Johnny Howard was a blond youngster who was uncomfortable if he didn't get his balls emptied at least twice a day.

But it wasn't easy to find a suitable place to beat his meat in privacy and comfort.

He was painfully aware that he made a lot of noise – moaning and panting and grunting – when he was jacking off, especially when he started to cum.

That made it embarrassing to beat off at home, because his mother was a housewife with ears like a hawk. And she was always around the house, no doubt, listening, and it was not unknown for her to walk into a guy's bedroom or the bathroom without knocking.

Johnny slipped hand-jobs in at odd hours of the day and night, but it was frustrating to have to be quiet and jack off in silence, instead of pounding his prick with the enthusiastic vigor that he preferred.

Too, when he shot his wad, his cum-load sprayed out all over the place, and the boy lived in terror of his mother finding neglected globs of jism in the basin or the bath or pooled in his bed sheets.

Whenever he did manage to get a meat beating accomplished, she always gave him a sort of knowing look, which caused him to blush with guilt, making it worse.

It wasn't any better at school, either.

Johnny jacked off in the lavatory, in a locked stall, but couldn't really concentrate on the pleasure for fear that the football coach might catch him at it. The coach termed it self abuse and claimed that it sapped a young man's stamina and lessened his athletic prowess.

Yet, even if Johnny had had enough willpower to forego playing with his cock, it would have been worse, if anything. For then he knew that he would have wet dreams, every night and maybe even cream his jeans in class, which would leave more incriminating evidence than when he drained off his balls willfully and mopped up the results.