Date: Thu, 6 Sep 2007 02:21:35 +0100
From: enema champagne <champagne.enema@gmail.com>
Subject: Dad's Study Incentive Part 2.

Dad's Study Incentive

:::   Part Two : Mocks.  :::

By SonShine



You look back through the photo albums and you can see it - me,
gravitating closer to Dad with each turn of the page. There's one photo
which triggers the same memory every time. It's me on Dad's shoulders in
the back garden of our old house, just before I got too heavy for him to
carry.

That's what he says - that I got too heavy. But I remember that was the
day I got hard for the first time, and it pressed into the back of his
neck and when he set me down, for the last time, my crotch was dark with
his sweat and tented out with an excitement I didn't yet understand.

He kept his distance a little from then, maybe that's why I grew to crave
his touch. To this day I cringe with embarrassment at getting my first
hard-on while riding my Dad's shoulders.

Looking back, as I did many times after the night Dad let me touch his
enormous cock and balls through his pants, I realised that childhood
incident must've been when he first suspected. He did what he could to
help me grow up normal to discourage my interest, but it must have been
there in his mind, worry, or... maybe something else? Maybe the knowledge
that in years to come I would be legally an adult, and still feel this
way, or stronger. That moment hadn't meant anything to me at the time, I
barely noticed or understood what had happened, but it was just the first
of a few incidents that came back to me that long hot summer I spent,
sheets kicked back, basting in my own juices (and wishing they were his).
I studied late into the evenings, pausing only to whack out another load.
There must have been enough spunk in the towel down the side of my bed to
drown a bear. Maths, biology, English, wank. Chemistry, Technology,
French, wank.

Dad shaved off his stubble in June but a moustache creeped in round July.
When we spoke or passed each other there was no sign from him at all. It
stabbed away inside me how he controlled me like this. Sometimes I went
out to the garage, hung up a punchbag I got way back for my 12th birthday
and beat it til my arms were too heavy to raise. In retrospect even the
punchbag seemed like another incentive Dad had trailed in my path to turn
me into the man he wanted me to be. It had happened so subtly I'd had no
way of detecting it.... but who suspects a thing like that?

Weeks after that first glorious day when he'd had me suck his finger in
the car by the school, I'd gone to take out the rubbish and seen a
familiar shape pressed into the side of a black bag already in there. It
was one of those split second things - the instantly recognisable shape
of a bong I'd bought once before a party and kept way back in a drawer
behind stacks of winter clothes. He'd found it and binned it. No fuss, no
confrontation, Dad just got his own way. He'd always been doing it.
Ditching the rubbish bag on top of the bong, I realised he must have
found it before our little talk in the car, figured out what he was going
to do to set me straight, and calmly gone about it with the quiet
determination of a stealth bomber.

There's another picture in one of the albums by the TV in the living room
- me with a pair of Dad's pants on my head, clowning about. My mother
laughs about it and shows it to guests.

For years I laughed along too, but since that day in the car, inhaling
Dad's hot ball musk off his thick finger, the fear and shame that someone
might add two and two together is too much. It would seem my desire to
sniff Daddy and get intimate with him went back further than I could
remember. It was just a sort of instinct.

It was easy to spend time in my room now as I was a prisoner of my
excruciating fear of being found out. The idea of anybody realising I had
sexual urges at all was humiliating, but this...?

In the darkness of a locked bedroom or bathroom though, the thick
muscular neck between my thighs and the bristle of his jawline under my
hands come back to me as though I only just slid from his back to the
grass. It wasn't unusual for me to squeeze out five or six loads in a
night, every time remembering those moments with Dad from that first
hard-on to the cupping of his manhood in my bedroom. The first few loads
would splatter on my face to be licked tentatively and swallowed - for
practise, I told myself, for Dad's - and the last loads would drool out,
pumped by the overworked hydraulics in my bollocks.

I studied all summer, mowed a lot of lawns, painted some fences and
walked a few dogs. I started to spend time with my friends again, not
just at the weekends. We would joke about wanking and fucking, but while
we'd all done the former, nobody had the glow of self-assurance of
someone who'd done the latter. I never looked at any of them 'that' way,
the way I looked at Dad. He was a grown man, everything he did had a
considered masculine grace to it. He wasn't like us, confused, fumbling
boys furtively seeking our first tastes of adulthood and mischief.

My friends took the piss out of me for studying, and for giving up the
weed, until I told them i wanted to be a fighter pilot, and that little
lie bought a lot of respect. I burned with the need to discover if any of
them felt like me, but I knew I was different from them, that no matter
their sexual interests, they wouldn't be filled with the desire to suck
their Dads' sweaty balls. After a day mowing lawns or hanging out, I'd
slip a hand down my pants, work one finger between my balls and my leg or
over the tip of my cock and inhale it, smear it over my top lip, but
there was never the heavy musk of a mature adult male there; it remained
sharper, cleaner. It was like the difference between a banana still green
and almost tasteless, a chore to chew, and a ripe one dappled with brown
and delicious, pungent, refreshing and filling. That's how it seemed to
me anyway, eating my packed lunch on a distant neighbour's lawn in the
August sunshine. It would be a case of waiting to mature and grow up like
Daddy; broad and virile.

How heavy his balls had felt, and how dense, resting in my hands, my own
origin. His stern face, watching me as he controlled me, led me on toward
bettering myself and becoming the young man he wanted as a son. I
wondered whether he even enjoyed me touching him, or whether it was
something he did solely to manipulate me.

At the back of that drawer, with the bong, there had been something else,
and the something else, i realised after taking out the rubbish that
night, had also been taken.

That something was a pair of Dad's pants.

He'd known alright. He must have had pretty strong suspicions, but that
little bombshell at the back of the drawer of woolens and thick jumpers,
that must have been the moment Dad knew he had me by the balls.

Those pants had been crusted with my teen sperm, too many loads to count.
One day, still stoned from an afternoon with the guys and too horny to
concentrate on anything, I'd got up to move a pile of clean laundry from
my bed and knocked it over, and there was a pair of Dad's pants. Not
clean.

I froze in place for a long minute, and though the house was empty,
locked my door before holding them to my nose cautiously. They smelled
very faintly, a sweaty smell. It was more curiosity than anything else -
again, I told myself. Back then I couldn't imagine Dad's cock and balls,
couldn't imagine ever having sexual contact with him, could visualise
looking up at him from a kneeling position on the floor, the lower part
of his face obscured by the white bulge of his firm testicles in their
cotton hammock. All I could think about was how naughty I was being, and
I got so horny I wanked a load all over myself with Dad's pants over my
face. It wasn't normal. It was pretty unthinkable. But it made me sweat
with excitement and the new toy thrusting out of my groin every morning
seemed double its usual size when i sniffed at the yellowy residues on
the front pouch of Dad's white briefs with the orange waistband. That
afternoon I cleaned myself up with his pants two or three times, and from
then on when I felt the need to whack one out - like the time I went into
the kitchen for a plate of biscuits and found Dad under the kitchen sink
on all fours, stripped to his white vest and underwear to fix a pipe
under the sink that spat pressured water all over his clothes as he
worked to seal it, oblivious to the effect on me of the beautiful sight
of his firm hairy rump, furry arms and shoulders, and the broad tough
expanse of his back hugged tight by the vest, his white-sheathed balls
hanging down between his legs, beneath the cotton-clad puckered arse hole
that cried out to be kissed - I'd lock the door, go to my chest of
drawers and pull those spunky pants over my face for a good exhaustive
sniff and tug session.

Surely it was just a phase I'd work my way out of, but in the time being
it was fun to indulge. Not just fun; but dirty, cathartic pleasure. And
all this without any porn to guide me or any prior experience to inform
me.

The summer ended too soon. More weeks of school passed, and for the frst
time in my life I could hold my head high as I'd done the homework set
for us over the summer. And it had been pretty easy.

Christmas came and went - I knew what I wanted from Daddy but my parents
gave me pre-paid driving lessons. The season passed slowly.

Soon enough it was time to take our mock exams. My teachers predicted
four B's, two C's and three A's. I kept it quiet from my parents as well
as my friends - my mates would resent my swotting and my father might...
well, it wasn't good enough. It wouldn't do for Dad.

In March, we took the mock exams and for the first time in my life I sat
at the rickety desks and instead of kicking the unreliable folding legs
accidentally-on-purpose to send it crashing to the floor, farting loudly
or staring out of the window like my mates, I was finished with time to
spare. When I'd checked and triple-checked the papers, I folded my arms
on the desk and lay my forehead on my forearm and watched my breath make
clouds on the shiny desk surface, thinking of the moment I'd get to taste
my Dad. Would I dive on it, taking him in to the balls, or hold back, and
sample the very tip of his wet cockhead first? It was pointless
speculating, as he would have complete control and call every shot. But
it was going to be fun. If. If. IF.

The results were in a week or so later, though it felt like a year. Six
B's, Two A's. English Literature and Maths got me the top A's. And the
final grade: an A* in English language. My gut felt tangled. My first A*.
It was OK. It was more than OK. I should have been happy but when I
thought about pulling the zip down on Daddy's trousers, those B's blocked
out the smile I wanted to see on his face.

After parent's night some weeks later,  Dad entered my room without
knocking, as always. We spoke casually but I was rigid with tension,
wanting something to happen but knowing that, like most of the times I
spent with Dad in this smothered state of fear, nothing was going to. He
seemed in a good mood, breezy, like he was just going to chat for a
moment and breeze out again. I focused on his thick moustache as he
talked, hoping he wouldn't spot the nervous apprehension in my eyes.

'Listen son,' Dad said, 'You did well last year. Really well. I felt so
proud tonight after the teachers told me how well you were doing. They
all asked me if you were having home tuition.'

He smiled. 'I told them I'd given you a little incentive.' Then he turned
and locked the door carefully, quietly, and turned back round. He was in
his suit trousers with a light blue shirt with white collar and cuffs.
He'd been at work all day, driven all the way home, and usually at this
time would be sawing something in the garage or watching the football.
His BO filled the room; not overpowering but enough to make my cock a
little fatter. Musky caveman dad, suited and smelling of a hard day's
work.

'It's this, isn't it,' he said, and grabbed himself between the legs
casually, gave himself a little squeeze; just enough for me to get a
clear perception of how thick and heavy he was down there. In a heartbeat
my dick was straining hard, painful in its desire to grow full length in
the narrow trap of my pants. Just the sight of him stood there, his tie
pulled loose and top three buttons undone, letting his chest hair peep
out, holding his bulge in one hand that way. My nipples contracted into
little wooden pegs and sweat began to seep into my hair. 'Got you nice
and focused, hasn't it? Something to work towards.'

'And now you're getting 6 B's in your mocks,' he continued without a
pause. 'Two A's and an A*. Pretty good. Pretty close.' His eyes stayed
fixed on mine; they never strayed down my body or out of the window. He
took a breath loudly, and tucked his shirttails in. As he did so I saw he
was wearing the pants with the orange waistband; the ones I had cum into
so many times they could stand up unassisted.

'Come here son,' he growled quietly. Unquestioningly I approached him, my
heartbeat a hammer at my throat.

His big coarse hands shot out, one to my shoulder and one straight up
above his head. Before I knew what was happening he'd pulled my face
right into his stinking armpit and my nose and mouth and chin were wet
with Dad. It was an overpowering stink; so heady and rich I thought I was
going to lose consciousness. There was no light; the wet creases of his
shirt covered my face and filled my lungs wth a spicy, animal smell, the
stink of a mature adult male's daily labour. The smell of locker rooms
and unwashed althetes.

From my biology studies, I knew that his stink was the result of an
interaction between perspiration produced by Dad's apocrine glands and
bacteria. It was the buildup of stale sweat - water, salt, urea, uric
acid, sugar and ammonia - over the day, soaking into his armpit hair,
drenching his shirt. It was his body's waste but it was my treasure - it
was priceless, rare and intoxicating.

My Dad, clamping me to his armpit, toying with my need for him again, was
in total posssession of me, his excessive force keeping me exactly where
he wanted me. My body was pressed to his, hot and suffocating against the
firm grip of his hand now on my back. My cock throbbed painfully, still
bent around and under my balls, the stink of his pits absorbing into my
skin and seeping into my bloodstream. This was the contact I thought
about all the time; sexual, forceful, deliberate and selfish, one man
dominating another, keeping his boy in his place.

What's more he was soaking me and stinking me up, marking me out as his
property, and humiliating me. I was already working every hour of the day
to reach the standards he demanded, and now, at an arbitrary moment, he
had decided to degrade me in private and impose himself on me with brute
force and male stink.

He brought his mouth close to my ear; so close his moustache scratched
the inside of it.

'You can cum for Daddy now,' he commanded in a low whisper, and thrust
his hand down my loose jeans and into my pants to grip all of me in just
one hand.

My every muscle convulsed in surprise and then tensed in excitement as my
body responded to his touch, thunder building in me and releasing in a
split second. I spurted and spurted and spurted into his gentle hand as
he cupped me firmly. His moustache against the side of my face, his
overpowering stink, his hot grip on my cock and balls and a deep primal
instinct to obey him took over.

I snuffled and gasped into his sweaty armpit, my lungfuls of his sharp
paternal aroma whistling from me like I'd been punched in the gut as my
balls spat their load into his palm, filling it and dribbling over. 'Good
boy,' he murmured, 'yeah, well done, that's it.'

I caught sight of Daddy's face, as he smiled, watching his boy cum on
command. I panted and wheezed as my balls squeezed out a final dribble.
'Come on, one more spurt, you can do it,' Daddy encouraged, seriousness
creeping over his face. I clenched, willing out a little more, and there
it was; a last pulse of liquid from my balls for Dad.

He drew his hand slowly from my pants. 'Good boy,' he said approvingly,
and laughed when he saw the handful of cum spilling over the edges of his
palm, his brown eyes crinkling. I fell to my knees on the carpet at his
feet, exhausted and spent, breathing heavily, dazed. My Dad had just
brought me to orgasm with a single command. I realised now that he had
slipped those pants of his into my laundry a year or so ago, testing the
waters maybe, or maybe influencing my development. Maybe I'd never know.

He placed his clean hand on my head, tilted it up and back, and then
pushed his other hand to my mouth. His intention was obvious, and he
nodded with that approval in his eyes again as I licked his rough hand
clean with big wet strokes, our gazes locked. I was his pet, he was my
master. I was so grateful to him for letting me cum in his hand, for
giving me a mindblowing orgasm and using me so degradingly. Here I was
again, sucking on his fingers, this time taking all of them deep into my
mouth one by one, sucking my own runny white spunk from Dad's gold
wedding ring, sucking the smell of his sneaky lunchtime cigarette and his
aftershave, tonguing the salt from every wrinkle on his palm.

And I realised what this was. This was a mock exam too - a test of how
well I would perform for him if I got those grades. It could be just like
this; on my knees before Daddy with bodily fluids smeared around my
mouth, slurping at him, winning his approval with my willingness to
please him.

Mind kicking into gear, I attempted to push his fingers deeper into my
mouth. I lunged my head forward but every time his thick fingers slid
into the hot panicky tunnel of my throat it jerked shut and I gagged.
This was no good... it was just making things worse. I wasn't going to
impress Daddy with poor technique. It was supposed to be easier than this
wasn't it? I wanted to reach out and stroke his perfect arse but didn't
dare without his permission. Dismay crept over me.

But Dad smiled as he watched me hiccup and dry heave on his fingers. 'Big
load, big boy,' he said. His middle finger rested in my mouth. It felt
obscene. I was totally exposed, there was no secret that I lusted after
my Dad in the most intimate way and that he held all the cards. He balled
the rest of his fingers into a fist and eased it forward. For a moment,
briefer than a blink, I held that powerful middle finger in my throat,
the tip tickling the curve of the back of my tongue where it disappeared
in the darkness of my oesophagus.

Then I coughed, spattering his knuckles with spit. From downstairs, a
call to the dinner table made me jump out of my skin and flush red, but
Dad never flinched. 'Come on,' he said. 'Teatime.'

He withdrew his finger from my mouth. It made a slick sound as it left my
body. Once again my mouth and nose were full of overstimulating Daddy
smells and flavours. I looked up at him, eyes wet with gag-reflex tears,
silently begging him to pull his trouser down to his knees, and...

He turned and unlocked the door.

'I'd better get cleaned-' I began as he ushered me through it, but he
kept going, shepherding me down the stairs. I panicked... sperm on  my
breath, wet and raw around my mouth, smelling of Dad's pungent BO and
pants damp with cum... I glanced down. Just a tiny spot was beginning to
seep through. Downstairs was noisy like the room was full of guests....
they'd KNOW.

Dad disappeared into the bathroom. 'Get down there now before it goes
cold,' he called over his shoulder, and as I descended the stairs I heard
the hot tap going followed by the hiss of deodorant. I whipped off my
t-shirt and rubbed my face dry with the inside of it before throwing it
back on. Should I slip back to my room and grab a fresh shirt, at least?

No. That's not what Daddy wanted.

In the dining room, a handful of neighborhood friends had come round for
dinner, to toast the best mock exam grades in the street and thank me for
all the mowed lawns and walked dogs. Dad joined us after a minute or so,
smelling fresh with a clean wool jumper on, and watched as I squirmed
through an evening of awkward, red-faced smalltalk, crotch steeped in cum
and smelling so strongly of teen hormones and spent orgasm I was sure
someone would smell it and say something and the whole street, the entire
town even, would know my dirty secret. That I longed to pleasure my Dad
more than anything else in the world.

------------------------
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Thanks to those guys who sent emails

no better incentive to keep writing than to know people are reading you
with their pants down

if you have any comments, suggestions etc, send em to
champagne.enema@gmail.com (and again, it's just a name...)

thanks