Rip the Jacker (Part 3) By Dolphin Dan
*** WARNING ***
This story focuses on masturbation and sexual desire among members of the same gender. It also contains descriptions of sexuality. If it is illegal or morally uncomfortable for you to view such material, please do not continue. This story is a work of fiction. It did not happen.
[OUR STORY: Kyle, who has assumed the nom de guerre "Rip the Jacker," has struck twice, the first time leaving a shoe resembling that belonging to a boy he's attracted to, the second a pair of dirty jockey shorts belonging to an arrogant football jock, in various places around the school. He ejaculates on these objects, scrawls the "target's" initials on the wall with his own jism, and moves on before anyone is the wiser. He now plots his third venture, while harboring serious doubts about his own sanity.]
A week after the John Crane "hit" had spurred me to become Rip the Jacker, in name as well as in fact, suddenly things began to improve in my life. Mid-semester grades came out, and mine were better than they ever had been. I had A's in all classes except math, where I had always struggled; but I made a B in that, and I had never been above a C in math in my entire life. My dad was especially pleased. "If you keep these grades up through the end of the semester," he said, "your mother and I will think about getting you a car. It won't be a new car, but you can at least have your own wheels--if you can handle it." I wrote an editorial for the Iliad expressing my opinion on book-banning, which was an issue gaining steam in our school district; Mrs. Brune said it was one of the best editorials that ever ran in our paper since she'd been faculty advisor. And, a week after that fateful Thursday, a girl asked ME out.
She was Claire Petra, a girl in my English class (the one with Noah). She wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, but she was attractive. One day in the cafeteria I was getting lunch and she just walked up to me. "Hey, Kyle," she said. I smiled back at her, said hello, and then she said, "I was wondering, would you be interested in coming to the Homecoming dance with me next week?" She was totally calm, completely confident, and I have to admit I liked that. Most high school girls are pretty insecure and can't get through a sentence without giggling or saying "like." Jeremy was standing right next to me and his eyes got as wide as dinner plates. I tried to play it cool. I shrugged and said simply, "OK." Claire smiled, and said, "Great! Here, let me give you my cell number." She wrote it on my napkin, bade me goodbye and went away.
Jeremy was amazed. "Dude, Claire Petra just asked you out," he said.
"Yeah. To a dance. She probably couldn't get another date." I didn't really understand what had happened.
"You don't understand. Claire Petra has guys on the football team asking her out, and she turns them down. Dude, what's your secret?"
I tried to play it cool. "No secret," I said. "I'm just a sexy beast, I guess."
There did seem to be more behind Claire's discovery of me than just needing a date. We started talking on the phone a lot. She was very nice, and extremely smart and witty, definitely not your usual empty-headed high school chick. Unlike the last girl I dated, I was attracted to Claire. She had a beautiful body, very clean lines, not too skinny (I hate anorexic-looking girls) but just exactly right. Still she didn't look like the usual cheerleader type that jocks liked to date. We went to the dance and it was a wonderful evening. We ended up making out outside, not far from the fire doors that led to the locker room where my sudden attraction to John Crane had surfaced. As I went home that night I realized I might well have a girlfriend. It was an interesting state of affairs.
The happy, clean, well-ordered world of good grades, the school paper and Claire Petra was in marked contrast to my other plans. I began to think logically about the next strike of the Jacker. As I'd planned, I cut a hole in the right-hand pocket of my jeans. I found I could reach in and touch myself, but it was quite awkward, so I had to widen the fly openings of a couple of boxer shorts to provide easier access to my dick through my pocket. I decided this would be a good system. Jerking off in a public or semi-public place is a tricky business, and I had probably been lucky not to have been discovered in the act, or shortly after it, the first two times. Luckily I had on my side the fact that I can cum very quickly, and being able to manipulate myself through my pocket would mean I could get myself almost to orgasm while en route to the scene of the crime and only have to take down my jeans to actually ejaculate. Speed was crucial to my endeavors. There only remained to pick the next target.
The selection of target number four was a little strange for me because it was more gradual than sudden. There was a guy in the junior class who fancied himself as very important. Joe Carallo was his name. He was tall, very thin and had short spiky dark hair. Somehow he'd gotten himself elected as chairman of the Student Senate, and he was also president of the Interact Club (a social powerhouse) and always going around the halls trying to sell things or raise money for various clubs. He was one of those strange guys who sort of wobbled between two high-school castes, the bright honors/student government geeks on one hand and the casual jocks on the other--Joe played no sports (he didn't have time), but was often seen playing pick-up basketball after hours, and he invariably wandered the halls and went to class in a T-shirt, sweat pants and cross trainers, dragging a nylon jacket after himself like Linus's security blanket. Joe was pretty well-liked, but he really played on the whole "I'm very important" persona. The chief prop was his pager. It was always clipped to his belt or to the jacket, and it was always going off--Jeremy and I joked that Carallo must have paid people to call his pager at carefully-selected times so it would seem he was constantly in demand. About a week after the Homecoming Dance I found myself staring at Carallo during a history test, watching the way his spine curled under his white T-shirt as he leaned over the desk, the intense way he gripped his pencil, and the light flashing off the little gleaming pager clipped to his belt. I grew hard. I reached into my pocket and lightly brushed the head of my dick. I didn't want to get myself too turned on, as I wasn't prepared to go through with it right now. But I knew who the next target would be, and I knew I had to get ahold of that pager somehow.
How I did it was, if I say so myself, ingenious. Carallo's pager was an endless source of frustration to his teachers, because it always went off during class. Our history teacher, Mr. Lowery, had already threatened to take it away from him; it was an older model that didn't have a "vibrate" mode (now THAT would have been sexy!) In fact, the last time it had gone off Mr. Lowery had confiscated it for the period, and gave it back to Carallo at the end of class with a stern warning that it not go off again or it would be gone "permanently." It struck me that if I could somehow trigger the pager to go off in class--several times, preferably--I could cause Mr. Lowery to confiscate it, and then I could come back to the classroom at the appropriate time and swipe it from his desk. But this was much easier said than done. I was in the same class as Carallo at the same time, so I couldn't be off somewhere at a telephone dialing the number of his pager (if I could get it). I certainly couldn't ask someone else to page a strange beeper number at a certain time of day from a pay phone. The only way I could do it was if I had access to a cell phone, and could trigger it in my pocket. But where could I get one? The natural answer was Claire--she had one.
I racked my brains for several days trying to figure out how to get ahold of her phone. I hated the idea of stealing it from her, but what choice did I have? And how could I do it? Also, how on earth would I get Carallo's pager number?
As it turned out, the procurement both of Claire's phone and Carallo's number was much easier than I expected. I didn't think I could kill two birds with one stone, but I was lucky that my girlfriend was well-connected. She was in the Interact Club with Carallo. One afternoon we went for a burger and shakes at the Manhattan Diner after school, and when she left the table briefly to use the bathroom, I looked inside the binder she carried with her--I knew she had a contact sheet on the inside cover that had all her "important numbers" on it. My gamble was exactly right. Midway down the list was "Joe Carallo home" followed by a number, then "Joe Carallo pager" followed by another. I took Claire's own pen and scribbled the number on a napkin, folded it and put it in my one good pocket. Her cell phone in its little leather case was right next to her books. I snatched that too. "Forgive me, honey," I whispered to myself. I wasn't too familiar with cell phones then, but I knew I had to switch it off--if someone called her and my pocket started ringing, the game would be up, and I'd have to explain to my soon-to-be-ex girlfriend why I had filched her cell phone! I found the switch just before I saw Claire come out of the bathroom. I punched it and stuffed the phone in my pocket. Only I picked the wrong pocket--I picked the one with the hole in the bottom!
"I actually have to go too," I said. I stood up, holding my hand to my hip so I would hold the cell phone in place--I hoped it wouldn't look too funny. Claire didn't seem to notice anything amiss. I went into the bathroom and safely transferred the phone to my other pocket. Strangely I was erect. Even the idea of preparing for my ritual had turned me on. I unsnapped my jeans, took my dick out of my boxers and stroked it a few times. Then I put it back in my clothes and headed back to the table.
I found Claire crawling underneath the table. "Have you seen my phone?" she said. "I thought for sure I had it with me." I told her I hadn't seen it. Maybe she left it at school? She looked around for it but couldn't find it. "Maybe you should call it," I suggested.
She did, using the pay phone near the restrooms. She came back shrugging. "Went to voice mail," she said. "You didn't hear it ringing anywhere around here, did you?"
"Nope. I'm sure you left it at school or in your locker or something. It'll turn up."
Claire spoke to the waitress and gave her her home phone number in case someone at the restaurant found it. I felt terribly guilty, but there would be no harm done. Claire would have her phone back in a little while.
After she took me home I realized I was now committed. I couldn't keep the phone long; if Claire thought it was permanently lost, she or her parents would probably call the cell phone company and cancel the service, and that would be curtains on my own plans. The next day was Thursday. I'd have to make an attempt to get the pager then, and I'd probably do the deed Friday. Hopefully Claire wouldn't cancel the cell phone service after only one day.
However, I had another problem besides that one. I could not cum on the pager, because presumably that would damage it and it would violate Tenet 7. Also there was a question of where to do it. It would have to be in a bathroom, and I thought doing it early in the morning, before school, would offer a good chance of getting away with it. I originally planned to leave the pager on the back of the toilet, assuming it would eventually be returned to Carallo. But somehow that didn't seem reliable enough. I had to make sure the pager got back to him, but I couldn't act like I found it because that would put suspicion on me for having stolen it, and in any event would violate Tenet 8. My mind worked over the problem and slowly I came up with a solution. Rip the Jacker would have to communicate with whoever discovered the display.
Leaving a note seemed like a good solution. In reading about Jack the Ripper I learned that the killer (or someone claiming to be the killer) had sent various letters to police, signing them "Jack the Ripper" and that's how the name stuck. That night I made several preparations. I took some old magazines from a recycle pile in our garage and spent the evening cutting out little letters and pasting them on a page, ransom-note style. I wore rubber gloves while doing it. I doubted anyone would be motivated to "dust for fingerprints" on the Jacker's note, or if fingerprints even showed up on paper, but I wasn't going to take any chances. When completed, the note read:
T H E P A G E R B E L O N G S T O J O E C A R A L L O R E T U R N I T T O H I M R I P T H E J A C K E R
I rolled the note into a little cylinder and tied it with a red ribbon. Then I put it inside a clear plastic bin liner, which I stuffed into my backpack, and at the appropriate time would go in my pocket.
Then I went to work on the cell phone. I had turned its ringer off--my parents would get suspicious if they heard a cell phone ringing in my bedroom, and Claire spent literally the entire evening calling the phone hoping she would hear it ring and be able to find it--but I then had to figure out how to program numbers into it. I had to trigger it from my pocket, during class, which meant that I couldn't see what I was doing. There was also the matter of what number to page Carallo with. It would be a fake one of course; eventually I selected 522537, the numbers on a telephone that corresponded to the letters of the word JACKER. I finally figured out how to program numbers into the phone, but it took me more than an hour to do it. I programmed two macros: holding down the 8 key would dial Carallo's pager number automatically, and holding down the 9 key would dial 522537# (the pound key would identify the end of the message and, presumably, ring the pager at that time). At first I was wary of actually calling Carallo's pager, but I figured, what did it matter? He'd get paged with a nonsensical number over and over again. I practiced several times, holding the phone in my pocket, finding the 8 and 9 keys with my fingers and pressing them. It seemed to work. I'd wear my baggiest jeans tomorrow, so as to minimize the risk of attracting attention when I went into my pocket to call. I went to bed ready to make the attempt.
All day I was nervous and jittery. It seemed like fifth period would never come. The period started at 1:05. At lunch Claire thought I was distracted. "You OK, Kyle?" she said. I told her I was worried about a math test I thought I'd bombed the day before. "It'll be fine," she said. "Don't worry."
"Did you ever find your phone?" I asked her.
"No. I've been looking all over the place. Hopefully it'll turn up at the lost and found for the school. You don't have it, do you?" At first I thought she suspected something, but she was only trying every lead possible.
"No, but I'll look through my stuff again. I'm sure it'll turn up."
Fifth period at last. Mr. Lowery was droning on about the ratification of the Constitution. Carallo sat at his desk, taking notes, and the little pager gleamed from the waist of his sweat pants. My fingers were sweaty. Several times I reached into my good pocket, but I was so nervous that it took me a while to work up to it. Finally I realized I had to try. My penis began to stiffen. I slowly reached into my pocket and felt Claire's cell phone. "The Anti-Federalists had three main arguments against the Constitution. One, it had no Bill of Rights as originally conceived..." My fingers found the keys. I knew them by touch now. I pressed 8 and held it down; I waited ten seconds, then pressed 9. But nothing happened! "Three, they were upset at the power they thought the new Constitution gave Congress..." What had gone wrong? I clicked the button to hang up. I took my hand out of my pocket. With my other hand I was still taking notes. I'd have to wait a few minutes to try again.
Second attempt. I reached into my pocket and pressed the 8 key hard. Again I waited ten seconds. Then I pressed 9. The only sound in the room was Mr. Lowery's voice. I was about to scrub the whole attempt when, suddenly, a miracle occurred! Three loud beeps rang throughout the room. Mr. Lowery stopped dead. Carallo's face turned bright red. He pressed the little button on the pager to see what phone number had called him. Lowery was now turning red too.
"Carallo, give it here," he said sternly.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Lowery--I'll turn it off--"
"GIVE IT HERE! Enough of this nonsense!" He held out his hand.
Carallo looked like a shamed puppy. He handed over the pager. I couldn't resist; the moment was so perfect. In my pocket I hit 8 and 9 again. The pager sounded again. The entire class laughed. Disgusted, Mr. Lowery shut it off. He went to his desk, opened the drawer and dropped it in. It made a loud BONGGG against the bottom of the drawer. "You've disrupted my class for the last time, Carallo," Lowery sneered. He was really angry.
I almost shot a load into my underwear. I was really turned on. It was working!
But I was still only at the beginning of the conquest. My luck had to hold. I knew Carallo would talk to Lowery after class and try to get the pager back; I hoped he'd fail. I also had to hope that Lowery would leave the pager in the desk and not take it with him. Luckily Lowery proctored study hall sixth period and his classroom would be empty. I had planned to leave my notebook on the little wire rack under my desk, so I could make a pretense of coming back for it. I had to wait until the classroom emptied and Lowery left, then go back in, get the notebook, go to the desk, open the drawer and grab the pager without being seen. It was risky; but luckily Lowery's desk was at the rear of the classroom, not right near the door, so I wouldn't be seen from the hall. Then I had to get to my next class without being late, which would be the tough part. My heart pounded as the bell to end fifth period rang. I wondered how long Carallo would spend negotiating with Lowery. I hung around near the doorway; there was a drinking fountain nearby. About three minutes after the bell rang--there were only two minutes left in the class-changing period--I saw Lowery and Carallo walking together out of the classroom, Carallo pleading, Lowery shaking his head. I didn't see the pager in Lowery's hand. The classroom was dark. Lowery had his grade book and some papers he was going to work on during study hall. My chance had arrived.
I straightened up from the drinking fountain, made a show of looking in my backpack for my notebook and not finding it, and immediately changed direction back toward the classroom. I darted inside. I grabbed the notebook, right where I'd left it minutes before. I bolted to Lowery's desk. I tried the drawer where he'd put the pager. My heart sank. Locked! I looked up at the clock. There was ninety seconds to go until the sixth-period bell rang. In desperation I opened the short drawer just under the desktop, figuring that if Lowery didn't take the desk keys with him, they might be there. Success! Three little brass keys on a ring sat in the pencil groove amidst pens and rulers. I grabbed them. Frantically I tried each one of them. The clock ticked down. Every moment I spent increased the danger; rifling a teacher's desk could probably get me expelled. The third key worked. I wrenched open the drawer. Carallo's pager was there. I closed the drawer and locked it, dropped the keys where I found them, shut that drawer, and ran. The sixth period bell rang when I was still halfway to science class. I strode in as quickly and quietly as I could, but Mr. Adler had me. "You're being marked tardy, Kyle," he said, making a note in his book.
I sat down at my lab table, exhausted and exhilarated. I had done it. Carallo's pager was mine.
That night at home I examined it. It was completely unremarkable. Carallo had scratched his initials (including his middle initial, C, which I hadn't known) onto the case with a key or something. I clicked the button and scrolled through the numbers in memory. I didn't expect to recognize any of them, and I didn't, but I found two 522537's from that afternoon, and, earlier in the list, five of them from the previous night when I'd been practicing. I did rub my dick on the pager a little bit but I didn't masturbate. The object itself wasn't as exciting as the previous objects I'd stolen, but the point was that it represented Carallo's importance. So long as I had the pager no one could get in touch with him. The object of my fetish this time was an intangible: Carallo's image. It emanated from the little black box, but the box wasn't the whole story.
I put the pager at the bottom of the plastic bin liner, and put the rolled-up and tied note on top of it. Above the objects I tied two very tight knots that I hoped would prevent the intrusion of water (or semen) onto the pager or the note. I stuffed the bag into the good pocket of the jeans I would wear tomorrow morning. I deleted the 8 and 9 macros from Claire's phone and made sure her contact list was the same as it had been previously. I was lucky here too. The phone was running out of power, and I had no way to recharge it; if it quit before I deleted the macros I would have had to find a way to recharge it before returning it to her. I had to figure out a way to do that without incriminating myself too. One of the features of the phone was a log of the numbers that had been dialed on the phone. If she perused it (and I had to assume she would), she'd see that someone had called Carallo's pager five times on Wednesday night and twice on Thursday afternoon. If I told her I found it and she saw it had been used during the time it was missing, that would connect me with the theft of Carallo's pager. But I had a plan for this too.
That night I had a wet dream. It was unusual because it didn't involve an object; it involved direct actual contact with the target. I dreamed Carallo and I were kissing, and he was stroking me through the hole in my pocket. I woke up and found my boxers soaked. I felt a little disappointed; when I did the deed tomorrow morning I had wanted to have as much sperm pent-up as possible. But there was nothing to do for it now, and it had been a pleasant dream.
I took the early bus to school in the morning. It was a Friday. As I walked into the building I realized I held the fates of several people, plus myself, in my hands. I imagined Carallo felt castrated without his pager. When Lowery discovered it was missing--vanished from a locked drawer, which the thief thoughtfully re-locked after taking it--he was probably afraid there would be repercussions, and that somebody would have to pay Carallo or Carallo's parents for the pager. Claire was still without her phone. And the Jacker was about to strike again. I walked slowly through the front doors. My dick had been hard for most of the bus ride, but now I began to stroke it through my pocket.
I had picked a second-floor bathroom this time, near the library. I'd hit both the third and first floors already and figured a second-floor stall was an appropriate place. As I walked up the stairs, still stroking the head of my dick, I felt pleasure spreading through my groin. My balls began to tighten. A few more strokes and I'd cum. I went into the bathroom, keeping a tight grip on my penis. My heart was in my throat.
The bathroom was empty because it was so early in the morning. I selected a stall near the far end of the room, went inside and latched the door. From my good pocket I took the plastic bag containing the pager and the note. I unbuttoned my pants, held the bag in front of me, and furiously jacked myself. It took only a few strokes and I exploded. I was still drained from the dream, but amazed at how much I spewed. Jets of cum flew onto the bag, the toilet seat, the floor, and even the wall of the stall. The pleasure was so intense I literally blacked out for a second or two. When my head rush cleared I was panting hard and the bag containing Carallo's pager and the Jacker's first official calling card was dripping my fresh semen onto the toilet seat. I dipped a finger in it and scrawled "J.C.C." on the wall. I tied the open end of the bin liner tightly to the pipes leading from the toilet going into the wall. I dropped the closed end, knotted to be watertight, into the toilet itself. I pulled up my jeans, buttoned them, left the stall, snatched up a paper towel to wipe off some cum that had gotten on my hand, and dropped the paper towel on the floor. Then I was gone. I was in and out of the bathroom in less than one minute.
That day Carallo was not in history class. Mr. Lowery didn't seem outwardly annoyed or troubled, but I wondered what had gone down as a result of yesterday's episode. I had a feeling that, if the first two Jacker attacks hadn't attracted much attention, this one definitely would. In fact I thought it likely that, once the pager was recovered from the toilet and the note was read, Carallo himself would be blamed. There was no evidence that he had been the one to break into Lowery's desk, but he'd be the natural suspect. I hoped he could clear his name without too much trouble.
That afternoon, after spending several hours working on the paper, I suggested to Paul that we go get a snack someplace on the way home. He asked me what I had in mind. "How about the Manhattan Diner?" I said. "Great milkshakes there." I convinced him to go. The waitress who had waited on Claire and I before was not working today. I went to the bathroom, and when I came back I took Claire's cell phone out of my pocket. I walked up to the podium at the front of the restaurant and set the phone on it. The girl working there wasn't much older than me, and she was quite pretty. "I found this on the floor back by the restrooms," I said. "It's not mine."
"Oh, thanks," said the girl. "I thought I saw a note that someone did lose a cell phone here a few days ago."
By the next Tuesday--only a few weeks until Christmas break--all was back to normal. The manager of the Manhattan Diner called Claire's house to tell her that someone had found her cell phone. Carallo returned to class--but he never wore his pager again. In fact, a week later the principal announced a rule that all students had to turn off cell phones and pagers during class, and detentions would result from violation of it. I hoped Carallo's pager had not been permanently damaged and that the plastic bag had kept the water out, but when I learned later what trouble the little thing had gotten Carallo into, I didn't blame him for ditching it.
Thus far all of my targets had been in my same class, but the next target, number four, was quite a bit younger. He was a freshman, and his name was Ronan Samuelsen. He was very short, very slight, but pretty cute, with marble-like blue eyes and curly goldish-blonde hair that was growing out into kind of an afro. I noticed him on a Friday night in December when Claire, Jeremy, Paul and I went to the movies for the opening of Titanic, which was a big deal back then. I saw Ronan working the candy counter and I remembered seeing him walking the halls of Homer High. Back in September he had run--unsuccessfully--for president of the freshman class, and had put up campaign posters, which was how I knew his name and appearance. In any event I would have remembered a name as unusual as Ronan, which I found tremendously sexy. When the movie was over we saw him pushing a carpet sweeper across the floor outside the theater. "Hey, Ronan," said Paul, who evidently knew him.
The next week I started to notice Ronan around school. I was attracted to him, and wondered if he might make a good Jacker target. He must have had to work right after school some days, because when I saw him in the halls he had on his maroon-colored nylon jacket with the logo of Royal Cinemas on the back, and even had his name tag pinned to the front. It was kind of dorky, but Ronan was a pretty cool kid. He wore heavy metal T-shirts and had an Iron Maiden patch sewn on his backpack. I can't say I was tremendously excited by the jacket, but the name tag was crying out to be a Jacker artifact. It was, again, a tangible object standing for something intangible: his name. When I identified the jacket and the name tag with the word Ronan, which became a sexual word for me, I knew I'd found target number four.
Snatching the jacket proved much easier than the lengthy machinations I'd had to go through to get Carallo's pager, and it was a good thing too; by mid-December I was getting awfully busy with school, Claire and the Iliad, and I was looking for an easier time for my next target. Like Crane, it was a "gimmie." I wasn't even looking for it. I had begun to shadow Ronan around the school, trying to keep track of his comings and goings, and had begun to keep a page of notes on them, but I hadn't gotten any usable information yet. I happened to be in the school library doing an assignment, and saw the jacket draped over the back of a chair at a carrel. Ronan's books and notebook were lying there on the carrel, and there was even a can of Coke there--even though you weren't supposed to eat or drink in the library--and I could still hear its carbonation ticking and fizzing inside the can, so I knew he had just stepped away. I acted quickly. I looked both ways, grabbed the jacket and stuffed it in my backpack. It was dangerous, but I was astonished at my luck. Even when I was sure I hadn't been seen, I did not leave the library right away, but continued with my assignment, browsing down a different aisle of books. When I finally went to leave I heard Ronan's voice softly from somewhere nearby. "It was right here! I left for like one minute! Fucking hell!"
That was on a Monday. I planned to do the deed on Tuesday. I didn't want to keep Ronan's jacket long because I knew he needed it for work. I was also getting a little tired of the spewing-in-the-bathroom routine, and was frankly not willing to push my luck. I figured the school authorities needed another place to begin finding Jacker artifacts, if only to keep them on their toes.
The scene of the crime, I decided, would be what we called "the Alcove." There was a strange little alcove near the stairs on the third floor, a little space shielded by a wall from the rest of the hallway. What its purpose was I had no idea, but students sometimes gathered there during the post-third-period break. There were also windows there, like everywhere in the school metal-framed windows with handles that you turned and then pushed the hinged window open. There was rarely anybody around that area before school; it was twenty feet from the bathroom where I'd done the pager attack. It seemed like a good bet.
After talking on the phone with Claire for a long time, I spent the balance of Monday evening making another note. Cutting and pasting the letters was extremely tedious. This time I wrote:
T H I S I S # 4 I F Y O U R E C O U N T I N G Y O U M U S T T H I N K I ' M A R E A L P E R V! R E T U R N T H E J A C K E T T O I T S O W N E R C O S T T O C L E A N I T I N O T H E R P O C K E T R I P T H E J A C K E R
I did not specify the jacket's owner in the note; there was only one Ronan at Homer High. I rolled the note into a tube and again tied it with a red ribbon.
That night after everybody went to bed and the house was quiet I took off my clothes and put on Ronan's jacket. It was way too small for me. I took it off and began to rub the cool nylon fabric over my erect penis. I brushed the cold square of plastic--the name tag--against my balls. I began masturbating slowly, gently. I spread the jacket out on the carpet, the nylon shell facing upwards; I figured cum would stain the lining. This was a very interesting and unusual session for the Jacker because it was long and leisurely. I jacked off for almost twenty minutes, stopping every time I approached orgasm, trying mightily to hold back. I whispered Ronan's name to myself, over and over again. After I approached the closest yet to ejaculation I squeezed the tip of my dick and a drop of precum fell from it and landed on the jacket. I masturbated a little more, generating more precum. I wiped the tip of my dick across the plastic name tag. Then I started jacking very fast, feeling the pleasure build. My tip burst open and I shot several thick jets of semen onto the nylon jacket. I used the sleeve to wipe off my dick. I was so full of satisfaction that I lay back on the carpet, my stomach heaving. I hoped I hadn't made too much noise and awakened my parents or my brother.
Eventually I crawled back in bed, still naked; I usually sleep in underwear and it felt very different to have the warm sheets directly on my genitals. I slept for a while. It's rare that I sleep all the way through the night without waking up once. On this night I did, as usual. My digital clock read 5:13 AM. I slipped out of bed, took my flashlight and checked the jacket. The cum had dried in neat little jags and splatters. It stood out extraordinarily well against the dark maroon nylon.
I had saved a little plastic film canister from the last time I had loaded film into my camera. I began to masturbate again, whispering "Ronan" to myself as I had before. I tried to go quickly this time. Again, as with Joe Carallo, I had an uncharacteristically intimate fantasy: I imagined Ronan was sucking my dick. I could almost feel his tongue moving across my head, touching the underside of my shaft. I pretended it was his hand and not mine stroking my balls. When I came close to orgasm I pressed the opening of the film canister to the head of my dick. I heard the very faint sound, muffled, of the first blast of my semen splattering against the bottom of the canister. When I finished ejaculating I used the flashlight to peer into the canister. There was a little pool of pearly white sperm in its bottom. I put the cap back on the canister and put it into the pocket of the jeans I was going to wear tomorrow. I put the rolled-up Jacker note into one pocket of the jacket, and a crisp new five-dollar bill into the other pocket. Each of the pockets had a snap that closed them. I folded the jacket and put it in my backpack.
In the morning I again took the early bus in. I wore my winter gloves that day, but before I put them on, I cut the index finger out of a rubber glove and pulled it over my right index finger, securing it with a rubber band. I got to school. The third-floor hallway was deserted, but I could hear voices and activity from the stairwell. I went to the Alcove. No one was there. It was cold outside and I had just come into the building; I still had my winter gloves on and that would not have seemed strange. I opened the window, then unzipped my backpack, reached in, pulled out the jacket, and quickly tied one of the ends of its sleeves to the metal handle on the window. The jacket hung almost to the floor. I reached into my pocket and uncapped the film canister. I took off my right winter glove, dipped my rubber-sheathed index finger into the now-cold semen, and with my shielded finger scrawled the letters "R.S." on the window pane. I emptied the rest of the cum onto the jacket, capped the canister, put it back in my pocket, put my glove back on and immediately moved away from the Alcove. I went to the stairwell. The voices had moved off. I went down to almost the first floor but when I heard voices approaching again I changed direction so it looked like I was going up the stairs instead of down them. I exited the stairwell at the second floor landing.
I spent a few minutes at my locker, but my dick was still rock-hard and wouldn't go down. I thought about going into a bathroom to jack off, but I decided not to. I fingered it through my pocket for a moment, and then decided to do a dangerous thing. I had never lingered in the scene of the crime to watch it discovered, but it would be easy enough to get away with in this situation. I closed my locker--by now I had taken off my winter gloves and discarded the one rubber finger--and went back to the stairwell, to the third floor.
Kids were starting to come in now, and there were more voices down the hall and the metallic slamming of locker doors. I went up the stairwell and walked past the Alcove. It was probably ten minutes since I had left the jacket there. Sure enough, it had been discovered. I saw Mr. Jenkins, a science teacher, standing near the alcove, and standing next to him was one of the security guards. I did not make eye contact with them. They didn't notice me as I walked past. There were a few other kids walking by at that moment too; they would have had no reason to single me out.
Satisfaction hummed through my body. I had gotten away with it again.
*** TO BE CONTINUED ***