2014 version

by Araddion

© 1996, 2014 R. Keith Peck


Email : araddion@gmail.com
Tumblr : http://araddion.tumblr.com

Twitter : @araddion

List of stories: http://araddion.tumblr.com/post/85265199802/pornonomicon

DONATE TO NIFTY ARCHIVE -- http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html


If the relationship of father to son
could really be reduced to biology,
the whole earth would blaze
with the glory of fathers and sons.

--- James Baldwin, The Price of the Ticket



When I first posted this memoir-as-fiction, Gone Fishin', on the Internet back in the '90s, the events I described had just transpired. I remember feeling, well, oddly self-conscious as I typed the story on my old PC. Why this confession? Well, I'm a showoff. Always have been, always will be. I had to get word of my triumph out there. But I discovered it was necessary for me to distance myself from the events I described, so I wrote it as fiction. I finessed quite a few details. The ending of the old version is a telescoping of events that happened later. I felt I had to fabricate that ending to give my 'story' a sense of closure.

I'm still a showoff. I still want everyone to know that hey, yeah, I took it up my ass from my Dad, and I loved it! I've had people after me for years to write the continuation of our tale. In order to do so, however, I had to 'fix' Gone Fishin'. Sure, I did a rewrite in 2000, but that was just a language polish.

This version is, in all the big particulars, the same story. I added some detail I omitted, probably because I was afraid of Jerry Springer tracking us down. All in all, this version is more faithful to the open-ended nature of the first time Dad fucked me.

The continuation now exists in the novel-length story called Rolling Thunder. I'll post at least the first two chapters on Nifty so you can see if you're still interested. I plan others, hopefully without a twenty-year wait between installments. The 21st century still lacks anti-agapic serums.

What of the original Gone Fishin'? Well, I'm not George Lucas, so I'm going to leave it available. I want the original version to co-exist with the true version. Check out the copy on Nightcharm, illustrated by Josman, a man who knows how to capture the heat of dad/son sex. The old version's been good to me. Let's call it the daddy of my good fortune.

-- SD, 20 August 2014


I swig from the can of Budweiser. It slides down my throat like warm piss. Sweat gleams on my chest. Scrub pine stands mute guard on the shoreline. No breeze. The air is thick, sultry. The lake glimmers like a pool of molten silver. The sun blazes, a pitiless master in a cloud-free sky.

North Carolina. Summer. 1996.

Strange how different the world was then. That day. That moment. They all seem so unnatural to me now.

"You goin' to cast?"

His voice is deep. Strong. Commanding.

He lounges on a long, waist-high boulder. A perfect beach chair for that man. Erosion over the centuries has softened the boulder's sharp edges. It's curved like a woman. He's thrown a towel over it. He's comfortable.

Who is He?

He is Dad.

"Yeah, yeah." I screw the beer can into the pebbled shore. I reach for the shiny, black fishing rod. A dragonfly leaps into the air, surprised and offended. There's a tangle in the line. I clear it. I whip it back. The hot day is briefly cool in my swampy armpit.

I snap it forward.


The sound mocks me. A three-foot cast. Ripples race away from the point of impact. The reflected sky shifts, distorts.

"Good one, Silas," Dad laughs. "You been practicing?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." The reel whirrs as I wind the botched cast back. I'm a lousy fisherman. I haven't caught a minnow in five years. If these were pioneering days, with Indian war drums haunting the skies above our log cabin, and I was the man of the house, we'd be starving. I'm not an outdoorsman. I don't mind nature, so long as I can sleep in a bed after the visit.

No biggie. Dad knows this about me. We joke about it. Dad, mostly.

"Play with your rod some more, son."

Why did he say that? I don't know. Never found out. Never thought to ask.

But those words.

Play. With. Your. Rod. Son.

Well, that hits me kinda funny.

Dad's remark stirs up images in my head that shouldn't be in any son's head. Wakes thoughts I've tried to put to sleep. Unbinds pictures I thought I'd bound, gagged, and stuffed into that mental dungeon we all have but can't mention

Blame the heat.

"Get some practice in," Dad says. He yanks his cap low, shading his eyes. He stretches, cat-like, on the boulder. His eyes close.

And by closing his eyes, right after that unsettling remark, Dad dislodged the pebble which, bounding from stone to stone, triggered the avalanche.

It went like this:

Because his eyes are closed, I am safe.

Because I am safe, I give in.

Because I give in, I look at him. At my Dad. In a way no son is ever ever ever supposed to look at his sire.

Let me tell you about Dad.

When standing Dad is like a knight, tall and muscled. You notice him. It's not just his voice that commands. Somehow, he gleams. He draws your eye merely with his shape. His broad shoulders, his big round bicep. An armored body forged on a Kentucky horse farm and honed in Asian rice paddies long before I was born. I have pictured him catching a hay bale tossed down from a barn loft then casually hoisting it on a wagon. The US Army lies a few years in Dad's past but it had left its imprint. Steely eyes squinting at an enemy over the sights of his rifle.

I remember the day he retired.

Mom took us -- me and my little brother -- to the ceremony on post. Because it was Dad we were all scrubbed till we gleamed and dressed in suit and tie. Mom shone in a dress far too good to be seen even in our church. But it was Dad who was resplendent. Dad who dazzled me, his uniform ablaze with medals. Dad who wore the beret at a saucy angle. Dad who stood like a column hewn of stone.

What still stands out in my memory about Dad from that day? Proud eyes and chiseled jaw. Brisk handshakes. Farewells. An air of sadness about him, because one chapter of his life was closing, but he also seemed like a boy eager to embark on new adventure.

It was on that day I realized that I could read Dad's face like a book. I saw him brighten up when a friend -- a real friend, someone he'd been with through life and death, not just someone he'd shared duty -- shook his hand. When the flags were paraded past his chest swelled, and I knew he was a true patriot. He often did the same round me, or my brother, or Mom. If his eyes were moist that was for the men who died. All these emotions shifted across his face like the shadows cast by wind-riding clouds.

I'd known that man, my father, all my life. I knew those emotions. I felt them with him.

What I felt that day was like the day I raised the hood of a car and realized all that throbbing power came from the engine, secreted away behind metal walls.

Dad's changed a bit in the last five years. No more military uniforms. In fact, Dad can be quite casual. Today he wears cutoffs -- old fatigue pants, their buttoned pockets bulging with lures, bobbers, spare line, and cutters. They're frayed at that bottom and there are small rips everywhere. Flaws he wouldn't tolerate five years ago. A cap has replaced his beret. Sure the cap is green, but faded from the sun so it's the color of overcooked string beans.

No shirt.

No shirt. Yeah, that was it. That's what did it.

His closed eyes. I am safe. I look. I see what the years of discipline have created.

Sweat glistens on biceps as thick as my thighs.

It's Dad's sweat, I'm sure, that was the second pebble that moved.

The sweat plasters his thick chest hair to his body. I see every detail of Dad's body. Everything I've ever wanted to see. Dad's big pectorals rising like mountains above the flat plain of his belly. Dad's nipples, huge, exposed to my gaze because the erect fur normally covering them now lies on his armored body. Dad's armpits, where deltoids and biceps and pectorals weave a darkly fragrant nest.

No baby every looked at a teat the way I look at my Dad's.

That carpet of hair. Thick and wiry. Luxuriantly male. Oh, yeah, I've seen it before. It's not an utter mystery. But those sightings haves always have been furtive glimpses. I've never been able to gawk at Dad's chest hair like this. Without having to fear his eyes catching me, without having to think about questions he might ask -- questions I don't dare to answer -- in case he can read my face just as well as I can read his.

Most of my life I've seen Dad's chest hair as if it were a smoky cloud, masculine smog clinging firmly to his body. Cloaking it. Today, drenched with sweat, it's a roadmap. It reveals.

The thicket marches down Dad's stomach, leading my eyes to where it vanishes beneath the snug waist of his cutoffs.

Right there his mystery begins. Yeah, the hair reemerges to coat his thighs, his calves. Beneath the cutoffs? The great question mark, painted in olive green.

I sigh.

What adventures does that hair have in that hidden, covered space?

I turn away.

I whip my fishing rod back. Cast. Success! The line arcs far out into the lake then falls like a severed strand of spider's silk into the water. The plunk punctuates the silence. Once again the ripples spread; the silver lake shivers, penetrated. The bobber floats. The lure dangles in mysterious, hidden depths.

Dad's eyes open. His lips bend into a slight smile.

The day bakes us. My crotch burns with unnatural warmth. That heat erupts out of that hidden dungeon of my dark and twisted soul.


Because my Dad lays ten feet away from me.

Because I smell his sweat.

Because the whorls and curlicues his sweaty hair create on his tanned flesh a moiré pattern. Thousands of tiny cobras, tempting me with their venom. Hypnotic. Hallucinogenic. Nodding. Waving. Beckoning. Commanding my eyes to focus on Dad's center.

His middle.

The secret place.

You know. My Dad's midsection.

Because Dad covers his midsection with ripped cloth, imprinted with his history, impregnated with his scent, enriched by his --




Fuckingodamnit! This is why!

Beneath those cutoffs I know -- I picture -- I fantasize -- Dad's hair grows thick. A jungle not even Tarzan could rule. Powerful. Redolent. The sweat, yes, the hair, yes, but what is his hair? It's wiry pillow on which rests that huge organ, my sire, the fat fleshy tube that once upon a time ejected me and 100 million unsuccessful brothers into my mother's dark womb.

Dad's cock.

Dad's cock which engendered me, unwholesome, demented, depraved.

That huge organ I want to know more than anything in the world.


Memory is a dubious thing. Time after time it's been shown that someone's recollection of the past varies greatly from what an impartial observer -- a camera -- records. I suppose this means that our most treasured memories, the images and feelings which shape our character, are as true, or untrue, or half-true, as the Poetic Edda or what they put on CNN.

Even now, long after these events transpired, typing this on my iPad, I sometimes wonder if what happened really happened.

Here's a memory of mine. Ghostly. With a Heisenberg uncertainty for, as I reach for it, it shimmers, rippling like the lake did that did, scurrying away to hide, a roach unwilling to face the light.

The year? Vague. But I can do the math. Call it the era of the Great Disco Space War. Nixon was disgraced. Malaise reigned. Reagan was merely a threat, his bloodthirsty successors unknown.

The components? My Dad. A laughing, giggling toddler: myself. A bathtub. Bubbles. Toy boats. Rubber duck. Soap and a washcloth.

The location? Fort Hood, I think. Dry. Dusty. Hot.

Dad's face is a double exposure. I can perceive, if not really see, two expressions on his face. A deep, profound tiredness, maybe sadness. An ecstatic joy, exuberance, a return to youthfulness, looking at his first born son slapping the water, splashing and scattering foam crazily all over the tile.

I know, or sense, or imagine Dad must've just got off a plane. A DC-9. A transpacific flight from Korea. Refueling stops in ... what? Guan? Hawaii? LA?

Dad must be bone weary.

But he's got time for me.

Maybe both expressions were -- are -- real? Or neither. I've done shrooms. I know that all that we are, all those memories we cherish are nothing more than lattices of electrons quivering in a chemical soup.

A toddler? That's me. I'm not yet human. Even though I've been born I'm still nothing more than an egg. I'm a fragment of flesh with potential for many things godly and ungodly. But in that moment in my history, in that bathtub, I'm the most important thing in the world to my Dad.

What does he see? What does he remember? This recollection doesn't tell me. Sure, I've asked my Dad. But what's one bath out of many?

I remember the touch of his hands on my flesh. How did it feel? Like being a note in a song, a glissando of rising notes, destined for -- what?

Deliquescent memory. So I recall that feeling. But in reality it must've felt no different than when my right hand strokes my left forearm.

I know that he was naked. I do not sense Dad's nakedness. I do not imagine it. Dad and I were naked together. It is a fact. Don't dispute me on this.

Oh yes. This is afternoon talk show material. Big grown man, naked in a room with a toddler. Evil. Pure evil. He's a beast! Who knows what he might do with his big throbbing mancock? Protect the boy!

How do I know Dad was naked? A toddler, I was too short to see over the edge of the tub. No way could I see him. The place he covered that day at the lake with his cutoff fatigues. It. The thing. The cock that obsesses me.

How do I know Dad was naked?


I know what my own groin smells like, after a hard game with my mates, or a scrimmage at Keenan, or after beating off. Smell, they say, is a compass to guide you as you roam memory's tangled wilderness. So over the Johnson and Johnson's I smelled another Johnson.

Long. Thick. Steamy.

Because when you're a toddler and your balls haven't dropped and you've yet to sprout the groin fur that'll be your badge of honor the rest of your life, and you're clean as a whistle amidst the suds and the toy boats and the rubber duckies, you lack all smell. You're neuter. Tabula rasa, awaiting whatever words life will ink upon you.

But I know I smelled cock. My own cock. Like the same poetic line, quoted in two different epics.

Daddy. Me. Naked. Together.

Unwholesome. That's me. What kind of boy is obsessed by his Dad's huge dong?

Often I think evil thoughts.


Under the white-hot sun it's easy to laze one's way into ritual.

Real in the line. Hope for the best. Cast. Feel the perspiration drip. Flip my long sweat-wet hair over my shoulders. Grab the beer. Rub the cool can over forehead. Swig. Repeat.

Within me? Turmoil. But not even the merciless sun, the ultimate bad cop, can reveal it.

We came to the lake today to have an afternoon outside the stream of time. For the son no need to mow the lawn or take young brother to the mall so he can scope bitches or to worry about my sophomore year. For my Dad no need to worry about his security business or to paint the wall where Mom ripped down the ivy.

A moment out of time? Success.

Dad's chill. He's pulled his cap low, partly masking his face, but I can still parse that text. Dad's at ease and in the silence I sometimes hear soft almost-snores. From time to time he drinks from his Budweiser that's got to be almost as hot as this day.

Sometimes he spills the bear. Sometimes, when he spills it, I sense his eyes on me. Embarrassment? It's mysterious. Other times, when the trickle flows, I know he's not looking. So I look. Even though I'm heading down that path again, the track that disturbs me like an earthquake and makes my balls hotter than a volcano, I watch the two rivulets trickle over his strong jaw, to pool in the hollow at the base of his neck.

Sometimes I have to pace a short way up the shore to quell what's coursing through me.

Dad's skin is dark gold and his sweat glitters on it like diamond dust.

"Hey, son?" His voice is deep and drowsy as if ready to tell me a bedtime story.

"Yeah, Dad?"

He crushes the can. "Get me another beer." He flings it towards the open garbage bag, missing his target completely.

"Sure, Dad." Hurriedly I reel in the line, planting my rod between two stones. Barefoot I pad over to where his toss went astray. I put the crushed can into the sack. Then to Styrofoam cooler. A layer of ice floats on the cold water where cans of Budweiser nod and bob. This morning it had been all ice.

I pluck one off the bottom, sure it'll be the coldest, and bring it to Dad.

"Thanks, son." He pops the top, gulps deeply, and stretches like a lion sunning himself.

Have you ever really smelled a man? Not when you've got your nose buried in his armpit but when his aroma is diluted, dispersed, diluted by distance? Thus weakened his smell won't burn you like a hit of poppers. It doesn't seize your mind and make you think of nothing but him and fucking. It's simply there, a royal presence, benignly distant but supremely powerful.

Dad's scent wafts around me, enveloping me in invisible tendrils.

I shiver.

There's a volcano in my balls. I'm not a toddler. I've got a full sack and I live to unload it.

Dad's smell. I think of locker rooms.

I can't control it. It's just like the time when I was thirteen and I saw some jock on the TV, soaping himself in the shower, peddling shampoo, and I got stiff and knew I grooved on guys. My cock came alive in my shorts, slithering over sweaty flesh, lengthening, filling with blood, looking for action.

Energy surges through me. Just like those times when I'm in the gym lifting the iron, and this guy I've had the itch for strut past me, shorts tight and skimpy, heading for the showers, and all I want to do is jam him up against the shower's tiled wall and fucking his hot, tight ass till my jizz vomits from his nose like snot. It is the exact same feeling.

I feel my cock straining against my cotton shorts.

The shame burns on my face just as hot as my balls burn for --

Quickly I turn away, stumbling back towards my fishing rod. War breaks out within me.

You can't do it!

Why not?

Because you can't rip down your shorts and show your Dad how hard he makes your cock.

Why can't you do this?

You just can't do that. They don't lock people up for that. They shoot them.

The dragonfly once again flies away from my rod. I shut my eyes. Exhale a shuddering breath. Try to keep a hold of things. Of myself. Clamp that lid, Silas. Blank that mind, Silas. But it's hard to return to tranquility base when your bladder's swimming with about two gallons of beer piss.


Often I think evil thoughts.

The time? A decade before our day at the lake. Hair metal and Ewoks had imposed on the combatants of the Great Disco Space War a strange armistice. The destruction of a space shuttle remained a unique experience. Colors were electric; the hair, flammable. On Asia's snowy steppes an empire, jealous of our glorious shopping males, brooded evil. Fortunately a saint presided over us, ready though fortunately not eager to incinerate the world should our precious bodily fluids be polluted.

Our location? Fort Campbell. Kentucky. Much greener than Texas. Grandma and Grandpa weren't far away and doted on us in the classic manner. We lived in a small house in a non-descript subdivision off base.

I remember a science teacher in my school teaching -- preaching? -- that we Americans would have colonies in orbit, on the moon, if not by 2000 then no later than 2010. I gobbled that shit so assiduously you'd think The Human Centipede was my cinematic biography.

I was ten. I knew the names of most of the states. Dodge ball games resulted in victories, defeats, tears, and the occasional busted lip. In spring and summer that year I played Little League baseball but even then I was trying to get on a soccer team.

In that year Dad was in the 101st Airborne Division. His task? Train the new guys.

Let me grab this evil thought, slippery like an eel, and show it to you.

Late afternoon in the middle of summer. It is close to dinner. Mom is in the kitchen. I hear over my TV show her transistor radio, tuned to a station that played Motown. Brother has given up trying to induce me to play hide-and-go-seek. I'm ten. I don't do kiddy shit anymore.

I am lying on the carpet in my grass-stained baseball uniform, belly down, watching a Star Trek rerun. No need in that year to specify TOS; Picard had probably not even been cast. Cable TV was new to us. The transition from 3 to 30 channels was, to me, like leaving West Virginia for Paradise. You could find anything.

Star Trek. Yes. Tales of adventure, of exploration, of crossing neutral zones to forbidden regions beyond. In that year, in that summer, as seen in theaters, Spock was once again alive, still prime, and 100% brother free. The whales, though I didn't know it, were extinct, though their resurrection was imminent.

I was rocking my feet back and forth, watching Enterprise approach a derelict sister ship while investigating the catastrophic disappearance of entire planets.

When Dad came through the door, all this was forgotten.

Leaping up, I ran to him, and he took me up in his arms and whirled me around. He kissed me on forehead, bridge of my nose, and right cheek. Nothing special. A standard welcome home. Dad put me down, shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and went into the kitchen with Mom. Her delight was like the sound of birds on a spring morning.

Once again I settled onto the floor.

On the screen, Kirk, Scott, and Lt. Cannonfodder prowl through a wrecked starship.

In the kitchen? I can't possibly remember exactly what they said. It doesn't matter. Myths are, as they say, lies breathed through silver.

Long march this morning .... damn barracks to godDAMN airfield ... bird was hot, no air, nothing ... three of 'em puked before we took off.... that pilot's a bastard, he flew like an old lady, air was rough .... puke ... puke ... more puke than godDAMN parachutes ... finally got over the drop zone, this one kid he wouldn't jump, had to kick him out, hell if I hadn't everyone would've gone into the godDAMN trees ... landed right on the damn edge of the godDAMN drop zone 'cause I was late jumping 'cause I had to kick that grunt's ass out the damned door...

Something like that. I can remember the emotional timbre. Anger. Frustration. Weariness. Glad to be home. Eager to do it again tomorrow.

And then I got a boner.

No reason why. Kids these days just popping boners right and left. Since I was ripening maybe it was an early harbinger of puberty, due in my case to strike two years hence. Maybe just the pressure of my groin grinding into the carpet. Whatever the cause, I c remember enjoying it. Savoring it. Humping the floor, not knowing what those motions presaged.

In a bit I heard Dad laugh. Mom is good at dispelling his weariness.

Presently Dad comes back into the living room. I think I remember stopping my grinding motions. I think. His recliner creaks as he sinks into it. He glances at the TV. "Silas, I know how this one ends."

"I do too, Dad," I say, not wanting to hear him summarize it yet again.

But he refrains. And after a few minutes I glance behind me.

His eyes are closed.

Even then I was into surreptitious Daddy worship. Even then I must've known there was something in my glance that would make him suspicious.

Oh what?

Dust and dried mud cake his boots. More mud and burrs cling to his lower legs. His torso fills his shirt. The sleeves are tight on his biceps. He's got the kind of body which inspires a boy want to grow muscles when he's ripe. He's why I play Little League, why I play football, why I wanted to find a soccer team.

Trek breaks for commercial. Some old lady starts demanding beef. Dad stirs in his chair.

"Son," he says. "Would you rub my back?"

"Sure, Dad," I say, and leap up.

Curious thing: I can't remember if I still had my boner. Scene missing. It I did, and then it was poking the front of my uniform. Did he see it? Was it there to be seen?

HE stands, yawning, stretching. Big sweat stains in his armpits. He unbuttons his shirt, tosses it onto his recliner. Dad's green tee shirt joins it.

Right then and right there, looking at my shirtless, sweaty Dad, I got the same feeling I got in church.

I think -- but maybe I'm conflating the image with what's happening lakeside -- his chest hair was matted to his skin. Probably it was, if he'd been sweating on the C-141. That day he was a younger man, younger than I am now, so his chest hair was darker, more silky and lustrous than the seasoned thatch that decorates him that day at the lake. His nipples drew my eye. Maybe I was conflating his image with that of Mom's. Who knows? I know that day in Kentucky I seethed with energy, the same energy that crackled through me at the lake.

Dad groans softly as he stretches out in front of the TV, sounding like Atlas when that giant put down the burden of the world. His spine pops.

I remember licking my lips.

I'm no longer thinking about Kirk, Spock, and the Doomsday Machine.

I'm thinking about Dad's body. His flesh. Laid out before me just like Mom would be doing in a few minutes with dinner.

Big deltoids. Powerful shoulders. Deep spinal valley. Trim waist. There's a rip in the rear of his fatigues. Left buttcheek. I see boxers. The white burns in my vision like a flare burning in the sky.

Dad folds his arms under his head. "Hop to it, son,' he says gently.

I kneel down next to his torso, crossing my legs Indian-style, and I set to work. I've done this before. I know what Dad likes.

My hands are tiny and insignificant compared to his power, but I knead his flesh like bread. I'm not going to let him intimidate me. My Dad needs my help. He needs what I can offer. And even if it's not much, he's going to get it.

He smelled musky, reeks of dark and mysterious power.

A muffled sound.

"What, Dad?"

"Get down lower," he murmured. "Lower back. You feel good, but I'm hurting down there."

"Umm," I said, "I'm gonna have to sit on you."

He spreads his legs, digs his knees into the carpet, and then pops his butt. "Hop on, son."

It was then I feel weird. Sure I'd massaged Dad before. Both I and my brother performed this service. But something had changed. The boner? Whiffs of puberty? Who knows? I get up. I straddle Dad. And I squat down on his butt.'

Dad and son, butt to butt. That howling you hear in the distance are the psychiatrists, getting it wrong.

His butt felt hard as a stone. But Dad's butt shifted beneath mine, alive, warm, squirming, as he ground his crotch into the carpet.

I looked down at the powerful man below me. Dad's strong back. Tufts of hair escaping his armpits.

Once again I took his flesh in my hands, I rubbed. I felt the tension in his muscles. He was like an antimatter warhead, ready to explode. Palm in his lower back? So I dig my fingers in there, and then I stroke upwards as far as I could reach. Then down again. I felt like a farm plowing a field. Up. ack. Do it again.

He moaned.

I think -- at least I think I thought -- I echoed him.

Because, of course, I was within the eyewall of his musky hurricane. You know how exciting it is to smell a pool when you first walk in? How the air seems to hum with energy, with anticipation? The chlorine odor that you'll later associated with fresh hot jism? You ever picked up a quarterback's jockstrap right after he's won the big game, when his nuts are swollen with triumph and he's out in the backseat of his Camaro, breeding some cheerleader? You remember the first you time ever saw somebody else's cock fire the white lightning, the sauce that makes life?

All these portents washed through a ten year old boy's mind, uncomprehend yet latent.

I ran my fingertips up and down the knobs of Dad's spine. Sweat bloomed on my own body. Down to where his skin emerged from his fatigues. Up -- and if I got up on my knees, rolling forward so my crotch was planted on Dad's butt, I could reach all the way up between Dad's shoulder blades.

Dig into Dad's back. Smile slightly when Dad moans. Fingers down his body, towards his waist, towards my crotch.

Where my boner trembled.

I was hard. Still hard, maybe, but I'm sure he'd gotten me hard again. And horny. A tornado of feeling spun, rooted to my crotch. Yeah I know the psychiatrists say that a ten year old boy's crotch isn't supposed to feel such things to a brain. Well, they weren't there to tell me what was happening shouldn't ever happen.

"Uh, Dad?" The question I was about to ask concerned what was going on with me. With all this stuff that was happening with my dick.

Soft snores. Dad's chest rose easily, and then fell.

Dishes rattled in the kitchen. I heard the tumult that was my brother rushing towards the house. ON the TV, Scotty worked feverishly to beam Kirk back to Enterprise. Trumpets throb dramatically.

I decided my question could wait. It needed privacy to be asked, I knew. Everyone got so weird when you talked about crotches.

I traced, in the cursive letters I'd learned not too long ago, "I love you," on Dad's back.

On the TV the credits rolled. Alien creatures. Alien vistas.

Mom called: "Dinner's ready!"

I poked Dad awake. Dad rose out of sleep. I caressed his back gently as he surfaced. I'd seen him wake with a start. I didn't want him to dislodge me from my perch on his butt.

But I had to get up. I stood. I looked down at him. At his butt. I tugged my shirt over the bulge my dick made in my trousers.

Dad stood. "Thanks, son." He threw an arm round me and tugged me into the kitchen for dinner.

Yep. That was the first time that my Dad ever got me hard. He didn't intend to. Just something that happened. Just his presence did it. His existence did it. I just felt it. I let the moment flow through me. I enjoyed the throbbing like stiffy.

I've heard it said there's an instinctive aversion to incest. This is bullshit. That which makes you horny makes you horny. And if that which makes you horny makes you get a hardon for your Dad --

They say you can't think of Dad that way. I don't know where I learned this. Zeitgeist, anyone? There was never an ABC Afterschool Special dealing with a boy's natural lust for his Dad. Mom never sat me down and said, listen, Silas, I've seen how you look at my husband, and you just shouldn't.

But that was the day I first thought of Dad that way.

It seems we all live our lives submerged in an ocean of insidious poison, a poison invisible, tasteless, odorless, a poisoning of the subconscious.


Something clatters.


I turn.

Dad's tottering on his boulder. He's supporting himself with one hand. He must've stirred out of his slumber and almost fallen. His fishing rod has fallen onto the tackle box next to the cooler...

"Feel asleep," Dad says.

"You're going to get sunburnt," I say. I stand, brushing sand off my butt.

Both of us are already dark from the sun, but the day is furnace-like. Under our golden tone will lurk the raw redness of steamed lobster.

"Anything happening?"

"Not a goddamned thing, Dad."

"Caught anything?" He yawns, shakes his head, and sits upright. One hand grabs the back of his neck. He works his head from side to side.

Looking at his armpit hair, I lick my lips slowly. "Umm. No." I flip wet hair off my forehead. Sure I ought to cut it. But those Euro guys look so hot with it as they streak down the field towards the goal.

"Anything jumping?"

"Ain't seen a damn thing, Dad."

Dad grabs his beer can. He gulps, spits, frowns. "Shit. Hot beer."

"Want another, Dad?"

"Hell yeah, son."

I wedge my rod. Once again I fish another Budweiser out of the cooler, splashing some of the icy water on my chest. My nipples spike up even harder. Harder than my cock.

I hand Dad his beer. Is this how a medieval page boy felt, handing his knight a cup of mead? Did he look up at that powerful man with the same sense of awe, of mystery, that I do with my own Dad?

And lust?

Dad is sitting upright. He takes the beer. And his eyes rake my body. From my own eyes, down to my feet, then up again. Halfway. Pause. He cracks open the Budweiser.

His fatigues are bunched up in his crotch. Dad's bulge is huge.


Often I do evil deeds.

The time? Some fifteen months before the lakeside. Two wars -- the Cold and the Gulf -- had been expensively won. Colonies on the Moon? What the hell are you talking about? The new frontier was the computer, which everyone could use if only they bought that crappy software the Rolling Stones peddle on the TV. Only nerds remembered Ewoks, and disco had replaced Motown on the oldies stations. The current saint-in-chief, not yet impeached, affably played the peacenik. We all ate it up. Perhaps The Human Centipede isn't biography but history.

The music? Well, all that '80s shit was done with. No more corporate glam metal. This stuff meant something. It was real, it was authentic. No artifice, just art.

We lived, by this time, in rural North Carolina. The instant Dad retired he moved us out of grimy Fayetteville into a small village north of Durham. He'd exchanged uniforms for suits. He was often away, down in RTP, arranging security with giant corporations sprouting over that landscape like mushrooms. Mom was an accountant.

North Carolina was home.

I was by this time a practicing sex fiend. Yeah. I knew how hot it felt to plunge my jock cock up tight male butt. I'd learned at an age when the psychiatrists say I should've been irreparably damaged.

If it was so destructive then why did I seek it out?

The first guy was completely wholesome, a deacon from our church.

There I was, trudging him because my crap car wouldn't start, and he picked me up, drove me to his house He gave me a glass of orange juice and then, since he was a bike Nazi, he decided he was going to show me the inherent reliability of bicycle travel. I couldn't look at anything but his sleek ass in his Spandex bike shorts. My eyes betrayed me, and I learned that when the deacon's wife was away the deacon liked to know jocks biblically. And so I came in buckets into the house of God.

After that the dam burst. My friend Jesse, sensing something, just started goggling me cock after some illegal afterschool beer and then, choking on my thick load, stood and bent over and I took what I was really after.

In those days, in a small town, you couldn't be out and proud. I didn't want that. I wanted to fuck. And if you were a hot young jock, hung and sexy, and if you were smart, you could find plenty of guys who'd give it up and let you get what you needed. Who was going to threaten me? I could beat the shut out of anyone who even tried.

They had a soccer team at my high school, and I was on it, and I was king of it.

So the spring before I went off to Carolina I went out drinking with some of my buddies from the team -- Josh and Brent -- and some guys in my senior class -- Samuel, Chris, and Pete. Kent was the guy who could get the beer. We went out to a lonely spot on the banks of the Neuse. Big trees newly green, and cow pastures, and a sapphire sky. We drank and shot the shit.

It was one of those moments when, in retrospect, you know it is a boundary. A time of change. We knew, on some level, that the life we'd known in high school was over. We chugged beer on the river bank, watching the dark water flow on. I remember Pete wanting to build a raft and float down to the sea. Ken reminded him there were swamps at the end of the river, swamps with alligators. Didn't change Pete's mind one bit.

Long after the sun set we broke up and headed home. And, yeah, I was drunk as shit and shouldn't have been driving, but fuck you. I lucked out. No cops. I took back roads.

I pulled up to our house. Very late. Since I played the responsible teen well, no curfew to violate. No one to answer to anyway. The lights were doused.

I got inside. I stumbled on something and dropped my keys. That got our dog curious. She trotted up, a dachshund named Half-dollar, tail wagging. I patted her head and she waddled off to her bed. The cats were next. They're more fun to taunt. I stroked their fur the wrong way, tail to head. They withdrew, reproachful looks aimed my way.

No TV murmuring behind closed door. Everyone was asleep.

I stumbled into the hallway. My right hand sought the wall, helping me trace my path toward my bedroom. Step softly. When the wall suddenly vanished I knew I'd reached the point where it turned towards my parent's door. My bedroom is to the left --

I heard my mother moan.

I froze. Hair on the back of my neck spiked.

I knew what was going on. I knew it. I could feel it. Smell it.

You never really expect moments like that. Even after you learn you were created by the act of fucking, by an act you joke about with your buddies but never when you're doing it, an act you brag about after you've done it -- I've got to swap genders -- and watch on videotape if some guy thinks he needs to get your horny before you fuck him.

Nope. You never expect to hear your parents Doing It.

Mom. Dad. Fucking.

I fell to my knees. I stopped breathing.

I hear them. I listened. Grunts. Moans. Sighs. Wet slurps.

I ripped open my jeans. My cock leaped into the air. No need to shove my Hanes out of the way. My cock did it for me. Shoved my underwear out of the way, like it needed to be free more than anything in the world.

I licked my palm. I fisted my cock. My shaft was greasy with sweat and lust. My crotch-musk burned my nostrils. My cockcheese gleamed, exposed by my retracted foreskin.

Fuck. Compulsion. I'd never ever done anything like this. Never even thought of it. Never dreamed it.

I stared at the door.

The sounds continued, growing in urgency.

In my head I created a porno:



We are looking from the head of the bed towards the foot. DADDY crouches over a dark shape, which we see sprawled beneath him. Two thighs rise on either side of his flanks, which we see are tense as he pulls back...


40 CLOSE UP ON FATHER'S COCK... and we see his ENORMOUS COCK retreating from the hairy V of a well-spread vagina. Pussy fluids ooze round it. The cock ceases moving. Huge testicles the size of grapefruits dangle in the foreground. SOUND OF MOANING over as DADDY barrels his cock in. We watch as two sets of pubic hairs mash together.



On the midsections of DADDY and MOMMY (their faces are out of frame, but we should KNOW that they are clenched in passion) seen in silhouette against the dark room. MOMMY'S legs rise on either side of DADDY; he is deep between them. We watch as DADDY pumps his wife hard. His motions are sure. We are awed by his sexual prowess. Hold this shot for several strokes.



His eyes are closed and his lips are drawn back over his teeth. Sweat plasters his hair to his skull; sweat runs over his face; sweat runs down his chest. We should FEEL his exertion as he fucks. This is the tableaux of the male in his sexual glory, on the precipice of heaven.



We see DADDY'S profile, black against the walls of the room. His head is arched back, his mouth opens, and he MOANS. CAMERA MOVES OVER and we see the back of his head, which bobs as he fucks. CAMERA PANS down his body.



CAMERA PANS down DADDY'S neck. We see the muscled corded in exertion. The moonlight seeping into the rooms shows us droplets of sweat covering his body like a dust of diamonds. We see scraggly dark hair glued to his nape.



We follow DADDY'S spine, traveling down towards his butt. We watch his back undulate as he drives himself deep into the woman beneath him. As we descend past his shoulder blades we can clearly see his armpit hairs. We note DADDY'S V-shaped torso. In action it is so incredible that again we wish we were half the man he is.



As we descend down his back, we first notice the hairs that cluster around the base of his spine. Like all of DADDY'S hair, it's plastered to his body from his exertion. As we CONTINUE, we see at last Daddy's ass. The two halves are big and round as melons; they are deeply dimpled, and they vibrate with the force and power of his fucking. His legs hold MOMMY'S open and as such are slightly spread. We can see his asshole, ringed with hair. Between his legs we see his enormous testicles hanging down onto the sheets; his testicles are so big they make him almost a freak. But this is no freak; this is DADDY, the true stud.



MATCH WITH DADDY'S profile as in 43. Suddenly his lips clench and he begins to spit. The perfect arch in his neck vanishes and he begins to thrash his head around. Sweat sprays from his body. Spit flies from his lips.


Oh shit, I'm coming!


But Dad hadn't cum ... that was just his son's fantasy.

Like an idiot I knelt there in the hallway. Beating off. All-American apple-pie eating jock? That's me. Responsible son, no need for curfew? That's me. Church-going, scrubbed, clean, smiling young teen? That's me.

Bullshit! I was the perfect picture of the demented pervert, the sex fiend who exposes himself, the man who can't control what he's feeling in his groin.

Gotta do it. Gotta do it.

Fuck her, Dad!

Faster and faster.

Fuck Mom! Fuck her!

I listened.

Flesh slurped. Parental flesh, obscene and lascivious... Lips parted. Throats moaned. Balls slapped. Bedsprings squeaked. The sound rose towards a crescendo.

So did I.

Comets! Nova! Photon torpedoes! I spooged like Old Faithful. All that cum came boiling up from the bottom of my balls. There are times, when you cum, when you know you've done it right, when the timing is perfect. When the soccer ball rolls into your path and the goal is clear and your foot is perfectly positioned to kick it where it needs to go. You know that you did it right. That you've emptied your nutsack properly.

When you cum like that ... in moments after that, there's nothing to do but savor the memory of bliss.

I knelt there a few moments more, shuddering.

My jism glistened on the wall. Shit. The stain was the size of a dinner plate. Fuck. I yanked off my shirt and began wiping up the evidence.

I heard the faucet turn on in their bathroom. Yeah. Ablaze with me own orgasm I missed the sound of Dad cumming.

The hallway reeked of bleach. Of my sin.

Half-dollar appeared again, her head cocked inquisitively, tail wagging. She was not there to accuse but love.

I shook my head at her, put a finger across my lips so that she'd know never to even think about what she'd just seen. She was a witness. I've always suspected dogs could read minds. I could trust her, but I couldn't take chances.

And what I've done -- and especially what I've thought ... and pictured -- was something that must never, ever, ever come to light. I knew I had to stay on top of this. It was like a zombie, buried in a coffin, but still struggling and straining and clawing to get out.

I have got to hold it there. Lock it in darkness. Shroud it in nonchalance and camaraderie.

I got another hot nut a few minutes later as I lay in my bed. My door was shut and locked. My jism arced up and fell back on my naked body like huge, smelly raindrops.

I thanked God, Allah, Buddha, and Confucius that I was getting out of our house. Because I knew how dangerous a kid I was. How loathsome a sin I wanted to commit.


"You gonna give me my beer or what, son?"

I think it was the way he said 'son.'

I am frozen, an iceberg lost in a sea of memory.

I sport a hardon. A huge one. Throbbing. Stiff as it got when puberty hit. What to do? Dad's beer sweats cold sweat in my hands, and in my shorts my big cock pulsates like red alert.

I smell him. Dad. It's like being buried in a bin full of jockstraps.

My cock twitches, fighting the cotton that constrains it. No hiding it.

"Shit, boy." Dad grabs the beer from my hand.

I feel his calluses. The hair. We exchange sweat.

Now my nipples are hard.

Dad drinks deep. I watch his throat pulse as he gulps. Maybe half the can in one go? When he's done he belches and whips foam off his lips.

"Shit," Dad says. "I gotta piss."

And with that sibilant word Dad's eyes drop to my crotch.

They linger there.

I've always been able to feel another male's eyes on my cock. I've always felt the sensation of heat when another guy looks at my cock. Now I feel Dad's eyes there. That same heat cooks me there.

Dad looks up at me, and he grins. "'Cause if I don't piss, I'm gonna end up like you, son. Standing tall and proud!" He stands.

That's it. It's out in the open.

A strange feeling comes over me. My Dad has noticed my cock. He's talking about my cock. No! His son's hardon. Whenever does that happen?

Could it mean --?

No. There's no way he could mean what I want him to mean.

Lock it down. Bury it deep.

"Yeah, well," I say sheepishly, "the beer, and --"

Dad grunts. "Shit, you've been drinking as much as me, Silas."

Dad's hairy body, clad only in those fatigue shorts, looms over me. Gotta look. Gotta feast me eyes. His broad shoulders. His heavy pectoral muscles. His tanned skin. His sweaty armpits. He's like a goddamned porn show standing there.

Dad palms his groin. You know the gesture. When a man's gotta piss bad. Yeah. Dad palming that spot. That place I've smelled for years, that place I've wanted to explore.

Goddamn. I want my Dad.

My cock starts leaking. Piss? Precum? Don't know. I feel the wetness ooze. Surely Dad can see the spot spread on my shorts. Surely he's got to know it means ... lust. But I can't tell what he's looking at. I'm looking at all of Dad, the gestalt. Not paying attention to his eyes. Nipples. Chest. Armpits. Biceps. Crotch.

There's so much pressure in my crotch I feel like a bomb on the cusp of an explosion.

What am I? I'm no man. Not like Dad. I'm under no control at all. An obscene caricature. Hard cock throbbing. Balls swollen. Tongue lolling. Staring. Staring. Panting.

"Come on." Dad wades out into the lake. With each step he sinks deeper and deeper into the water. He fumbles at his crotch, unbuttoning his fly. He turns away from the shimmering expanse of the lake and face me. His shorts have fallen partway open. He grins.

I see more of his treasure trail than I've ever seen in all my life.

Is that motherfucker teasing me?

"Come on, son. Don't be shy. I know you need to piss too. You look like it."

My mouth tastes like cotton, like I've just sucked down a lung full of marijuana smoke.

Suddenly I'm fucking terrified. I'm like a man dangling from a cliff, clinging to and pulling on a vine that's tearing loose from the rock. It's like I'm I racing to pull myself up that vine before it rips free and I go screaming into the hungry abyss.

I'm not going to win this, am I?

Hang on? Or let go?

Daddy's fly hangs open.

I see pubic hair. Can't doubt it. Not chest hair. Not belly hair. The hair that grows thick around his -- Dad's -- cock.

Water swirls around my feet as I wade out to join Dad. The lake feels like bathwater. The bottom is slimy with mud but here and there pebbles bite my soles. My bladder strains. I feel pregnant with piss, bloated and heavy.

I stand next to him. We both turn back out to face the lake. I'm staring right at Dad's crotch. Brazenly. Still can't see what I yearn to see. The glory is still draped with shadow and mystery.

I sense his eyes lock onto me. He draws my gaze upward.

I can tell he knows exactly what I was looking at. Light shimmers in Dad's eyes. Light that isn't a reflection of the silvery lake. Not the glinting of sunlight. He knows. Dad knows.

Exactly what I want to see.

Is the motherfucker's playing a game?

"Ready?" His voice is deep. He digs his fingers deep into his crotch.

"Yeah," I croak.

Father and son, our eyes drop to the other's crotch.

I pull my short's elastic band off my stomach --

Dad curls his fingers around something --

I slip my fingers through the tangle of my pubic hair --

Dad hauls something upwards --

I pull my cock free. It rears out of my groin, steaming in the air. Fucking hard. Goddamned fucking hard.

Dad yanks his cock through his gaping fly.

I hook my waistband under my swollen nuts.

Dad spreads his fly wide with his thumbs.

Here we are, two perverts showing off our cocks. Exposing ourselves. A dad. A son. This could only be hotter if we were doing this at home.

We look up at each other. We grin. Yeah. Two perverts. I knew it!

"Nice cock, Dad," I say.

Yeah, I said that. To my own Dad.

This is the vertiginous feeling of letting go, of plunging down the cliff, of letting gravity's inevitability take control.

"Nice cock, son."

Yeah. My Dad really said that. To me. His son. What a rush.

We have identical cocks, Dad and I.

Ten inches. Ten fucking real inches. Not porn inches. Real proud, stiff, goddamned hard, throbbing, horny male inches. Ten motherfucking inches.

Twenty inches between the two of us.

I knew right then why Mom moans.

Our cocks? Fat. Like a forearm.

Nuts the size of lemons, hanging low in our bags.

The difference? I'm uncut. Foreskins partially drawn back over my swollen cockhead. Crusted with cockcheese. Dad? His cockhead gleams, a polished apple.

What a fucking idiot I was. There was never any real mystery about what Dad carried between his thighs. After I ripened I was sporting a carbon copy of my Dad's fat babymaker.

Dad swallows. I bet his mouth is a dry as mine. "Looks familiar." He cocks his head to one side, staring. His expression is the same as my team mates at Carolina, when we shower together after a game. Dad stares at me. His son. The pervert with the fucking big hardon. "You ready? Son?"


"Let's do it."

But I'm not sure I can do it. Who the hell can piss through the hardon I've got? Shit, my urethra's clogged with precum, precum thick as crude oil. The dragonfly returns, circling my shaft. My cock throbs, scaring it off again.

I don't really want to be spilling piss.

I want to be fountaining jism right here, in this hot moment with Dad, for the rest of my life.

I fight my iron hardon, forcing it downwards to aim at the water. So does Dad. Maybe because he's older he doesn't have to fight it like I do.

Two men. Two hardons. Two bladders. One urgent need.

I exhale. I try to empty myself of everything. Everything but the need to piss.

I hear Dad groan.

Pisshole gape.

A high, thin sound escapes me.

My piss burns its way down my urethra. It sprays in a fan of gold out of my cock. Uncontrolled. Amateurish. The hot fluid sizzles on my gripping hand. I feel inept. Like I'm a stupid kid who can't pee.

Then my flow changes from a messy, undisciplined spray to an embarrassing fork of dribbling piss before finally uniting into a single golden shaft.

Yep. That's it. That's how a stud pisses. A worthy companion to the man next to me.

Dad's stream is a solid shaft, a rapier of piss stabbing the lake, churning the glinting water. It sounds like a fire hose. Sunlight flares on his stream. Yeah. Dad's a true cocksman. One sure stream. Simple and elegant. The way a rugged stud pisses. His stream seems endless. It pours on and on, minute after minute. He moans softly as his bladder drains.

I can't take my eyes off the spectacle.

I don't fucking have to, do I? I've entered the neutral zone. What lies ahead?

Dad fixes me with a sly grin.

"Nice equipment there, son. Really nice. Never thought you'd hung like me. You look more like your Mom's kin. Chip off the old block, I guess." He swallows. "You always get hard so easy?"

"Yeah." A brief flash of fear. Shit, I'm a kid confessing to my Dad I get hardons. Then, clarity. So what? Look at this picture, Silas. Yeah, you got a boner. And you're standing next to your Dad, and he's got a fucking huge hardon too. You think he's going to fly off the handle because you just admitted getting hard around guys?

But.... do I want Dad to know I only get hardons around men?

One thing Dad taught me that I've never forgotten. Never lie. It was one of the most difficult lessons I ever learned from him. But that maxim has always profited me. Never forgot it. Why do you think I'm writing this now?

"Yeah," I continue. "Happens a lot." My stream shrivels, diminishes to dribbles, spurts, and then dies. I squeeze a few more drops out. A droplet hangs on the end of my hardon. I let go of my cock and as it rears up the droplet is flung into the lake. Look, Dad. Here's my hardon, undiminished.

How do I feel? Fucking proud. Showing off my cock to my Dad.

I wipe sweat off my nose. My hand smells dank and musky like my groin.

"Yeah, son. Happens to me too. Shit!" Dad's piss gushes relentlessly. Islands of foam drift in the lake round his legs. Sweet beads on his nose, dripping onto his chest. I see sweat like grains of a broken mirror glittering in his pubic hair. "Man. Been saving this piss for fucking ever." But his flood diminishes. The long straight shaft of piss falls into an arc as the pressure in his bladder decreases. It turns into a stream of droplets. Then it's gone. Just like me one drop of piss hangs there on his cockhead.

The water is yellowish. You can smell urine. Dad and I have marked out territory.

"Yeah, well, Dad, you were putting the beer away."

Just like me Dad releases his cock. That droplet of piss arcs across. It splatters hot and slimy on my belly. His hardon rears up, just like mine.

An erect father. Babymaker in the mood to breed?

Mine is.

"Pretty damn impressive," I say. I lift my hardon to a higher angle. I want Dad to see it all. From my cheesy cockhead all the way down to my swollen balls, hanging low in my sweaty sack.

Dad matches my gesture. He shows me every inch of his hardon. His huge cockhead. The fat urethra. The wiry nest of pubes. I sweat they crawl halfway up Dad's shaft. Those nuts. Dad's nuts. Big as mine. Now I know why those guys I fuck always kneel and pay reverence to my equipment.

Dad smirks. "Your Mom likes it. Couple of others too." Hastily he swallows. "Before. You know."

"Yeah, Dad. I betcha that thing's done some good work." Very slowly I move my cockhead around in a circle. Dad's eyes never leave it as it moves. He's a hypnotized by this massive male display as me.

Damn. My cock has my father's full attention.

I realize I'm breathing deep. The way I do when I anticipate a soccer match. Slow, regular. . Sperm, thick like soup, churns in my nuts. Just so the moment doesn't slip away I pull back my foreskin. My cockhead gleams, angry, red, flecked with smegma. Shit! The smell even blots out the odor of Dad's armpits, Dad's groin, Dad's piss.

Heh. Have a taste of your son's power, Dad.

"Well, son, we've both got hardons we're fucking proud of." A sly look. "You know what I've been doing with mine. Where do you put yours?"

Yeah, this is it.

Drops of sweat trickling from my armpits counted second after second.

I felt squeezed in a vice.

What was the question Dad asked me?

Where do you put yours?

Never lie.

"I-- I got friends," I murmur. "Some ... guys on my team. At Carolina. Some of 'em ... a lot of 'em really groove on my meat."

More sweat trickles. From both of us.

"Guys?" Dad draws the word out, as if considering what it meant. "What do they like best about it? Size? Thickness? We got a lot of guys beat, you and me, son."

"What's Mom like about yours, Dad?"

"I asked first, Silas. What do your buddies like about your cock?"

I shrug. "They just get off on it. The Monster. You know Jason?"

"I know Jason."

"That's what he calls it. Hell, he held up a Code can next to it to see which was thicker. I guess most of 'em like how thick it is. Really opens them up, you know?" I let my foreskin slide over my cockhead, and then pull it back. "A lot of 'em are into my 'skin, Dad. A lot of 'em don't have any, Dad. Clipped. Most never even seen 'skin." I laugh. "They read about it in Bible study, that's all. Hell, there's a couple of them that like to clean off my cheese."

"They wash you?"

"They lick me."

A slow grin spreads across Dad's face. He's like a man who's just bitten into a fruit of dubious appearance but discovers it's frighteningly sweet. His hand shifts on his cock. The scar where his foreskin was cut moves stretches. "So," he says, "is what they say is true?"

"What do they say?"

"That guys know how to do it better?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Back when I was a kid. A private back in boot."

"Yeah, well, Dad, I can't really compare. Never done it with a girl. Guys are pretty fucking hot, though."

Dad's pleasuring himself. Openly. Shamelessly. He's not pretending to be just holding a hardon. He's jacking off in front of me. He's jerking it with short, almost imperceptible strokes round the base of his cock. That whole titanic shaft quivers with the motion. He's the battleground of an internal war: the need to breed versus the fear of what's his son's thinking.

His son licks his lips.

"Does he just ... do the guys ... just blow you?"

I hawk up a big load of spit into my palm and start slow-motioning on my shaft. Fuck it's good. "No, Dad. I fuck 'em. In. The. Butt."

"You fuck 'em?" he whispers. He spits into his palm too and joins his jock son in an offshore stroke off.

"Yeah, I fuck 'em. I fuck 'em good. I put it in them. They squeal 'cause they love it."

"Jesse," Dad murmurs.

You know a bit about him. I fucked him back in high school. I've fucked him this summer too. He looks fucking hot shirtless, wearing running shorts. Slim and streamlined. A slender blond guy, tight muscles, tight ass.

"Jesse ...did you ever put your cock up him?" He licks his lips.

"Yean, Dad. Wore his ring like a fuckin' trophy!" My balls are sucked up tight beneath my shaft. Locked and loaded. "Yeah, Jesse's a nympho, Dad. After I got in the first time he never could keep his legs closed when he was me. In PE, when we lined up, he always got in front of me, and he pulled down his shorts, so I could see the top of his crack. He'd spread his legs and push his butt back at me just a bit. You wouldn't know it unless you'd been in there, Dad."

"You ever fuck him at the house?" He strokes grow frantic. His voice tremulous.

"I fucked him till my jizz ran out of his nose, Dad. Back in high school used to cut these wet farts, Dad, and I knew it was me. My load dropping into his Jockeys."

"Jockeys," Dad murmurs, jacking faster.

"I fucked him last week. You and Mom had gone out --"

He swallows. "Ever had a girl?"

"Not yet. Maybe not ever."

"You ought to try it," says Dad. His strokes slow down as he draws back from some threshold he's afraid to cross. "I'll show you the ropes sometime."

"Yeah, well, I might just do that. But I'm always gonna get off on guys, Dad."

"Yeah, son, I bet you will. But you should always try something different."

I recognize Dad's handed me an opportunity.

It's like I'd been imprisoned beneath transparent bricks, blinded by distorted refractions, and then suddenly a single brick shift, and they all fall into place, and the refractions are gone.

Everything is clear.

I know exactly what I'm about to say. And I'm not afraid of saying those words. It's like God wrote the script. And maybe He did. Who knows what perversions unseen entities have encoded into our genes? Sometimes I think the universe is just a porn show for divinity.

But I'm afraid that when I say those words my cum will erupt so high it'll sizzle on the sun.

"You ever ... try something different, Dad?" I grin. Triumphantly.

Dad freezes. His hand grips his shaft but doesn't move. He's squeezing. His shaft throbs. He chokes.

Silence. Sweat drips.

"You want to, don't you?" No longer do I merely think evil thoughts. I propose them. No reason to hold back now. I'm far across the neutral zone, deep in the Forbidden Zone, and no cloaking device can undo what I've said. I'm blazing hot inside. Things hidden for years blaze forth. "Do you want to, Dad?"

Dad's hair-coated hand travels ever so slowly up his shaft. Fingers tickle his cockhead. He's leaking a long strand of precum. He smears it on his flesh. He draws his fist down the base, pulling up tight against his groin, that huge tuft of hair almost hiding his hand.

He clears his throat.

Out sweat counts the seconds.

"You ever let ... let a man ... fuck you, son?"

Another length of precum wriggles from his cockhead. Sways there. Breaks free. Falls like a meteor into the lake.

Now I clear my throat.

"Guys want to, Dad. Jason wants to. Eric wants to. Real bad, too." I reflect a moment while our shared excitement crescendos. "Yeah, they even licked my butt, Dad. But I didn't let 'em fuck me."


"Guy I on the team. I've seen him in the showers. "


"Yep. They're OK, I guess. But if I'm gonna get fucked, it's gonna be by a guy with a cock my size." I swallow. "Or bigger."

I watch Dad close his eyes. The book of emotions that I've read for so long is now shut. Mysterious expressions march across his face. What images does his fevered consciousness project on the throbbing crimson screen of his eyelids?

What was going on in his head when I was a toddler and he was a young Daddy who liked to bathe his son?

What did he feel -- and where did he feel it -- when he asked his boy to rub his boss male body?

Right now? What do you feel right now, Dad?

Suddenly Dad's cutoffs drop into the lake.

His cock juts like a megalith, ancient, proud, permanent.

Dad is naked.

Swollen testicles, full of boiling Daddycum, shift in his pendulous sack.

His pisshole open and emits an opalescent, liquid crystal.

Sweat courses over Dad's muscled flesh.

He barks the words:

"Am I big enough for you, boy?"

"You wanna fuck me, Dad?"

You ever been stoned? Remember the first time? That feeling? Like being a balloon lost in the clouds, soaring ever higher, destination unknown, everything possible, and nothing forbidden?

"I asked you if it's big enough."

"Yeah, Dad," I say. "Fuck yeah. It's big enough."

He jabs a finger down at the lake. You can't mistake the meaning.

I kneel. Before my father I kneel.

He strikes towards me. Water churns on his legs. His cock sways from side to side like a metronome. His cockhead burns before my eyes. Nasty. Greasy. Sweaty.


The shaft through which I was once spewed shadows my face. The cockhead that was my last, prenatal sexual contact with my father is right there. Right where I need it.

"Blow me, Silas," Dad commands. "Lick me, son. Lick your Daddy there. Where it's nasty."

I hack up phlegm out of my throat. I lick my lips.

I can smell him. Must. Crotch musk. From my Dad.

My blood burns for him. For my Dad.

I sweat I'm about to blow to smithereens.

His eyes stare down at me, cold and hungry. His entire body is a vortex to Power. He is a Dad. He commands. I am a Son. I obey.

So I lick.

The slime I slurp off Dad's cockhead is thick and oily. It is pungent.

Yeah. You remember that odor I smelled when I was a toddler? Yeah. Dad's cock. This stuff. This stuff I'm lapping right now. My Dad. He wants to breed. My Dad wants to breed me.

Each lick of my tongue on Dad's cock makes that huge organ jump, leap higher and higher, seeking the heavens, so if I'm going to enjoy it -- and damn right I'm going to enjoy it -- I've got to tame the thing. I have to grab it was both hands and hold that motherfucker steady. I lash it with my tongue.

"Yeah," Dad croons. "Good boy. Lick it real quick, yeah, like a puppy. Yeah. More. Just on the head. Now ... slow down a bit. Yeah. Just like that. Go easy. You make your old man hot, son. You've always made me hot."

I feel Dad's heart throbbing, resonating through his powerful body and through his shaft, against my tongue. Our hearts pulse in synch with one another, locked together by our unspeakable lust.

"Suck it, boy. Suck Daddy."

I fight his shaft down to the horizontal. It's like trying to bend rebar. I sight along it, just as if it were a rifle, right down to his crotch. It's as if I was peering out of Mom's vagina just as Dad was about to plunge inside and breed her. Wow. This is what I'd see, if I were present at the creation of my own universe.

"Suck me, son. Suck Daddy's cock. Come on." His hand clasps the back of my head. "Blow me, kid."

I open wide. And I engulf him.

Am I dreaming?

Have I passed out?

Has my consciousness expanded?

What the hell has happened here?

Half of Dad's shaft is lodge in my throat. His stomach is taut. His head arches back, his mouth open in a silent scream. Maybe a prayer of thanks to the perverted deities? Dad's legs are spread and his balls sway back and forth as if he's jabbed his fucker deep into me.

The joining of son to Dad is natural, unconscious, something ordained, like an acorn that buds to become an oak.

Dad's oily slime trickles down my throat. He whips his cock back. It almost burns my grasping hands.

I hear low moan begin in his body and I recognize them. I make the same sound, too, right before I cum. I frig him. Yeah, Dad. Do it!

Suddenly my mouth is full of jism.

Fucking awesome. I've got a mouthful of my father's seed. The stuff from which I'm made. I hear him keening. His voice sounds distant, like an eagle crying from above the clouds, triumphant.

Dad's gusher pulses ever on and on. Before I realize it my cheeks bulge. Suddenly my mouth isn't big enough to hold what's streaming out of Dad's cock, and Dad's load bursts from the corners of my lips, drooling down my chin.

I swear I feel the tails of individual sperm cells thrash against my gums, thrashing wildly as if they're trapped in an eternal orgasm.

I taste multiple flavors in Dad's semen. Piquant richness of sperm, like a spicy stew, thick as motor oil. Powerful. That flavor rides the egg-white smoothness of his precum. The musky tang of sebaceous secretions. Trace of beer: his piss. Urine, yeah, the ultimate spice.

My heart' hammers crazily. I got my Dad's cum in my mouth. How many sons can say that?

Hell, by that time his incestuous lust has slimed my chest.

As he shoots I realize what a fool I'm being. I'm wasting what he's giving me. So I swallow, but that's not enough. I slurp. I gulp. But there's so much! More and more of Dad's cum blasts into my mouth. So thick, so rich with his little breeders I feel like I'm trying to chug Elmer's glue. It's thick, and there are clumps like cottage cheese that must be where sperm cells have tangled themselves into an orgy of self-lust.

When he's done I nurse on Dad's cockhead. Sometimes, you know, you want to draw out the present moment into the future, kind of like it was a long strand of precum. Dad isn't overly sensitive. He let me, chest heaving. Then I release him from my mouth, belch loudly, and wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

His arms fall to his side and he heaves a sigh to end all sighs.

"Shit, boy!" Dad shakes his head. "Shit!"

"That was something, Dad." I look up at him, sheepishly. Semen bedews my face. My nipples struggle to keep above the flood of Dad's sperm which leaked from my mouth and oozed down my chest. My pectoral muscles gleam, anointed by cum and sweat. That thick ooze mats my pubic thatch, just like it gets after a long, hard game with the guys.

I burp again. "About a cup," I murmur.

"Shit," he says. "Really?"

"Yeah, Dad. Really."

"Shit," he drawls.

"Yeah," I say. "So you like ... different stuff, yeah?"

"That was ... yeah, son, I liked it."

"Yeah, Dad. You liked it when your boy blew you, didn't you?"

He motions me to stand. His dutiful son, streaked with his jism, I obey. My shorts drop into the lake. They float there on the shimmering surface, sinking into the piss-enriched water.

I've discovered a new world, a new Eden. Me and Dad. We're naked together. And we're boned. Only Mother Nature watches and she doesn't give a rat's ass.

He looks me right in my eyes, as deadly serious as he's ever been with me. "I tried to hold back. I didn't want to cum, Silas. I wanted to wait. I wanted it to be right, you know? You're sexy. I can see it when you walk. I wanted to show off for you. But. Your. Lips. Boy ... I lost it."

I thrust my throbbing cock at him. His musk draws closer. "Goddamn you make me hot, Dad."

The same steely, serious gaze. "I wanna fuck you, son."

"Yeah? Do you, Dad?"

"Fuck yeah, Silas." He thrusts his groin forward. "Big enough?"

"Yeah, Dad, it is."

He reaches out and touches my flank. Like a cowboy to a new colt, maybe, but I'm not at all skittish. Hell no. Heart's pounding just like I've played a match, and my stomach churns, and I feel like a balloon some kid's lost in a windstorm and I'm being swept over landscapes I can barely perceive. New adventure in blurry chaos.

Then Dad seizes my hip. He pulls me to him. Chest to chest. Thigh to thigh. Soncock to daddycock. His eyes blaze with unquenchable lust.

In all the visions I've had of Dad and me -- all those times I lay on my sweat soaked sheets, my cock shrinking, my chest slimed with my sin -- I never pictured Dad kissing me.

When Dad's lips touched mine - ... too intensely to put into words. Yeah, it was like walking on the Moon ... or maybe even better than that first time when I jazzed a church deacon's butt. You just had to be there to know what it was, how it felt. You have to kiss your own father to know exactly what I felt.

Here's the picture: Dad and son, locking lips by the lake shore, cocks crossed like rapiers in a duel where surrender meant pleasure and victory meant pleasure. Neither one of us could lose.

Open mouthed. Open eyed. Close embrace. We know what we are doing. We are kissing, father and son, incestuously. Passionately.

My orgasm strikes like lightning from a clear sky.

I moan into Dad's mouth and gush. Instant transition. It is nothing like his awesome blast. A mere Mt. St. Helens to Dad's Krakatoa. I slime Dad with my cum, gasping and writhing. Clots of my babyjuice douse his belly hair and slither down to hang from Dad's balls hang. Elongated teardrops of jism, pearls of spider silk, swaying there as I gurgle and cum.

Gently his tongue roams my mouth while I recover.

"Sexy boy," Dad growls softly. His hands slide down my back, coming to rest just above my butt.

I lay my cheek on his shoulder. I arch my back. I spread my legs. I sigh. Horny. Son in heat.

Son wants to be Dad's bitch.

I look up at him. He's earnest. Serious. Grave. Dad's hand slides onto my butt. He cups the muscle, hefting it. I feel his cock leaping against my torso. His fingers roam over my ass. Exploring. Touching something he's only been able to look at. He squeezes.

"You got a hard ass, boy."

I shiver.

His fingers plunge into my crack. Moving south, ever south.

I bite my lip. I whimper.

He pauses, grinning at me. Sweat trickles through his stubble.

"Quit teasing, Dad."

Dad finds my pucker, lightly ringed with hair. Gently Dad's finger circles the hole. Wow. He's actually touching me there. The place where I've wanted my Dad to put his cock. It's not as if I've never felt anything there. Yeah, I get the guys to eat my butt. If they want my cock they gotta start at the bottom. And yeah, I like feeling a tongue there. There's a sick decadence to it. When they lick my asshole like a garden slug, slimy and loathsome, is trying to fuck me, and it makes my skin tingle.

But Dad's finger makes me moan.

He teases me, the motherfucking bastard.

As Dad's finger circles my pucker I tingle the way I did when he washed me in that tub. My cock throbbed the way I did when I massaged him. My asshole yawns at him the way Mom's cunt did when I listened to him fuck her.

"Fuckin' Christ, Dad, finger my butt!"

Entry is forceful. Rough. Dad's not gentle. He's a man. I'm his boy. He can give it. And, in order to be a man, I've got to learn to take it.

It burns, maybe from the sweat, but it needed that painful fire. Though journalists like to whine about forest fires, there are types of trees which need those blazes to survive. To clear out the undergrowth. To allow them, in the arboreal sense, to breed.

I grunted as he probed.

"You OK, boy?"

"Yeah, Dad." I twist my butt, showing Dad how eager I am for the sensation.

Softly. "It's tight up there."


"Yeah," Dad says. "But it wants me, don't it?"

I nod. My right hand finds his cock. I squeeze it. "So does this."

"You sure it's big enough for you, boy?" Softly Dad chuckles, probing, digging, exploring where no man has gone before.

"Huge, Dad. It's huge. I bet you'll split me open."

"Yeah, Silas, you'd like that, wouldn't you? You need my cock, don't you?"

"Yeah, Dad, I need your cock. More than anything!" I pull away. The hell with this! The hell with playing. Fuck it all. Let's do it!

The lake water splashes and sprays as I slog towards the shore. I stop, right beside the cooler with the beer that's enabled this moment, my left foot planted beside Dad's pack.

I look over my shoulder. Just like Jesse does when he wants me. When his blond bangs cascade into his eyes, and his whole body is an ideogram that means 'fuck me.' I don that pose, that expression, for Dad.

Dad strides out of the lake towards me, his powerful legs churning through the water, his giant cock rigid, quivering, his fat nuts swaying.

Yeah. Shit. It's happening. Goddamn.

I turn away. Look at my butt, Dad. Look at my horny, virgin butt! I bend forward. My long hair cascades over my forehead. I present to him, to my Dad, mare to stallion, spreading my buttcheeks, showing him the cunt he'll soon breed.

My cunt.

His son's cunt.

Make no mistake: when you do it with your Dad, it's a cunt, not a butthole.

Looking back at Dad between my spread thighs I watch his eyes appreciate my body. Appraise me. Lust for me. Watch him approach. Watch his tongue emerge, slither over his lips. Watch the precum begin again. Watch his fists clench, release, clench again. Watch his pectoral jump. Watch the energy electrify his body.

He wants it more than I do.

He spits.

"You're hot, Silas. You're hot. You're a bitch. You're the bitch I'm gonna fuck. You hear me, son? You're Daddy's whore."

I've always pictured us -- when I allowed my mind to explore those paths -- in a certain position. And since it seems that the unreal has erupted into the real world, let's make it come true. I crouch like a quarterback, planting my right fist on the shore, squatting, resting my left forearm on my left thigh. I stare straight ahead, as if I'm about to hike the ball.

Sure, this is questionable. Will I be able to stand up to Dad's pounding? But I'm not really thinking things through. This is a moment of feeling and sensation. Rationality and ethics create the fear of incest. This moment embodies the opposite.

The only thing I care about is that my Dad can get his monster cock into my cherry ass.

He's behind me. I feel his shadow. I purse my hole at him.

A moment of sweat and power, of thundering hearts and throbbing cocks, and a boy's butt that needs to be bred, and a Dad's nutsack boiling with seed.

I whimper. This is it.

I remember the first time Jesse took my rod. How he hollered. How he'd begged for me to take it out. How he'd screamed for mercy ... then simply screamed. Then just ... sobbed. Then fell silent. Then ... moaned, and arched his back, and bucked, and whooped, and rode my thrusting cock. And never looked back.

Got to remember that moment.

Dad strokes my hole the way a new father might greet his firstborn. Anticipation shivers up my spine. His other hand comes to rest on my right buttcheek. His thumb caresses me. My ass quivers.

"Finally," Dad breathes.

Let this moment freeze in my recollection:

The shimmering heat. The molten lake. The trees, guardians of secret lust, facilitators of monstrous passion. The sullen sun. The deserted sky.

Me. And Dad. And out lust.

Once again his finger slides over my hole. Marveling? There's no hymen to shatter. Just barriers of falseness, imprecations of madmen controlled utterly by their need to moralize. The false walls erected between two males who want to rut one with the other.

My consciousness, my world, my universe shrinks down to a blazing kernel. Nothing but lust. Desire for cock. Dad's cock.

I burn to feel his cock inside me.

"Come on, you bastard," I croak through a parched throat. "Do it!" And then, when I feel the broad pressure of his cockhead on my hole, "Yeah! Fuck yeah, Dad!"

His left hand grips my hip. Not that I'm going to try to escape. Nope, don't care about the pain. I want what Dad's got swinging between his legs. I want him to put the tool that made me into me. I don't give a fuck about the pain I'm about to endure. I've inflicted it. I've seen it. I know I can ride it out.

"Shit, Dad," I moan, "I want you so goddamned bad!"

He spits. For a brief moment his cock leaves my hole while he slathers himself. Another spit. More soft slurping sounds.

"Fuck, Silas," Dad says quietly. "Fuck!"

Dad's cock presses against me, slick now. Both hands grip me. He's mounted me. Yeah, he's ready to ride, stallion on colt. My own cock? Out of control. Slapping against my belly, slinging precum while my balls, slung low between my thighs, ooze sweat and male funk.

His fingers dig in. "Ready?"

"Yeah, Dad."

"Take it, son!"

Bam! Dad's cock punctures me.

"Take your Daddy's cock!"

He's just like me. He's not gentle at all. He takes, and he rules.

Does it hurt? Hell, yes, it hurt. Bastard's got a dong thick like an arm. No lube, just spit and sweat. A cherry ring.

Yeah, I holler. Birds explode, started, from the pines when Dad pierced me. Searing. You know how steak sounds on the grill? Think of that and you'll feel how my butt felt when Dad jammed his cock up there. You ever look at a sausage and noticed how tight the skin is stretched over too much meat? Makes you wonder if it might burst if you touch it, doesn't it? Yeah, well, my Dad made my colon feel like that.

"Yeah," he growls. "It hurts, don't it?"

"Fuck yeah, Dad, you're killing me ..."

"What hurts?" Dad demands. "What's hurting you, Silas?" His fingers, trembling with power, dig into me.

"Your cock, Dad!"

"Groan, boy," he snarls. "Yeah. I got a big cock. Just like you."

My Dad's fucking me. Finally fucking me. Searing pain blazes and I glory in it. It's like we're doing something foreordained since the universe was made by the blossoming flame of God's cosmic orgasm.

"Open up!"

No matter what the cost, I have to obey Dad. I groan. I twist. I bloat. Inch after inch sinks in. Dad fills me majestically.

"Sliding home, son. Daddy's sliding home!"

His advance is slow but relentless. Inevitable, even pitiless. When I bent over, I consented to Dad's sexual assault.

I don't know how much of Dad's cock he got in me when I think he senses some hint of incipient rebellion within me.

"Don't even try it." Dad's hold tightens. "You're not going nowhere. Just try and get away. Call me a rapist. There's no jury nowhere that'll convict me, Silas. I'll strip off your pants in the courtroom and make you bend over for 'em. In your Jockeys. They'll know why I did this. No. Escape!"

Dad's lust throbs, burns, advances ever deeper into my guts. The pain crescendos and I know it's the pain that Dad senses as resistance. Can I show him? Can I show him that the rational part of mind, the conscious part, wants this? Wants his cock? Wants to ride it out?

Yeah. It's easy. I lunge backwards.

One long, smooth stroke and he's in. A sigh escapes him.

He's embedded. My colon bloats around his rod. I can feel the blood in me pulsing against Dad's shaft.

"Oh, God, Silas," Dad moans.

"Holy fucking Christ, Dad!" My eyes are shut to keep the tears from leaking down my face.

This is the picture: father and son, rigid rod violating clutching ass.

For the first time in my life a man's pubic hair scours my buttcrack. My Dad's pubic hair. My buttcrack.

This is what a pageboy really felt like when he bore to his knight the sword Excalibur: submission to the divine creative power.

It makes me squirm. The squirming makes the pain abate.

"Move that thing, Dad," I beg.

"You like it, son?"


"Shit. I sweat if I move I'll blow you off my cock."

So I'll show him how much I need this.

Slowly I twist my hips. Flesh slurps against flesh. If you were there you couldn't see it, that intimate connection, but we felt it. And shit was it something. Yeah, I know what it feels like to have a tight rectum speared on my shaft. But this was something fucking different. Your goal, when you fuck a guy, is to satisfy yourself. But to get fucked? Hell, that's to be made hungry. A vessel that needs filling.

And when your Dad's fucking you? To learn the meaning of 'insatiable.'

Sweat dripping for our noses marks time as Dad and I stand there, coupled.

"Dad," I beg. My balls churn. My ring squeezes his shaft.

Dad's reached his breaking point. "Be your Dad's bitch, boy!"

Dad's ten inch cock slithers out of me. Down my chute. My bruised flesh closes up behind it. The engorged ring of his corona sinking lower and lower. I'm being emptied. It's the loneliest feeling I've ever felt. I don't want Dad's cock to escape. A primitive instinct orders my butthole to squeeze. Don't take it out. Don't. Please.

"Shit, boy, do it!"

I squeeze again. "You like it?"

His cockhead lodges just inside my hole. His shaft is widest there. I feel like I'm about to split.

"Feel good, Dad?" I grunt.

"Yeah, Silas. It hurt much?"

"Not. Really."

"I thought I hurt you." His hand caresses my hair. "I tried to stop. But I couldn't."

I thrust my butt down his shaft. "I got have you dick, Dad."

"Yeah, Silas, I can tell" he says slowly, as if, maybe, he's realizing that this isn't going to be a one-off thing. "I want to give it to you, son."

His cockhead glows in my consciousness. I feel the livid heat in my guts. Pressure intensifies as we join again. His wiry groin scours my butt. His fat nuts sway against mine. I got a glowing iron bar jammed into my guts.

"Let's move, son!"

"Fuck me, Dad!"

Rapid stroke. Out. In. Quick. Lightning. Merciless. Cruel. Hungry. Air explodes from my lungs every time Dad thrusts into my butt. Know what it's like to be pounded by a pneumatic hammer? I do. If your Dad is that pneumatic hammer it's fucking awesome.

Dad pounds me so hard I'd tumble forward if it wasn't for his hands anchored to my hips, yanking my body back, using me to slake his lust.

And my cock? It stayed hard all through that raw penetration, and it still is hard, vibrates in harmony with the force of Dad's lust. Strands of precum slither out. They lay webbed on the shore, strands of silk dissolving as each droplet of my sweat rains.

Dad's heavy sack punches my nuts from behind. Damn. My Dad's big bull balls, full of babyjuice. Babyjuice he's gonna spew into his son. As one we start to keen and growl like tomcats fucking in the alley. Goddamn, each thrust makes me hungry for more. Shit, this man needs to fuck me twenty-four by seven.

Let this motions obliterate all thought. Live in the rut. Feel nothing but cock -- Dad's cock -- rearing a plunging in my guts. I want nothing more than a life bent over in front of Dad, riding his cock while my heads lolls and my tongues hangs out and my back arches and my butt thrusts and I mate with my Dad.

No pain. Not even its ghost. It evaporated, turned in a fogbank of pleasure. What we do is right.

Those strokes Dad inflicts upon me do things I couldn't imagine. My prostate swell up to the size of an orange. Pleasure, motherfucker, pleasure. It flashes through me as exciting and dangerous as a thunderstorm. Was it like this for Jesse? Did that hot blond slut feel this way when I bred him? Hell no he can't. I'm not his Dad.

Piston churns. Balls sway. Flesh pleasures flesh. Dad fucks son. Our muscles bleed through our flesh. We've got to maintain this posture, this motion. This is the highway to bliss. This is not the time to deviate; this is the time to be deviant.

I sense a change. A surge of urgency. A new timbre to the song we make. The beat quickens. Pounding. Dad's shaft is iron. Titanium. Adamantium. Air farts from my hole around Dad's cock.

Ah shit. Ah shit. Goddamn it. It's coming.

Dad growls. Fierce. Deep. Terrible. You'd think a monster was mounted on me. His fingers dig into me. I swear to God he digs them in down to the bone.

Just hold it. Just hold it here. Ride it out. Take it. This is for Dad.

Dad's moment arrives. This is how it transpires:

Cock yanked down. Corona holds my ring open.

A snarl. Shower of spit sprays my back.

Thrust inside.

A roar.

Crotch rams into my buttcheeks.

His nuts collide with mine.

Thunder exploding in my ear. The ground quakes.

I shut my eyes.

I am about to be bred.

In the dank depths of my guts Dad's pisshole gapes.


It gushes into me, a fire hose of hot gravy, steaming, potent, and powerful. Maker of life and of sons with kinky desires.

The son? Me, Silas? The son's not what this moment is about. I mean, there's a father doing what he's meant to do: breeding. I'm here to take Dad's load.

And goddamn what a load. What a fucking stud my Dad is.

As Dad's cock pulses inside me he pulls my body into his. I feel his chest hair, his belly hair, his crotch hair, and his muscles against my sweaty tanned skin. I smell his funk, the odor of man given utterly over to the act of breeding. Seeding. Creating.

His cock pumps. Erupts. Jets. My Dad's a stud. Fuck yeah! He's making me feel what he can shoot. And shit, it's even more than what he put in my mouth. Shit. I can feel the weight of his load bloating my chute. You measure Dad's ejaculate in pounds, in gallons. At the sperm bank they'd give him an aquarium to fill. Maybe two.

He roars. He screams. He cums.

I am dimly aware that my own dick begins spewing. Awesome, man, awesome. Yet as fucking hot as a good ball-blaster of a cum as it was, it was still nothing compared to the feeling of my Dad's babyjuice gushing up my asshole. My orgasm is of secondary importance. The only thing that matters to me is the tall, strong man inbreeding with me.

When Dad's done a few moments pass while. We stay joined, savoring the connection. The forbidden afterglow of incest. Together we pant. He leans on me, needing my support to keep from toppling. I bear Dad's weight gladly, grateful for the gift churning like soup in my guts.

"Shit." Sweat drips. "Holy fucking shit."

"Yeah, Dad," I say. "Holy fucking shit."

Dad's cock slackens inside me. Still engorged, though. It feels buoyant in that ocean of semen he injected into me. Neither one of us wants to disengage.

"Turn your head, Silas."

I obey. His face is right there. The stubble. The sweaty hair. A look in his eyes that I've never seen before.

"Kiss me."

Liquid bliss trickles over us while our souls commune.

I feel him stiffen. Our tongues duel. Dad's cock grows harder and harder in my butt.

Dad breaks the kiss. His eyes bore into me. He starts to speak, falters, regroups and spits it out. "I love you son."

My heart quickens. "I love you, Dad." I squeeze my ring on his shaft. Once. Twice. Three times. "Do it some more, Dad."

He hunches at me. His cock moves. I moan, turn my face away, and let my head drop. Wet hair cascades over me.

"You still need it, don't you, Silas?"

"Yeah. I'm always going to need it." I kick my legs open wider, arch my back, and peer over my shoulder at him. "Fuck me, Dad. Good and hard."

Our slick bodies rut against each other. And we commence to longest, multi-orgasmic father/son fuck in the history of the human race.

This new planet, this place where fathers and sons couple shamelessly? I like it. And so does Dad...


After our third orgasm -- after Dad put yet another huge load of his babyjuice in my guts -- I hear the noise. A guffaw.

We're still fucking. Dad's sawing away at me. Long ten inch strokes. Neither one of us is really conscious. We're living in our sensations, the feeling of doing what we've both so wanted to do. So that guffaw, rude and crude, doesn't penetrate. What does shit like that matter? Hell, man I'm feeling my father's cum gush down my thighs!

That guffaw.

I can't turn round. That'd be stupid. I might separate from Dad. No way I'm going to do that. There's more juice is my stud Dad's nuts, and I'm gonna take it. But what the fuck? Dad's muscled bulk, still mounted on me, blocks my view of where I know that raucous sound comes from.

Problem solved. I bend down and I look back between our legs.

The bass boat, drifting in the wind, came round the nearby point unheard. And I suppose the three rednecks aboard were probably shitfaced. So maybe they hadn't really noticed us until they were close.

They can definitely see now. They're not seventy feet away.

The guy sitting in the chair in the bow points right at me and Dad. The guy squatting in the well amidships and the other one seated by the big outboard motor stare slack-jawed. These two might be brothers. Young, built, blond.

The dude in the bow hollers: "Yeah, stud, pound that bitch! Show her who's the man!"

Fucking dumbass rednecks. They think Dad's got himself a woman. They can't see much of me. Slim. Smooth. Long blond hair. But my sign can't part throbs hard against my belly and Dad's big balls block sight of mine.

Dad, a real stud, doesn't even miss a stroke. He's blissed out in my ass.

"Do 'er, bud! Get that cunt!"

The whistling and catcalls intensify as me and Dad fuck. I stare back between our legs. They're not bad looking guys. Yeah, I can picture them bent over, speared on my dick. The one in the well has his shirt open, displaying tanned, smooth chest, nicely muscled. His companions are shirtless. They look like the kind of guys who play basketball in each other's driveways.

"Hell, he ain't embarrassed! Bone her, Dad!"

The raucous boat drifts closer and closer. Dad grunts softly, fucking away.

"You hear 'em, Dad?" I whisper.

"Yep," he says. "Don't give a fuck about 'em, son. A Dad's gotta do what a Dad's gotta do."

"Wanna raise a little hell?" I squeeze my butt on his shaft.

"Like what?"

I grab my steely and bend it downwards. So that ten inches of hard male meat pulsates between my thighs, in plain view of the hick trio.

Strangled sound --

"Shit! Holy fucking shit! That's! A! Guy! "

Dad cracks up but doesn't stop. There's butter to churn and goddamn if Dad isn't going to do it. Buttfucking his son is a chore Dad likes. His nutjiuice cascades down my thighs. Hangs in ropes and sheets from my balls.

The hate beings.

"Fuckin' faggots!"

"Goddamned motherfucking perverts!" The rage that mottles the open-shirt guy makes me picture blowing my load all over that screwed-up, scowling face.

"That's us," Dad moans, not missing a stroke.

The one with the open shirt stands. A wisp of wind catches his shirt. He's got big nipples. I picture them doused with my piss. Bastard's turning me on.

"Faggots! Motherfuckers! Goddamn sick fucks!"

"That boy he's boning likes it!" These words are said in tones of utter disbelief.

"Goddammit, get the hell out of here! Go to San Francisco! Burn in hell, faggots!"

Dad's strokes slow. But don't stop. One hand leaves my hip, seeking his pack. His other pats my back, ordering me not to move. Dad's strokes slow, become just barely perceptible to me. But they never stop. His tongue slithers across the back of my neck, slurping up the sweat. It swirls into my ear.

"Get down on your knees, son. Slow. Not too quick. That's right. Together."

We ease down. I plant my knees on the dirt.

Wet plopping noises from the lake. Concentric ripples spread across the flickering silver. Beer cans, probably still full. Of brew

Dad's searching hand opens his pack beside the cooler. Rummages inside.

"Fucking faggots! Fucking faggots! Fucking faggots!"

A perfectly true thing to say, but the tone in their voice is disrupting the mood.

Dad never ceases fucking me at all as he draws out the .357 Magnum. The revolver gleams like polished obsidian in the furnace light of the sun. It is clean, oiled, and loaded. The first round is buckshot. For snakes. The other rounds are hollow points. For people.

Dad thumbs one chamber over. Flicks off the safety.

I turn my head around to face him, and peck at his cheeks. Dad doesn't respond. His eyes are flinty and cold. Killer on the loose.

Dad extends his arm. He squints. He chooses his target.

The crack shatters the air. A shocked moment.

Urine blossoms in the crotch of the middle man's jeans. The first round passed between his legs. An inch below his precious balls. Bam! Bam! Two slender waterspouts collapse into the lake just in front of the boat'. Trajectory was flat enough Dad might've holed the fiberglass below the waterline.

Must've been hell in those Asian rice paddies.

Three shocked stares. Three opened mouths. Watching the guy with the shirt piss himself, I moan.

"FUCK OFF!" Dad roars.

The frozen moments explodes into furious action. Outboard roars into life. The bass boat whips around. The abrupt turn almost sends the guy in the bow chair into the lake. A huge rooster tail sprays the sky as the boat powers off.

"Fuck, Dad," I moan. "You made me cum!" Fresh ropes of cum hang from my chest.

He thumbs the safety on, tosses the revolver onto the cooler. "It's your Dad's turn, son."

He pounds me into bliss.

Later -- much later -- when we're alone, we share our last orgasm of that day. How do you hide a supernova? One professor of mine once asked my class this question. We didn't have an answer. But I learn that day how you do it. You bury it in your son's ass. It's great for both sides of the equation.

When we separate Dad's babymaker feels like an elephant's trunk slurps out of my ass. And if you think all that jizz running down my legs was unbelievable, you should've seen what dropped out of my butt as my sphincter gaped open. Looking down between my legs at this puddle of gray good, I shake my head. It's the size of a pancake. I feel the remainder of Dad's cum churning inside, seeking an ovum it will never find.

The sun has sunk towards the horizon. The heat's edge is dulled but by no imagination is it now cool. We're both parched. Grinning, I pluck beers from the cooler, toss one to Dad. We rip off the tab at the same time and chug.

Both of us gasp for air. Chests heave. Our legs tremble with the effort to stand.

No words. We look at each other, Dad and me, almost as if seeing a stranger for the first time.

When you fuck a guy, even your Dad, you learn something about him. And when you learn something, the world changes. Picture a movie sets. Light that set so that it's dark and shadowy and you imagine a serial killer lurking somewhere close. Light the same set brightly, and it's someone's warm, cozy home.

"Fuck," Dad says, wiping the foam off his lips with the back of his hand.

"What did you think? Was it different?"

Dad plops down on the rock he'd been using as his recliner. He stares at something between his knees that only he can see. He drinks. Then Dad looks up at me. He pats the rock next to him. "Come here, son."

I sit. Since we're both men we spread our legs wide. My knees brush against my Dad's. Since we're men our cocks hang long between our legs, staining the rock with dribbles of precum. Since I've just had been ass fucked by my Dad, who's a stud, jism slowly bubbles from my ass. It's an evil, nasty, depraved feeling. I've never forgotten it.

Dad stares at the beer can for a moment. "So," he says. More time ticks. "So."

I lay a hand on his thigh. "You know I want to keep doing this, Dad. I've always wanted it. Now that we've started I don't want to stop."

A shit-eating grin breaks out on Dad's face. "Hot fucking damn, Silas." He pulls my face into his armpit, sands his knuckles on my hair, pulls me back, slams his face into mine, and shoves his tongue halfway down my throat.

I do something I've always wanted to do. I run my hands through his thick chest hair. No purpose at all. Not to tweak his nipples. Not to feel his muscles. Just for the sensation of his fur slipping through my fingers.

He leaves one arm draped over my shoulder while we finish our beers.

"You gonna be OK to drive?" I ask. "I don't want to spend the night in jail trying to hold your cum up my butt, Dad."

"I'll be alright," but he sounds unsure. He turns, and he looks into my face, and then he announces, definitively: "I'll be alright, Silas. Got me?"

"I got your back, Dad. Always have."

"I know you do, son."

"What did you think? Was it different?"

"Well," Dad says. "One of the things I like about your Mom is that she's a tramp. But fuck, Silas, you got her beat all to hell."

If you parse that statement on an emotional level, it's wrong in so many ways. But if you're living in accordance with your urges, it's the kind of thing to make warmth spread through you and blood to begin refilling your listless cock.

"It was different for me, too," I say. "It's pretty awesome to be your slut, Dad."

He grins sheepishly. "Yeah. You were shooting like a Texas oil well."

"Saudi Arabian," I say. "Texas hasn't had any oil for years."

"You took my cock pretty well," Dad says. "I wasn't sure if I'd fit."

"Yeah, well, you were gonna make it fit, weren't you?"

"You were hollering enough I thought about pulling out." He grins. "Nah. That's bullshit, Silas. Once I had it up there I wasn't gonna take it out."

"LI know that, Dad."

"You sure about this, Silas? You want to keep doing this?"

"For the rest of my life." I cup his nuts. The sack spills to either side of my hand. "I wanna drain these, Dad. Every day. Every night."

"You know we gotta keep it quiet, Silas."

"Yeah, I know. I don't wanna break Mom's heart."

"Me neither." Dad drinks. That flinty look comes back into his eyes. "And I want you to know something. If I'm going to cheat on your Mom, I'm going to cheat on you."

"What?" I'm not outraged. I'm started.

"I wanna fuck guys, son. Lots of guys. I can't stop thinking about it. Young guys, with hot butts. Like your pal Jesse." He drinks again. "I'm not a one boy Dad. Understand?"

I grin. "Fuck yeah, Dad! I always knew you were a stud."

Dad rustles my hair, punches my arm. He stands. Tall and powerful. My Dad, the overlord. His cock hangs long and fat. His skin beneath the tan is ruddy. "Let's get moving, Silas. We're both fried. And I bet you we both got toasted on our butts."

I stand and stretch. My spine pops. "I gotta piss, Dad."

He shrugs, glances at my cock. His hand reaches for mine. "Come on boy."

One more piss into the lake. Side by side. Refreshing.

We fish our shorts out of the lake, put them on. They smell like lake water and piss. We pick up the cooler, the pack, and we make our way back up the trail towards Dad's pickup.

"Your roommate, Silas, up in Chapel Hill," asks Dad. "He hang around on the weekends?"

"Not always. Sometimes he goes back home. Or hit the beach. Or the mountains."

"Dad winks. "It's a date, son."

This All-American saga of father/son incest
will continue in
Rolling Thunder

I've got more filithy, filthy porn available on Amazon