Dont Let Sleeping Dicks Lie

Alright, I fully realize this is not your normal, garden-variety kink obsession. Not feet or ropes or stigmatophilia or any of that. I would be pleased if someone (anyone) chimed in at the end of this sordid little tale and told me I wasn't alone. Or nearly alone. (Except for the one or two folks whom I have more or less infected, I don't know anyone else.) Go ahead, call me pervert.

Like most enjoyable obsessions, it started earlier in life than you might expect. It was a camping trip with a few friends from high school that, perhaps predictably, got out of hand, as it were. We were all eighteen, just finished high school and poised for our next adventure. Last summer together in town.

Just a July two-nighter, Friday and Saturday, at a lake thirty miles from home. James had use of the family car, and the normal crew (James, David and myself) were joined by David's cousin, Dean, visiting from out of town.

We packed up the Ford station wagon (one of those dismal, dull, family-affair vehicles that was common back then in middle-class America - fake wood paneling, 13mpg, family-worn interior, abysmal handling and road manners, but acres of room for anything you might want to lug around) with a couple tents, cooking gear, sleeping bags and a case of purloined beer, for a trip to Hart Lake, maybe thirty miles away, almost to the border of Vermont. No reason, just something for us to do on a summer weekend.

We were nothing special as a group, a handful of ordinary small town-boys with normal small-town male interests, which involved a huge amount of attention focused on the few available females, most of whom had enough sense to stay away from us. Among ourselves, our talk ranged from fantasy to pure speculation, with a truth quotient of maybe 10%. But we didn't care.

We pulled into the campsite, a nice little forested area, set up camp, went for a swim, cooked some beans and franks for dinner, and sat around the campfire while darkness descended to shoot the breeze and make a dent in the beer.

Of course we talked girls and sex, and told long wondrous tales about what we would do with girlfriends if they ever materialized. (James was the only one who seemed to have any experience at all, however minimal, which he milked for far more story-telling than was warranted.) Dean was fairly quiet, but of course he was the outsider, and just hung back to listen, and snicker, and offer an observation about tits or skirts or bras as the occasion demanded.

Dean was the tallest of all of us, just short of six feet, broad shoulders and a higher pitched voice than his build suggested. Stringy, greasy blonde hair, only a little acne, decent enough guy.

James, my oldest buddy, I had known him from kindergarten, was mid-size, dark hair, with a pronounced nose ("Schnoz" he was called, mostly behind his back, he hated it) and short powerful legs. He was the only one you could call an athlete and played soccer, second-string, on the high school team.

Dave wore jeans sized "husky," he was a bit overweight but made up for it with a devastating wit. Dirty blonde hair, freckles, the only one not going on to college. He would drive a delivery truck for his dad's business in the fall.

I am small, five-five, but there is nothing you can do about that. I was trim and quick, and had long ago given up on the prospect of hitting even five foot ten on the height-o-meter.

James had finished a story about getting his hand up Marianne Kennedy's shirt (and there was some info he supplied that strained the limits of belief) and how he had made her nipples hard and all that. She was already in college, a year older, and made the rest of us intensely envious. He was dating far above his station.

We talked about girls' chests, about techniques for getting bra fasteners unhooked (James was the only one with any experience, or so we thought, until Dean chimed in with a story with enough detail that sounded accurate enough to quiet the rest of us.) Finally we got around to fantasizing on what our great manly cocks (our "units" in local parlance) would do when confronted with the sight of a willing, naked female in front of us.

Oh my, what spun-out stories emerged!

It wasn't long before the inevitable happened and we noticed the telltale evidence of erections in everyone's jeans. I can't tell you in specifics what happened afterward since this story is a bit embarrassing to some of the participants (and I have changed their names just in case they might be reading this), but the dicks got pulled out and a good time was had by all, I think you know what I mean.

Alright, fair enough, nothing particularly obsessive about this so far. I am sure you have heard this tale, or some variation of it, a million times before, nothing unusual about a male, adolescent, wank-off orgy on a camping trip. But it was the next morning that the real story begins.

I was up first, a normal thing, always been an early riser. My bladder bursting, I emptied out last night's beer with a satisfying stream against the trunk of a pine tree, maybe thirty feet from the tent that I shared with James.

I sat around the campsite, wondering whether I should start to boil water for oatmeal, but deciding not to, since the others were sleeping and I would wait until everyone was up before clanging pots and pans around.

James emerged, gave me a groggy look and wandered off to urinate.

When he returned we talked in low tones around the fire-circle, not sure what we would do to start off the day after breakfast, go for a hike, rent a couple canoes, etc.

David joined us, and we talked while Dean, the last one, slept. After half an hour we started to wonder whether we should get him up or not, we wanted some food and to get going.

I was the one who looked in the tent that Dean shared with David. Dean was spread out on his sleeping bag, which was completely open. It had been a plenty warm night. His arms were out to the side, he had a good looking body, armpit hair but nothing on his front. He was in jockey shorts and I pointed out to the others that he had a pretty pronounced erection. As I knew from the night previous, it was a fairly impressive item.

His "early morning wood," as James called it.

Well, we are all standing there looking at Dean with his prick outlined in his white jockeys, and we can't help talking a little about last night's activities, and James says how he is impressed that Dean is so hard after what transpired, and Dave says his unit gets hard every morning no matter what, and we get a little discussion going about the inevitability of early morning erections.

Then I notice that Dean is moving around a little, his cock twitching away inside his shorts. This gets us talking about wet-dreams and whatnot, but we can't keep our eyes away from Dean's now serious erection and the fact that Dean is still asleep.

I am the one to wonder how likely it is that Dean might actually have a wet-dream right there within our view, and if he did whether we would tease him about it all weekend long, and the others chime in about the nature of wet-dreams, how they happen, how often they happen, that they are so much less satisfying than a good serious wank, but we still can't keep our eyes off Dean and his increasingly hard prick, wondering if by some amazing chance he just might go and cream himself in his undershorts.

A silence descended on all of us.

Okay, here is where I cannot tell you any more specifics, for the reasons outlined above, but by the end of this little narrative of mine, if you are still reading, you will know exactly what happened that morning. I will acknowledge that I was the one who did start things, but I wasn't the one to end them.

And for various reasons, which I don't really want to go into right now, what ended up happening sort of altered the rest of the weekend for everyone. I don't think Dean was very happy with us, although we didn't ever do any teasing or anything, and James did lend him an extra pair of underwear, since Dean hadn't thought far enough ahead to bring a spare pair himself. Despite all this consideration on our part and not saying anything and pretending nothing unusual happened, Dean didn't exactly act like the good sport that he might have been.

Act Two of my little interest didn't begin until a year later in college when the hook got sunk in deep. I was a sophomore, nineteen, and pleased enough to count Joanne Winters, my own age, as my steady.

Everyone has their first real love, and the two of us had a grand time getting to know each other. It lasted two years, longer than I deserved. I didn't appreciate until later just how lucky I was, and how open, accepting, and experimental Joanne was. We certainly didn't do "everything" and in fact it was a few months before we each divested each other of our virginities, but she was game for all manner of emotional and erotic explorations before and after that milestone event.

So this next phase begins one April Saturday at Joanne's place. She had her own room in an off-campus apartment, which beat my regulation campus housing (with a roommate) by a long shot, so we usually spent our weekends at her place. I had slept over and she had done me the great favor of sucking me off that morning before we surfaced from her bedroom. Sweet Joanne.

She was short, shorter than me even, and small, with the softest little hands and a dimple on her left cheek, shoulder length light-brown hair, quick brown eyes. Thin hips, small narrow chest, her build like a volleyball player, maybe in two-thirds scale. Could have been your best friend's sister.

Her housemate Angela had an old (non-romantic) friend, Gerald, visiting that weekend. He was stoked out on the couch in his underwear when we emerged to the living room. It had been an uncharacteristically hot spring night, his makeshift bed-covers pushed to the side.

Joanne whispered that he looked "pretty good." (One of the things that endeared me to Joanne was that either of us could completely comfortably talk about whether someone of the opposite sex "looked good" without any tension or threat to the other. This turned out not to be true for all girlfriends, I ended up discovering the hard way.)

Gerald did indeed "look good." Tall, broad shoulders, and except for his dark hair, he reminded me of Dean, whose image flashed to the front of my memory banks. Sure enough, Gerald not only was wearing white jockeys but was sporting "morning wood" as well. I pointed this out to Joanne, who stifled a little laugh.

We both stood there, transfixed, looking at his body splayed out on the couch, but now that we had focused on his penis, we couldn't look anywhere else.

Finally, we tore ourselves away from the sight and got some orange juice out of the fridge and talked quietly in the apartment's breakfast nook that adjoined the living room. We kept glancing over at Gerald and his erection.

I told Joanne about Dean, our little adventures camping that memorable night, what we had done to Dean, some explicit descriptions, and her eyes got wide, not that she didn't believe me, or couldn't conceive of such a juvenile little stunt, but just that it seemed unique and had an appeal all of its own.

I paused, and both our heads swiveled over to the sight of Gerald. The longitudinal bulge in his shorts was an undeniable indication of his prick's condition.

We turned back and looked at each other, and at the same time, I kid you not, we both said "No way..." to each other.

Of course we both busted up laughing, then got real quiet.

"How did you get up the nerve, back then?" she asked me. "While he was asleep and everything?"

I was about to answer but then couldn't help myself.

"Like this," I said, beckoning her to follow me, and we walked over next to Gerald.

Joanne held her breath while I took the index finger from my right hand and traced along the outline of Gerald's penis. It twitched and she almost tripped as she took a step backward.

I retreated myself, wondering what would happen if Gerald awoke right then, but he turned his head to the side and muttered something in his sleep. The penis had gotten a degree or two harder, if I was not mistaken.

Emboldened, I tried another caress. This was even more gratifying than the first, as the erection twitched visibly under my touch and stiffened. I hovered over it, again afraid of wakening the sleeping Gerald.

Joanne gave me an absolutely satanic smile and clasped her hands together.

"Do you think?..." she began. "All the way? Or will that wake him up?"

Very carefully I began to run my fingertips along the length of his prick, held his shaft through the smooth cotton fabric, squeezed it, and played with that ridge right under his cock-head. Our eyes went from his penis, now seriously hard, to his face, looking for signs of his waking.

I would stroke him, then pause, then try again, careful, like I was playing with explosives.

After a couple minutes Joanne retreated to the side of the room so she could take cover in the kitchen nook if he woke suddenly and pretend she was busy with breakfast or something. But she stood riveted by the scene, her eyes were still on his cock. She was grinning to beat the band.

Gerald shifted every now and then, but I was growing bolder with my success, and I confess, starting to enjoy just how much fun this was turning out to be.

I stroked him a little longer, delighting in the smooth, gliding sensations of my fingertips along his erection. I wanted desperately to feel the bare skin of his cock and give him a proper wank but didn't dare try to pull down his jockeys.

Couple times he moved enough that I stepped back, ready to flee, but besides a snort or two and a toss of his head, he stayed asleep.

What was going through his head? I remember wondering this. Was he dreaming about some handsome wench playing with his prick? Or fucking some tight little cunt?

I kept playing and of course the inevitable happened, sooner than any of us expected. His hips started heaving and sperm came rushing out of his prick even after I had backed off and wasn't even touching it. The top of his jockeys got serious wet quickly, a small damp spot that spread out with surprising speed. I stood two feet from him, frozen with the realization that I wasn't going to be able to escape at all once he surfaced.

Then, in one of those flashes of brilliance we all have every once in awhile, I contrived to knock a book off a table, and it landed with a thud.

Gerald's eyes and mine met at the same time, and I feigned a dopey, apologetic expression.

"Oh sorry, stupid of me. Didn't mean to wake you up." I picked up the book and put it back in its place.

I wish I had a picture of Gerald's face then, it was a mixture of about five different expressions. Surprise. Confusion. That startled look anytime one is brought to consciousness abruptly. And I have to say, embarrassment too.

It was at that moment that l learned my first real lesson about this whole business. The guy who has just creamed himself in his sleep has no idea what just happened. He has just surfaced from some dream, with heavy odds that it was a strange one. All he knows is that he is now awake, that this penis has discharged and his crotch is wet and he has a mess he has to clean up.

I gave him a goofy, apologetic look and high-tailed it to the kitchen where Joanne and I got busy getting some breakfast together. We shot furtive looks at Gerald from time to time, but he lay there in utter bewilderment for a few minutes before slinking off to the bathroom to tidy himself up. He grabbed his pants and, I noticed, a spare pair of underwear out of his backpack. He looked like a five-year old kid caught with his hands in a cookie jar.

When he had closed the door to the bathroom (which had one of those automatic exhaust fans that came on as soon as you hit the light-switch) and we knew he couldn't hear us, we busted up laughing together.

"Did you see his dick twitch when he went off?" I got out to Joanne between chuckles.

"And how fast he soaked his undershorts with semen?" she laughed back.

Her eyes shone. "I can't believe you did it!"

Since this is a true story, I have to tell you what happened next. Joanne and I ate cereal together, looking at each other like a couple bank-robbers who just pulled off a heist, trying not to smirk, and the gleam in her eyes told me she had gotten seriously aroused over what had just happened.

So by the time Gerald got back to the kitchen, looking a little more composed, we talked briefly with him, like we had no idea what had just occurred to his mighty penis, and he seemed a little relieved to think that maybe he had gotten away with something after all and we were totally ignorant of the fact that he had creamed himself, that we hadn't noticed anything, that all was well.

Then Joanne and I retreated to her room, closed the door, ripped our clothes off and indulged in a quick, energetic fuck. I was hard already, despite having ejaculated that morning, and Joanne was positively soaking wet before my penis even went up her.

We talked about it all day, dissecting the event, and I could not get over how her eyes shone with each rehash discussion.

Well, I awoke the next morning to Joanne's hands on my own prick. We slept nude of course, but there she was kneeling over me fondling my impossibly hard morning erection. I had had a bizarre dream. I don't even want to tell you what had been going on in my mind, but it had not involved Joanne.

Didn't matter, her smile of pleasure was good enough and pretty soon she had stroked me to a fine messy orgasm. I pleaded with her to use her mouth but she insisted on using her hands.

"I want to watch you spurt up close," she said, and in fact she paid extraordinary attention to my penis and its final eruption.

Watching her fingers, so soft and urgent, slide along my penis and massage my cock-head, that made for an intoxicating morning. Sperm went flying out and she smiled with satisfaction as she smeared the stuff all over my balls and belly, wiping her hands on my chest for good measure.

So that ended up being her own introduction to handling an early morning erection, and I was the beneficiary of plenty of highly aroused weekend mornings for weeks afterward. She told me she always tried me gently at first, trying to test the limits of my waking cycle.

Only twice did she bring me off completely while asleep (I did awake right at climax) but most of the time I surfaced beforehand, and so had the much greater pleasure of watching and consciously feeling her actions. The sensory aspects of my arousal were far more intense when I was conscious, I will admit.

This period did confirm to me how disorienting it is to unknowingly cream yourself under someone else's actions, completely oblivious of the cause. This knowledge was to prove handy for the next stage of my obsession.

Joanne and I, now that we had started this little freight train of extra-curricular excitement going, would only have a few other actual adventures with others. Most were similar in situation to Gerald, a male friend visiting and sleeping on the couch. It could only happen in hot weather, when the guy was sleeping without covers, or had kicked them off sometime during the night.

My favorite was Steven, crashing one night after we had had a party and he was too drunk to get himself home properly. We offered the couch and he was grateful.

End of the semester, hot June night. Joanne had actually been hoping for an opportunity with him the next morning, we had talked about it in more detail than I might have thought that night, and I was aware that she was just as excited as I was about the chance.

The next morning Steven is stoked out there on the couch, arms over his head. He is middle-sized, nice flat stomach, fairly furry crotch, judging by the hair poking out of his jockeys. We had come into the room, ready to get some breakfast, and we both end up standing over him.