Date: Fri, 27 Sep 2019 03:57:50 -0400
From: MC VT
Subject: Desensible - Bisexual incest

Desensible
 ©MCVT2017 September 25, 2019

Quickie about a summer day and a summer night.  Whew!

Heat up the donation link with a monetary thanks to this great place.
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

100% Fiction, Adult Content:  Mb, inc.
=============================================================================

Feet slap across the planks of the back porch, he's screaming.  Hope it
wasn't a wasp.  Hopping around on one foot, he tells me he got a splinter.

"Get in the bathroom."  Lift him to the sink, "Lose your shoes?"

"What are you going to do?"  He asks.

Soap, water, there's a spot.  Small splinter about a quarter of an inch but
dug deep into the pad of his foot.  "Dig it out."

"That's gonna hurt."  Pulls his foot out of my hand and readies to jump off
the sink.

"Wait, I got something..."  In the medicine cabinet, I dig through the
bottles and tubes.  I find the cream, unscrew the lid and put some on my
finger, gently dabbing it over the splinter.  He grabs the tube.  At six,
he can read fairly well.

"De...  Desen..."  He's sounding the word out.

"De Sensible."  I correct his pronunciation, lying and put the tube back in
the cabinet.

"De Sensible?"  He's so cute.

"De sensible way to pull out a splinter.  Won't feel a thing."  He waits
while I find a needle and come back to remove the tiny shaft of wood while
he unwraps the bandage.  I write the text under ads for a living.  Grab my
pen from my pocket and write on the bandage.

Turning away, I grab his foot under my arm and dig it out while he isn't
too noisy. Not too bad.

He puts his own bandaid on.  I grab his foot, "That bandage has a word on
it -- what does it say?"

Inspecting his foot, he's wondering if he missed a word.  "It doesn't say
anything."

"It says `shoes.'  Got that?"

He's off to the back yard, slipping on his sneakers.  I took the laces out
-- teaching him to tie sounds too complicated.

...

Let him play as I water the garden, pick some tomatoes.  Put up a wooden
structure, hung a thick, knotted rope.  He tries to climb it, then finds a
way to tie a branch on the bottom.  He stands on it to swing.  Creative
boy; we've encouraged it.

He goes back to the stack of lumber behind the garage.  I know what he's up
to -- there's mice living under the boards, he wants to see the mice.
Squeezing a crimp in the hose, I build water pressure and shoot it over the
garage at him.  Running out, "Stop it!"

"Home invasion!  Leave their nest alone."

"They're gonna be rats and eat the garden."

"They're little mice -- how much can they eat?"  I tried telling him I
hired a bunch of tomcats to keep the rats away, but he's too smart for
that.  "The mother's gonna bite you.  Dang, they give you about fifty shots
at the hospital, you won't be home for days and probably lose all your
fingers."

He comes back out to his rope mumbling.  Think I heard him say "bullshit."

When the sun first touches the top of the aspens along the back of the lot,
I go get his bucket.  Big, deep red plastic affair -- at one time held his
toys, now it holds him.  On the porch, I fill it up to the second ridge and
stop.  One gallon of hot water from the kitchen and I call him to bathe.
He's been up since dawn riding his bike, playing in the garage, worrying
the mice.  "Calling all dirty pioneers!"  I yell across the yard.

He races to the porch and strips, legs almost not long enough to get into
the bucket, but he slings one leg in and hops on the other foot, then
settles down into the water knees akimbo.  Pioneer bath.  The soap floats.
He grabs a few plastic cartoon characters, giving them a ride as the water
becomes milky.

"Blow a bubble."

He puts the lower part of his face in the water, and I reach to wipe the
water with the corner of the towel.  Good enough for Tuesday's bath.
Watching him as the sun dips through the limbs of the trees, mottling his
skin -- he's the joy of my life.  Mom and grandma are in the city in the
art studio -- stay there during the week while my daughter finishes high
school.  She started her family earlier than other girls.  Didn't bother
us.  The woman I married is an open-minded, almost too liberal and we had a
good life.  Messier than others', yet a very good life.  This summer was
exceptional.

...

The water cools and the boy jumps out, stands in front of me with his arms
raised.  I towel him and he grabs the rope handle of his tub and watches as
all the water carries the soap and cartoon passengers onto the grass.
"What are we going to eat tonight."

"Liver and spinach."

"Yum."  We always lie about what we eat.  Mom wants him to eat a balanced
meal, and I find that grilled cheese, tomatoes and a cup of yogurt eaten
with graham cracker planks fill him just fine.  No hassle.  I've already
grazed through the garden.

Because I'm in advertising, I don't allow a television in the house.  We go
online sometimes, but mostly we read.  Big bag sits by the front door --
the boy goes to get a book, then sits on my lap and reads to me about a boy
in China, then the animals on the Serengeti.  He tires.  I pick him up and
take him back to the porch, "What's the temperature?"

"Eighty, I think."  He says, "Over the limit."  I put a red mark on the
thermometer so he'd know.

We go back to the bathroom to clean up.  New bandage, the wound isn't going
to be fatal.  I put a sock on that foot and we go to bed.

Every night we check the temperature, if it's over seventy-five degrees, no
pajamas.  I turn the fan on in the bedroom as he climbs on the bed and
searches for his "blinker."  Blinker is a washcloth he folds in half, then
half again -- lays it over his eyes.  I think his mom taught him that when
he was younger -- it's become his nightly necessity.

Sleep comes easily.  His energy is spent under the sun, and doesn't seem
like he missed one ray.  Golden tanned skin, fine hairs on his arms and
legs bleached pale yellow -- spun gold, I'd say if it wasn't a trite
descriptor.  Snails, cicadas, June bugs, grass snakes and the mice,
exciting diversions and his delight charms me every time, every day, every
moment.  Watching his efficient body -- not an extra bit of him, just
enough muscle and tendon to pull and push him through his world.
Shaggy-haired, child of the earth with big, brown eyes and tiny red lips
usually ringed by dirt that stuck to whatever he ate last.  I love him.

I love him.  That love is conjoined with lust.  Innocence is so incredibly
arousing.  Pull my body alongside his.  Yeah, I gave an unspoken promise
not visit the promised land again, and I couldn't help myself.

Still, he was sleeping, eyes covered, on his side he faces the fan, I smell
his hair, the faint ferric smell of boy sweat and whatever minerals his
body didn't need anymore.  Seems, just looks like he's offering his rear.
Short cleft between perfectly smooth half-spheres.  Since he learned to
walk, I'm erect every night with him.

Held on to my mental brochures promoting the land of milk and honey...
Maybe later.

Short breaths, regular.  Occasional twitches -- he's not sleeping deeply
yet.  I wait, sniffing his scent while I began fingering my rod, my balls,
then back to my rod.

Have to do it again.  Wait.

Want to nuzzle his neck, kiss him but he hates the scratchiness of my
stubble.  Try to think about advertising, and my thoughts wander.  My boy
could sell nudity -- short, tight little balls and perfectly smooth,
straight dick.  It occurs to me that someone needs to invent paint-on
briefs for boys -- he'd be perfect tickling himself with a brushful of
white silk...

He turns further, separating his legs slightly.  Hot night -- a sheen of
moisture on his skin glistens softly in the dim light.  I turn to him and I
can't wait any longer.  Making a fist around my glans, I gently press the
head of my cock to his ass.  Softly, I open his cleft just slightly and let
my leaking slit touch the tiny, hard knot of his ass.  Slight movement of
my hips presses my slit against him in slippery need.  My mind imagines him
taking me, begging me for more.

He moves.  I freeze.  His hand goes to his butt, I move away quickly.

Trembling, I can't sleep thinking of him kissing me, his narrow feet on my
shoulders as he grimaces.  Full, hot, satisfaction as he grips my rod
tightly.  Wonder how long I could last.

I wait for his stillness - full, hot and ready.

Pull him against my chest.  I slip my rod between his legs and reach over
him.  Have to be still, just my hand...  Thread my rigid shaft between his
legs -- skin so smooth, warm against my tool.  Stop.  I almost lost my
load.  Reach over him and make another fist and close it tight.  Bump my
fist against the head several times, I'm leaking a lot imagining the
moments before penetration.  That's what he'd feel like the first time,
hard, closed, resistant.  In my mind, he'd be begging me to push, "Hurry
Daddy."  He'd want me.

Press my fist against the tip of my cock and let just a fraction of
stubborn, anxious head enter. imagining him crying, gasping and wanting me
to make him mine.  Wanting to be a man, like me.

Open my fist as the first rush hits, squeeze tight as the second one comes,
then two quick rubs as the last drips through my fingers and the smell of
my seed fills the room, pushed by the fan. "Smell that?  All that's yours
and more."  I say to myself.

Wonder if he'd be angry I'm so excitable.  Probably not.  His mother never
did.


Fin