Halloween Jacks

There must have been twenty men there, all naked, all wearing full face masks, and behind me and out of sight I could hear more people entering coming through the door. The music was loud with a full bass assault that reverberated in my chest. I wandered from room to room and saw guys walking around shamelessly stroking full erections. Some were trying to talk above the music, some sat on chairs casually stroking their knobs, and remarkably, some were flaccid.

I stepped into what was apparently the porno room. It was a small space with several chairs facing a large flat screen TV which showed a very graphic group sex scene. It was loud in here, and the music from the other rooms competed with the high volume from the TV. A few guys were sitting there with their cocks firmly in hand, and I saw two men standing side by side near the wall. I did a double take, and couldn't help staring. They were both well built and probably in their thirties, and were stroking each other. One wore a Ronald Reagan face mask, the other was a horror mask which I think depicted the killer from the cult movie "Scream".

I shouldn't have been surprised. The club's web site made it clear that mutual masturbation was common. But it was new to me and I watched in awe as the two men fondled each other. I sat down and tried to focus on the movie, but my attention was split between the screen and the two-man side show.

A guy in a Spiderman mask sat a few feet to my right. The club provided tissues, as well as lube in the form of unscented Albolene. Spiderman had a generous spread of the lube on his hand and was pumping away shamelessly. He was no more than four feet away from me and it was fascinating to watch him. My wife had often kidded that I was a chronic masturbator, yet I'd never actually seen another man jerking off, other than in porn flicks. Was that what it looked like when I masturbated? Is this what Debbie saw when she watched me?

I realized that I was as hard as ever and had been stroking myself, almost involuntarily, for some time.

Spiderman caught me watching and nodded hello. I nodded back. It was loud enough in there that conversation was almost impossible, but he said something and made hand signals about the chair between us. I got the message, nodded yes, and he slid over. He reached toward me and hesitated.

I nodded.

And then he closed his hand around my cock.

Plenty of women had touched me there over the years, but the feel of a man's hand was completely different. It was strong and the grip was tight. A wad of pre-cum trickled onto his hand and he started pumping me.

He said something I couldn't hear, but made hand signals. I got the message and reached for his penis. It was the strangest feeling. I was so intimately familiar with my own anatomy, and this was so similar but at the same time, so different. The way the skin moved almost independent of the shaft. The thickness of the knob. The wiry feel of the hairs at the base. The hardness. None of these were any different from the shaft I'd been masturbating since the age of nine, yet it was as if I'd never experienced one before.

I don't think I'd had a stiffer erection since I was a teenager. Spiderman stroked me hard, consistently, with a strength that Debbie could never find. But my focus was on my right hand and his cock. I masturbated him the way I usually did it to myself. About twenty hard and fast strokes followed by soft rubbing over the glans and easing my hand across the tip, fondling the sensitive part right under the knob, then hard and fast strokes again, squeezing it, pushing hard at the base and pulling hard at the top.

Spiderman went stiff. His legs straightened and he grunted. I pointed at my belly. He got the message and stood. His cock was now inches away from me. His musky odor surprised me and the squelch of my hand on the lube was loud enough to be heard over the music.

Then he groaned again, and I felt the rush of sperm racing through the base of his shaft. I squeezed it hard, pumped four or five more times, then I relaxed the grip and he came like a fire hose. The first rope of cum was a direct hit on my belly button. The next two were higher up my torso. By alternately squeezing and relaxing my grip, I managed to coax a final dribble, which ran down my hand. The odor was strange. A bit like bleach, I thought. Not unpleasant, but different to mine.

Spiderman took a few deep breaths, shuddered, then reached for me. I stopped him with a hand signal.

"Thanks, but I don't want to come just yet!" I tried to be heard above the music and the loud porn flick, now forgotten. He didn't hear, but from my hand signals and the tone, he got the message. He reached out for a fist pump, nodded thanks, and left the room. I looked around. Ronald Reagan and the killer from "Scream" were gone, but we'd gained a small audience which was now dispersing. I smiled broadly, though I was once again glad of the anonymity of the face mask.

There was a box of tissues next to me. I ignored it. I got up and wandered around again, watching and learning and experiencing sensations that were new to me. Spiderman's cum was as thick as treacle and ran down my body slowly then started to crust, and the wad that had coagulated in my belly button trickled to my pubic hairs where it pooled up. I still had his cum on my right hand, which I now used to fondle myself as I walked from room to room. I passed the Ronald Reagan guy and noticed that he had cum on his chest too, so I wasn't the only one walking around with the visible remains of an orgasm.

Under the Halloween hood I smiled as I thought of my client, the preachy Jonathan P. Mountford III, and wondered what he would think if he could see me now.

The music wasn't as loud out here and I could hear bits of shouted conversation and the grunts of men in mid-masturbation. Five guys were standing in a circle in one of the rooms. A circle jerk. I joined three other men watching them from the door, and a guy in a hairy Chewbacca mask yelled "Hah, HAH!," and a stream of his sperm hit the floor in the middle of the group. That set the rest of them off and they all came within two or three minutes. Some spurted their cum onto the floor, and others dribbled fat volumes, like I do. Some of the cum was bright white and some was opaque. One of the men's cum was as thick as syrup, like Spiderman's, others were more liquid. And like my own performance a few minutes ago, the five guys had attracted half a dozen spectators, who dissipated when the fun was over.

I went back to the porno room, with the chairs and the big screen TV, and enjoyed the movie for a while. My erection was as stiff as a board and I needed relief, so I wandered around again and soon found another group of men. Six or perhaps seven of them stood in a semi-circle facing a steel folding chair. I approached and shouted above the music "Mind if I join you?" A guy in a clown mask nodded and made a hand signal that I took to mean 'Yes, come on'. I stood beside him and watched the fun. I'd been fondling my bone almost unconsciously, but now started pumping in earnest. The clown guy said something that I couldn't hear.

"What!" I yelled, and put my left hand behind my ear.

"We're waiting for a middle man!"

"What's that?" It was eerily strange holding a conversation with a stranger while I stroked my dick and he fondled his balls.

He pointed at the chair. "Someone to volunteer to sit there, so we can all come on him," said the clown. Two more guys joined the group.

"Why?" I asked. The clown shrugged.

What the hell, I thought, and the very British expression 'in for a penny, in for a pound' came to mind. I pointed at myself, then to the chair. "I'll do it," I shouted above the music.

The clown gave me a thumbs up, and signaled to the rest of the group. For the third time, I was happy to be masked by the guitarist from Kiss.

I stepped to the chair and sat with a slouch and watched the mass of manhood eagerly close in on me. My first impression was the strong male odor, the sweat, the semen, and a hint of that bleach smell again. Most of them were slick with the oil-based Albolene and eight or nine hard penises shone with diamond sparkles in the low lights and made a slurping sound as the men stroked them. All I could see above me was a ring of cocks, and fists in a blur of movement. I didn't use the lube, but a stream of pre-cum was running down my cock head, and I realized that my hand had hardly left my tool since I'd arrived.

The clown was the first to come. He ejected warm watery blobs onto my chest and an aroma resembling oatmeal came to me immediately. The cum ran downward, slid off the side of my abdomen and was cold by the time it puddled on the chair next to my butt.

Next was a guy in a batman mask. Again I was surprised by how warm the cum was as it landed on my belly. They came at random intervals, some ejaculating onto my thighs, some onto my shoulders and neck, and most onto my chest. The odor was overpowering and the room was filled with the grunts and groans of men at the peak of their orgasms.

Most of their tools went soft after they'd come, but they still stood there fondling their shafts, caressing their balls, trying to elicit another erection. I now understood "edging". I had been on the verge of ejaculating several times, but each time I'd eased off the pressure and the intensity, let myself relax, and then started again.

The final two men who had not yet come on me were a Frankenstein and the killer from "Scream" who I'd seen earlier. They stood on either side of me, reaching across, stroking each other's cocks. With his spare hand the killer from "Scream" suddenly grabbed his own cock, encasing Frankenstein's hand, and squeezed. The thickest stream of semen that night landed directly on the head of my cock. He aimed two more spurts at the base of my shaft. Then Frankenstein did the same thing. His emission was thick and steamy and it dribbled from him. He pointed it right at my cock and pumped several more squirts, making sure they all landed squarely on my tool.

That was it. No more edging. I opened my hand and closed it again, and used the two men's cum as the ultimate lube. My stomach muscled scrunched, my right bicep bulged, and my neck muscles strained as I thrust furiously at myself. I sighed as the tension moved to my lower belly and erupted from my cock head. I came in what seemed like buckets. It was one of my most intense orgasms ever. The sperm landed on my belly and ran through my fingers mingled with my trimmed pubic hairs, and there was that familiar runoff that trickled down either side of my genitals and into my ass crack.

The group stood back and applauded, there were a few cheers, and several hands came in to me for a high-five.

The guys drifted away and I sat there for a few minutes, catching my breath. I was alone in the room with cum drying on me. I probably looked like a glazed doughnut. I looked around. There was semen everywhere. All over my body, over both hands, pools of it had run onto the chair and there were thick blobs on the floor.

I wiped my hands against my thighs to remove the bulk of the cum. Incredibly, I was still firm. Not hard, but the little blue pills were having their effect and I still sported a semi-erection. I played with it gently. I hadn't had back-to-back orgasms since Deb and I were newly married, but I knew I could probably pull it off now.

There was a movement behind me. I looked up, and Spiderman came around the chair and stood beside me and nodded hello. I knew all too well that he'd already come tonight, but his manhood stood proud and he seemed ready for round two. He leaned over and said something I couldn't hear. I Shrugged and held my hand behind my ear. He pointed at his tool and at my sticky belly. I nodded.

Spiderman dipped his glans onto my belly and scooped up the sticky residue left there by the circle jerk. He spread it across his shaft and started pumping. I increased the intensity on my own tool, and had a decent hard-on in no time. The little pills were working overtime.

Spiderman stood above me and jerked himself so aggressively I wondered if he would injure himself. His balls were flying back and forth and I could hear the thump every time his fist smacked against his belly. I jacked myself hard and fast and with a skill developed over three and a half decades of masturbating at least four times a week, I managed to climax again. The volume was small and the cum ran through my fingers.

Spiderman's tool was red and raw, but he continued. I reached up and cupped his balls, carefully feeling them one by one, then squeezed at the top of his scrotum. His groan was harsh and primitive, and he came. Like my ejaculation, his was small in volume, but I knew how hard he'd worked for it and could almost feel his relief.

Spiderman leaned down and shouted "I can get a hotel room if you're interested." I struggled to hear over the thumping bass line of the music. "Want to take this further?" He shook his cock at me.

My heart went into my mouth. God, no! I'd come here for an extreme masturbation session, and I'd found it. But that was all I wanted. I imagined what would happen if I went to his hotel. Anal sex with a man. Maybe kissing. No Halloween masks. I shuddered.

Those scenarios held no interest for me. I shook my head no. Again, he reached up for a fist pump, nodded, and quietly left the room.

I went to the wash room and did my best to remove the slime from every crack and crevice of my body. I would shower again at the hotel, but right now, I wanted to remove as much of the sticky, crusty gunk as possible. Spiderman's proposition had made it clear that some of the men used the club for gay pickups.

I felt dirty. I felt I'd let myself down. I felt guilty.

I wondered for the hundredth time: What the hell was I going to tell my wife?

I washed my penis and my scrotum for the fourth time.

Tonight had been fascinating. I'd jerked men off, and they'd jerked me. I'd ejaculated in public, I'd been bathed in the cum of strangers, and my orgasms had been intense. But this would be a one-off experience.

Even if I told Debbie and she was okay with it, I wasn't okay with it. Perhaps she was right and I really was a chronic masturbator, but as thrilling as tonight had been, I had learned that these activities went beyond my boundaries.

I took my check out of my sock and retrieved my clothes, and dressed, still wearing the mask depicting Peter Criss, the guitarist from Kiss. I only removed the hood when I stepped into the chill of the late October night.

I crossed the street to the bus shelter, and ordered an Uber taxi ride on my cell phone. The tiny screen told me that Hamid, in a silver Prius, would be there in two minutes. As I watched his progress on the app's map, a car came out of the parking facility behind me. I stepped back into the bus shelter. There was no mask to hide my identity now. I peered around the shelter and froze. The driver was looking the other way, waiting for traffic, but I recognized him immediately.

Jonathan P. Mountford III, the scribe of yesterday's "inspirational" message at the catholic institution I was working for.

Had he been at the jack-off club? No store front along the street seemed to be open for business. I risked another look. No question about it, that was Mountford.

He eased into the traffic drove by me, passing through the pool of light of a bright streetlamp. All I could see was the passenger seat. And on the seat, was the bright red webbed design of a Spiderman mask.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Author's Note:

There really is a jack-off club in New York City, like the one I described. I learned of it while researching another story. Drop me an email if you'd like details. I have never visited the club, and don't intend to.

In the same research I also learned that there really is an online forum for people who are obsessed with masturbation and who have a cum-play fetish. Drop me an email if you'd like details.

There really are boutique health insurance plans in New York, owned by the Catholic Church, as well as other denominations and religions. I have consulted to some of them, and yes, some of them really do pray before meetings. The overwhelming majority of employees I've met at those companies are the nicest people you could hope to meet. But I have also met a few people like (the completely fictional) Jonathan P. Mountford III, and I've always suspected that behind closed doors they're even nastier than the guy in my story.

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