White Stuff
by Winter

I've been masturbating for longer than I can remember, really. There's an old photo of me somewhere, although I can't find it at the moment, taken by my mom or dad when I was three or four years old. In it, I'm rubbing my little stiffie like crazy, face all flushed red and not caring who's looking. I'm still in my underpants, so you can't really see anything, but it's such a cute picture I don't even have the heart to be embarrassed about it no matter how many times mom shows it to people. I can hardly remember one single night as a boy when I didn't play with myself, if not to a dry orgasm then at least until I got nicely hard. Check out my story The Leopard in this folder for a particularly nice incident I had.

Back then, I didn't really know how to do it, so I would basically just lay on my back and rub my fingers over the tip, letting my foreskin provide friction against the sensitive head of my little penis. Sometimes I'd let one hand slide down to rest against the shaft, or just rub my hairless pubic mound. Later on, I learned different techniques, but I still love doing it this way.

When I was eleven, I noticed that things were beginning to change down there. My penis felt bigger, or at least thicker, and my balls began to hang lower in their sac. Also, my voice began to change, although I was still hairless 'down there'. My dry orgasms took longer and longer to achieve, and when they arrived they were stronger than ever before, leaving me panting and moaning with pleasure. Naturally, this meant I did it as often as I could; morning, afternoon, evening at the very least. There were times when I had close calls, when my mother would come in to see if I were getting up to go to school, but I mostly got away with it.

The big change came (no pun intended) about four months before my twelfth birthday. I woke up early, so I had plenty of time for fun before school. Still keeping my boy tool underneath the quilt, just to be sure, I did like I always did and ran my hand across the tip, while my other hand lay on my pubic mound, holding the base of my erection and squeezing it lightly. Pretty soon I could tell that the good feeling would be extra strong that day, because it was building up like a tingle inside my belly. Panting and huffing, I sped up until my quilt looked like an earthquake was happening beneath it, and after about ten minutes, the tingles turned into an explosion. I was squeezing my eyelids shut so hard I was seeing colours, and just at the peak of it all, it felt like I had peed the bed. Not much, just a squirt or two, but enough to make me feel thoroughly embarrassed. I checked, but the sheets were still dry, but when I examined my penis, I squeezed the foreskin and found a drop of clear liquid beneath. Thinking it was pee, I wiped it off on a pair of used underwear, making a disgusted face. Only in hindsight did I know that I'd just had my first wet cum.

The next couple of times I masturbated, nothing really happened, except for the usual dry orgasm. I did have a few wet dreams, though, waking up with a tiny wet spot on the quilt and a sticky foreskin. Although I knew about sperms from sex ed in school, I still had no idea that was what was happening to me, taking extra care instead not to drink anything and to make sure I had peed before going to bed.

A month or so later, I was having a late night session, this time rubbing away with the quilt between my hand and my penis. This, I had learned, gave extra friction and felt really nice and warm, almost like somebody else was doing it to me. I had seen a boy from my class getting hard in gym shower earlier that day, so I was feeling even hornier than usual. His long, thick penis was what I saw when I closed my eyes that night; he even had a thick bush of black pubic hair where the rest of us boys were still hairless, and a set of nicely large nuts hanging beneath. As I lay there thinking about all that, humping back at the quilt while I kept stroking myself, I felt that super-tingle come on again. So I started going faster than ever, while I clenched every muscle I had down there to make sure I didn't pee again. I remember purring like a kitten when the orgasm set in, and after a couple of dry shots I felt that wetness leaving me again, though I was too far gone to let it annoy me. When I came down from my peak, though, I pulled back the quilt to find a tiny wet spot darkening the fabric. Great! I had done it again! Feeling both angry and embarrassed with myself, I found an old t-shirt to wipe my penis clean with, but this time when I squeezed it to bring the last of the pee out, it didn't look like pee. I switched on my bedside lamp to see better, and this time I could see a drop of white stuff appear at the tip of the foreskin, some of it running down my thumb. I was amazed, and made big eyes as I brought my hand to my face, sniffing it carefully. It didn't smell like pee, but had a deeper, muskier smell. Not at all unpleasant, but quite bewildering. If it wasn't pee, then what was it? Hoping that it was just a freak occurrence, I wiped myself clean, rubbing the quilt to get rid of as much of it as possible, then I turned off the light. I was feeling really sleepy, and drifted off before I could ponder the turn of events any further.

The next morning, I had my dry climax as always, so I figured that white stuff must have been a dream. Yet, the memory seemed more clear than any dream I'd had before, so I kept thinking about it all day. I had it figured out pretty much by lunch time, and later that day, during maths class, I opened my desk and pretended to be looking for an eraser, while instead sneaking a peek at my biology text book. This book was a favourite of most school kids, because it had an entire chapter devoted to sex education, with a really nice picture of a man and a woman, both naked and standing next to a boy and a girl, also naked but completely hairless. Like all my classmates, I pretty much knew that chapter by heart, so I looked up the bit about the boy's puberty, for once not looking at the drawings of the anatomy of the penis or the growth of the genitals during sexual development, but actually read the text. It was as I had thought; that white stuff had to be my sperms, although the book said most boys got their first wet emissions at about the age of thirteen. Still, that had to be it. I was making sperms. Feeling proud of myself, I 'found' my eraser and went back to the dull task of division. I looked around the classroom, wondering which of the other boys had started ejaculating. Certainly the guy with all the pubic hair (no names, no names), but who else? He was the only one with even a hint of hair above his penis, so I guessed that the others were either like me, just getting started, or hadn't started at all. I even caught myself wondering what our teacher would look like when he came, blushing a bit at the mental image this thought conjured up.

That night, I pulled off the quilt and studied my penis carefully. It was bigger than the last time I had taken a good look at it, about three inches long as thick as my thumb, and I even thought I could see a couple of very fine strands of golden blond, nearly white hair just at the top of the base. Taking my sweet time, I masturbated to another wonderfully strong climax, but this time I kept my eyes open, pulling back the foreskin slightly as that good feeling hit me. A drop of white boy cream appeared at the tip, then ran down my fingers as it was replaced by another. That was all, but it was more than enough for me. I brought it to my nose, and noticed that the smell was quite a bit stronger than back when it had just been a clear liquid. I didn't taste it, though, that first experience was still a few years away, but I did smear it all over my penis. Going to sleep with it all sticky felt really cool, like I was doing something secret and naughty.

Like most boys, I went into a masturbating frenzy once I knew what had happened, and just how nice it felt to have a wet cum. I never missed a night or morning, and usually managed a couple of times in the afternoon as well. Weekends meant more time, of course, and I sometimes did it so often I ran out of sperms, and had to make do with dry orgasms. Those times, I usually got so sore it hurt to pee, but I didn't let that stop me. I even masturbated a couple of times during camping trips with my family, which of course felt even more deliciously wicked, biting my lip in order to keep from moaning and doing it really slow to keep my sleeping bag from rustling. If anybody noticed, I don't think they did, they never said anything.

After about a year, I began to slow down, until I did it quite regularly morning and night, with occasional extra treats when I was feeling really horny, but of course I'll never forget those first couple of times, and how I discovered a whole new level of joy.