The Start of A Fetish: Cum Rag

Growing up I had a friend and we learned to masturbate together. It started when I brought porn magazines my sister had lent me. My friend and I would lay out the magazines in a big semi-circle around us and ogle the huge breasts on display, the splayed pink pussies, toned asses with assholes wide open, and throbbing, veiny cocks. At first, we would fidget with our tools in our pants, reading the nasty articles and commenting on all the pictures. Then, we would excuse ourselves to the bathroom to bust a nut. I would wrap tissue around my cockhead and fill it up—sometimes if I was too into it, I’d mess up the tissue and have to clean semen off my shirt. My friend would cum in the sock he wore that day. It took a while for us to start jerking off together, in the same room. Eventually, we would sit side by side, open our flies, drop our boxers, but leave our pants around our waists—in case anyone knocked on the door or something.

I was still using tissues but my friend now had a sock designated for sperm. He was unashamed of it; at the start of our masturbation sessions, he’d take it out from the side of his bed closest to the wall and when we finished, he’d put it right back. Just thinking about his cum rag made me rock hard. When he had to use the bathroom or leave his room for any other reason, I’d sit on his bed, reach down between his mattress and his box spring and play with the cum rag. Before a session, it would be stiff and smell like sweet musk—but after a session, especially if I could get to it quickly, the sock would be warm and sticky. If my friend hadn’t cum before, his slimy seed would seep through the sock and onto my fingers; his fresh spunk smelled like alkaline. If I had enough time to take the cum rag out of the mattress, I’d hold it up to my nose and breath in as deep as I could. On those days, I’d go to the bathroom after my friend returned and pump out another load while the odor of my friend’s deposit was still ringing in my nose.

One day he told me his mom had found the sock and scolded him; he was now using tissues to clean himself up. I was disappointed—no more sock. No more built up loads turning ripe in a cum rag, no more fresh loads to sniff. I didn’t know how good I was about to have it. By now, our masturbation ritual was more relaxed. We’d have pants and boxers around our ankles, legs knocking together, but we never touched each other’s penises. I came close a couple times, measuring erections and suggesting new ways to jerk it, but my friend never consented. He used to hold his shirt up by the chin, raise his ass, and cum all over his chest and stomach. I remember the sound of his balls slapping against his thighs and the way his purple glans would  glow red right before his orgasm erupted with globs of white cream. Then, he would wipe off the mess with a tissue and toss it in the trashcan.

It didn’t take me long to start snooping in that trashcan. I realized there were so many used cum rags in there, he would never know if any went missing. Most nights I got lucky, and I’d take a fresh load from that days masturbation session. Sometimes I wouldn’t get a chance to snoop or, less frequently, we didn’t jack off together; on those nights, I’d take older prizes with that sweet smell. On those nights, I’d rub my cock breathing in the scent of his dried semen. If I got a fresh load, I would rub his cum on my cock or wrap the wet tissue around my glans.

Now it’s something of a…hobby. I like to cum using another man’s cum, where another man has cum. If anyone is interested, I’ve got some stories about my college roommate and my cousin.