Spunk Sleuthing A Sunday Stroker

When I was around sixteen I had to dump a load at church one Sunday. There was a restroom on the same floor with the "Student" classes, meaning those in middle school and high school. So I entered a stall to take care of business. One wall of the cubicle was unmistakably decorated with a load of cum. I went ahead and produced some turds but my mind was on the cum. Somebody had jacked off in here! It got me so hard that I had to bang my own drum. And I couldn't quit wondering: WHO?

Every Sunday I made a trip to that restroom. Sometimes there was cum on the wall and sometimes there wasn't. If the cum was there, it was always located on the right-hand wall of the last stall. I began making several quick trips before and after my class, trying to pin down who was responsible for the beautiful squirts. Sometimes I sat on the middle pot for a few minutes in hopes of catching my unknown jacker at work. Or I might just glance into the critical stall to see if anything had been deposited.

If you have ever been in my situation, you know that it can become an obsession. You must find out who is jerking in that restroom. You must! You realize that you can never stir up a prick party with a fellow church boy, but still it is imperative to know WHO!

So, on a certain Sunday I was sitting on the pot in the middle stall which a kid entered the last stall. I bent down and watched under the wall. After several minutes of just sitting there, the boy stood up, slid his underwear and nice pants down to his ankles, and proceeded to turn toward the wall and shuffle right up against it.

He began shaking. His shadow bounced around. He stepped back ever so slightly from the wall, jiggling all over. He jerked a few more strokes, and it was over. With amazing speed he pulled up his clothes and bolted out of the restroom. As soon as he was gone I took a look. the pattern of squirts was clearly the same as those I'd seen over the past several weeks. I'd found my boy.

Matching his shoes and pants with the actual kid was easy. He was a seventh-grader, immaculately dressed and apparently very inexperienced. His hair was light brown, carefully combed. He wore a white dress shirt and was unfailingly polite to the teachers.

That boy never knew that he'd been caught. About every second or third Sunday he would fire a load in the students' restroom, unloading thick bursts of cum that slowly ran down the wall and puddled on the floor.

He was my trigger on those days. While he jerked I become harder and harder. As soon as he completed his mission he hurried away and I was generally left alone in the middle stall, holding an enlarged and fully-loaded erection in my hands. I'd bend down and look at his cum. I'd remember his well-combed hair and his jiggling shadow. And within seconds I would fire load after load into the toilet.

I never stared at him, but from time to time exchanged smiles with the kid who had no clue how he delighted me.

Anonymous