Recherche du Temps Perdu
Part 1
I was about six or seven and my mother left me alone in the house with a little neighbor girl named Nancy. Naturally, we played Doctor. We sat opposite each other, on the floor of my sister's bedroom, our legs apart, our undies off. This was called "showing tinklers." When we peed, us kids, it was called "tinkling." That was the nomenclature at the time, in our neighborhood, at least. Thus the generic name for sex organs, boys' and girls', was "tinklers." 
Anyway, Nancy felt my tinkler and examined it-rather gingerly, I thought. Then she pulled the lips of her tinkler apart with her fingertips and invited me to peer inside. I was astonished to see how red it was-almost like an open wound. I pressed my erect tinkler against this wet redness, but I had no notion that I was supposed to poke mine inside hers.
One of my sister's dolls was on the floor next to us, and the doll was wearing a light blue mohair cardigan. Nancy took the sweater off the doll and pulled the sleeve of the sweater down over my erect little cock. It was a loose fit, and I was terribly excited by the prickly feeling of the tickly hairs. Next, she took the sweater off my cock and replaced it with one of the doll's knit booties. This was not nearly as exciting because it was a tight fit and the booty was not mohair.
That was all. We were too young, as I hinted earlier, to know what else to do, and we moved on to some other type of (non-sexual) play. After a few years passed and I began to masturbate, this incident played an important part in my fantasies. I appropriated my sister's mohair doll sweater and kept in my dresser drawer. By now John Thomas was too big to fit inside the sleeve of the sweater, so I simply wrapped the sweater around him. I jerked myself silly with this sweater. When, after many sessions over days and weeks, the sweater became board-stiff with dried cum, I would wash the sweater out and hide it in my closet to dry. In later years (including now), whenever I saw a woman wearing a light blue sweater-especially mohair-I went absolutely gaga.
Part 2
About this same time-the Pre-Teen Masturbation Period-I had another experience with a sweater. This time it was the girl across the street, Nancy's sister, in fact, Susan. She must have been about ten and I was twelve. In back of my house was a woodshed, and my dog had puppies in the woodshed, and Susan went back there to see the puppies, and she left her sweater hanging on the doorknob. It was late afternoon on a school day when I became aware of the presence of the sweater in my territory and began to formulate my plans. Foremost in my mind was the fear that Susan might remember and retrieve her sweater. Well, let's not think about that, I told myself. I made several trips to the woodshed to touch and caress the sweater, but my sister and her friends were playing in the back yard, so I didn't dare do what I longed to do, which was snatch up the sweater and bury my face in it and then surround my stiff prick with the sweater and shoot off all over it. It was a Girl Scout sweater, by the way, dark green, a cardigan, not mohair, but a little furry because of wear, and it even had a few of her long silky blonde hairs clinging to it.
As the afternoon wore on and the sun began to set I realized, "Yep, it's going to happen. Susan's sweater will be mine tonight!" I was crazed, believe me. I was sleeping, at the time, on the screen porch with my Dad. When night fell and we were all tucked in bed, I lay there, feverish with excitement, with one thought in my mind: Susan's sweater. Presently, my Dad's ripsaw snores told me that the coast was clear. I got out of bed, quietly opened the screen door, and raced across the back yard toward the woodshed. As in dreams when we travel unimpeded by physical objects, passing effortlessly through walls and rooftops, so I zoomed forward, glowing, radiant, triumphant. SUSAN'S SWEATER. I buried my face in it and inhaled deeply, again and again. I stuffed it into my mouth. Then I wrapped this heavenly treasure around my prick and brought myself to a mind-numbing orgasm. But I didn't shoot off on the sweater, as I longed to do. No, I thought better of that. I didn't dare to leave my little token of affection on her emerald green sweater, because everyone would know I did it. So I refrained from the delicious pleasure of squirting my essence on this magical sweater. I retired to my bunk, dazzled and frazzled, but within fifteen minutes I was wide awake, and once again frenzied with excitement. Another mad dash to the woodshed, another delicious liaison with Susan's sweater. This went on and on. When morning came I was pale, exhausted, drained. I had to eat a huge breakfast in order to get my sperm count up.  

Part 3   
This same girl, Susan, played an unknowing part in one of the most successful Peek-and-Jerk episodes of my career. It was during the same time period, perhaps only a few weeks later. Susan and my sister were sprawled on my sister's bed, playing dominoes, and I was lying face up under the bed with my head protruding, and we were bantering back and forth as youngsters will. Susan was wearing a wonderful pale yellow crewneck which must have been a mixture of wool and orlon. The texture of the knit was crunchy, and her tiny budding ten year-old titties made little mounds under the front of the sweater. I stared and stared, and meanwhile my fly was open and my right hand was going like soixante. (As I said earlier, my body was under the bed; the girls could see only my face.) When my moment arrived I inadvertently let out a loud groan which I tried to cover up by faking a coughing spell. My consciousness blurred deliciously and I spurted like a whale right up into the bedsprings and the mattress. I thought everything was coming out, my liver, kidneys, spleen, everything. Moments later I lay there with a handful of goo, my pants and shirt drenched. How could I get back to my own room and change my clothes? The girls were sure to see it. Hadn't thought about that! Or what if my mother came to the door of