one "warning" on this. Winning would be judged on two parts: longer amount of time stroking before orgasm got points, also "explosiveness" of the climax. When I pressed for clarity on the last item, John just waved his hand and said his boys had a "system." There was a "scoring rubric." I bet so. Fuck that.

And then! And then it turned out the "loser" would have to give John a handjob! Stroke him to completion. In front of the crowd!

Rather heatedly I said this didn't sound like a "friendly" to me, but at that point the guys had already seen my penis out and watched me stroke it. I could have bailed, but I figured, probably accurately at that point, that the fall-out then would have been even worse. Steven and I had unwittingly painted ourselves into a pretty good corner.

I can't really describe my mental state at that point. Angry. Stuck. Wanting to be anywhere else. Maybe resigned. But my penis was hard and I had stroked myself well enough to have produced some pleasure down there. And there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that I would emerge as the "winner." And, of course, I would also have achieved an orgasm.

I looked down. My penis was hard. My circumcised cockhead aroused. My balls drawn up. I swallowed hard.

John, eyebrows arched expectantly, looked at each of us evenly.

"Ready?"

We nodded.

At the signal we began slowly. Of course slowly. We kept sneaking looks at each other, trying to delay our own arousal. I slid my fingers lightly along my shaft, avoiding the head, the most sensitive areas. But even this wasn't enough to keep my penis from enjoying the contact.

The fact that we were "on show" turned out not to be a deterrent, either. Having a whole set of eyes on my prick almost seemed to urge it on.

So my fingers slid along, my penis growing more and more excited. Steven's tool had gotten harder. Two damn stiff cocks, heading towards their ultimate goal.

Now of course, you cannot keep stoking your dick forever. Especially when you are aroused. Especially when your dick is already hard, and your balls are all pulled up and the pressure is getting intense, and in fact it all feels damn good.

I had slowed my stroking just long enough once to earn a warning from Ron, the fussy little shit.

"Keep it moving," his eyes glaring at me.

Steven had almost gotten one too, Roger had opened his mouth as if to issue a warning, but Steven managed to pick up tempo quickly enough to get off.

All too soon, between glances out of the corner of my eye at Steven, whose own cock had gotten harder and harder, pointing more and more skywards, I felt my penis enter the edge of that "no return" zone.

Alright, I said to myself, I'll show these guys a decent sperm eruption.

I had starting leaking some fluid, and it happens I produce a lot. Lenny had always remarked on this, that my pre-semen goop was prodigious, and in fact this was one of the few sexual arenas where I outdid him. I had learned to smear it around my cock-head, along the shaft, and that sure made things go more pleasurably.

The bad news is that its arrival on the scene means I am real close to ejaculation, rarely more than a minute or so away unless I am real careful about how I prolong things. When on my own, that always meant taking a break from stroking, and letting my penis drift back down into semi-hard condition.

I would do this over and over again - hard to dangling, then hard again - until my penis was dying to erupt, slippery wet with my leakage, and then I would get a huge sperm reward, great stored-up gobs of semen. But that wasn't an option now, the rules were I had to keep stroking.

So, in a moment of genius prompted by some panic, since it didn't look like Stephen was anywhere near as close to completion as I was, while I kept one hand moving on my dick, I pulled a corner of my tee-shirt down with my other hand to wipe the oozing fluid off of my penis-head.

Of course, the boys noticed this immediately.

"He's leaking precum and trying to dry it off!" shouted Mike.

"No fair," said Roger.

It appeared they had a solution to this, which was highly unwelcome. They pulled out some massage oil from a desk drawer and ended up dousing each of our penises with streamlets of the lubricating fluid, acting like they were blessing our rods with Holy Water, until our pricks were glistening in our slippery fingers. This was going to accelerate matters something fierce.

Steven gave me a dirty look, like just because I was producing fluid shouldn't have meant he was now going to have to deal with a well-lubricated prick on his part too.

Damn it felt good though. My fingers were sliding along merrily now, my penis is an advanced state of arousal.

So there are really only two ways I masturbate. I either think of someone, some girl I know or have fantasized about, and imagine what sort of lovely things my penis would be doing to her, or how she would be pleasuring it. How her tongue would feel running up and down my shaft, tickling my tip with wet kisses, how my penis would feel running up and down her chest valley, visions of her soft mammaries caressing it, or plunging balls-deep into her welcoming cunt.

Or I would focus purely on my pleasure sensors. My fingers stimulating every last penis-head nerve until my balls would give up their ballast, and yield the strongest sperm-load possible.

Now of course, lots of times there were "mixed" or combo wanks, but usually, the way I started was the way I ended. I either had a vision of Susie Woods with her tits out, say, in my head, or a deep focus on my orgasm nerves.

I was in the second category today, but the fact that I had an audience somehow heightened everything. I had no idea what these spectator bozos looked like when they wanked themselves, but here and now I would show them what a well-trained penis could do.

I gave in to the pleasure. One hand on my balls, underneath, stroking, squeezing, I felt their restless pressure. Other hand along my shaft, fingers running along my central sperm tube, tightening my grip every time my fingers were around my cockhead, that lovely ridge-line of pleasure just below the head. My thumb pressing the dick-head every time it came up. Rubbed my oiled palm around the head, nerve endings signaling their enthusiasm.

I looked down, my cock hard, glistening, damn handsome. I noted that eyes were fixed upon me.

Then the hips started going, I felt my anus clench, my stomach tightening and curling my pelvis violently forward and upward, the undeniable start of the launch.

In the throes of the climax, I cast all restraint aside. Explosive? I'd give them a good audio track to go along with the visuals.

I bellowed out loudly, like some sort of rutting bull elk, rearing my head back and yelling a deep bass growl, and sent a good first wad of sperm forth. Felling the pressure release from within my innards almost made me dizzy.

It was a decent glob, followed by a bigger one as my ass clenched again with the second wave. It went maybe a foot out, then the following spurts were less and less, until sperm was dribbling down my penis, settling into my drawn-up testicles, my hands a soggy mess of massage oil and semen.

"Hoo, good one!" shouted Roger.

I caught Steven looking, his face in some panic. His hand was going hard now too.

John's gleaming eyes went from my prick to Steven's.

Steven was almost hunched over, his back curved with tension, and his skinny ass-cheeks started to contract.

Then he went off, a thin gruel of semen slopping out of his prick-head. It kept oozing as he stroked, his ass quivering pathetically as he tried to release his pressure. The gruel dribbled down his shaft, coated his hand, and dropped slowly into a small puddle underneath him.

His skinny prick still twitching, he held his hand to the side, looking like he wanted to wipe it on something or another.

We both stopped, looking at each other. Less than a minute separated our climaxes. My penis was already in retreat, the head first, now red and spent, then my shaft dwindling. Steven's penis stuck out about horizontal, sperm drops still clinging to his shaft.

The carpet had spatterings of semen collected under each of us.

The boys clapped their hands, and Roger and Mike grabbed tape-measures and graph paper. They had us step back and measured the puddles underneath us in two dimensions, width and length, apparently constructing a spray distribution pattern. Last time I had seen this sort of business was the calculations done with the shooting targets at the firing range. They wrote numbers down.

They retreated to a back room, everyone except John.

I asked John for a towel to clean up. He shook his head.

"Hang on til after the scoring," he said. "Nice work boys. A cock is supposed to be soupy after its work."

He rubbed his own crotch through his jeans. His look was pure lechery. Didn't matter to him which of us "won," he was aiming to get his own penis stroked by somebody.

The boys came back, with numbered scorecards on white index-cards.

I got an 8.6, Roger holding up the hand-lettered card with a flourish.

"9.4 on explosiveness," said Roger, "with impressive range. A point-eight deduction for coming first before the other guy."

"Don't forget another point-two deduction for attempting an unfair advantage," reminded John severely. "Trying to wipe off his precum. Cheating."

"Right," said Roger, "so 8.4"