Reminiscences of a school masturbation club during the author's teenage years in England.
I hadn't thought of the Wednesday Club for almost thirty years. It was one of those childhood things, like school dinners and watching cartoons on Saturday morning, that I simply left behind me when I went to college. But when my sixteen-year-old son told me that he'd become the Club's new Secretary, a flood of memories came back to me. Faces of old classmates, the smell of the old shed where we used to meet, and the thrill of something forbidden.
My son is a student at my old school. I'll call it Barchester Grammar School. It's a fictitious name, but the school is real enough, and so is the city in south-west England where I grew up, and where I later returned with my wife and children to help my father run the family business.
The school was founded in the 1600s, although the present buildings dated back only to the 1950s. Students arrived at age 11, and most stayed for seven years, before going on to university. It was an all-boys school until the early 1970s, when girls were finally, and grudgingly, admitted. It was around that time that I entered the school, so there were girls in my class, but not in most of the years above me.
The school ethos was strongly academic, although sports were also important, especially rugby. It was through rugby, albeit indirectly, that I was invited to join the Wednesday Club. It was in the late autumn in my second year. I'd just turned thirteen, and I was in the communal showers, cleaning the mud off my legs after a particularly spirited game between the second-years and third-years.
The boys in the shower ranged from pre-pubescent 12-year-olds to several 14-year-olds who were in the advanced stages of puberty. Like most teenage boys, I couldn't help glancing across at the other boys and comparing my dick and balls with theirs. I no longer looked like a child, although my pubic hair was still quite sparse, and my dick was nowhere near as large as Kevin Jameson's. He was one of the third-year boys, and he grinned when he noticed me looking at him. I blushed a deep red and scrubbed even harder at my muddy shins.
Jameson sat next to me on the bus at the end of the day. I thought he was going to make fun of me for staring at his dick in the showers, but instead he said "You played a good game this morning. You might even make the school team at this rate." I was too nervous to do anything more than stammer a reply. "Thanks."
Then he grinned again. "You turned thirteen last week, didn't you?" I nodded. "Have you ever heard of the Wednesday Club?" I shook my head. "What's that?"
He paused for a moment. "It's a special club at school. It's very secret, and you can only join if you're invited by an older boy. Now you're old enough, I think you're just the kind of boy we're looking for."
"What does it do?"
"Well," he said, "It's hard to describe it in words. It's something that's easier to explain. Do you know the old woodwork shed?"
"The one behind the tennis courts, hidden behind the trees?"
"Yes, that's the one. Meet me there tomorrow after lunch, at 1 o'clock. I'll show you what we do in the Wednesday Club."
The following day was wet and cold, and nobody noticed me wander away from the school yard after lunch and slip into the trees behind the tennis courts. I'd never been to this part of the school before, and it took me a couple of minutes to find the door to the old woodwork shed. I tested the handle. It was unlocked, so I cautiously pushed the door open. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw that Jameson was already there. He smiled and beckoned me inside.
"I was worried for a moment that you'd be too scared to come," he said, "But I'm glad you did."
I noticed that there was a table at the end of the room where Jameson was standing. He motioned me to come closer, and that's when I noticed that his dick was poking out of his trousers.
"Don't be alarmed, young Miller. You've seen it before. You were very interested in it yesterday," he said, flashing another grin at me. "I noticed yours too," he continued. "It's getting quite large. Do you often have erections? I do. I've found a good way to deal with that."
And with those words, he began massaging his dick with his left hand, pulling the foreskin back to reveal a shiny pink head. His dick stiffened and grew. I just stared, open-mouthed, as it became a hard six-inch rod.
And then I realised that my own dick was starting to harden. I'd noticed that I was having erections every day, but this was different. There was an odd sensation in my pants. A curiously pleasant feeling spread across my groin, and I found myself fumbling with the zip to release my dick, which was now painfully rigid.
Jameson stopped rubbing himself, and looked closely at me. "That's a good sized dick you have, Miller. Just watch me, and do the same as I do." And he continued pulling his foreskin back and forth, exposing and hiding the glistening glans.
I followed his example, and found the warm and pleasant feeling growing in intensity until I could stand it no longer. And then the feeling exploded into pulsing waves of ecstasy, and my knees buckled at the unexpected intensity. I'd never experienced a feeling like this.
Jameson was grinning. He'd stopped rubbing himself, but now he resumed with rapid strokes, until he suddenly stopped, let out a low groan, and shot several gobbets of white fluid onto the table. I watched in fascination as he squeezed several more drops of thick, milky liquid from the tip of his dick. That must be sperm, I thought. And then: I wonder when I'll be old enough to do that?