I'm a middle aged white male and I've loved masturbating since I was about four or five years old. My body was a source of wonder to me, and in the early mornings when I awoke I would explore myself in bed, pushing my pajamas down to my knees. My mother always dressed the beds with old-fashioned white percale bed sheets. Sometimes I stripped naked in bed and rolled myself up in the sheet, enjoying the sensations of the cool cotton fabric against my skin. Once I peed into the sheet on purpose, and definitely enjoyed the experience, though I was very young at that time and didn't repeat the experiment. At any rate I was certainly imprinted at this time with a fascination (call it a fetish) with white cotton percale bed sheets. I liked to tuck the sheet tightly between my legs and into the crevice of my butt, and wrap it around my penis, which invariably responded by getting erect. This is how I learned to masturbate through the sheet, a practice which I have enjoyed all my life and still continue. I prefer the sheets un-ironed and line-dried -- who irons their sheets anymore anyway? -- because they have a slight starchy stiffness that provides a delightful friction against bare skin, especially the sensitive bare skin of the genitals.
I was thin, hairless of course, and long before I reached puberty my penis was capable of erection. My attention always centered on it during my early morning sex-play periods, and the sight of my little four inch stiffy sticking straight out from my body is clear in my memory. I learned early on that it was highly pleasurable to squeeze it, stroke it, and rub it against the sheets. I got a big erotic thrill from lying naked on my back and lifting the sheet, then letting it drift down over my body, lightly touching it here and there until it settled down over my penis. Then my little cock would twitch and throb exquisitely from the pressure of the sheet resting on it.
As I grew older my masturbation sessions continued, almost always in my bed, sometimes on the floor next to it. It was important to me not to get caught, and I hardly ever did. Once my father walked through the hall past my open bedroom door while I was naked atop my bed. I know he saw me but the didn't pause and he never said anything about it. I thumbed through National Geographics to find pictures of naked natives, which I considered highly erotic. I especially liked pictures of South Sea Islanders. The younger girls struck me as very pretty and the men sometimes wore white cloths tied around their hips that I found very sexy. I wanted to wear things like that too, but it wasn't until my teen years that I managed to make little garments for myself. The training I was receiving at the Catholic school I attended had taught me that all this activity was forbidden, so it acquired even more allure.
When I got to be about eleven, I didn't want my little brother to see what I was doing so I only masturbated in bed when he was asleep or not in the room with me. But I would go downstairs in the morning before anyone in the house was awake and lie on the living room rug. I had found a deck of cards with pictures of naked women in my father's desk, and I would get them out and look at them as I lay naked on the floor. I missed the feel of the white bed sheet on my body. To substitute for it, I found a piece of an old sheet in the rag bag and hid it away, getting it out in the mornings and putting it away before I got dressed. For a while I kept it hidden in a bush just off the back porch, and I would steal out the back door wearing only my underpants (and feeling very daring) to retrieve it for my morning masturbation session. The cloth was sometimes cool and wet with dew. With this rag between my legs I found it easy to get instantly aroused. My cock was now about 4-1/2 inches long, I would guess, and my favorite way of masturbating was to slap it repeatedly against my abdomen.
Another private place where I could play with myself was up in the attic. My father had a whole shelf of scrapbooks he'd made of clipping from Life Magazine, and there were plenty pictures of pretty girls to be found in them. I explored these pictures for hours, day after day, sometimes stripping naked and handing my hard penis as I did so.
Up to this point I had not yet had an orgasm, but then one night I had my first wet dream. The sharp, unfamiliar sensations of orgasm awakened me from my dream and I was instantly aware that something had come out of my penis; there was a warm, wet spot in my pajamas. I looked at it in the morning and tried to scrape some of the dried evidence out of the cloth, but there was too much. From reading sex education materials I knew that this was semen, but at that point I was unclear about how much of it I could produce and the thought came to me that maybe that was all I had and now I couldn't have children. Well, that thought didn't really bother me very long. Things were moving along too fast to get bogged down in worries! I noticed with interest that curly hairs were starting to appear around the base of my cock, and my erections seemed to get bigger every day.
I continued to masturbate, always stopping short of orgasm, because I believed that if you didn't shoot your load it wasn't really the mortal sin kind of masturbation. But the wet dreams recurred frequently, and I always woke up from the intense pleasure of them. All through the following day I would review the sensations of cumming and think about the dreams that brought it on. Before long I was thinking about 'going all the way' with my solo activity, and listening to the other boys talking about how they liked to beat off made me realize that I wasn't the only one preoccupied with sex and orgasm. The battle raged inside me with more and more intensity: should I go ahead and masturbate to orgasm, even though it was mortal sin? The other boys seemed to be doing it. I could always go to confession.
Then one sunny spring morning when I was in seventh grade something happened that pretty much made the decision for me. It was a Saturday and I was alone in my bedroom. Feeling horny as usual, I stripped naked and pulled the cover back off my bed. There was the top sheet, all white and smooth across the bed. I lay face down on it, and began rubbing my cock against the sheet, gently moving my ass up and down. The window was open and a breeze was blowing the curtains. Between the wind on my naked body, the feel and fragrance of the sheet, and all my pent-up sexual energy, nature took over and I began to experience the sweetest sensations I'd ever felt; great waves of intense pleasure were r along with an insistent throbbing of my penis. Instantly I knew this was orgasm coming on. I felt a strange trembling at the tip of my tongue (which I'd never felt before and have never experienced since) and jumped up with the idea of getting to the bathroom, but before I was a foot from the bed the first jet of cum spurted from my cock. Although it was a completely wonderful feeling, I hadn't intended to bring it on and was worried about getting stains all over the rug and the bedclothes. At a loss for what else to do, I cupped my hands around the end of my penis and tried to catch the rest of my ejaculation in them. There was quite a bit of white fluid in my hands by the time my orgasm subsided. As I cleaned up in the bathroom I inspected it, the first time I'd ever seen my own fresh cum. Back in the bedroom starting to get dressed, I noticed with dismay that one big drop had found its way through my fingers and landed right on the top of one of my new blue suede shoes. Later I scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to get it out, but a trace of that cum-spot remained there as long as I owned those shoes, reminding me of my first waking orgasm every time I saw it.
The experience just related was so powerful and pleasant that it removed all doubt about whether or not I should masturbate to orgasm. It took only a day or two more for me to overcome my scruples. Sitting in class one afternoon a few days later, I decided that I would go home that very day and beat off. The thought filled me with excitement, and I couldn't wait to get home. My mother was out of the house for a couple hours, leaving me with my grandmother who never even tried to keep track of where I was or what I was doing. As soon as I got home I went down to the basement and got my favorite cotton cloth and a baby food jar. Then I went up to the attic and stripped naked. Spring was well along and it was very warm in the attic, but I didn't mind. Finding my favorite girly pictures in my dad's Life scrapbooks, I lay down on the rug and began stroking my cock with the cloth, and in no time I was at a point of high arousal. This was the plateau where I had always stopped before, but this time I just kept going, lying on my left side with the rag stuffed into my crotch and wrapped around my penis, holding the baby food jar at the ready in my left hand. Oh, what a wondrous pleasure it was, to reach that state of intense sexual tension and, instead of backing off, to continue on into orgasm. And what a climax it was, sweeter to me than any sensation I'd ever experienced before. (No description is necessary here, I know, for an audience of masturbators who can surely relate to my ecstacy at this moment.) I felt the warmth of my cum through the glass of the baby food jar, and saw the white fluid accumulating with each powerful spurt of my cock. This was absolutely wonderful! When my spasms subsided I went back to the basement and carefully rinsed out the jar, hiding it away for future use, and went about my business, fully satisfied with my exploit and already anticipating my next masturbation session.
This is a good place to break off my story. In another segment I'll describe my masturbation practices through the rest of my teen years.