Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2023 01:54:31 +0000 (UTC)
From: Randolph Adams <shahairyzad@aol.com>
Subject: Jorge's Fuckbuddies: Dr. J Examines His Patients (incest)

Nifty is a wonderful resource for horny gay men everywhere.  If you love
the stories, do your part to keep it around: https://donate.nifty.org/

"Jorge's Fuckbuddies" is a series of interlocking short stories with a
large cast of characters.  Not much story . . . LOTS of sex
. . . character-driven and carefully written, with a deliberate attempt to
showcase a variety of characters and a variety of sexual activities.

As with all my stories, you are most likely to enjoy it if you start from
the beginning ("Juanito Pulls Train") and give it your full attention when
you read.

Remember that these stories are fiction: the events and characters are not
real.  Also, these stories are fantasy: you can do things in your
imagination that you cannot do in reality.Ê If you have difficulty
distinguishing fantasy from reality, please stop reading now. (And please
stay away from video games, internet searches, and voting booths.)Ê

No children or animals were harmed in the making of these stories.Ê But
some fictional characters were VERY well cared for!


DR. J EXAMINES HIS PATIENTS


Children look forward to visiting Dr. Jonathan Battaglia's pediatrics
practice.  The waiting room is cheery and kid-friendly, with perky music
. . . showtunes or songs familiar from visits to Orlando . . . plentiful
toys and ample space to play.  Parents are grateful that the perky music is
not too loud, that the materials on the room's walls and ceiling absorb
their children's happy shrieks, and that no screens are spewing daytime TV.

Parents look forward to visiting Dr. J's practice nearly as much as their
children . . . or as much as any parent ever looks forward to a visit to
the doctor.  Dr. J always uses an examination room that is well separated
from the waiting room, so when parents take their child back, they know
they'll have the doctor's full attention, and whatever is said will be
completely confidential.  Dr. J's gentle demeanor and deep knowledge leave
them confident that their child is well cared for, and his insistence that
parents be present throughout an examination calms any concerns a parent
might feel about their child's doctor being an attractive man in his 40s
who is . . . still unmarried.

Some of the single moms . . . the more na•ve ones . . . flirt with him,
drawn by his tall, slender frame, his pleasant face and kind eyes, his
obvious intelligence and bone-deep decency.

And he IS a doctor!

Some of the married moms flirt with him as well, though with their kid
right there, there's only so obvious their hints can be.

But Dr. J never seems aware that anyone is flirting with him.

A few of the most na•ve mothers flirt with Dr. J's nurse, David Vazquez,
attracted to his warm brown eyes, his full red lips, the cheery smile that
so frequently lights up his broad brown face . . . attracted even to his
stocky body with its big muscles and even bigger belly.  But wiser mothers
look at how he moves, and listen to how he speaks, and quickly comprehend
that Nurse David plays ball on a different team . . . and is probably not
pitching.

Those wiser mothers look at how Dr. J interacts with Nurse David and
recognize what the men's easy, joking intimacy indicates . . . but since
their child is never alone with either the doctor or the nurse, and all
examinations take place openly under watchful parental eyes, and since
Dr. J has the reputation as the very best pediatrician in this part of the
city, they keep coming.

And what of the fathers?

With his practice at the edge of a gayborhood, Dr. J has quite a few
children who come with their fathers rather than mothers . . . some from
families with no mother in the picture at all.

A select few of these fathers are particularly grateful to Dr. J for his
discretion . . . and for the antibiotics and PreP prescriptions that keep
their sons safe from harm.  These fathers tend to know each other, and as
they meet other such fathers, they tend to recommend Dr. J as the perfect
pediatrician.  And in this way, the most interesting subset of his practice
has grown.

As this particular subset became increasingly significant, Dr. J grew
concerned that some authority might notice that a pediatrician was writing
an inexplicable quantity of prescriptions for treatments that children do
not normally require.  He discussed the matter with one of the fathers from
the interesting subset, an intelligent engineer named Jorge Flores, whose
sons, Manuel and Juan, were both patients of his.

They talked it out as the four of them lay in Jorge's king-sized bed,
catching their breath and cooling down after a two-hour session in which
Dr. J had fucked and bred both Jorge and Manny and had taken a load from
Jorge.  At the time, Juanito had been too young to fuck, but he could lick
and kiss and cuddle, and gobble cum from Dr. J's hole.  The boy had cooed
and squirmed in pleasure as Dr. J sucked on his tiny dick and pressed his
tongue into the perfect little hole.  And he had squealed with laughter
when Dr. J slid one long finger up inside him.

Now they cuddled and strategized, Jorge's engineering brain in
problem-solving mode.

"How about this?  I have a fuckbuddy who's a doctor . . . I'm pretty sure
he's a GP.  Why don't you make it a family practice . . . you see the kids,
and Vijay sees the adults?  He's a total pig . . . mostly a bottom, but he
got turned on watching me fuck Manny, and he fucked him and ate him out
when I was done.  He should be fine with you doing the boys.  And you could
do him too, whenever you wanted . . . he has a sweet ass and loves a good
hard fuck.  Hmmmm . . . he's noisy when he cums, so make sure the rooms are
soundproofed"

And that's how general practitioner Dr. Vijay Gupta went into practice with
pediatrician Dr. Jonathan Battaglia.

********

I still remember the first time I realized one of my patients was sexually
active.

My pediatrics practice had hardly been open six months.  Azim Azharuddin
was also new to the neighborhood.  He brought his young son, Mohammed, to
me with a case of pharyngitis.  I tested little Mo for mono and swabbed him
for strep.  It might have been a simple cold or the flu, but he didn't seem
sick beyond the sore throat.  I'm not sure what made me think of an STI,
but I took a few extra swabs and had them tested for gonorrhea and
chlamydia.  The thought that little Mo's mouth had been wrapped around some
man's penis made my own penis twitch in my trousers.

Now, I am required by law to report sexual abuse if I suspect it.  But
having grown up with a loving father . . . a VERY loving father . . . I do
not consider all sexual activity to be, de facto, `abuse'.  If the child in
front of me is healthy and happy, I am not going to contact the authorities
and risk tearing their family apart.  Just looking at Azim's tenderness
with the boy, and the way Mo clung to his father, I could see nothing but
love and trust between them.

I put in Mo's STI tests under my own name . . . and found out `I' had
chlamydia in `my' throat.

I had Azim bring Mo back, handed the father a bottle of antibiotics, and
explained what I had found.  Dark as Azim's skin is, I could see him blush,
so I knew he knew that his son sucked cock.  I handed him a second bottle
of Zithro and explained that they were for him, assuming that he was the
source of the chlamydia.  I then requested that he allow me to give his son
a more thorough examination.

Maybe he was more concerned for his son's health than his own safety, or
maybe he saw the bulge in my trousers, but he agreed.  I gently stripped
his son of his clothes . . . I hesitated before removing the boy's
underpants, but I was burning to examine him . . . everywhere.

I still remember the feeling in my chest, as though I could hardly breathe.

I sat the boy on the paper cover of the examination table.  I listened to
his chest and back, and checked his ears, nose and throat (still inflamed,
but that would clear up with the Zithro).  I gently squeezed his arms and
legs, my hands trembling and my penis painfully hard.  I had touched plenty
of children before without feeling excited, but seeing this beautiful boy
totally naked, and knowing that he performed fellatio, made these ordinary
actions seem extraordinary.

When Mo lay back on the paper for me to palpate his abdomen, his tiny penis
was stiff and sticking straight up.  I brushed it with my hand, and he
whimpered.  I glanced over at his father.  Azim was rubbing his own bulging
crotch, his eyes wide . . . or maybe it was just the dark circles around
his eyes that made them look that way.  He looked at me and said, his voice
husky,

"Do what you want."

I looked at Mo and said,

"May I touch your penis?"

He nodded his head, and I lightly stroked the tiny organ with my fingertip.
The boy shuddered and moaned again.  I took his penis gently between my
thumb and forefinger and stroked up and down.  Mo squirmed and arched his
back and started to hump against my fingers.  He looked me in the face, his
lips pursed, his eyes wide and focused on mine.  Then he smiled, full red
lips parting to show white teeth . . . dazzling white against his dark
skin.  I had never seen anything so beautiful.

The boy spoke, his accent Texan, but with a flavor of India in his speech,

"Would you please put your mouth on my penis?"

I smiled and said,

"Of course, Mo!"

It was simple to take his little member in my mouth, to caress it with my
tongue, to suck on it.  I could fit the little marbles of his testes into
my mouth at the same time.  I licked and sucked and tongued, slowly and
gently, as he mewed and thrashed around on the examining table.  He gasped
loudly and grabbed my head, holding it down on his penis, his whole body
shaking, and I realized he was having an orgasm.  I dimly remembered what
an orgasm was like when I was that young, though for me it usually happened
from my father stroking my penis as he licked my anus.

I stood up to catch my breath, assuming Mo would want to stop.

Instead, the boy rolled over onto his belly and stuck his bottom in the
air.  It was smooth, plump, a paler brown than the rest of him
. . . absolutely perfect.

"Would you please put your mouth on my arsehole?"

I looked over at the boy's father, astonished, questioning.  He had his fly
open now and was openly masturbating himself.  He nodded his head
vigorously.

My hands shook slightly as I touched those plump brown buttocks, pulling
them gently apart, exposing the pink prize.  The boy's anus did not look as
pristine and untouched as I was accustomed to, and I found myself imagining
what might have entered there.  I shuddered, and pushed my face into the
crack, inhaling deeply.  He smelled different from a man . . . different,
at least, from the handful of men whose holes I'd licked . . . simpler,
less bitter . . . cleaner?

I swiped my tongue across the boy's anus, and he shuddered.  I pressed the
tip of my tongue in, and he moaned.  I began licking and slurping and
pushing my tongue into the sphincter, making love to the boy's anus with an
avidity that I did not know I was capable of.  I could hear the quiet slap
of his father's hand as he continued to masturbate.

Mo moaned and cooed and squirmed and humped the examining table.

Finally, he gasped out,

"Would you please put your penis in my arsehole?"

I heard Azim suck in a sharp breath, his hand flying on his rigid penis.

I found some KY and a glove.  My hand was trembling so much I could barely
squeeze the lubricant onto my fingertips.  The blue of the glove looked
alien against his smooth brown skin.  His anus was slightly swollen and
showed some traces of bruising.  I gently caressed it with my lubricated
finger, and the boy moaned.  I pressed one finger against the sphincter,
and the full length of it slid inside, effortlessly.  The boy moaned again
and pushed his bottom back against my knuckle.

I withdrew my hand, still trembling, and squeezed more KY onto my fingers.
There was slightly more resistance when I slid two fingers inside the boy's
rectum, but the sphincter quickly dilated, accepting them without protest.
I slid my fingers slowly in and out, brushing the boy's prostate, as he
moaned and became very still.

I withdrew my fingers, and stripped off the glove, and undid my belt and
pants.  As I maneuvered my underwear down, exposing my painfully erect
penis, a vexing issue occurred to me.

I knew I should use a condom, and I knew there was none in the examining
room.

I quickly reviewed my sexual activity over the past six months
. . . embarrassingly little, all of it protected . . . and a negative HIV
test just six weeks ago.  It then occurred to me that the boy had chlamydia
in his throat, so who knew what he might have in his anus.  I should run an
HIV test on him . . .

And then I decided . . . fuck it.  I am going to fuck this boy's ass, right
now, and I am going to do it bareback.  I am going to fuck his ass,
bareback, in my own examining room, right in front of his own father.  I am
going to ejaculate in this boy . . . breed him . . . breed him as his
father watches me do it.

I nearly ejaculated right there.

I slathered KY onto my penis, which I am confident had never been harder in
my entire life, and I climbed up onto the examining table.  Little Mo
looked tiny beneath me.  He was so small, when I positioned myself for
penetration, the top of his head barely reached my clavicle.  I gently
pressed the slick head into him, breeching his sphincter.  I could feel his
warmth, feel the sphincter grab the glans as I slid inside.  It was the
first time I had ever engaged in unprotected penetrative sex . . . well, as
the penetrator . . . and the idea of my bare penis inside another person
. . . inside a boy . . . inside a pre-pubescent boy . . . excited me more
than I could ever have imagined.  I stroked once, twice, three times, and
ejaculated into little Mo's rectum.

The boy purred, and his father groaned, and I swear I heard his semen
splashing onto the examination room floor.

We cleaned up, and I drew blood for an HIV test.  Mo was a trouper,
pinching his lips a little but never crying or complaining about the
needle.

As they prepared to go, Azim cleared his throat, looking a little
embarrassed.  He asked me, his accent giving his words a musical quality,

"Could you please give me another bottle of pills?  There is a friend who
might also have the chlamydia."

It took me a moment to realize what he was implying . . .  Mo had also
sucked this friend.  My penis started to stiffen again at the thought.  I
wrote the scrip and handed it to him.

"Please tell your friend to make an appointment to come see me."

Another thought occurred to me.

"And if your friend has a son who is also . . . involved in such activities
. . . please ask him to bring his son as well."

And THAT is how I met Jorge Flores.

********

I was really embarrassed that Azim and I gave Mo chlamydia.  We never did
figure out which of us it came from, and shit happens if you have a lot of
sex, but still . . .

I didn't have any real experience with STDs in college . . . sure, I whored
around, but I was really conscious of HIV and used condoms religiously
. . . which is a funny phrase for a good Catholic boy!  I slept mostly with
women, but I messed around with a couple guys . . . had a great time with
them but wasn't comfortable with how they made me feel . . . like I cared
about them more than I really wanted to?

I met Amanda in college.  It was classic `opposites attract' . . . she was
artsy, and thin, and very, very `white', with that laidback California vibe
where everything's `cool' . . . I guess she'd count as a WASP . . . she
sure wasn't Catholic! . . . but she really wasn't much of a Protestant
either.

Her family had money, and when I first met her, I was impressed by how she
didn't seem concerned about anything . . . she could just float through her
classes, float through the semester . . . float through life . . . and
everything would be okay.

I never floated.  I was driven!  I wanted that engineering degree, and a
good solid job, and a family . . . the whole nine yards.  My parents came
here from Guadalajara with nothing, and they worked their asses off to keep
the family together, clothed and fed.  My father was an asshole, but he
made sure we all knew the value of work.  Mamacita was a saint.  She was
smart and always regretted that she never got a real education.  She made
damn sure we all got one!

I never fully understood why Amanda married me, except maybe we each saw
something in the other that we wanted in ourselves.  That, and we graduated
in 2008, when the economy was going to hell, and her family got hit pretty
hard by the real estate crash, and suddenly, floating through life maybe
didn't seem like that great a strategy anymore.

Still, we might have just lived together while I got my masters . . . or
drifted apart . . . if it weren't for the Christmas present I accidentally
gave her.

I knocked her up, in spite of the condoms.

She wanted an abortion, but I talked her out of it.  Instead, we got
married.

Things were okay . . . not great, but okay . . . I got my masters, got a
good job at an engineering firm . . . she was working on her art and taking
care of Manny . . . but babies were not her thing.

Manny was totally my thing.

I did the diapers, did the midnight feedings, handled the nightmares
. . . the whole nine yards.  I would rush home from work to spend time with
my sweet little boy.  Weekends were 100% Manny time.

Looking back, I can see how bad that was for the marriage, but I had no
choice.  Amanda hated the work of being a mother . . . hated the mess, and
the noise, and the non-stop demands, and how taking care of a kid got in
the way of what she really wanted to be doing.  She never hated Manny
himself . . . or that's what I tell myself . . . but I could see how she
resented him.  I'd give her every weekend to do her thing, work on her art,
get out of the house, have a life, but there were still those five days
between every weekend . . .

Two days before Manny's second birthday, she found out she was pregnant
again.  This time I had to beg her not to abort.  I promised to give her
whatever she wanted, and finally, FINALLY, she agreed to have the baby.

After Juanito was born, it's like Amanda checked out.  Maybe it was
post-partum depression . . . maybe she was just done.  We were living in
the same house, but she was hardly ever there.  I didn't know where she
spent her days and evenings, but I'd promised her freedom, and I lived up
to my promise.

Mamacita moved in with us, to help with the boys.  I think for her it was
an excuse to get away from my father without the shame of divorce.  She
stayed with us, caring for Manny and Juanito until she died.  It was just a
handful of years, but I was so grateful for every minute I had with her,
and every minute she spent with the boys.  They loved her so much!

Even with all the demands at home, I was thriving at work, doing solid
work, getting noticed.  I was working my ass off, but it was paying off.
The one thing I wasn't doing was playing.  I was 25, perpetually horny, and
not getting any pussy . . . of any kind.

I changed jobs, got a better position at a larger firm, with better pay.
Strict nine to five gig.

My first day on the job, I saw Azim Azharuddin in the lunchroom.  I have no
idea why he caught my eye . . . at least a decade older than me, heavyset,
hairy, big black beard already showing a lot of gray . . . handsome enough
in his way, but no stunner.

I noticed the dark circles around his eyes first.  Then I noticed his eyes.
Warm.  Kind.  If eyes are the windows to the soul, Azim's eyes gave me a
view into a truly beautiful soul.

It occurred to me that I was staring at him . . . and he was staring back,
across the lunchroom.

You don't get anywhere by being shy, so I walked over and introduced
myself.  When we shook hands, I was struck by how soft his hand felt
. . . smooth . . . warm.  Neither of us let go . . . each waiting for the
other to break contact, neither of us wanting to pull away first.  We stood
chatting, making introductions, talking about the company, the lunchroom,
our families, the city . . . I barely registered half of what he was
saying.  All I could think was how soft and smooth and warm his hand felt
. . . the hand that I was still holding, throughout the whole long
conversation.

I felt my cock stiffen and didn't understand why.  I glanced down
. . . discreetly, I hoped . . . to see if it was too obvious . . . and
there was a bulge in Azim's crotch that I hadn't noticed when I saw him.
Was he just hung . . . or hard?

I heard Azim say,

"Would you care to join me for lunch?  Let it be my treat, please!"

There was something musical in the way he said it that struck me as
beautiful.  I said `yes', of course.

We lunched together again the next day, and the one after, and the one
after that.  We weren't assigned to any of the same projects, but I found
excuses to stop by his desk throughout the day, ask him questions.

I found myself thinking of him as I lay in bed at night, trying to fall
asleep.  He felt closer, more real to me than Amanda did, even with her
lying in the same bed with me.

A month or so later, Azim asked me a favor.  He had to drop his car off for
repairs the next day, and his wife was out of town.  Could I follow him to
the repair shop and then run him home?  He was very apologetic, as if it
was a huge imposition.  I laughed and said I was happy to help.

I let Mamacita know I'd be home later than usual that evening, and I took
extra care when I was getting dressed that morning . . . shaving carefully,
wearing my tightest pants and a shirt that showed off my chest, spritzing
myself with an extra shot of my favorite cologne.  It wasn't exactly a
conscious decision . . . it just sort of happened.

When Azim got into my car at the repair place, I patted him on the leg.  He
returned the gesture.  I patted his leg again, and this time I left my hand
resting on his thigh.  After we'd gone a couple blocks, and I hadn't moved
my hand off his thigh, he laid his left hand on my thigh and left it there.
A couple more blocks, and his right hand settled on top of my right hand,
which was still resting on his thigh.  Another block, and his right hand
gently pulled my right hand onto his crotch.

Through all this, we both stared straight ahead through the windshield,
neither of us saying anything other than an occasional direction from Azim
. . .  turn here, go four blocks.  Meanwhile, we were actively groping each
other's stiff cocks, stroking them through the fabric of our pants.

We reached his driveway.  I killed the engine.  We looked at each other.

When Azim spoke, his voice was husky.  He had to clear his throat halfway
through.

"Would you . . . would you . . . ahem . . . like to come in?"

"YES."

I started kissing him before he even got the front door closed.

He kissed like an angel.  Soft, sensuous . . . meltingly sweet.  We were
wrapped in a tight embrace, and our lips stayed locked as our hands started
to explore.

I loved the feel of his bulk . . . I love how MUCH of them there was to
grab and explore . . . how soft and yielding his flesh was . . . such a
contrast to Amanda's skinny, boney body.

I loved how his hands felt on my body . . . how they roamed everywhere,
cupping my ass, stroking my back, caressing the back of my head.

I loved how it felt to grind my hard cock against another hard cock
. . . to feel my stiffness being met with similar stiffness.

Our hands started burrowing under clothing, undoing belts, unbuttoning
shirts and pants, sliding next to bare skin.  We were half undressed
already when Azim finally broke the kiss, stepped back, and looked me in
the eye.  He was breathing hard.

He opened his mouth, like he was about to ask me something, but instead of
speaking he just dropped to his knees and started sucking my cock.

FUCK!  Oh my GOD it felt good!

I grabbed his head and started to fuck his mouth, gently, pulling back when
I heard him gag.

He grabbed my ass and pulled me against his face, forcing the tip of my
cock down his throat, holding me there as he gagged repeatedly.  I felt my
pulse race, I was so turned on.

I started fucking his mouth harder, and he kept gagging and kept pulling me
close, and before long I was flat out skull fucking him, jamming my cock
down his throat, trying to keep from cumming too soon.

At the last moment, I yanked my cock out of his mouth and stood there,
chest heaving, willing myself not to blow.

Azim got to his feet and kissed me again, hard.  His mouth tasted a little
bit of vomit, and for some reason that turned me on.  His pants were around
his thighs, and I groped his cock, stroking it.  It was smooth,
circumcised, smaller than mine.  It fit so naturally in my hand.

He broke the kiss, spit on his fingers, wiped the spit off somewhere behind
his back, turned around, and impaled his ass on my cock.

I'd never been in anyone without a condom.  Not even Amanda.  Oh my god.
OH my God.  OH my GOD!  You feel fucking everything!  It's so warm . . . so
slick . . . the SENSATION on my cock . . . fuck . . . Fuck . . . FUCK.

I lose control.  I am fucking my married colleague, in his front foyer,
bareback.  I'm fucking him like an animal, shoving my raw cock into his
hole, pounding him, pounding him hard . . . I'm . . . I'm . . . Oh FUCK,
I'm CUMMING . . . I'm blowing my LOAD into his fucking CUNT!

We stand there, breathing hard, dripping sweat, our clothes drenched.  Azim
is bent at the waist, one hand grabbing the edge of the hall table so he
doesn't fall over.  My body is collapsed against his back, my cock in his
ass, my arms wrapped around his beautiful, hairy, meaty body.

The front door opens, and his son walks in.

Fuck.  We are so incredibly busted.

The boy stops . . . and stares at us.

I know who he is.  Azim can't stop talking about him.  He has three million
pics of his son on his phone, and he will show you every single one of them
if you ask.  The boy's name is Mohammed, but he goes by Mo.  He's in the
fourth grade.  The pics don't do him justice.  He is stunningly beautiful.
Flawless caramel skin, lustrous black hair, a wide mouth with ripe red
lips, delicate features and big, luminous brown eyes.

And those eyes are looking at us, wide with surprise.  He shuts the door
behind him, puts down his backpack, and stares.

It takes me a moment, but I realize that the boy looks surprised.

JUST surprised.

He doesn't look shocked, or upset, or traumatized.  The idea that his dad
might be half-naked with another man, might be getting fucked up the butt
. . .  does Mo understand what buttfucking is? He's got to, right?  By
fourth grade, with access to the internet?  I certainly knew what
buttfucking was by that age, even without the internet and even without
experiencing it . . .  Anyway!  None of that seems to be news to the boy.
He looks surprised like, `O Dad, I didn't know you'd be taking it up the
ass in the front foyer this afternoon, or I'd have come in through the
kitchen door'.

And Azim?  He's not screaming or scrambling to cover himself.  He's
standing there, frozen, still bent over, still with his hand on the hall
table, still with my cock up his ass . . . and I realize he's waiting to
see how I'M going to react before he does anything.

Then Mo's hand automatically goes down and grabs his crotch.  His pipi must
be hard.  Seeing Dad take it up the ass has given him a stiffy, and he
can't help but feel it up.

I decide to play it cool.

"Hey Mo!  I'm Jorge Flores.  I'm a friend of your dad's.  Sorry to be
fucking in front of you, but we kind of got carried away."

The boy says,

"That's okay.  I don't mind."

Mo is practically masturbating at the sight of his dad standing there with
dick up his ass.  Azim is still quiet.  I wonder if I'm reading this
situation right.

I whisper in Azim's ear,

"You okay if I ask him to join us?"

Azim is quiet for a few moments, then he whispers,

"Yes."

"Hey Mo!  If you want to come join us, feel free."

The boy smiles, and my heart skips.

He moves closer, hand still rubbing his pipi, and he kisses his father on
the lips.  They linger on the kiss.

When they break the kiss, I pull the boy over to me and kiss him on the
lips, lightly.  He kisses me back.  We trade a few more light kisses, then
I go in for a real kiss.  He meets me, tongue for tongue.

I start feeling him up as we kiss, and my hips start rocking . . . yeah,
I'm hard again, big surprise . . . and I find I'm fucking Azim again.
While I'm kissing Mo.  I'm fucking the father as I kiss the son.  Father
and son . . . all I need now is the holy spirit . . . maybe Azim has some
bourbon . . . that's a spirit.  I feel pretty religious about bourbon.

I slide my hand under the boy's t-shirt.  His skin is so soft, so smooth
. . . it's firm, but not hard . . . different, somehow, from a woman's
skin.  Very different from any man I've ever felt up.  I pull him towards
me and kiss him harder, and he throws his arms around my neck and kisses me
back.  By this time, I'm really fucking Azim, and my cock's as hard as if I
hadn't just come a few minutes earlier.

I've got a big wad of Azim's shirt in one hand, holding tight for leverage
as we fuck.  My other hand is teasing at Mo's waistband, looking for a path
into uncharted territory, but his shorts are too snug around his waist.

A little arm slithers away from my neck, and suddenly the waistband opens
up.  The little arm slithers back around my neck, and the boy's shorts
slide down his legs.  My hand slips under the elastic of his underpants to
reach his butt . . . his warm, smooth, plump butt . . . and cups and
caresses it.  The thought that I might get to fuck that warm, smooth, plump
butt pops into my head, and once the thought is there, it's hard for me to
think of anything else.

I run a finger across Mo's hole, and he moans.  I tug his underpants down,
out of my way, leaving them bunched around his thighs, and openly knead his
buttcheeks.  I slide my hand around to the front.  His pipi is sticking
straight out.  I stroke it, gently, and he moans more loudly.  When I move
my hand back to his butt, he pulls his underpants all the way down and
steps out of them, all without breaking our kiss.  He spreads his legs,
giving me better access to his hole.

I pop my finger in my mouth and return it to his hole, slick with spit.  He
pushes back on my finger, moaning even more loudly.  I feel my finger
slipping inside his boycave.

I can't take it anymore.  I'm so turned on, I need to unload . . . in Azim
or in Mo, take your pick.

I pull out of Azim, pick Mo up, and lay him on top of his father,
back-to-back.  Azim stays bent over, clutching the edge of the table, and
he moans as he realizes what I'm going to do.

Mo is looking at me, his eyes open wide, his legs open even wider.  He
grabs his thighs and pulls his knees against his chest, giving me perfect
access to his tight little pussy.  I grab his arms, mostly to keep him from
toppling off his father's back, but partly to keep him from trying to get
out of what's about to happen.

I shouldn't have worried.  He wants this as much as I do.

When I press the tip of my cock, still slick and slimy from Azim's ass,
into his pussy, it opens right up and welcomes me in.  It's only the second
time in my life I've fucked someone without a condom, and it feels fucking
fantastic.  Just as warm as his father's cunt, just as slick . . . but
tighter . . . smoother.  His little boy pussy grabs my cock and milks it.
And watching his body shake, watching his expressions change . . . the
unfiltered delight, the JOY that beams from his eyes . . . I have my eyes
glued on his, the whole time I fuck him, and when I climax for the second
time that evening . . . blowing my load in a fucking fourth grader!
. . . it's a religious experience . . . father, son, and holy FUCK!

********

The three of us . . . Azim, Mo and I . . . fucked whenever we could find
the time, but it wasn't as often as I would have liked.  I suppose it kept
me satisfied, but you know what guys are like . . .  Now that I was getting
some for the first time in years, suddenly gay guys started popping out of
the woodwork . . . twinks and daddies wanting to fuck or get fucked or
trade fucks or blowjobs.  Okay . . . it helped that I put a profile online,
but still!

Sometimes I'd share them with Azim, more often I'd keep them for myself.
But we were cautious and kept them all away from Mo.

I couldn't go back to condoms, not after feeling what bareback sex felt
like, and when I read about this pill they could put you on that kept you
from getting HIV . . . well, just call me an early adopter!  I remember a
bunch of handwringing in the media about how PreP was going to make people
more promiscuous, and scientists countering with `studies' that showed it
wouldn't.  Yeah, right!  I just laughed and took my pill . . . the one that
let me be as big a slut as I wanted without getting a fatal disease.

Of course, the downside of dumping condoms while whoring around is that I
started picking up STDs.  Not often, but sometimes . . .  Then Mo got
chlamydia in his throat, and it had to be from either me or his father.  We
never knew which . . . but it must have been me.

I'd totally stopped fucking Amanda at this point, so that wasn't an issue.

Azim said he hadn't had sex with Zainab since she got pregnant with Mo.

That afternoon, after he told me about Dr. J's diagnosis of chlamydia, we
fucked anyway, then lay holding each other in bed.

He talked about his wife in detail for the first time since we met.

"We met at university, in India, and liked each other immediately.  She was
different from the other girls, so intelligent, not silly or obsessed with
clothing or jewelry.  Her family pressured her to find a husband, but she
was not interested.  My family pressured me as well.  Our families both
wanted us to be married off so the aunties and the neighbors would stop
talking.  Then her family engaged a matchmaker, who made a match for her,
and she had a very bad time getting out of it.  There was very much
shouting and many tears.

I did not want to marry a woman, and she did not want to marry a man.  So
we decided the safest thing was to marry each other.  We told our families
it was a love match, and finally they agreed.  In fact, we truly liked each
other, even if we did not love each other in that way.

After the wedding, we moved to the United States to go to graduate school,
both of us, and to get away from our families.  We knew they would not
leave us alone until there was a child, so we did what we had to do to
conceive Mo.  Now our families talk about how successful we are, off in
America, with our careers and our own house and our beautiful little boy.

Zainab has an American girlfriend, a very nice woman named Casey.  She
spends much of her time with Casey, but she still lives here.  We are still
married, and in our way, we are a happy family.

Zainab knows I make love to our son, but this is our family way.  She did
not like it at first, but she has made peace with it."

I asked him what he meant.

"My father had his way with his sons, and his father had his way with my
father . . . and with my uncles, I am sure . . . and now I make love to my
son.  But it is not the same.  I want a beautiful love with my son.  I do
not want just to have my way with him."

I thought about Manny and Juanito.  They were so young I could not imagine
them as sexual beings.  And I knew Amanda, even though she showed almost no
interest in our boys, would not tolerate a love like Azim had with Mo.  But
I had seen Azim and Mo together, so often . . . it truly was beautiful.  I
would love something like that, someday, with my boys . . .

********

A week after Azim Azharuddin brought his son into the practice, I met Jorge
Flores.  Jorge brought his boys, Manuel and Juan, for general checkups.  He
explained that he was thinking of moving . . . the house next to Azim
Azharuddin was up for sale, and Jorge was seriously considering buying it
and moving to this neighborhood.  If he made the move, the boys' current
pediatrician would be inconveniently distant . . . and Azim had spoken
highly of me . . . very highly, Jorge emphasized.

We had to speak in guarded terms in front of the boys.  Manny was four and
a half, Juanito not quite two.  Both boys were healthy and obviously well
cared for.  Manny was outgoing, chattering and singing throughout his exam.
Juanito was quieter, shyer, and clung to his father, but he was sweet and
cooperative.

I emphasized, discreetly but as clearly as I could, that they were too
young for `the sorts of activities that little Mo enjoys'.  And I
encouraged Jorge to use protection at least with `short-term encounters'
even if he wasn't willing to with those he `saw more regularly'.  My mind
flashed back to the feel of my bare penis in Mo's rectum, and my penis
began to stiffen.  I knew I should be encouraging Jorge to have protected
sex with every one of his partners, even though he was on PreP, but I
understood all too well how preposterous that request was for someone who
knew how the alternative felt.

He matched my discretion, asking when I thought his boys might be ready for
`the sorts of activities that little Mo enjoys'.  I felt myself blushing.

"Nine is probably a safe age.  They'll likely be interested in the topic by
that time, and physically developed enough for it to be safe."

"And how old were you when you started?"

I could feel my blush deepen.

"Younger than that.  My father was . . . very affectionate.  But he waited
for `those sorts of activities' till I was ten."

My penis was completely engorged.  I must have been blushing scarlet.

Jorge looked pointedly down at my trousers and then up into my eyes.  He
smiled, conspiratorially, and winked.

"So Dr. J . . . do you ever make house calls?"

Yes.  Oh yes.  For Jorge Flores I would make house calls, whenever he
liked.


AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I have a wide variety of stories published on Nifty, and I love to have
people read them.  If you're curious, go to the Nifty home page and type
SHAHAIRYZAD into the search bar.  If you like what you read, please let me
know!  Shahairyzad@aol.com