Bedsheet Masturbation Fetish

I'm a middle aged white male and I've loved masturbating forever. 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.

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.

My attention always centered on my erection during my early morning sex-play periods, and the sight of my 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 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 he 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 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 later 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.

I shared a room and never wanted 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 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.

I remember my first wet dream. The familiar sensations of orgasm awakened me from my dream and I was instantly aware that 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. 

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 otherguys 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.

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 a 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 ecstasy at this moment.)

I felt the warmth of my cum through the glass of the 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 years.