Date: Wed, 22 Sep 2004 06:16:00 -0700 (PDT)
From: Andrew Bowden <rayssonscott@yahoo.com>
Subject: DAD'S LUCKY JOCKSTRAP

DAD'S LUCKY JOCKSTRAP
By Scott Samson

Just thought I'd tell you guys about the great summer I spent with my Dad
and Uncle Pete. They had the opportunity of buying this cabin from a guy my
dad works with. He had to sell it to pay off his divorce settlement, and he
offered my dad first refusal. The cabin's a bit run down so it wasn't like
it cost an arm and a leg, but Dad and Uncle Pete decided to buy it
together, half each, and our two families can use it.

The cabin's a nice place, it just needs a bit of attention and
modernization. It was hardly ever used by the guy who previously owned it,
that's why he sold it so quickly. The three of us have spent weekends for
the past few months up at the cabin to get the place habitable and clear
away the forest which was almost up to the cabin itself. It's taking a lot
of hard work but the results of all our labors showed even after our first
visit. It's amazing what three guys can achieve in just 48 hours when they
put their minds to it.

By that Sunday my body was killing me from taking out all the young trees
that had encroached on the clearing around the cabin. Dad and Uncle Pete
concentrated on inside the cabin, fixing the boiler and making repairs to
the roof and windows and clearing out the wildlife which had taken up
residence in the absence of any human presence.

Uncle Pete gave me a nice massage when I told him how sore I was
feeling. Had me take off my shirt and jeans and did the business. He was
already just in his underwear 'cause he was going to take a shower after
Dad was finished in the bathroom. He's got a great touch, and I told him if
he ever needed to earn extra money to pay for this place he could make a
fortune as a masseur.

"Less of your cheek, young man," Uncle Pete said and pulled down the back
of my underwear and slapped my bare butt. I didn't mean it like that
though. Mind, he was laughing when he said it so I think he just used it as
an excuse to horse around. And then Dad took a swat at it too. So, of
course, I tried to fight them off, but as strong as I am I'm no match for
two guys with powerful muscles the size Dad and Uncle Pete have.

Dad had just come out of the shower and was dressed in a towel. It soon
fell off him as he joined in the struggle though. With Pete's help Dad got
me across his lap and gave me a sound spanking with the flat of his
hand. He wasn't doing it too hard though 'cause we were just messing
around.

"Hey, let me have another go at Scott's butt, Ray," Uncle Pete
laughed. When I looked up I was surprised to see that somehow he had lost
his shorts too and was as naked as Dad and me.

Dad handed me over to Uncle Pete while I protested, not very convincingly,
that I'd had enough, and he continued the spanking while Dad looked on
having a real good belly laugh. He was laughing so hard tears were
streaming down his face.

Man, did it smart by the time they were finished! So to make up for the
fact that he and Uncle Pete got a little carried away Dad offered to rub my
ass cheeks with a soothing lotion he brought up to the cabin with him. He
couldn't get the towel to stay tied round his waist so he decided to leave
it off.

"You don't mind if I leave my towel off while I rub this stuff into your
buns, do you Scott?" Dad asked.

He was standing in front of me in just his birthday suit.  I told him it
was fine by me, so I laid back across Dad's lap and let him do the
business.

Dad doing that for me felt better than the body massage Uncle Pete gave me
and I got hard, though I don't think either of them noticed. I'm glad Dad
didn't rush it; he spent about twenty minutes making sure the lotion was
well rubbed in. I didn't even mind when Dad put too much of the stuff on my
ass and it spilled into my crack and down over my balls and he had to scoop
it up with his fingers.

It's not the kind of thing I'd brag to anyone about, my dad touching my
balls and putting his fingers in my ass crack - I mean you wouldn't would
you. It took my breath away when he did it 'cause I was almost dozing from
him rubbing the lotion into my butt cheeks; it felt that good. But Dad's
got the same kind of magic in his hands that Uncle Pete has.

I think Dad must've enjoyed giving the massage as much as I was receiving
it because I'm sure I felt something pressing against my stomach.  But then
right after that he told me he was finished.

By that time I wasn't too bothered about them seeing my ass because we'd
been seeing each other naked quite a bit over that weekend (and since) on
account of the 'bathroom' being without a door. That's one of the jobs Dad
and Pete will get round to eventually, but at the moment it's not high
priority.

It was kind of strange at first taking a shower or using the john with Dad
or Uncle Pete popping in to get something or other, or clean up at the
sink. The shower's just a large head over the bathtub and the plastic
curtain's long-since disappeared, so you're open to anyone who passes by or
needs to use the bathroom. And those guys are always needing to use the
bathroom, so I quickly got used to them strolling in when I was in there.

The only thing I was a little embarrassed about was one time Dad came in
while I was showering and caught me soaping up my dick. I had the skin
pulled back and was making sure I was clean under the head, so I was a
little hard. The next thing I hear is this cough and Dad's standing in the
doorway.

"I need to use the john," he said. I could feel my face going red, but I
was only making sure I was clean so I really didn't have anything to feel
guilty about. I told Dad he could come in and he pulled out his cock and
started to take a leak. Now, the toilet is right next to the bathroom door,
which is where I was facing. I had a perfect view while Dad was tapping his
bladder. He didn't seem bothered to be taking a whiz in front of me. It
seemed like maybe he had gone all day without taking a leak 'cause he peed
for at least a couple of minutes at full flow.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen Dad's dick in my eighteen years and it
wasn't the fifty-first time. But in the last year or so I started to notice
it more and more whenever I saw him naked, whereas in the past it was
just...there. From what I could see of it, it looked to be very thick and
long. Surprisingly, I saw that my dad was cut. His cock was a little
rubbery in look, like when you feel a little turned on. I guess he must be
missing Mom. After a while he was finished peeing. He held his cock at the
base where it jutted out of his jeans and he shook it. I could really see
it now, the whole length of it.

Unless there was still some inside his jeans (and his pubes were not poking
out of his fly, so maybe there was still some more), it was maybe eight
inches long and it wasn't even hard.  I know for a fact that Dad's dick is
eleven inches long when it's hard.  Dad shook his dick lazily, drops of
piss falling off it, and then, with a little difficulty, he put it back
inside his pants. When he was finished he looked at me, winked and smiled,
and left the bathroom.

That was the first time but it happened just about every time I took a
shower: either Dad or Uncle Pete would need to pee. I used to ask them if
they needed to go before I took a shower and they would always say 'no',
but halfway through washing myself one of them would be saying they were
bustin'. But like they say, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

Most of the time now they just stay and chat.

Uncle Pete is my mom's older brother. He and Dad have been friends since
high school days, even before Dad and Mom got together. They've always been
close and do everything together. Mom and Pete's wife Sue weren't too keen
about them buying the cabin 'cause they thought (rightly, as it turned out)
they would turn the place into a bachelor pad retreat. But with the two of
them buying the place and the knock down price they paid for it they could
hardly complain - it was a good investment. After all the hard work the
three of us put into the place it was easily worth double what Dad and Pete
paid for it. They even had a holiday-maker who was renting a place nearby
offer to buy it off them for a very favorable price. But they're not
interested in selling, they want to pass it on to their kids when they tire
of it. As Uncle Pete says, 'Scott, I hope you have as much fun here as your
dad and me have'.

Spending weekends at the cabin is something I love, even if it is, so far,
damn hard work in the heat. It's nice to be able to take your shirt off and
let the sun and the breeze coming off the lake at your body. The three of
us have got real nice tans, more of a tan than I was expecting to get
anyway.

That's because the second time we went up there, I discovered I had
forgotten to pack my shorts. It was kind of weird 'cause I was sure I
packed everything I needed: underwear, socks, short sweat pants. But when I
opened my back pack after arriving at the cabin all that was in there was a
big fluffy towel taking up most of the space and some tee shirts. I
couldn't figure out what happened to all the stuff I stowed in there. As
Dad said, maybe Mom rearranged my packing and forgot to put all my things
back in.

"You know what your mom's like," Dad said when I told him I didn't have any
clothes to wear that weekend.

To make matters worse, on the way up we stopped for some coffee to drink in
the car. Dad and Pete were sitting up front, while I was in the back. As
Uncle Pete handed me the drinks to take care of, Dad had to swerve to miss
a deer or something and Uncle Pete had an accident. He dropped the coffees
in my lap as he was passing them to me to look after soaking my favorite
blue jeans, the ones that get all the attention from the girls whenever I
wear them. Luckily the coffees had cooled down so I wasn't scalded or
anything.

"You best get out of those wet pants, Son," Dad said.

"Yeah, we don't want you catching pneumonia or something," Uncle Pete
agreed, after apologizing for his clumsiness.

"It couldn't be helped," I told him. I mean, he wasn't to know a deer would
jump out onto the road at the exact same moment he was handing me the
beverages, was he? It's a good thing Dad has excellent eyesight because I
was looking through the front windshield at the time and I didn't see
anything on the road to make him swerve.

"My pack's in the back," I told Dad, "Can you stop so I can get a change of
clothing?"

"Best not," Dad said. "It's getting late and I want to get to the cabin
before it gets too dark. You'll be OK in the car in just your underwear,
Scott."

I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them off while Uncle Pete continued to
apologize. He was turned in his seat watching me.

"You OK, Son?" Dad asked, shooting me looks in the rear view mirror.

"Damn! Looks like it's soaked right through to his underwear, Ray," Uncle
Pete said to my dad. It was true, I had a big brown coffee stain on the
front of my white briefs and, just like a wet stick, it was wet and sticky.

"Yeah?" Dad sounded concerned. "Best whip 'em off as well, Scott. If we go
back home with you sick your mom will like as not never let you come up
with us again. And I don't want any coffee stains on my new leather seats."

Even now Mom was a bit over protective of me, she was finding it difficult
to accept that although I was her `little boy', I was also a man - my body
should tell her that. But if she thought I had caught something while I was
with Dad and Uncle Pete she would kick up a stink and not trust them to
look after me on these trips.

Raising my ass off the seat I pulled down my underwear.

"Here, let me take care of those," Pete said, holding out his hand. I
passed him my shorts. "You best let me take that tee shirt as well. It's
stained too."

"That's OK," I said. It was hot in the car; the aircon wasn't working even
though the car was practically brand new. Dad took it in for a service a
couple of days ago just so we wouldn't have any problems during this trip
and the aircon was working fine then. He said the guys there must have done
something to it. He'd tear a strip off Joe's ass when he got back home. Joe
is one of Dad's buddies and his shop does all of the big jobs on Dad's and
Pete's trucks and stuff. He's an expert on air conditioning in vehicles
like this so it was weird he messed it up.

Joe won't take any money off Dad or Uncle Pete for the work he
does. Instead, once a month or so they take a few beers over to his
place. Dad says he's going to settle his account with Joe, but it's just an
excuse to have a little party. I tell him he should leave the partying to
us young guys 'cause when he gets back he's always exhausted and has to
take a shower and a nap, which pisses Mom off a little.

"Best do as Pete says, Scott," Dad confirms. So I take off my tee and hand
it to Pete. Now he's got all my clothes except for my hiking boots and
those white socks, and I'm sitting buck naked on the soft leather seat of
Dad's Jeep.

After a couple of miles we turn off the main road onto a narrow lane,
nothing more than a dirt road. The surface is all rocks and hollows and the
three of us are being thrown about in the Jeep despite being strapped
in. It's a good job Dad's used to this sort of terrain else we'd be in a
ditch in no time, like Burt and his truck.

"How you doin' back there, Scott?" Uncle Pete asks, turning in his
seat. Then he lets out a loud holler.

"Whoowee!" he says. "Now there's something you don't see every day!"

Uncle Pete's looking down at my crotch. With all the bouncing about on the
seat and the feel of the leather on my bare butt cheeks, I've thrown a rod
- my dick is straining and pointing up at my chin. I try to cover myself
with my hand but it's no use, my dick is in a rebellious mood. There's no
way I can keep it hidden with just my hand.

"Take a look at Scott, Ray," Uncle Pete urges Dad. Dad takes his foot off
the gas and the car quickly slows to a crawling pace. When it's safe Dad
turns in his seat and takes a look at my condition. He laughs. Not a
mocking laugh but a 'guys together' kind of laugh, a real belly shaker, and
I start to laugh along with them.

"Oh to be eighteen and to get hard without even trying," Dad laments.

"You don't have any trouble, big guy," Uncle Pete says puzzlingly. Like how
does he know if my dad has difficulty in getting it up? There's a few
seconds silence before Pete turns to me and asks:

"How big is that thing anyway?" I shrug my shoulders and Pete gives me a
withering look. "Nine...no, nine-and-a-half inches, right?"

"Something like that," I concede. He's spot on. I'm exactly nine-and-a-half
inches in length. The only reason I know is because Dr. Mortensen, our
family physician, took my statistics a few weeks ago and he asked if I
minded if he measured my dick too.  He seemed pretty impressed that a guy
my age should have a piece as big as I do.

With all this ribbing I'm getting I'm not having any luck in losing my
erection, and for the next ten miles until we reach our destination I'm sat
there with a steel hard on. All the while Dad and Pete keep checking on me,
big grins on their faces.

I'm pleased Dad's not angry with me. I mean a hard on's a sign of sexual
arousal, right? Getting hard when you're in male company is not a good
idea, I always thought. Coach Connor might not be fazed by the sight of
another man's piece when it's primed and ready for action, but some of the
other guys on the football team would take a pretty poor view if they
suspected one of their own was turned on by the sight of another naked
dude. Not that I am turned on by the sight of another naked dude, you
understand.

Coach Connor is a great guy. The last year of high school he gave me extra
coaching and a lot of encouragement. Says I've got a great talent with my
kicking skills.

"Most professional football players would sell their own grandmothers to
have a right foot like Scott has," he told my dad when he called by the
house one day last year. "It's something I think I can help him
develop. You interested?"

"I'm happy to let Scott have all the extra coaching you think is necessary,
Coach" Dad said. "I know you've done a lot of work in nurturing the
athletic skills of a good many young hopefuls, and whatever you think will
help Scott be a better football player is fine by me."

I can see that Coach Connor and my dad have a mutual admiration for each
other. It's all because they used to play football for their respective
colleges and both could have gone on to professional sports
careers. Although they were on opposing teams they struck up a friendship
off the field and remained good friends for a number of years until they
both got married. They're the same age, 44, and Dad often tells me about
all the wild things they got up to whenever they met up as young dogs. All
the same, Dad was pretty surprised when he learned three years ago that our
new coach was the same Bob Connor he had known from his college days.

I was expecting some of the other guys to be taking extra coaching too,
like my best friend Ronnie who is an awesome tight end.  But it turned out
to be just me and Coach. He says he'll be able to achieve what he's aiming
for a lot quicker with me with these one-on-one sessions.

Half the practice time Coach has me kicking footballs. Then after practice
he has me doing a lot of squats in the gym with some seriously heavy
weights before I hit the showers. It's punishing work, but as a consequence
of all the effort I'm putting in my legs are real bulky and I've got a
husky chest, too.

By the time I've finished the gym work the other guys have already cleared
out and it's just me and Coach in the locker room. He usually showers after
I've finished mine.

"Make sure you get yourself nice and clean," Coach told me, "One thing I
won't have is people saying my players are slack in their personal
hygiene."

That's something Coach is meticulous about. He says there's only one place
for sweat, and that's on the football field - anywhere else and it's
unhealthy. So I was only a little surprised when he called me into his
office after my first extra coaching session. I had already showered and
still had the towel wrapped around my waist. He asked me if I was clean and
I told him, "Yes, Coach."

"Good. Then lift up your arm and let me take a whiff of those pits, Son,"
he ordered me.

That was the first time I remember Coach ever addressing me as 'son', but
whenever we were alone together after that he always used the same term. Or
he would call me his 'boy'. Like when we were in the gym and he was
spotting for me while I did my squats, he would give me all the
encouragement I needed to squeeze just a couple more reps than the last
time.

"That's it, Son...that's my boy, now gimme one more dip and make your daddy
proud of you," he would urge. I wasn't sure who he was referring to when he
said 'your daddy', but he certainly knew how to motivate me to give
everything I had. My thighs were the size and density of mature oaks, my
chest deep and well muscled. I could feel my whole physical appearance
changing just from doing those simple but punishing exercises. I looked
better than ever in jeans and a tee shirt.

So I was in Coach Connor's office in nothing more than a towel and he's
asking me to raise my arms so he can smell my armpit. A little nervously I
lift my right hand and place it behind my head, exposing my arm pit to
him. Coach comes over to me and puts his face right in my pit, his nose
touching me, and he takes a couple of deep hits. He lets out a long,
satisfied breath and tells me to let him smell the other one, which I do.

This happens after every practice until one time when Coach walks past me
in the locker room on the way to shower. I'm already toweling myself - I'm
drying my butt and my equipment is flying in all directions with the
vigorousness of my actions. Coach stops dead a few feet in front of me and
looks at me hard. Except he's not looking at my face, he's looking at my
crotch. Coach usually showers after I leave but we were running a little
late that day.

"I'll see you in my office in a couple of minutes, Son," he reminds me. He
has a look of concentration on his face, his brow furrowed.

"Sure, Coach," I say. By now I'm used to the hygiene inspections Coach
demands and don't think any more of them than being a normal part of the
coaching session.

Wrapping the towel around my waist I head to Coach Connor's office and wait
for him to finish his shower. There's a trophy cabinet in there crammed
full of silverware and sporting memorabilia - cups, shields, signed
footballs, the works. The awards are all stuff he's won over the years,
while the souvenirs are mementoes given to him by professional jocks he
knows. I just love looking at all that stuff, and reminding myself that
Coach was himself a great athlete. After one football practice last year,
as a joke, I handed Coach one of the footballs to which I had signed my
name in thick black marker. I wasn't too sure if he would be pleased that I
had defaced school property, but I was surprised to see it now in the
centre of the trophy cabinet taking pride of place.

When Coach returns a few minutes later in a towel I automatically assume
the position: hand behind head, armpit exposed. Coach grins at my
anticipation. He's a really good looking guy when he smiles. I mean, he's a
good looking guy even when he doesn't smile. I can't understand why his
wife would leave him for some other man - it can't be because he's out of
shape or lazy or anything like that. Coach Connor is in the peak of
physical condition and Dad says he looks the same as he did when they were
in college.

If I was a girl, or if I was a gay guy, I think I would go for an older guy
like Coach Connor or my dad, or Uncle Pete. There's something about a man
with some lines on his face or a little gray in his hair. As long as you
look after yourself there are no real disadvantages to being in your
forties so far as I'm concerned.

After Coach has made sure I'm odor free, I ask him if I can go now.

"One more thing before you go, Son," he says hesitantly. I wait for him to
continue, but there's a long silence until he finally does:

"I noticed earlier, when you were in the locker room that you aren't
circumcised," he manages to spit out.

"Er, yeah Coach," I confirm. Coach nods his head thoughtfully.

"You keep yourself clean there, too, right?" he asks, "Only it's important
for a guy to pay special attention to his private parts. You can get all
sorts of smells and diseases if you don't keep your cocksock clean."

"Yes, Coach. I make sure I soap under my foreskin," I assure him.

"Well, best let me check anyhow, just to make sure," he insists, gesturing
with a flick of his hand for me to remove my towel.

"Are you sure that's necessary, Coach?" I ask him. Coach ignores my
question and tells me to remove my towel. I'm not used to disobeying Coach
Connor - Dad's always taught me to have the utmost respect for all my
teachers, after all they have more knowledge and experience than I do. So I
take the towel from around my waist and stand there naked in front of him.

"You know, when I was your age you really didn't see too many young guys
with their foreskin intact." Coach was doing a visual inspection of my
equipment, not touching it. "Thankfully it's becoming more common these
days. Doctor's didn't think twice about clipping cocks when I was born, but
there's no valid reason why guys should be deprived of their cuffs.

"It's genital mutilation," he continued, "If something similar was done to
girls can you imagine the outcry?" Coach had a point - I loved my foreskin,
the tightness of it as it slipped over my cockhead when I jerked off. But
that was something I couldn't tell Coach.

I doubt he needs to jerk off anymore - I bet he has women throwing
themselves at him now he's single again. He could have any woman he wanted
with his good looks and awesome body.

Coach dropped to his knees in front of me so he was at eye level with my
cock and balls. Looking up at me he said: "I'm gonna pull back your
foreskin and make sure you're good and clean, OK?"

I swallowed hard and nodded my consent. This would be the first time anyone
other than myself had touched my cock and I wasn't sure I had the dignity
or self control not to get a boner. I get hard with the minimum stimulation
and often can't figure out what has caused me to throw a rod. And now, here
was Coach Connor, a man who I respected and admired...I didn't want him to
lose any respect he might have for me by showing I was turned on by him
mauling my dick. With my hands clenched behind my back I looked up at the
ceiling and started reciting the names of the presidents starting with
Washington, Adams, Jefferson...

By the time I got to Madison, Coach had my foreskin pulled right the way
back off my cockhead and I started to lose concentration.

When I felt some unusual contact with my cock I looked down and saw that
one of Coach's nostrils was plugged with the tip of my cock. My piss slit
was actually in his nose and he was breathing me in noisily. I could feel
the sap beginning to rise: my balls were tingling and blood was racing into
my cock. Coach's hand was holding my dick so he was well aware of the
changes that were taking place. But he didn't bat an eyelid - not even when
I was fully hard and twitching in his hand.

Coach was moaning things now, like 'yeah' and 'that's good', so I thought
he must be happy that I was clean to his satisfaction. He ran his nose
along the length of my dick, the way Dad does when he's got a really good
cigar he's about to smoke. That's what I thought when I saw Coach sniffing
along my dick, "It looks just like one of Dad's big cigars".

"Unh-huh," I heard Coach utter. He'd found something not quite
right. Coach's thumb had pulled my foreskin right back. You could see the
sensitive raw flesh behind the head of my cock and there, tucked in the
fold of skin, was a white deposit.

"Cock cheese!" Coach roared.

"No! It can't be!" I disputed with him, "I made sure I cleaned there when I
showered this morning, and just now too, Coach."

Coach ran his finger tip around the underside of my cockhead scooping up a
quantity of thick white accumulation. When he put the whole of his finger
in his mouth I was shocked.

"Well, it looks like cock cheese, and it smells like cock cheese,
and...whadaya know, it even tastes like cock cheese," he accused. Standing
before me, arms folded across his massive chest Coach Connor waited for an
explanation.

"I, I was sure I took care of it, Coach," I offered as my only excuse.

"Get back under that shower, Mister," he ordered. With his hand wrapped
around my bicep, he escorted me through the locker room. Letting go of my
arm Coach turned the showers back on and then positioned me under the
powerful jets of steaming water.

"It seems that I can't trust you to do a simple thing like keeping yourself
clean," Coach admonished me. He then pulled the towel from around his waist
and got under the shower head with me. Soaping up his hands he proceeded to
lather my body with the rich suds.

"This is how you do it. This is how a man keeps his cock sweet," he
instructed, and demonstrated by applying a handful of soapy foam to my dick
and balls, thoroughly scrubbing every inch of flesh with a brisk motion of
his hands. I couldn't help myself - my dick was harder than I had ever
known it.

I don't think Coach noticed that I shot a huge load of ball juice on the
walls of the shower while he had his hand wrapped round the head of my dick
rubbing it furiously to get all the cock cheese washed off.  There was so
much soapy suds flying about as he cleaned my dick with his stroking action
you couldn't really tell what was cum and what was suds.  It was quickly
washed down the drain by the shower water.  But I collapsed against Coach
'cause my legs had filled with lactic acid and I couldn't support myself on
my own.

Thankfully, after a few more seconds Coach was satisfied that I met his
high standards and focused his attention to other parts of my body. When he
was soaping my back he didn't spin me around but instead pulled me up
against his body and put his arms around me. He made sure my butt was clean
and fresh too, his fingers searching out my ass crack. I was pretty sure
Coach was hard too 'cause I could feel something big and hot pressing up
against my belly alongside my own perpendicular peter.

Since then Coach has insisted that we shower together, that he takes care
of my personal hygiene: he won't have me letting him down if people think
his football players don't look after themselves. And I'm really not
bothered about getting a hard on in front of Coach anymore, not when he's
sporting a ten-inch piece like he has.

* * * *

We arrived at the cabin just after 8 p.m. We made good time - there was
still plenty of daylight so we could have stopped to let me get some
clothes out of my back pack. Instead, I was still naked. I jumped out of
the Jeep and let the cool night air dry the sweat from my body. My erection
hadn't lessened one bit and I was bouncing and bobbing around without a
thought of what Dad and Pete might think. Man, it felt good being naked
outdoors - kind of liberating - and it was so beautiful up here I felt even
more at one with the nature that surrounded the place.

"Enjoy, it while you can, Scott," Dad said smiling as he got the bags out
the Jeep. He took them inside, and that's when we discovered the slip up
with my packing. The only thing I had to wear the whole weekend was a
towel! Dad and Uncle Pete said they would lend me some of their stuff but
when they opened their bags they found their packing had been replaced with
towels too! All they had were the clothes they stood up in. All three of us
were puzzled about what was going on, but what could we do?

"Don't worry, Son, we'll get your stuff rinsed out and hang them up to
dry. They should be ready for the morning. In the meantime, it looks like
the only thing I can offer you is this." He reached into his bag and held
up a dingy looking jockstrap.

"It's my lucky one," he said, surprised, "How in hell did that get in
there? It's the jockstrap I wore for all my college football games, over
twenty years ago. I was wondering where it got to, I thought I'd lost it
since I last saw it. Here, Scott, put it on and see if it still fits you."

I knew all about Dad's lucky jockstrap on account I borrowed it earlier in
the year for a crucial school football game we had.  Both Dad and Coach
Connor told me about the importance some sportsmen put on individual
objects or routines, thinking they would help to maintain a winning streak
during a game or even long tournaments and entire seasons.

Some guys, like tennis players in an important tournament, would go without
shaving during that period and grow a beard, only shaving it off after they
had won or were knocked out of the tournament; others would wear the same
pair of socks the whole season (I don't know if Dad meant they never washed
them), while others had a routine they would religiously follow. All these
things supposedly brought them good luck when they played regardless of the
fact they were good players anyway.

In Dad's case he had placed some importance on his jockstrap which was old
and ragged even in his college football playing days.  Dad only wore it for
important games and, coincidentally or not, whenever he wore it it brought
him and his college the victories and success they were after.  And Dad
became famous for a time throughout the college and locally 'cause he was
the college's top scorer -- a record that stood until a few years ago.

It was Coach Connor who suggested I borrow Dad's lucky jockstrap for the
final game of the season.  Now, Coach is a very down to earth and grounded
guy and I never knew he believed all that superstition stuff.  But after
final practice the day before the game he called me into his office.

"Close the door, Son," he told me.  He was sat on the edge of his desk in
just a pair of tight red shorts which showed of the bulkiness of his
thighs.  His bare chest was covered in sweat from the final coaching
session he had just put the whole team through.  I thought we were going to
have another private hygiene inspection so I just had a towel on.  After I
shut the door behind me I dropped the towel, pulled back my foreskin and
showed Coach my armpits.

He started to chuckle, but caught himself and told me, "Put the towel back
on, Son."

I felt like a damn fool when, instead, Coach gave me a pep talk about how
he had the utmost belief in me, and how important it was I didn't let him
down in the game tomorrow.  He seemed to imply it was me who could win the
game for the school if I just kept focused on the ultimate goal, which was
to win, and what was at stake if we lost, which was humiliation for the
entire school.

"Tell me, Son," he finished, "When your dad was playing college football he
had a jockstrap he swore blind made him play a better game.  You know if he
still has it?"

"Yeah, Coach, I think he does," I answered.  When I was a little kid Dad
would tell me stories about his football playing days and about the `magic
properties' of his lucky jockstrap.  I thought they were just that --
stories, like some kid in a book I once read who had a cloak that could
make him invisible.  But then one day a couple of years ago he brought out
this moth-eaten old rag with straps attached to it.  Told me it was
special, was his legendary lucky jockstrap.

"I think it might help if you asked your dad if you could borrow it for
tomorrow's game," Coach said seriously.  "It worked for him and I think it
might just work for you too, Scott."

I told Coach I wasn't sure about his suggestion; I thought I could play
just as well in my own jockstrap, thank you.  But Coach insisted I ask Dad
if I could borrow it.  I could see I wasn't going to win with Coach and it
was against all Dad taught me to argue with any of my teachers, and
especially Coach Connor, so I agreed I would ask Dad if I could borrow his
athletic support.

That night, after we finished dinner I walked into the kitchen where Mom
and Dad were washing and drying the dishes from our meal.  I didn't know
how I was going to ask Dad such a question but I would do it if only to
keep Coach off my back before tomorrow's game.

"Dad, can I talk to you?" I asked.

"Sure, Scott, shoot."

"In private?"  I gave Mom an apologetic look as she turned from the sink to
look at me.  Dad put down the towel he was using to dry the dinner plates
and I led him into the living room.

"I need to ask a favor," I confided in him.  I was almost whispering into
his ear -- I didn't want Mom to hear what I was saying, she might not
understand.  Come to think of it Dad might not understand either but I
already started and I couldn't turn back now.

"You think I could borrow your lucky jockstrap?" I asked him.  I could feel
my face reddening as the words spilled out of my mouth.  Dad looked at me,
a wry smile on his face.

"My college jockstrap, the one I wore in my football games, you mean?" he
asked.

"Yeah, that one," I confirmed.

"Ordinarily I'd be happy to let you borrow it, Scott, but you see, there's
a slight problem," he answered before continuing, "I went to my boss today
to ask for a raise and, well, I put it on for good luck this morning before
I went to work.  I'm still wearing it, Son."

I felt relieved but at the same time dejected.  Coach had placed some
importance on me being able to wear Dad's lucky jockstrap, thinking it
would help bring about the result he badly desired, as it had for Dad so
many times in his college football career.  Dad must have seen my
disappointment because he said, "Look maybe we can work something out.
Come with me."

We climbed the stairs and I followed him into my bedroom where he shut the
door behind us.

"If you don't mind wearing my used jock you're welcome to have it.  I can
see it means a lot to you," he offered.

I was saying to Dad, "No, that's OK, Dad, I appreciate the offer though,"
when I saw he already had his pants undone and was pushing them down off
his hips.  He stepped out of them and stood there in his tight fitting tee
shirt and jockstrap, a pair of woolen socks on his feet.

He looked down at the pouch and said, "It's a little ripe but it'll do if
you feel you really need it."

This was totally unreal.  Here I was considering whether to take my old
man's athletic support -- the one he was still wearing -- all because of
Coach's superstition.  I decided I would set Dad a question.

"Did you get it?" I asked him.

"Did I get what, Scott?" he countered.

"The raise.  Did you get the raise?"

"Oh yeah, I got that alright," Dad chuckled.  That decided it for me; if it
had already been lucky once today for Dad then it was sure to do the same
for me tomorrow.  I smiled broadly and Dad took this as my consent that I
would accept his offer to wear his jockstrap.  He pushed it slowly down
wriggling his hips slightly as he did so almost like he was putting on a
show for me.  When the jockstrap was in his hand he held it to his nose and
took a good long whiff of it.

"Yeah, it's a little ripe, Scott, but I think we can get away with it.
Here," he said holding out the anointed item.

I was not looking at the jockstrap, but at what it had covered just a few
seconds ago.  Dad's cock hung down in a long straight line from his butch
crotch, past a pair of smooth-skinned low hangers, to just above his knees.
His hand went to it and he stroked it lazily down its entire length.  It
gave a kick when his hand left it.

"You know, you're not the only one who's blessed with a big dick in this
family," Dad laughed as he tossed his jockstrap to me.  That knocked me out
of my trance and he urged me, "Go on, put it on, Son."

I pulled myself together enough to slip off my jeans.  When I took off my
shorts I turned with my back to Dad, a little stupidly I realized, after he
stripped right in front of me, and pulled the still warm jockstrap on.

Turning back to face Dad again he said, "It looks good on you Scott.  So
how come you feel you need it anyway?"

I was trying to get myself comfortable in the pouch of the jock and was
having some difficulty.  It was strange to put on my dad's jockstrap still
warm from his own body but it also felt kind of chivalrous, you know.  Man,
I never thought I would use that word but it's appropriate in this case.
It was a typically selfless thing to do on Dad's part, to let me have his
jockstrap even though he was using it.

Without waiting for an answer to his question Dad stepped up to me and
pulled the waistband of the jock away from my body.  He put his hand in the
pouch and cupped my cock and balls and jiggled them about a bit with his
fingers.

"Let me help you out there, Son," he offered, and took a minute or two to
get me sorted.  I felt myself getting the beginnings of an erection.  Dad
looked at me and winked.

"Don't you worry about that now, I have the exact same trouble.  There's
nothing to be ashamed about getting hard when someone's feeling your dick,"
he chuckled softly and added, "Even when it's your daddy."

Only someone who's 100% straight and safe in his heterosexuality like my
dad or Coach Connor could be that confident and untroubled about handling
another guy's equipment in such an intimate way, I thought.  At the time I
didn't understand what effect, apart from the obvious, his manhandling was
having on me.

Dad withdrew his hand from the jockstrap letting the elastic waist snap
back against my belly.

"You fill that pouch about as good as I do, Scott. Now, turn around, Son,
and let me get those straps comfortable on your butt."

I did as he asked and Dad started to have a little fun.  He took the straps
and put them in my ass crack.

"That feel good for you, or how about this?" and with his fingers between
my butt cheeks he pulled the straps out and placed them so they were riding
the curve of my ass.  We both chuckled at this stupid play, and then Dad
gave me a slap on the ass to signal that he was finished.

"Well Scott, it appears that I am without anything to wear.  You think your
mom would be pleased if I went down there and finished off drying the
dishes like this?"

"I think she'd throw you out the house, Dad," I laughed.  He picked up my
discarded underwear from the floor.

"Say, you don't mind if we trade do you Son?  Yeah, they're not too bad at
all," he said sniffing at the material.

"Er, no, go right ahead, Dad," I agreed.

"I'll let you have them back first thing tomorrow, Scott."  And with that
he stepped into my shorts pulling them up over his hips.  They were tighter
on him than they were on me, but I had to admit he looked pretty hot in
them.  Everything was straining against the thin cotton material: his ass
cheeks strained the back, while his incredible family jewels rode high and
mighty up front.  The whole package was then covered by his jeans as he
zipped up.

"Knock yourself out tonight, Scott," Dad wished me and left my room.

Uncle Pete was always saying that Dad was too generous with his time and
his possessions.  "You'd give a man the shirt off your back, Ray," he would
say, "Even if it means you have to go without one yourself."

It was true, too.  Dad helped out a lot of people, even complete strangers.
Like that time a few months ago when we were driving home after seeing a
football game together.  We had a really good time, but it was late and we
were anxious to get home.  We spotted this rig with a full trailer in a
ditch on a deserted stretch of the road and Dad pulled over to see if we
could lend a hand.

This big trucker guy thanked my dad for stopping and shook his hand.  He
said that he had to stay with his rig until the police arrived with some
tow trucks to winch him out.

"Well, if you want we'd be happy to keep you company until the cops get
here," Dad said.  "You look like you can handle yourself, big guy, but I
don't like the idea of leaving a body out here all by himself."

"That's kind of you, stranger," the trucker acknowledged and introduced
himself to us as Burt.  Dad did the honors:

"I'm Ray and this is my son Scott," he said while I shook Burt's rough
hand.

"You got yourself a good looking boy there, Ray.  I can see he takes after
his daddy," Burt gushed amiably.

"Yeah, I'm very proud of him," Dad replied, drawing me to him and giving me
a buddy hug.

Burt was typical of how you might imagine a trucker to look: he was a
massive man.  Only a little taller than my dad but easily forty pounds
heavier, he had a full beard and what looked to be an equally hairy body
beneath his plaid shirt.  His voice was loud and even when saying the
simplest thing it sounded as though he was roaring.  The three of us talked
easily, Burt asking me how I enjoyed the football game.  But it was getting
colder with every minute, the temperature just dropping like a stone. After
ten minutes I excused myself and asked Dad if it was OK if I go sit in the
car.

I was listening to some music on the radio when Dad tapped on the window.
I wound it down and he said, "Burt's going to show me inside his rig.  Will
you be OK here for a couple of minutes?"

"No problem, Dad," I replied eager to get back to the radio.  They were
playing some pretty good tunes that night.

"OK," he said, "We won't be more than a couple of minutes but if you see
the police coming you best give me a toot on the horn, alright?"  Dad
looked pretty pleased -- I didn't know he was that interested in rigs and
stuff like that.

Dad went round to the other side of the truck and a short while later I saw
the cab light come on in the rig.  I was having a great old time singing
along to the radio station.  It was fifteen minutes before I realized that
Dad was not back.  I wonder what they're doing in there, I said to myself.
There can't be that much to see in one small cab.  Maybe they were keeping
out of the cold as well.

I decided to see if Burt would show me inside too. Climbing the three steps
to his cab I tried the door. It was locked so I banged loudly on the door
and shouted in a gruff voice, "This is the police, open up!"

Burt appeared from the sleeping area behind the seats about two seconds
later; he had his shirt off and looked a lot flustered.

"Hey, Scott," he said anxiously after winding down the window and sticking
his head out to look around, "Where are the cops?"

"Sorry," I told him, "I just got bored listening to the radio."

He looked like he was ready to hit someone and then reverted to his normal
self.

"You want to come in and see inside?  I've been showing your daddy how good
the heater is in these rigs."  He looked behind him into the sleeping area
before he released the lock and opened the door for me.

When I was inside I saw that Burt had also removed his pants and was
dressed only in a pair of boxers.  The back of them, where they came into
contact with his ass crack had a big wet spot like he was sweating or
something. It was like a sauna in the cab so when I climbed through to the
back I was only a little surprised to see that Dad had also lost his shirt
and was sitting bare-chested on Burt's bed buttoning up his jeans.

"What do you think Scott, it's pretty swish in here isn't it?" Dad asked,
pulling on his socks.

I looked around me.  With three people in the cab it was cramped but I
could see that Burt kept it neat and tidy.  I think Burt must have been
jerking off in there before we arrived though 'cause it smelled thick and
musty in the heat like my bedroom after I have a session. I wondered if Dad
noticed it too.

Finally, my gaze came back to Burt and I looked at his bulky body.  He was
some way past his prime although it was still obvious to see he had looked
after himself until quite recently. His arms and shoulders were massive
bowling ball-shaped mounds of muscle with some black ink art etched into
his skin; what Dad later told me were Celtic designs.

When I looked at his chest I saw he had a large ring through each of his
nipples.  Burt was the first guy I saw with body piercings and something
about seeing jewelry in such an unusual place excited me, although I was
not sure why.

"You like my nipple rings?" Burt asked seeing me staring at them.  "Go
ahead, touch 'em," he offered.

I looked at Dad sure he would not approve of me touching some guy's tits.
But he leaned forward and turned the ring that went through Burt's left
nipple.  Burt purred happily.

"So, did they hurt?" Dad asked.

"Naw," Burt answered, dismissing the notion with a wave of his big paw.

"What about the other one?" Dad continued.

Burt reached inside his boxers and hauled out his dick, tucking the
waistband of his shorts behind his balls.  It was long and rubbery, like he
was excited too, but what was really special about it was that he had a
gold ring going into his piss hole.

I looked at it hard, at first not understanding what I was seeing.  Burt
turned his cock upward and I saw the ring come out of the underside of the
flesh of his cut cock.  After a minute of Dad and I looking at Burt's
pierced dick he unhooked his boxers from behind his nutsack and tucked
himself away.

I had a sweat on my top lip and I wiped it with the back of my hand.

"Let me turn the heat down," Burt offered.  He brushed past me as he went
into the front of the cab, his hand making contact with my crotch as he
squeezed it, and I heard the heater die.  Dad was now putting his shirt
back on and Burt started to get dressed too.

"So, you think you'd like to have a Prince Albert some day, Scott?" Burt
asked me, his eyes sparkling.  I didn't have a clue what he was talking
about.

"He means would you like to have a ring through your dick?" Dad explained
with a laugh.

"I don't think so," I replied.

"Sure you would," Burt corrected me, "Get you all the pussy you want."

When Dad and Burt were both dressed again we went to wait for the cops at
the roadside and continued to make small talk until we saw the police car's
lights flashing far off down the road.

"Well, I appreciate you folks waiting with me here," Burt said, "It's made
the time pass a whole lot quicker than if I'd been on my own."

"Hey, you've got my number - any time you're passing be sure to give me a
call, OK?  I owe you one."  I don't know why Dad told him that, surely Burt
owed my dad for waiting here with him.  Burt gave his promise and he and
Dad hugged casually, Burt patting Dad's butt.

Dad and I talked as we drove home and I noticed that his teeth were
whistling. I hadn't heard it before we stopped to wait with Burt. I pointed
it out to him and he examined his teeth, running his tongue over them.

"Damn! I chipped a tooth, Scott," he told me, "How in hell did that
happen?"

Dad's got real good teeth, strong and white, and he doesn't usually have
any problems with them. It cost him quite a bit to get it fixed.  We waited
there that night with Burt for over an hour for the police to arrive
despite Dad wanting to be home early as he had to be up and out by first
light.  That was the kind of man he was.  Now Dad had given the jock off
his butt for me without even a second thought.

If anybody's interested, I wore the jockstrap for the football game the
next day after borrowing it from Dad and we won, just, by a single point
scored by yours truly. So maybe there is something to sporting
superstitions after all.

* * * *

Well, I seem to have wandered off the trail but I think it illustrates the
type of man my dad is.

So where was I?  Oh yeah, at the cabin without any clothes for the weekend,
and just the offer of Dad's lucky jockstrap to keep my modesty covered.  As
old and discolored as the jockstrap was it was the only thing I had to wear
'til tomorrow morning, so I slipped it on. It was a perfect fit and Dad and
Uncle Pete both said how good I looked in it after they spent about ten
minutes arranging the straps across my butt cheeks. So that was me: in
Dad's jock, my socks and hiking boots for the evening.

I then set about washing my soiled clothes. The coffee stains had dried and
I had a heck of a job trying to get them out with just a bar of ordinary
bath soap, but after about a half hour I couldn't get them any cleaner so I
hung them on the line to dry.

When I got up the next morning the first thing I did was to check on my
laundry. Dad and Uncle Pete were already up and they let me sleep an extra
hour. I slipped on Dad's jock and headed outside. Jeans, tee shirt and
shorts were as wet as when I first hung them out. I couldn't understand it
- water was still dripping from them.

"Must have had a damp night," Uncle Pete remarked when I told Dad about
it. "Don't worry, Scott, another hour or two in the sun and they'll be
dry."

I don't know why he winked at Dad when he said that.

Dad had me mostly working inside that weekend with him while Uncle Pete
took over my outdoor chores and worked on clearing the forest back. I
checked on my clothes every hour after that but they weren't getting any
drier, despite the hot sun; they were still dripping water on the ground
every time I checked.

"I don't understand it," Dad said scratching his head, "maybe the mountain
air isn't so good for drying clothes. Still, you're OK wearing my lucky
jock, aren't you Scott?"

I told him I was fine - it just was a little strange being naked around the
two of them.

"Well, if it makes you any more comfortable," Dad joked, "I can strip off
too, OK?" With that he peeled off his tee shirt and wriggled out of the
tight cut-offs he was wearing, until he was a hairier and older reflection
of me - wearing another jockstrap, only this one was black.

"Yeah! That feels good," Dad said. "Don't know why I didn't think of this
earlier." With that Dad went over to the door of the cabin, stepped outside
and called Uncle Pete over.

"Pete, come here a minute," Dad beckoned. I could see Pete had a big grin
on his face when he saw my Dad like that. "Scott's feeling a little
self-conscious about being naked around us two and I decided he'd feel
better if we joined him - show him he hasn't got anything to feel
embarrassed about. You going to join us or be the odd one out this
weekend?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm up for that!" Pete whooped, and started taking off his
sweat-soaked shirt and cargo pants. It seemed that Dad and Pete both
preferred to wear jockstraps over the more traditional forms of underwear
this weekend. The pouch of Dad's jock was massive and I wondered if he had
anything other than his three-piece-suit packed in there. Uncle Pete filled
his jock similar to me, so I guess he's about my size.

They're both in great shape for a couple of fortysomethings. There's not an
ounce of fat between them and it just goes to prove my point that if you
look after yourself you can still look hot at any age. We continued to work
the rest of the day in our jocks. Uncle Pete said he would carry on working
outside. At night it was still nice and warm but my clothes weren't getting
any drier. If these guys weren't family I'd think one of them was dropping
my clothes in the water trough out back as a joke; it's the kind of stunt
the guys on the football team would pull.

We had a lot of good times that weekend and I kind of regretted having to
get back into my clothes (which finally dried by Sunday afternoon in time
for the trip home.)

Uncle Pete was always patting my butt or giving it a squeeze as he passed
by me and telling me what a nice ass I had. I know he's only joking 'cause
Uncle Pete's a red-blooded tit man - his wife has a really great cleavage
which he's always talking about to the point of boredom. So I don't mind it
too much when he's touching my ass, or Dad for that matter. I know they
don't mean anything by it.

Which reminds me, I haven't mentioned much about what the cabin looks like:
It's a two-bedroom, one-bathroom, kitchen and living area set-up with a
shed out back for storing logs. Dad says it'll be real nice if we come up
over Thanksgiving or Christmas and have a wood fire roaring in the
fireplace. As yet we haven't lit a fire on account of the weather being so
hot. Of course, we'll have to make sure the chimney's clear of old nests or
other wildlife before we do.

It sounds a little grand to call the room we sleep in the 'master bedroom'
as there's only two, and the second one is barely big enough to hold a
double bed and a dresser. But the 'master bedroom' has a big old king-size
brass bed that can easily sleep the three of us.

At first it was strange to be in the same bed as Dad and Uncle Pete 'cause
at home it's just me in my single width bed and that's how I've slept since
I was born. Plus, at home I don't wear anything in bed. Dad says that's
fine, he doesn't wear shorts or anything either; he doesn't see any reason
we should stand on ceremony when it's just us three men. So all three of us
sleep naked in that big comfortable bed and have the best nights' sleep.

When we came up here for the first time Pete offered to sleep on the couch
while Dad and I had the bedroom. Dad wouldn't hear it though, "No, Pete,"
he insisted, "You paid half for this place and it doesn't seem right you
sleeping on the couch. Besides there's plenty room in that big bed for
three old grizzlies let alone three men."

Uncle Pete saw Dad's point and ever since we've all slept together in that
bed just like 'one big happy family,' as Dad says. I sleep in the middle
while the two of them sleep nearer the edges, but it usually happens that I
wake in the night to find I'm tangled up in the two of them; their arms and
legs thrown over me.

It took a little getting used to but it doesn't bother me any 'cause I know
that's how they must sleep at home with their wives. After twenty years of
marriage habits like that must be hard to break.

There've been a couple of occasions when I've had to shake either of them
awake though. The first time was when I woke to find Dad spooning me. I
could tell he was dreaming about Mom because he was whispering in my ear
all this romantic stuff in a real seductive way. Even worse, I could feel
his hard on, hot as a poker, against my ass cheeks and his horny hand
stroking my leg.

Had to stop myself from laughing out loud, it was so funny. I never heard
Dad talking like that before, how he talks to Mom when he wants sex. I let
it go on for a couple of minutes hoping Dad might be able to teach me
something about how a woman likes to be talked to. Then I dug him in the
ribs with my elbow, had to do it a couple of times actually, and he turned
over and started snoring.

Another time was when Uncle Pete had a dream he was at home with my Aunt
Sue. I told you before he's a tit man. Well, I woke to find him flicking
one of my nipples with his tongue and then covering it with his mouth and
sucking on it. My other nipple was being rolled between his fingers like he
was trying to tune an old radio set.

I'm lying on my back with Dad snoring away on my right and Uncle Pete
playing with my nipples which, along with my dick are hard as nails. I
figure I should shake him awake but, for some reason, I don't feel inclined
to. See, another thing I inherited from Dad is my nipples. They're big pink
things with pencil-mounted-eraser like nubs which are real
sensitive. Whenever I wear a Tee shirt you can always see my nipples
showing through like little bullets.

Dad's are even bigger but I noticed his are brown in color 'cause he has
slighter darker skin than me. If you look at the little toe on your foot
it'll give you a good idea just how big his nipples are.

All this attention Uncle Pete's showing me is giving me a nice warm feeling
but I figure it wouldn't be right to let him carry on. So I whisper, "Pete!
Pete!" and shake him gently out of his dream.

He looks up at me his eyes heavy with sleep, his mouth still round my
nipple. When he realizes what he's been doing he utters a quiet "Shit!"
Then he rolls away from me and quickly falls back to sleep, which is more
than I can do.

In the morning Pete takes me aside, his face red with embarrassment and
apologizes to me. I tell him it's OK, forget it, that I understand he was
having a nice dream about his wife of twenty years and thought the person
lying next to him was her. It's an easy mistake to make. We end up laughing
about it.

* * * *

"You OK for coming up here next weekend?" Dad asked me in the car on the
drive back home. I didn't have any hesitation in telling him 'yes'. I liked
the camaraderie the three of us had. We were making great progress in
getting the cabin into some sort of shape.

"But don't paint too good a picture for your mom about how much work we got
done this weekend, else she'll want to come up here and tell us how she
wants it done," Dad warned. Of course, there were times when Mom and Aunt
Sue came up to the cabin, but I never had as good a time as when it was
just us three alone.

One of those times was a few weeks later when I came across Sheriff Hunter
and Deputy Hanson. It was another hot weekend and we were all working our
butts off: every time we thought we were nearing the end of the project we
discovered another half dozen things that needed to be done.

"If you want to go and swim in the lake, Scott, go right ahead," Dad
said. "I think your uncle Pete and me are about ready to take a break for a
while ourselves, right Pete?"

"Oh, yeah, I could do with a rest for an hour or so," Uncle Pete confirmed.

Dad told me to have a good swim and not to go too far off shore. He and
Pete would stay at the cabin and grab some sleep and we could continue with
the work when I returned. The lake was just a little way from the cabin and
you had to cut through some trees to get there. I only took my towel with
me, no swim suit. As our cabin was quite isolated I intended to take
advantage of the fact and do my first bit of skinny dipping. A jetty about
twenty feet long reached out into the lake. Dad intended to buy a boat when
he had the money and keep her tied up here. In the meantime I could use the
jetty as a diving platform.

The water was cold but refreshing after the heat of the cabin and I amused
myself by fooling around. Instead of swimming out into the lake I decided
to swim further along the shoreline and see if there were any other cabins
nearby. We were working so hard on the cabin we hadn't had time to do any
exploring so now seemed a good time to take advantage of the opportunity
presented to me. Every couple of minutes I would stop and take my bearings,
look around me and see if there was anything interesting. The forest came
right down to the shore in most places, but after ten minutes I spotted a
small shingle beach where I could rest up. I headed for it and climbed out
of the water. Trees surrounded the small beach but they didn't look to be
so thickly planted as in other places.

I was mindful of the fact that I was buck naked, so I was cautious about
how I proceeded. There seemed to be a regular trail from the beach through
the forest. A few yards in I saw there was a small clearing big enough to
hold maybe ten vehicles, with a dirt road leading from it. Parked in the
clearing was a police cruiser with the driver's window wound down. Inside
was an older guy who looked to be in his late forties, and sitting next to
him in the passenger seat was a younger man of maybe mid-twenties. They
were both in uniform and were talking to each other; just idle chat it
seemed, taking a break from their patrol duties.

The older guy got out of the cruiser and started walking in my direction,
but aiming for a spot just at the edge of the clearing a few yards to the
right of me. I moved back a ways to make sure I wasn't seen: getting caught
naked in the woods by a cop was not a good idea.

The cop stopped at the edge of the clearing and unzipped his pants, hauled
out his dick and started to take a piss. He groaned loudly with
gratification as his bladder emptied, the strong yellow liquid making a
puddle before soaking into the dirt. I was so intent on looking at the
older guy peeing I didn't see his young colleague approaching him until he
was standing at his side.

"Mind if I join you, Frank?" the young deputy asked his superior.

"Not at all, Jim," the sheriff replied.

They were standing so close to me I could see the name plates pinned to
their shirts. The young guy was Deputy Hanson while the older man was
Sheriff Hunter. The young deputy went to unzip his fly but he had a large
dressing on his hand, his fingers bound, and he looked to be having some
difficulty in accomplishing his task.

"You OK there, Jim?" Sheriff Hunter asked, seeing his deputy struggling.

"This damn hand's still giving me trouble, Frank. You know, I hate to do
this but would you mind giving me some help?"

"Sure, Jim," the sheriff replied good-naturedly, "Just let me finish up
here and I'll be right with you."

When the sheriff finished after what seemed like five minutes of foaming,
hissing pissing he shook out his large dick and tucked it back inside his
uniform pants. Sheriff Hunter asked Deputy Hanson what he could do to help.

"Well, I can't get inside my pants, Frank - my hand's still not right. You
can loosen my belt for me so I can lower my pants and I'll do the rest."

"And risk you splashing your pants with them round your ankles?" Sheriff
Hunter asked, "No - I got a better idea." With that the sheriff stood
behind the deputy, reached around him and unzipped his pants. The sheriff
had his chin on Deputy Hanson's shoulder so he could see what he was
doing. Once the fly of Deputy Hanson's pants was lowered he reached his
meaty paw inside his partner's pants and fished around inside until he
pulled out a long piece of dark-colored cut flesh.

"There you go, Jim," Sheriff Hunter said, "Now, you want to start pissing
or can you manage without me?"

Before the deputy could give his reply a torrent of urine spurted from his
piss tube and he grunted satisfactorily.

"Oh, man, that feels so good." The deputy almost sang his pleasure, and the
sheriff chuckled his understanding.

"Yeah, you can't beat the feeling of a good piss - makes my damn teeth ache
sometimes when I've waited too long," the sheriff confided.

"You too, huh? I thought that only happened to me," the deputy laughed. It
seemed strange to be watching two men taking a pee together, especially
when one of those men was holding the other's dick. But neither man seemed
too bothered about the situation. I guess as cops they've had to do far
worse things than touch another man's cock.

"All done?" Sheriff Hunter asked his deputy when the flow finally ceased.

"Yeah, thanks Frank," the deputy replied.

"Well, let me just give it a shake and I'll put it back inside your pants,
Jim," the sheriff informed him.

"Remember, any more than two shakes and it's considered beating off," the
younger man bantered. I watched as the sheriff squeezed the length of his
deputy's cock wringing out the last drops of piss.

"You wouldn't want me to do that now, would you?" the sheriff asked, and
got a chuckle and a sigh from his deputy in reply.

Both men seemed reluctant to bring this episode to a close and they
continued to stand there, the sheriff quite comfortable holding his
deputy's dick which appeared to be growing in length and girth. It felt
strange for me to be stood there watching these two men in the bright
sunshine, their tan arms and faces, as they shared this intimate moment
together. Finally the sheriff spoke:

"You know, Jim, I hope you don't think I'm being too presumptuous, but I
always kind of looked on you as the son I never had. I mean, I've got three
beautiful girls an' all, but I always hankered after having a son. It's one
of my greatest regrets that I never had a fine looking man like you to call
my boy," Sheriff Hunter disclosed. He was still holding the deputy's cock
in his hand, absent-mindedly stroking it with his palm. The younger man
didn't seem to mind at all.

"Well, Frank, to tell you the truth I always thought of you as the kind of
man my dad should have been: decent, honest, upstanding and
hardworking. You got the respect of the whole town, and all the guys say
they're proud to serve under you, Sir. But I don't think any of them's
prouder than me," Deputy Hanson disclosed to his Sheriff.

"You don't know how good my heart feels to hear you say that, Son. You
don't mind if I call you 'son' do you?" The deputy's head was turned toward
Sheriff Hunter's now and they looked to have direct eye contact.

"Well, if you call me 'son' I guess it would be only right for me to call
you 'dad', don't you think?" Sheriff and deputy smiled revealing sets of
even white teeth contrasting with the dark police shades covering their
eyes.

"I'd be honored, Jim," Sheriff Hunter conceded. "But not in front of the
other guys, OK? Best we keep this between ourselves. Now, let's get this
piece of horse flesh back in your pants and radio in. They'll be wondering
what's happened to us."

With some difficulty the sheriff crammed his deputy's cock back into his
pants, zipped him up, and then closed his hand around Hanson's crotch, much
to the younger man's pleasure.

"You know, Frank...Dad, if ever I can return the favor I'd be more than
happy to help you out. Don't even hesitate asking, OK?"

The two lawmen turned and walked back to the cruiser, laughing and talking
as they did so. I watched as they drove off leaving a cloud of dust in the
still air. They were gone like a genie disappears in a cloud of smoke, and
I was left there with a raging hard on. I made my way back to the lake and
kicked about for another half hour before heading back to the cabin. All
the while I thought about what I had seen in the woods. It was something
special - like maybe witnessing the first moon landing or some other
historical event. I had no doubt that the memory of so small and personal
an episode as seeing two men bonding in such a way would stay with me
forever.

When I got back to the cabin I was greeted by a locked front door. I
knocked and heard a commotion inside.

"Hey, you guys, what's going on?" I called through the door. We never
bothered with any type of security when we were at the cabin. It was so far
off the beaten track all the tourists kept to the far side of the lake.

"We weren't expecting you back so soon, Scott," Dad explained once the door
was opened, "We thought it would be best to lock up while we napped."

Dad and Uncle Pete were in their underwear - white boxer briefs for both
men. Dad always wore Calvin Klein's, while I had noticed on our trips here
that Uncle Pete wore another brand. They looked as good as the guys on the
boxes the underwear came in. But what was funny was that Uncle Pete was now
wearing Calvins and, I swear, Dad was wearing Uncle Pete's shorts. Dad saw
me looking puzzled.

"What's up, Scott?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," I said thinking how stupid I would look if I asked about
their underwear. "Did you guys go for a jog or something?"

"No, why?" Dad asked.

"You both look beat. I thought you were going to take a nap. You haven't
been overdoing it have you?" It was true; Dad and Uncle Pete were breathing
so hard their chests were rising and falling rapidly as they struggled to
catch their breath.

"No, Scott, I managed to get my head down for a few minutes," Uncle Pete
laughed, and Dad threw one of the cushions from the couch at him. I didn't
see the joke - I never could understand their brand of humor.

"Everybody ready to get back to work?" Dad asked changing the subject. I
was refreshed after my swim, if a little horny, but Dad and Pete found the
afternoon heat pretty hard going and after an hour we decided to call it
quits and go into town, spend a little money, and eat dinner out.

The ride into town took about an hour and after eating an excellent meal we
took a stroll round the tourist spots to walk off the effects of the
dinner.  I saw Sheriff Hunter and Deputy Hanson as we were walking down
Main Street.  They were still on duty and in their smart uniforms as they
came strolling in our direction.  Dad stopped them and asked if there was a
place in town we could listen to some live music and we chatted for about
ten minutes.

Uncle Pete and Deputy Hanson also started up a conversation and soon they
were laughing together.  It always amazes me how easily those two, Dad and
Pete, strike up friendships with people.  They always have lots of
interests in common with other guys, and Dad's address book, the little
black leather one I found at the back of his desk one day when I was
looking for something, is crammed with names and numbers of guys I didn't
know, or guys I barely remember meeting when I'm out with him.

Sheriff Hunter asked where we were staying and Dad told him he and Pete,
his brother-in-law, had bought a cabin on the other side of the lake.

"I didn't know that place was still standing," Sheriff Hunter said parking
his rear on the window frame of the store we were standing outside.  He
folded his arms across his chest and placed his left thigh along the edge
of the seat-like ledge of the window.  I couldn't help noticing it showed
off the big bulge in the crotch of his pants.

Dad leaned against the store front, supported by his forearm at head level,
one foot crossed over the other with the toe of the front boot on the
ground.  It was a pose typical of how you would imagine a cowboy in a
western to employ.  There was not more than a couple of feet of space
between them as they continued to talk.

"Jim and me were out that way only this afternoon.  If we'd known anybody
was home we'd have dropped by," the sheriff stated.

"You're welcome to come visit anytime you like, Sheriff, and your Deputy
too.  So long as it's not on official business that is," Dad joked with
him, "We're up here most every weekend now, working on getting the place
fixed up."

I wasn't too surprised when, after several more minutes of chatting,
Sheriff Hunter took out his pocket book and pen and scribbled down his
number and gave it to Dad.

"Here, you might as well have my Deputy's as well," he said adding it to
the scrawl on the small slip of paper.

"Any time you're in the area we'd be more than happy to have you stop by
and show you what we've done to the place," Dad said, repeating his offer
to the two lawmen and slipping the piece of paper into the breast pocket of
his shirt.

We said our goodbyes and all of us shook hands, Sheriff Hunter patting my
dad on the arm and smiling broadly, his dark eyes glinting in the street
lighting.

As we walked to the theater which Sheriff Hunter recommended played good
music I heard Uncle Pete ask Dad casually, "You get his 'phone number?"

"Yep, both of them," Dad grinned.


It was already dark when the show finished and we headed back to the
cabin. This was definitely one of my favorite trips this summer.  It was
nice to see something of the town and the people -- the tourists and the
locals -- and Dad promised once work eased up at the cabin we'd come into
town more often.

The events of the day and the big meal I ate must have caught up with me
'cause within minutes of getting into the car I fell asleep.  Dad and Uncle
Pete must have carried me from the car and gotten me undressed and into bed
which was decent of them.  They know how I love my sleep, and that big bed
is the best place to lay a weary body down.  I'd go so far as to say it's
more comfortable than my bed at home, and a lot more comfortable than my
friend Ronnie's brother's bed.

Dad and Pete were already awake when I woke up the next morning, and
sitting up in bed drinking cups of steaming coffee.

"Morning sleepy head," Dad greeted me as I stretched and yawned.  I sat up
too and he handed me a mug.  All three of us were bare-chested and it must
have been quite a sight; my smooth-skinned body book ended by a couple of
hairy bears like those two.

"You have any good dreams last night?" Dad asked.  There was a curious tone
to how he pitched the question.

"Not that I remember," I answered.  Whenever I dream they're always good
but I didn't remember having dreamt at all last night, "Why?"

He took my cup back from me and put both his and mine down on the stand,
and then placed his hand on my stomach.  I shivered a little at how good
his hand felt rubbing my belly.  I thought it was just something he was
doing to make me feel good.  For some reason I can be a real grouch in the
morning.

But when I looked down at what he was doing I saw his hand was rubbing some
lotion into my skin.  Then Uncle Pete's hand joined it on my chest and he
started rubbing the stuff into my pecs.  Only I noticed that the stuff
hadn't been on their hands, but was already on my skin.  There was about a
quart of the stuff.

"Oh, I think you did," Dad growled, his mouth right near my ear.

I could feel my face burning as I realized what the stuff was -- the stuff
Dad and Uncle Pete were working into my muscles like embrocation.

"Shit, Scott," Uncle Pete said.  I couldn't help but notice there was
admiration in his voice, "Looks like you cum enough for three grown men."

It was true.  My chest and stomach were streaked with quickly disappearing
pearl-colored snail trails as my dad and favorite uncle massaged my body
with it.  I'd had wet dreams before, though not for a while, and I had
always woken up from the pleasure I got from them.  I was kind of
disappointed I slept through this one because if the amount of cum that was
coating my body was anything to go by it was quite a dream.  I didn't
remember a thing about it and I couldn't recall ever shooting so much cum
in my life before.  What Uncle Pete said was true: there was enough cum on
my body for three nut loads.

"Hey!  What do you expect?" Dad smiled across at Pete, "He's my son and we
Samsons cum buckets.  Just take a look at the size of those balls, Pete."

Dad threw back the sheet to uncover my crotch.  I sported my usual morning
hard on, as did Dad and Uncle Pete I noticed.  My balls were two egg-sized
orbs tight against the base of my dick.  Although the two of them were
looking at my crotch they continued to rub the product of my nocturnal
emission into my body.

Pete's fingers were stroking my ultra sensitive nipples and Dad's hand on
my belly was making occasional contact with my throbbing dick.  It felt so
good, but I felt I ought to tell them to stop 'cause I'm sure they weren't
aware of the reactions they were generating within me.

"Would you stop, please?" I begged without much conviction.

They mustn't have heard me and I'm not sure the words even left my mouth
anyway 'cause they carried on doing what they were doing.  I looked down at
Dad's crotch and I saw I have the same sized balls as him, though his are
relaxed and hanging loose in his scrotum resting on his hairy thigh.

The next minute I'm coating the backs of their hands with my sugar-free
frosting without even so much as touching my dick.  I'm expecting Dad and
Pete to be horrified that I came over them, that I shot a load of cum while
they were touching me.  But I hear Uncle Pete shout out, "Oh, yeah!  Look
at him shoot, Ray.  Look at all that jizz he's pumping out his pecker."

"Yeah, that's a man-size load," Dad says admiringly.  The stuff they're
saying, all that stuff about what a big load I'm shooting, what a fucking
stud I am and the rest of it, coaxes several more bolts of white lightning
to shoot out of my dick until I'm spent and I slide exhausted onto my back
on the bed.

"You OK?"  It's Dad's voice I hear from behind my closed eyelids.  His
voice is soft -- as soft as he can make it, anyway: it's more like a
rumble, the kind you feel through your body when a freight train approaches
you, before the sound of it hits your ears.

"Scott, are you OK?" he repeats.

"Dad, I'm sorry.  I don't know what happened.  I never..." I came to a stop.
I didn't know what else to say and I couldn't even look Uncle Pete in the
eyes.  It felt so good but at the same time I knew it shouldn't have, not
when it was Dad and Uncle Pete just touching me.

"What happened is you're eighteen.  You walk around here all the time with
a hard on big enough and hard enough to hit home runs with, and you've got
girls on your mind 24/7.  Am I right?" Dad offered.

I nodded my head.

"I know it's hard to believe but me and Pete used to have a hair trigger
just like you when we were your age, isn't that right, Pete?"  Dad's hand
was still on my belly streaked with my cock snot but not moving now.

"Hey, I'm sorry, Scott," Uncle Pete chipped in, "Maybe we went too far.  We
didn't mean anything by it and you didn't do anything wrong.  Don't beat
yourself up about it, you've got nothing to feel bad about."

"It's what guys do: we earn a buck, we want to spend it; we get a hard on,
we want to blow it," Dad reassured me with a smile, "And it doesn't get any
easier the older you get either.  Now, go take a shower, wash that stuff
off you, and Pete and me'll have breakfast ready soon as you're finished,
OK?"

I was grateful Dad dismissed me.  I got up out of bed -- had to climb over
him to do it -- and headed for the bathroom.  Uncle Pete sent me on my way
with his usual pat on my butt.  In spite of what they said I felt bad about
what I did, mixed with a little pride.

My friend Ronnie told me that his Dad walked in on him one day when he was
jerkin' the gherkin.  He was stretched out on his bed with not a stitch on,
his dick in one hand and his balls cupped in the other.  He was coated in a
fresh load of cum.  He was expecting to get all kinds of grief from his old
man about it.  He and his dad were always a little remote and, according to
Ronnie, Mr. Thompson (his dad) was always on his back about something or
other.  I think it's to do with his mom being ill and on medication --
sleeping pills and stuff.  But he says they're best friends now, their
relationship is better than he ever hoped it could be.  I hope my
relationship with my dad doesn't suffer after this incident, because it was
pretty near to perfect before.

Ronnie plays on the school football team with me so we see each other naked
quite a bit.  But even he's impressed with the size of my dick.  He asked
me one day how big it is.  When I told him he whistled low and told me even
he only had eight inches of black steel, which made me feel kinda good
because you don't expect white guys to have bigger dicks than black guys.
But then he deflated my ego by telling me that his dad has a whole foot --
that's twelve inches -- of cock.  But what Ronnie lacks in the dick
department (if you can call eight inches a lack) he more than makes up for
in the butt department.  He has a huge muscle butt which makes all the
girls at school swoon.

Ronnie and his dad wrestle together.  I don't mean they're on a team or
anything, they just wrestle in the living room of their house.

I often sleep over at Ronnie's and I saw them wrestling together the first
time I slept over after Ronnie told me about the pud-pounding incident.  I
came down for a drink of water from the kitchen at about two in the morning
that night and found them on the living room floor wrestling.

I noticed that Ronnie's bed was empty when I got up because we sleep in the
same room.  I'm in his brother Tom's bed as he's away at college so he
doesn't use the room now, except when he comes home during breaks.

I figured Ronnie needed the bathroom so I didn't think too much about his
bed being empty and I went downstairs to the kitchen.  And I didn't bother
to turn on any of the lights for the stairway as the landing light was on
and I could see OK in the light it gave off.

But when I walked into the living room I saw there was low lighting on: if
it was a dinner date you'd call it romantic as there were lit candles all
over the place.  On the rug in front of the fire Ronnie and his dad were
wrestling.  I didn't understand what I was seeing at first 'cause I was
still half asleep and all I saw was Mr. Thompson.  But then I saw Ronnie
was underneath him and it looked like Mr. T was sitting on his face.

Mr. Thompson works in construction and is a very well built man.  I think
Ronnie told me he's about 48 years old, though you wouldn't think it to
look at him.  He's the type of guy you would say has muscles on his
muscles, and Ronnie says he's never even set foot inside a gym, unlike
Dad's friend Wes who seems to spend half his life pumping iron and has a
similar build to Mr. T.

I stand in the living room behind the couch watching them for a few
minutes.  They could easily see me if they looked up, I mean I'm not hiding
or anything, but they are so intent on their wrestling they don't notice
me.

They don't bother with costumes for some reason but I see that Mr. Thompson
is wearing a jockstrap and he's covered in sweat that makes his dark
muscles look like lacquered ebony in the glow of the fire.  He has Ronnie
pinned to the floor, his hands on Ronnie's knees holding his legs secure,
while the rest of his body weight keeps Ronnie from tipping his dad off
him.

Maybe it's the way the jockstrap is framing Mr. T's ass but I see where
Ronnie gets his big butt from `cause Ronnie's face is almost totally
covered with his dad's meaty cakes.  Ronnie's still got some way to go
before he matches Mr. T in that respect.

It looks like Ronnie is trying to play dirty though 'cause he's got his
hands on his dad's big butt cheeks and he's biting his dad's big black ass
in an attempt to unsettle him.  Mr. T is protesting as loud as he can,
bearing in mind how late it is.  Mr. T's calling Ronnie a dirty fighter.
That's what it sounds like anyway, a "dirty fighter".

"You...dirty little fighter!" he says, "Oo, you dirty little fighter.  You
think...you can lick my ass, you dirty little fighter!"

Ronnie must be biting his dad's big ass hard though 'cause Mr. T is moaning
from the pain.

I can feel myself starting to laugh at their shenanigans but I don't want
to interrupt them because they look like they are, at last, having a good
father/son bonding experience.  And I remember Ronnie telling me how bad
things used to be between him and his dad.  So I go into the kitchen and
fill a glass I find on the drainer with water to take upstairs with me.

When I go back into the living room Ronnie has somehow succeeded in
throwing his dad off him.  In the struggle Mr. T's jockstrap has come off
and Ronnie is stuffing it into his dad's mouth -- to pay him back for
calling him a dirty little fighter, I suppose -- and he's bouncing up and
down on his dad's overworked abs trying to knock all the air out of him.

Mr. T is trying to unseat Ronnie by repeatedly thrusting his hips up but he
doesn't have any success.  Now that Ronnie has the upper hand he's baiting
Mr. T to fight him.

"Fight me, Dad! Fight me hard!" Ronnie urges his dad through gritted teeth.

They're both groaning loudly now: Mr. T through the material of his jock
and Ronnie from all the bouncing around he's doing.

I go back upstairs and climb into bed and think about Ronnie downstairs
with his dad, and I think how good it is their relationship is back on
track.


It happened that my relationship with Dad and Uncle Pete hadn't changed
either, 'cause when I was in the shower soaping all the cum off me, Dad, as
is usual, came into the bathroom.

"Breakfast's ready in five minutes, stud," Dad calls over the noise of the
water.  He has his usual smile on his face and I gratefully smile back at
him with a wave of my hand in acknowledgment, pleased at my new nickname.

I still can't figure out how come I shot such a big load though.  There was
so much cum on me you would think that both Dad and Uncle Pete had wet
dreams too, and shot their bolts all over me.

That's stupid though because what are the odds on three men sharing the
same bed having wet dreams all at the same time?

When I finish showering I head to the kitchen in just a towel.  The table
is set for a feast: ham, eggs, fried potatoes, biscuits and pancakes with
syrup.

Dad and Pete are laughing at the look I have on my face.  Since coming up
here we've never eaten like this at breakfast so I'm certain they've
forgiven me for what happened with them in bed this morning.

"Well, stud, don't just look at it, get stuck in," Pete orders me.

* * * *

That's about all I have time to tell you for now.  Plenty more has happened
since and I'll let you know all about it in a future posting - only it took
me a long time to type up this account (why aren't the keys in alphabet
order?) so I don't know when the next part will appear.

We still have to put a lot of work in on the cabin at weekends which is a
welcome break from my summer job doing yard work for neighbors and stuff,
so I don't have a lot of spare time right now. But I hope you enjoyed it so
far even though it's like letting you read my diary or something.

If any of you guys need your bushes trimmed, your lawns cut, your cars
washed or anything else just let me know - I could use the money for when I
go to college in the fall. I'm not afraid of taking my shirt off and doing
some seriously hard physical work.

Of course, I can't get across how good this summer has been for me so far.
I guess you'd really have to be here and have it happen to you to truly
understand why this summer turned out to be the best of my life.

I know it's gonna continue this way and I'll speak to you guys later about
it.