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This is my second story for Nifty, so I look forward to comments, feed back, fan mail and constructive criticism. If this story gets you off, tell me that. Tell me your darkest fantasies and maybe I'll work them into a story. (Don't hold back. Nothing freaks me out.)


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Marine Dad & Jock Son


Bad Dad



Chapter Three


I woke up from a dreamless unconsciousness, dazed.  The room was dark.  The door was still closed. I reached for dad, but the bed was empty.


I felt the still-damp spot on the sheets where we'd spilled our love, as I slowly came awake.  I wondered where he was.  Knew he was an early riser, but still . . .


I'd woke wanting him, hoping to nurse him awake, slowly sucking him out of sleep, then urging him to enter me again, slow this time, languid.  Taking our time, exploring our new reality.


My cock surged hard, of course, thinking of that.  I absently reached back, touched my taint, dragging my fingers up to my hole.  It was swollen, sensitive.  And, wet. 

I'd never been fucked like that, but always fantasized about it.  The perfect dick, the perfect man, the perfect moment.  "So, that's what it feels like to get fucked – truly and completely fucked," I thought. 


I rested, relishing the sensations.  Then, I pushed my fingers in.  There was hardly any give.  I relaxed into the touch, probing deep, gently.  I reached the first reservoir of dad's seed - the seed that had made me - hot and thick.  It filled me.  There was so much cum inside me.  I fucking loved it, how it felt.  I curved my fingers, pulling his spooge out.   They were slimy, a glob of semen threatened to drip to the bed, and I caught it with my tongue.  Savored it.


Last night I hadn't had the opportunity to fully feast on dad's load. When I sucked his cock, I'd wanted him to have an experience that he wasn't used to, hookers being what they are.  So, I'd been focused on making sure that he'd come deep in me.  Now, though, I craved the taste, the smell. I wanted to suck his dick again, this time feeling it shoot across my taste buds, filling my mouth, savoring the distinct tang of his seed.

I reached back again, digging in. 


Morning protein. 

One last time, but cupping my hand and slowly bearing down.  There was nothing at first, then a slippery release and dad's sperm glopped into my hand.


My cock was rock hard, and I needed to beat off, but I wanted to save that for Pops. 


So, instead, I kneeled on the bed, legs spread, and lapped his juices from my cupped hand, feeding eagerly.


There was a part of me that couldn't believe what had happened last night, that it was a dream or a fantasy.  But, here was the evidence.  The puffy lips of my ass, his taste on my tongue, the drying stain on the sheets and now his seed, pooled in my hand, then sliding down my throat, while I worked my hole.




I got up from the bed and my muscles rebelled.  So much had happened last night that the memory of our work in the woods seemed distant.  But, my body reminded me.  I stretched, slowly, knowing I needed to take care.  I'd be fine – I was used to hard work-outs.


But, I worried about dad.  He'd also pushed himself.  Too hard, probably, trying to keep up with me.  I bet he was in pain and was sure he wouldn't let on.  Plus, he wasn't the kind of guy to do stretching exercises – learn about the benefits of yoga and shit like that.


It hit me then. 


A massage.  I could do that for him.  I'd been studying up on muscle groups, and the team had a full time masseur – big guy, who worked us hard and deep.  He'd taught me a lot, and dug the fact that I didn't want any towels and shit.  Fuck that – naked or nothing was my motto.  Think he enjoyed that I didn't get all embarrassed when I wooded up, like I'm sure the other guys did. 


Seemed natural enough to me – we're just dudes anyway.  Dicks get hard.  Nothing to be ashamed of.  Half the time I wondered whether he wanted to take care of that muscle, too, but he was probably too worried about the contract with the team.  And, I got that.  Still . . . it's not like I didn't catch him looking at it, while he worked my thighs, big thumbs brushing up against my balls, and reaching into my sweaty trench.


Maybe next year I'd hint that I didn't give a shit – wanted it even.  Nothing like a nice hard shoot of juice after a long massage.  Takes the final edge off. 


Fuck – sex and thoughts of sex overwhelmed me.  I shook my head, trying to think clearly.


"Yeah," I thought.  "Gonna get dad back to bed, rub him down.  Take care of the old man.  The way he'd taken care of me last night."


I walked out of the bedroom, naked . . . cuz, why not?  "New rules, just following protocol, dad," I thought.  I grinned to myself.  Coffee was on, and I poured myself a cup.  My stomach flexed and suddenly I realized just how full of cum I was.  Jesus, all that cock and dad was a shooter, too?  Damn.  Pops was such a stud.

I released more of his sperm in the toilet, the noise was wet, hard and spluttering.  It sounded whorish, and that turned me on even more.  Seemed like such a waste, letting it go like that.  But, I figured, there was more where that came from. 


It was only then, in the bathroom, thinking about 'more-where-that-came-from,' and how much I was looking forward to it, that I began to wonder where dad was – whether, maybe, he wasn't so cool with what had happened last night.




The more I wondered about it, the more worried I got.  Straight dude.  (Or, straight-ish.)  Upstanding citizen.  Marine.  Father.  Family man.


Born in a different time and place. 

I breathed, trying to figure out what the old man may be thinking, what he might be going through.  I tried to put myself in his shoes.  Think about what happened last night from his perspective.  The `fight' down in the lake.  The beer.  The whiskey. Coming together again after nearly a year apart.  Trying to heal old wounds.  Getting caught up in his son's uncontrollable desires.


One the one hand, I was scared.  Freaked out, even.  But, on the other hand, so much of what happened had been following his lead.  He'd basically asked me to suck his cock.  And, in the kitchen, he couldn't take his eyes off my ass.  And, the candles.  The touch.  The inspection.  It was on him as much as it was on me, no matter how much of a willing partner I had been.


The crunch of the screen door startled me out of my thoughts.  I was standing in the middle of the great room, nude, holding my coffee.


He came into the kitchen.


"Hey Pops," I said, trying too hard to be upbeat, normal.


"Morning," he said, non-committal.  He turned, washing his hands at the sink.


He was fully clothed, work boots on, but he didn't look like he'd been working.  I figured I'd try that tack.


"I thought it was clothing optional," I said, trying to be funny.


He turned, looking at me.


"Yeah . . . about that . . ."


The words hung in the air – the tone was severe.


"About what?"  Emotions welled within me, immediately and unexpectedly.  I tried to stay rational, but there's nothing rational about love.


"Kid, look . . . " 


There was a heavy silence.  The words weren't coming. 


The look on his face was enough, but I wasn't gonna let him off the hook.  He was the one who always talked about being a straight-shooter.  Saying what you needed to say. 


"What, dad?"  I put my coffee down, crossed my arms against my chest, pushing my biceps out.  I was naked – literally and figuratively - and I was gonna stay that way.


"Junior . . ."  Another silence.  Tortured.  Shit . . . the ability of this man to change the dynamic, so instantly, so completely.  He was fucked up.  I could see it in his face.  I started to approach him, but he held up his hand. 


"This ain't – what happened last night – we can't . . . "


I stood my ground.  I spoke deeper, more slowly.  "We can't what, Pops?"


"It ain't right, what we did.  And, it ain't gonna happen again."

I was a strong guy – really strong – but against emotions like this I felt weak.  Out of control.


"Don't I have a say in that, Pops?"

He was firm.  "No.  You don't."



Now, he was mad.  I don't know what universe he was from that assumed I was gonna take his orders on this.  That I was gonna shrug off the best night of my life and pretend nothing happened.  But, it was clear he wasn't prepared for my response – for me.


"Don't you take that tone with me, boy.  It ain't right, what we did.  Period.  You know it and I know it, so we're gonna can this shit right now."


"Who says it ain't right, Sir?"  My tone was disrespectful, but I didn't care. 


"Fuck you, punk:  Everyone.  It's not what's supposed to happen." 


It was completely unconvincing, coming from him, and I think he knew it, which only made him more imperative. 


"You're my fucking kid – you don't fuck your kid."

"You did last night.  Fucking loved it," I spat out.


"Don't push me, boy."

"And since when did you start listening to `everyone'?  Ain't you the fucker who told me to walk my own path, be my own man, make my own way?  Hell – you ain't listened to `everyone' you're whole life."

That hit him, hard, and his response was brutal.  He launched across the room, grabbing my shoulders, pushing me up against the wall.


"I did in the Corps, you little prick.  I followed orders just like the rest of them, and I expect you to follow mine."

His nostrils flared, his face was red, his eyes flashed with violence.  But, being away from him all year – being my own man – coupled with his apology last night, his confession about what an asshole he'd been - had changed me.  It had changed who I was in response to him.  And, it had changed my image of him.  He wasn't perfect.  He was flawed.  Like the rest of us.  Had strengths and weaknesses.  Suffered loneliness and pain. 


"And you always told me," I whispered, meeting his gaze, "that the one thing you hated about the Corps, the one thing that allowed you to walk away after you did your twenty, was the bullshit orders from the bullshit chain-of-command.  It's why you started your own business.  Made your own way." 


He stared at me.  I could feel the rage within him, tempered by the simple fact that I was right. 


"And, it's why you left mom.  `Cuz, you don't take orders from no one, Pops, so why the fuck did you wake up this morning, and start takin' orders from `everyone'?"


He slammed me up against the wall and my head snapped back, bouncing against it.  The pain was intense – it flooded my brain and triggered every fight-or-flight response I had. 

"We ain't havin' this conversation," he growled, stalking out of the room, out on to the deck, and down the lawn.


"Don't you walk away from me, old man," I followed, naked, behind him.


He wheeled, turning his huge bulk, standing his ground.  "Or what?  Whattaya gonna do, you little punk?"


His eyes were wild.  But, there was something else – something I'd never seen before in those eyes.  Fuck.  It was fear.  Not just fear of me.  But, fear of us.  The realization washed over me.


My words spat, uncensored.


"You liked it.  You fucking loved it.  That's what this is about.  Not that it's bad – but that it's good.  Too good.  You're fucking scared.  You're scared of what that makes you and you're scared of what that makes us."

"You little faggot –"


And, he jumped me, all of his force, all of his power.  I hit the ground, and the wind blew out of me. 


He had me – had the initiative, had the element of surprise and had me in size.  All that, and I was naked - vulnerable.  But, I had one thing he didn't have – the irrational pain of a spurned lover, the pure rage of a rejected son. 


We fought.  It was real. 


He had every advantage, but my head was clear.  I felt powerful in myself and my righteousness, and he was so out of control, I knew I just needed to hold him back until he fucked up and overcompensated, just like the asshole had taught me.  So, I rolled with him, ducking a wild swing, then grasping his wrist, twisting it. 


He winced. 

He was feeling pain.  The memories of yesterday powered me.  I'd stretched.  He hadn't.  I was young.  He wasn't.  My body could recover quickly.  His would take hours, or days.


"You little fucker – "


The pain drove his anger, and suddenly he had me pinned, both arms above my head, legs gripping mine.  We were eye to eye – face to face.  And so . . .


I spat on him – right in the mouth.  Fucker deserved it and I loved doing it, knowing what it would trigger in him.


It put him over the edge.


He let go of one arm, raised it, pulling back to cross-cock me, the first time he'd ever even threatened to hit me, much less followed through, and now the punch was unleashing.  But, in my clear head it was happening in slow motion.  And, it was my chance.


He'd shifted his weight to throw the punch, and freed my arm.  Just before it landed, I pushed up and ducked left.  His hand slammed into the hard-pack dirt.  His whole body was behind it, so when I bucked up my hips, he fell over the top of me, at the same time bellowing in pain from the damage he'd done to his hand.


Didn't give a shit if he hurt.  He didn't know hurt, compared to the pain he'd made me feel – over the past year, and over the past minutes.


I was on him in an instant.  My body surged, all my training kicked in.  I tackled his sorry ass, flattening him on the ground, driving his face into the dirt.


"Awwwwwwwfuck!", he shouted. 

I'd knocked the wind out of him - I had the advantage, now. 


He kicked up with his boots, trying to crush my nuts, the cheating motherfucker, but I swerved my hips, protecting myself, and then scissored his legs with my own, my thighs capturing his.  He winced again, and I knew his older muscles were screaming in pain. 

He tried to buck from underneath me, but my thick arm came around his neck, pulling it up.  His face turned red.  My spit had turned into a muddy blotch on his cheek.  His lip was bleeding.  But, the blood triggered something in me.  More adrenaline surged, and I felt like a lion on the Serengeti, blood lust powering me to the kill. 


I wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him bleed.


He reached up with the one arm that wasn't trapped beneath his body, trying to grab my neck, clawing at me.  He was fighting mean now, but I had him.  I lifted up, grabbing his wrist.  It was the wrist of the hand that had pounded the dirt, and blood spilled from the knuckles.  I yanked it behind his back, twisting it brutally.  He cried out – had never heard him make the sound he made right then. 

I twisted it again, and he spit blood from his mouth.  His breath was raspy, constricted, but mine was powerful.  I heaved on him, filling my lungs, releasing air, filling them again, using the oxygen to gain power, as his drained. 


All of this was his training, after all, teaching me what to do in a fight. 


His most pounding lesson had been – always – don't fucking fight.  Walk away from a fight.  Stay away from a fight.  Never fight another man's battle.  You never know what kind of crazy fuck your opponent is, whether he has a weapon, whether he's killed before, whether he likes killing. He fucking pounded that shit into me from day one, even in kindergarten.  And I took it - cuz underneath it was love – pure care that something might happen to me and if it did, I could see, in his deep grey eyes, that it would kill him.  I never felt more loved than when he would `Drill-Sargent' me like that, no matter how twisted it may seem.  Because it was love, plain and simple.


The words echoed in my head.  "Don't tempt fate.  Don't press your luck.  Even against the weakest, scrawniest little punk, you can make the wrong move or he can get lucky for the first time in his sorry-assed life, and then it's over.  Done, kid.  Finished.  You're dead.  Don't be stupid.  Be smart.  Use this!"  Then, jabbing my head, but all the while in his eyes was the vivid picture he imagined of my hurt or dead body, and so what I saw was only – ever – the loving father doing everything he could to protect his precious son.


But, he wasn't stupid, the old man.  Once that lesson had been embedded into my DNA, programmed into his Recruit of a Son, he took me to the base and he taught me everything I needed to know.  How to shift my weight, exploit my strengths, find – and take advantage of – my opponents' weak spots.  He taught me fair tricks, cheap tricks and dirty tricks – gave me every tool I needed to be ready, if the shit ever truly hit the fan.


Those heady memories flooded my brain now, all the afternoons of heat and body contact, pain and failure, sweat and success. So focused he was on giving me every tool I needed to protect myself, he never caught the eroticism those sessions spurred in me.  He never understood that each time I said, "Let's go again, Pops" it wasn't just because I was trying to get better, it was also because I craved the contact, the touch, the hard violent sensuality of our bodies clutching and heaving in opposition.  Hell, that's why, under my workout clothes, I always wore a jock, a cup and another jock, to obliterate any possibility he would notice that most of the time my newly functioning teen cock was rock hard, sometimes spurting juice uncontrollably when I really fucked up and he got me in a position like I had him now, immobilized, powerless, owned.

I was on top of him, my body controlling him, my face above his, his face in the dirt. 


We stayed like that.  He hadn't given in, but at this rate, there was only gonna be one more fight left in him. 


Suddenly, he relaxed - but I expected it.  Frankly, I was a little disappointed that he'd try the same thing twice. 


"Not gonna work this time, old man.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice – "


I flexed every muscle in my body, like he'd done to me yesterday, using his ploy to my advantage, a python squeezing out the kill. 


 "You taught me that, too."


I could see his conscious mind thinking, and what it understood was he'd just run out of options.  So, he did the only thing left to do - he made one more massive effort.  He tried to lunge up and out, but all that did was secure my position on top of him more completely.


He had nothing left.  He was defeated.


A second passed.  Another. 

"Say it," I said, squeezing harder.  His mouth was bloody now.  He grunted.

"Say it", I yelled, "Or I'll crush your fucking larynx just like you taught me to."


He struggled.  He was losing air.


I was in full rage.  Out of control.  I was gonna finish this.


I screamed into his ear:  "Say it, Pops, or I swear I will kill you right here.  Don't test me, you stubborn fuck, just say it! FUCKING SAY IT, ASSHOLE!"


His eyes widened.  Just as I'd never seen his fear, neither had he ever seen my violence. 

It was over.


"I give."  He barely choked.


"Again," I menaced into his ear.  "Louder."




I held one second more to insure he received the full impact of my dominance, then released my grip, just enough so he could breathe.  He sucked in air, gasping.  I stayed on top of him, not relinquishing any other power.  I didn't trust him, after yesterday, and given training memories that had been rekindled in this moment, but after controlling his body for several minutes, it became clear that his defeat was total.


I held his neck but released his injured hand.  He winced again, pulling it from behind him, resting it on the ground.  He kept gasping, but his breath became steadier.  Blood bubbled from his lips. 


Tenderness overwhelmed me as the rage dissipated, almost instantly.  That shocked me just as much as my blood-lust had – the nearly immediate transition from hate to love.  Fuck, this man spurred emotion in me like none other did.  But, the roller coaster was thrilling.  It just made me want him more.   


With my free hand I massaged his shoulder.  I relaxed my legs, freeing his lower body, but he remained prone.  I tried to heal him with my strength, pouring love and concern from my nudity, but he barely responded. 


Finally, I released his neck, pulling my arm out, then kneading his other shoulder.  Still, he barely responded.  Love - and worry that I'd broken him - overwhelmed me.  But, he'd forced us here.  I straddled his body, my knees on either side of him.  I was covered in sweat and dirt.  His blood stained my arm and one hand.


I stood.  He lay at my feet, still heaving, but gaining control of his lungs.


"Get up," I said, gently.


He didn't move. 


"Get up, dad."

He still didn't move.


"Daddy, please. . . "  I squatted down.  "Get up, Sir."


His eyes were vacant, but then he moved.  The full body pain was evident, but he pushed himself up on his knees, swaying a little.

I wondered if he'd ever been beat – ever been put in this position.  He seemed out of himself – gone.  I reached out my hand and he looked at it.   My cock swung heavy, eye level, and I think it startled him. 


I'd beaten him naked.  Just me, and every tool he had given me.


Then his eyes came into focus, taking in my naked form, and somehow it soothed him.  I was all son, standing there.  All boy.  Naked.  Open.  I saw a vulnerability that he rarely showed – it swept over his body, onto his face, dug into his eyes.


He reached up with his uninjured hand, and took mine.  I pulled him up.  He stumbled when he got on one knee and I scooped down, reaching my arm under his, pulling his entire weight up.  I waited as he steadied himself, then lead him back up the hill.  The sun was hot on my flesh, but there were heavy clouds on the horizon.  This was the quiet before the storm.  We walked up the stairs to the deck and I lead him through the house, to his room.


I lowered him on to the edge of the bed, fell to my knees and began unlacing his boots.  He let me do it, and it felt so right, to be in that position, doing ministrations to my injured, hurt Pops.


One boot off, then the other.  Then the socks.


I stood.


"Get up."

He did.  I was taking the lead now, and he was following.


I reached for his belt buckle, grabbing it, but he pushed my hand away.  I looked up - reading his thoughts.


"You need a shower, dad.  I'm gonna get you in the shower, `kay?  It will make you feel better."

He looked at me, wounded eyes, ashamed that his thoughts had assumed a sexual dynamic, instead of pure care.  He nodded.


I unbuckled his pants, letting them fall to the floor.  There was no underwear, but I didn't look at his crotch, averting my eyes, assuring him that there was nothing at all licentious in my actions.  He stepped out of the pants, and I lead him to the bathroom.  I kept the light low, reaching in and turning on the shower to the hottest setting.  The bathroom had a separate heater, and I turned that on, too.  Steam quickly filled the room.  While I did this, he'd unbuttoned his over-shirt, letting it fall to the floor.  I pulled up his wife-beater and he raised his arms, his dark musk filling the steamy air.  I lifted it over his head and he stood before me, naked.  The blood on his mouth was starting to dry.  No words were spoken, but so much was communicated.


I lead him to the shower, pushing him gently into the vast space – a space he'd built himself – a big, dark, large shower, almost like you find in a locker-room, where a man could unwind, recover, let the weight of the world wash away from his body.


I think he half expected me to join him, but I knew he needed to be alone.  He stepped under the spray, flinching, and I headed out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me.


I stuck his wife-beater under my nose, breathing in his scent.  I couldn't help myself and I felt a little dirty when I did it, but when the smell filled my nostrils, it triggered me.  This was the scent of hundreds of days of joint training and coaching, all of which had been focused by love and devotion.  And, spurred by his smell, I used the power of those memories to fulfill my own devotional duty now– to find a way to heal him, recover him and love him.


I picked up his clothes, bundled them, and made my way upstairs.  I was in caregiver mode, and knew what I had to do. I gathered new sheets and fresh towels, lotions and oils that I'd bought with me. At the last minute, I brought my bag, which had all my stuff in it – clothes, my books from school and . . . personal stuff.


I closed all the windows and doors downstairs, pulling the blinds, turning out the lights, locking the doors.  Some light crept in, but the day was effectively blocked.  The wind had picked up anyway.  Rain as coming. 

And, we needed to be inside.  Behind closed doors.  Keeping the world at bay. 

I thought about getting him a beer, but poured water instead.  Our minds had to be clear.  It was still daytime.  Only in daytime can you see the world as it is.


The shower still ran as I moved into the room.


I made the bed, putting down fresh sheets, shoving the evidence of our lust into the closet.  I changed all the bedding.  The storm would bring mountain cold, so fresh blankets would warm his body.  I put down towels to cover the sheets – a space in the middle where he could lay and allow me to care for him, ease his pain.  Then, I lit the candles again.  Fire might burn away whatever shame or remorse he felt about last night.


I quietly stepped into the bathroom.  I don't think he'd moved.  He stood under the shower, hands against the wall, water pouring down his head and back.


The steam was thick – just shadows and swirling mist.


I moved into the shower silently.  Then, I reached out and touched his shoulder.  He jumped, and I clutched him.


"Shhh, dad.  It's okay."


He relaxed into my grip.  Then, his shoulders slumped.  It felt like surrender, so I kept a gentle touch.


I grabbed the soap, working up a lather.  He stood up straight, and I soaped his broad, muscular back.  I worked my way down, being thorough.  I skipped his ass, squatting, working the soap over his thick hairy legs.  Then back up, to his glutes.  First the outside, then brushing up his cleft.  He spread his legs for me, barely, and I took the cue, reaching under his balls, scrubbing his taint, and then working up, cleaning his hole. 

There seemed to be so much hair down there, but there was a softness that I hadn't expected.  He made no sound, but his back arched a little, and he gave me access. That surprised me.  Maybe it was surrender.


I placed one hand on his shoulder and with the other, I moved up and down his cleft.  My fingers slowly worked his ring – a muscle I'd never explored but that had remained powerful, on the dark edges of my imagination.  He shook a little.  I got more lather and went back, this time easing one finger into his muscled, tight, dad-ass.  I thought I heard a sound, but I wasn't focused on sex, just focused on making him feel good – getting him clean.  A second soapy finger went in and I pushed gently, deeper, running my fingers around his insides, finding his spot, massaging it.  He pushed back into me, letting me in deeper.  I wanted to do more – so much more, but this was just one stop on a journey that would last the entire day – hopefully the whole week if I played my cards right.  I pulled out slowly, checking the fingers for cleanliness, then rubbed his crack one last time. 

I stepped back, clutching his shoulders, and turned him around.


His cock was hard, of course, but not full staff.  I ignored it purposefully.  I soaped up again, spreading the suds on his broad chest and heavy, hairy pecs.  He raised his arms and I scrubbed his pits, washing away the scent I loved so much, but knowing it would return, like it always did.


Then his arms.  Then his hands.  I took the injured paw, and barely washed it.  I pushed him back so I could hold it under the hot water.  He flinched again, but I held it strong, so the heat could open the scrapes and wounds.  The water flowed red, and I added soap, cleansing the dirt.  It needed more, but it was a start.


Then down again, to his stomach, the front of his legs.  He picked up each foot, clutching the hand-rail for balance, and I happily washed them.


I had won our battle, but now prayed silently at the feet of my Father, my God, the man I worshipped.  I hoped he caught the signal – the willingness to submit, the need even.  But, there were so many things I wanted to communicate to this man, the man who had made me.  This was just one shaft of light in a kaleidoscope of fantasy and passion and love that had always been inside me, but that had blazed like a super nova last night.


Back up to the loins that created me.  Now I was in a trance.  I lathered up, and before I touched it, he reached down with his good hand and said, simply, "Soap."

I gave it to him, and he washed his head and face as I coated his heavy balls and  jerking cock.  It wasn't steel like it had been last night, but it was full, engorged, willing.  I pulled back the head, wanting so much to clean his scum with my tongue, but this was not the place.  He spread his legs more, giving me complete access.  I ran my finger under the skin, pulled it back, rubbing the head, which responded with a jerk of juice, getting bigger . . . rounding out.


I could have stayed all day in that position, but it was done. 

He turned, rinsed, soap cascading down his back, over his ass, down his most private place, becoming clean.


Then, he stepped back, turning aside.  His hurt hand gripped my shoulder, firmly, beginning to assert just a modicum of the control he'd lost.  Again, one word:  "You."


He pulled me into the water – it was so hot, but so good.


He washed me as I had washed him.  Slowly, tenderly.  When he came to my hole he was tentative.  He felt the enlarged lips that he'd expanded - caressed them.  Then, his big soapy fingers were inside me, touching me.  I was still wet inside, and the soap combined with the rest of his essence, but he didn't pull out.  Another finger entered me and I splayed my ass out, giving him complete permission.   He lingered in there – willing to understand my secrets, learning more fully about the entrance that he'd first explored the night before.  He pushed deeper, but still with a tender gentleness that he'd never displayed with me.  A third finger entered.  He found my spot, rubbed it, learned about it through touch, saw how it made my whole body respond.


There was a deep rumble.


Me?  Him?  Distant thunder?  I don't know – we were just in the moment, father and son, sharing and deepening a bond.


But, like I had done with him, he exited eventually, turned me, soaped my chest.  I raised my arms and he cleaned my pits, then he massaged my hard, muscled pecs.  At one point, with both hands, he squeezed my tits between his thumbs and forefingers, exerting heavy pressure.  My body reacted, my cock sprung harder, shooting juice from the tip.  This, too, he took in, learning the ways of my sensual wiring, the buttons he could push to get the response he desired - if he would allow himself to do so.


Then, down my body, massaging my legs, leaving my cock for last, as I had done for him.  He was thorough, working up my taint, clutching my balls with his big hand, pulling them, feeling their heft.  Like he had, while I washed him, I kept my eyes closed.  I wanted him to have privacy, so he could explore his fascination without being studied. 


"Soap," he said, this time an order, and, again, a repetition. I took it from him, scrubbing my short hair and face. 


Meanwhile, he grabbed my cock, jerking it slowly, up and down, holding it with first one hand, then the other, then both.  It wasn't as big as the expanse of both of his large paws, but it was close, and he encompassed my shaft, wrapping it in a warm, soapy orifice of his own making.  He held it tight, firmly, like a man holds his own cock.  He squeezed, with increasing pressure, feeling it enlarge in his grip.


Then he let go as I had done.  I backed into the shower as he watched me, rinsing off.  I turned, letting him see my smooth muscled ass one more time, then flipped off the shower. 

Rain had started to pelt the roof.  Water flowed outside the house, too, cleansing the earth, washing away our sins.


He seemed hesitant, so I took the lead again. 


I pulled him out of the shower, began toweling him off.  It was sensual.  He was damp, but it good enough.  I used the towel on my own body, getting most of the water off my skin.


Again, he waited to be led.  I turned the dimmer up, brighter.  The light assaulted our eyes – fractured our privacy.  But, it was necessary.


"Let me see," I said, pulling his hand up to me face.  The wounds weren't deep, but his knuckles were swollen.  Not thinking, I kissed each one, bathing the open flesh with my warm tongue.  It felt so tender, tasting him like this.  I felt grit, and spit on the flesh, and sucked it clean.  I bent his fingers gently, to open each knuckle-wound, running my tongue along each. 


"Ice on this tomorrow.  But, let it rest now.  Just be careful with it."

"I will."

So intimate.

I pulled peroxide from the cabinet, pouring it on the cuts.  Then, rinsed it. 

Then, kisses again.  Kisses on each knuckle.  Kisses for each wound.


I dropped his hand by his side.  He seemed so majestic and wounded standing there as the steam evaporated, slowly.  Water dripped from his hair, down his cheeks, like tears.


Then I looked up at his mouth.


I motioned for him, and he bent his head down, so I could inspect.


"Open," I said, and he did.  I checked his teeth.  No damage.


"Fine," I said.  He closed his mouth, but I'd slipped my thumb in.  I pulled gently on his lower lip.  It was swelling.  The cut was pretty deep.  But, there wasn't much that I could do, given the location.  Then, another surprise: he sucked on my thumb, bending into me, just a little closer.  I knew what he wanted, but he wasn't going to take the initiative, I thought.  So, I did.  I ran my tongue along the cut. 


Even though he'd asked for it, he tensed. 

There's something about a kiss, I think, that seals the deal between certain people.  At least, it seemed that way with my dad.


I sucked on his lower lip, so gently, using my tongue to bathe the wound.  Then I felt his hand on my hip, his mouth open slightly, his tongue drag across mine. 

I could taste tobacco on his mouth.  That's where he'd been – sneaking a smoke out in the woods.  Dad smoked when he was troubled, or tense, which wasn't often, and he'd been out smoking when I woke up. 

It turned me on, that taste.  The early memories of a very young boy, watching his dad puff on a Marlboro, sucking the smoke into his lungs, blowing it out.  Fuck, he even looked like a Marlboro Man back then.  Did now, too.


He gave into me – gave into it.  His mouth opened.  Given his wound, it wasn't the urgent kiss that I had fantasized about, but it was complete – opened mouth, tongues exploring.  Tasting.  


And, it was what I needed so bad.  It healed the dark wound of the morning.  And, from him, the kiss signaled a deep, unfettered apology – bestowed love on me, equal to the love I felt for him.


His grip relaxed.  I gave one more kiss, licking the split lip again, and settled back on my feet.


The rain fell harder.

"Thank you," I said.


"Son . . . "


"Shh, dad.  Later.  Not now."

I turned off the light and went into the bedroom.  In a moment, he followed.  He took in the scene, the candles, the closed blinds, the freshly made bed, with towels on the sheets.  Our cocks had relaxed, but both swung heavy, swaying, the candle-light casting lewd shadows on the floor.


He gaze fell on my suitcase, which was open, resting on a luggage rack that was used by renters.


"You've moved in."

"Yes, sir."

"Kid . . . "


"What, Dad?"


"I just – I'm having trouble with this.  I'm sorry – but, I am."


Here it was, the moment I'd expected.  But, I had prepared, too.  I was ready this time.

"Come here, Dad."

I walked out into the great room.  He followed, standing in the doorway to his bedroom.  The rain continued to fall, pouring down, so it was dark outside, but still daylight.  Shafts of faint light seeped through the closed blinds, but otherwise the room was extremely dim - dark grey.


"It's all closed up, Dad.  Doors locked.  Shades drawn."


I walked to the large windows, which faced the lake.  I pulled up the huge blinds.


"What do you see?" I asked.

He walked out tentatively, into the room.


"The lake."

"What else?"

He was questioning, trying to figure out where I was going with this. 


"Yeah, nothing.  Everyone's gone for the summer, Dad – that's why you love it up here in late August.  No boats.  No kids screaming on the lake – they're all back in school.  Hardly anyone up here anyway, but even less so now.  We're alone."

I closed the blinds and walked back to him.  His eyes were on me.  He couldn't hide his hunger, even with the challenges he faced accepting our new paradigm.


"There's no one out there, dad.  No one."


I walked past him, beckoning him to follow.  "Come here."


I led him back into the bedroom.


When he walked through the door I closed it behind him, then locked it, loudly, so he could hear the latch snap shut.


"The door's closed, dad.  And locked.  We're alone, behind closed doors.  No one has to know.  Ever.  What we do in here, behind closed doors, is between us, and no one else.  Always."

I approached him, standing close.  Our cocks touched.  I placed a hand on his chest.


"We're men, dad.  Grown men.  Doing what men do.  What they want to do.  What they need to do, sometimes, when it's right."

I brushed my other hand up his inner thigh, then cupped his balls, holding them in the palm of my hand, gently squeezing them.


"What men do – behind closed doors – is between them.  There's nothing wrong with it, dad.  It's what men do.  What people do."

He looked down at me, still resisting, but the hunger was growing, the logic was unassailable.  He gave it one last try – and it was a good try - a father's try.


"But, baby boy . . . "  He brought his hand up to my chin, lifting my face, staring deep into my eyes.  I still touched his chest, still held his life-giving nuts in my hand.


"This . . . this changes everything."


"Everything's already changed, daddy.  It changed last night."

He kept looking at me.  There was wonder there, I think, about how much I'd grown, how much I knew.  My wisdom, I guess, but I didn't feel wise.  I felt small, like a child again, willing to do anything to earn his daddy's love, only this time, that love was adult, passionate, animal.


"It would be worse to try to go back, dad - pretend it didn't happen.  To try to reject it, and ignore what's happening now between us.  I've tried to reject something this powerful.  It doesn't work.  It just makes it worse."


He'd lost.  Again.  On the lawn it was a battle of our bodies.  Here it was a battle against his conditioning and my freedom, his notion of fatherhood, and my notion of love.


I bowed my head.


"It's gonna be different, yeah.  It's gonna keep being different.  Maybe it will be tough, but it's tough already, sometimes.  Has been before.  And recently."

"That was my fault."

"Not all your fault.  I can be pretty stupid sometimes, and stubborn.  Willful."


I could feel his gaze on me.


"Wonder where you get that from?"


"These," I said, holding his balls, massaging them.


He grunted.  A recognition.


"Dad," I said.


"What, kid?"  His hand had found his way to my shoulder. The other had covered my hand on his chest.  Didn't know how they got there.  He was quick like that, sometimes – had moves, it seemed - particularly behind closed doors.


Our cocks had both surged forward at the same time.  They touched, rubbing against each other.  It was so erotic.  So intimate.


"One thing won't change, ever.  I love you.  So much.  I can't even describe it, how I feel about you.  So, when I think about what might happen, I just think . . . it's gonna be okay.  Because I love you."


I'd started tearing up a little.  Didn't even know it.  Just saw the tears hit the floor, and felt one splash on my cock.  Not sobbing, not balling, not sniffling – just tears, falling from my eyes.


"I love you too, kid.  So much.  I love you so fucking much."

And he grabbed me, enveloped me, pulled me into his body and squeezed me so hard.  I hugged him back, letting him feel the strength of my arms and biceps and shoulders in a different way than he'd felt them just an hour or so ago.


We stayed like that, clutching each other in the candle-lit room, behind the locked door, in the empty cabin, on the vacant lake, on the edge of the lonely mountains. 

Lightning flashed, followed by a roar of thunder that boomed over the water and back again, the echo rattling the windows.  The noise confirmed the darkness of our desires and the line that we'd crossed.


I let go.  It was done.  I knew it.  And, he knew it.


"Get on the bed."

My order surprised him, but he obeyed.


He leaned back, spreading his legs, giving me access, but I kept playing the part.


"On your stomach, asshole.  I'm gonna give you a massage, not a blowjob."


That made him smile – his first of the day. 


"I know you're hurting and don't even try to tell me you aren't.  We worked our asses off yesterday, and your old body can't take that like it used to."

I was getting my stuff – towels, lotion, everything I needed.


"Yes, Sir," he replied, flipping himself over.  Then he said, "I am a little sore.  Some little punk kicked my ass this morning."


I crawled up on him, my cock brushing up his legs but avoiding his ass.


"Guess you'll have to take care of that little punk later."

"Oh, I will."


I slapped on the oil and lotion, and went to work. 


I think he was expecting something erotic, but we had all day for that.  Now, I wanted to give him a real massage, to pour my strength into his aching muscles, to relax him, to let him learn my touch, let him feel it everywhere. 

"Breathe, dad.  The door's closed.  Just relax and breathe."


I worked hard, building up a sweat.  He was stiff at first, but gave in. Then he was responding.  Then he was growling, asking for more in some places, signaling his tension, his aches and his pain. 

I skipped over his ass and worked the legs, first one, then the other.  I massaged his feet and that triggered a full body response.  I was gonna come back to those, but I had one final target on this pass – his ass.


I moved up to his glutes, kneading the strong muscles there, slapping them to bring the heat up, spreading his ass and squeezing it back, each time looking at his most private place . . . the final frontier. 


No matter how intent I was on the massage, it drew me in, then it mesmerized me – I couldn't help myself. I moved between his legs, spreading them wider with my knees.  I got closer, playing my fingers around the edge of his musty ring, breathing on it. 

Then I pushed down, covering his taint with my tongue, raking up his cleft, lapping over his hole and up his back.


He tensed.  I did it again, and he got more tense.  I pulled back.


"Let go, Pops."

"Kid – I don't think I can do that.  Not yet."


"I'm not gonna fuck ya, dad.  I just want to give to you what you gave me last night." I was breathing heavily, now – letting my voice express my need.

I went again – he still wouldn't give me full access.


"Baby boy – "


"Dad – I don't want it like that – me up in you.  It's not how I'm wired when I'm with you.  I just – "


I leaned over him, arms on both sides, nuzzling his neck, making sure to keep my dick away from his hole, crushing it into his back, instead.


He was breathing.  Not responding.


"I need this, dad.  Please, daddy – I need to do this, so bad."  My throat was husky, communicating my deepest desires. But it was the same voice I'd used last night – the needy kid, asking his dad for just one more throw, just one more piece of candy, just one more . . . this.


He still didn't respond, so I bared my desires, communicated my need. I begged – plain and simple. A primal urge had been awakened. I was wanton now – unable to control myself.


"Please daddy, I gotta taste your hole," I panted.  "You don't know how bad I want it, dad – been wanting it for so long, wanting to put my tongue up in there. All my life I've wanted it.  Please, let me lick your ass, daddy.  I want it so bad, Sir."


It worked.


My unbridled desire and begging triggered his lizard brain.  Something snapped.  He gave in - his ass relaxed and legs spread, and I worked my way down, raking my tongue over the wet indent of his muscled back.


Then, I got there, and he growled.  Another barrier broken.  Out came his most private voice – the deep down dirty dad that I always sensed was there, lingering in the dark – caged - rarely let loose.

"Alright, kid," he whispered, husky, intimate.  "Go ahead.  Lick my ass.  Show me how perved you been for it – `all your life'." 


Another repetition, but this one deeper – I think his own final understanding of the intensity and longevity of my desires.

He pushed it up and I dove in.  My mouth covered his hole and he groaned, giving in to his dark side.  He bucked up immediately, shocked, I think, at how good it felt.

"Oh fuck –" he started, then pushed back.  "Fu -fuck yeah.  Aww, fuck, eat it, son."

I let loose, obeying the order.


He was sharp in there, his distinctive musk even richer - deeper - as I pushed through his muscle, delving into his depths.  His rich, fertile balls were beneath my chin, and I could feel them churning, producing the next load of his potent cum.


I loved eating ass and I lost myself in his.  I never got ass like this, though – a man's ass, aged, like fine beef. 

"Aww, Jesus fuck – aaaawwwwww fuuuuuuuuuck," he groaned, a rumbling growl of passion and pleasure.

I pushed harder, as deep as I could go.  My spit poured out, wetting him, giving me greater access.  First one finger on one side and another on the other, then slowly teasing him open, so I could taste his inner walls.


"Aww, Jesus."  He was into it now.  Sweat mixed in with his juices.  I'd just cleaned it, so it tasted like pure depth, pure man, pure him.


I pulled up.


"Push it out, dad," I heaved.  "Give me more, daddy," I begged.

He had turned a corner.  His talk became nastier, the final gates had been stormed.


"Nasty little freak – like eating your dad's ass, huh?"

I growled.  "Fuck, I love it.  Need it."

He got up on his knees, reached back and pulled my head into his butt. 

"Go for it, kid – show me - make me proud, boy."

I was suffocating between his huge globes, but he wasn't letting go.  Then I felt it – the slow push outward.  I opened my mouth and the ring expanded, matching my lips.  I sucked, hard, pulling the ring out more, at the same time lunging my tongue in deep, as far as it would go.


I never heard a man make a sound like he did then.  It sounded ancient.  It seemed to come deep from the primeval forest out back and deep within him at the same time.  The storm roared outside and he bucked his ass up and down my face.


"Eat it – aww, fucking eat it."

I think he was getting me back for the fight earlier in the day, and I wanted him to.  I wanted to return to the natural order of things – to where I was his toy to play with, to use, abuse even, for his unchecked lust.


"Fuck, you're a fucking pig, ain'tcha, son?" he said, getting into it now, using all of his strength to pull me into his butt.  "Shit, never even had a whore do this, and you're doing it fer free.  Cuz ya like it."

I mumbled into his ass, panting and moaning.  "Love it, Pops.  Anytime you want, I'm up in here." I gasped. "Anytime, any place.  Where I belong."

"You betch yer ass, faggot – right where you belong."  He was figuring it out - asserting his fundamental nature.


Then, he surprised me again.  He flipped over, spreading his legs, giving me a full access that I hadn't had before – and a picture of depravity that will forever be etched in my memory.


"Eat it," he commanded.  "Come on, boy - don't hold back.  You got me going now, ya hungry fuck."

I dove back in licking and lapping and moaning like a bitch in heat.  It was ungodly hot and just ungodly.  I went at him for minutes, gnawing and tonguing, sucking his most private place.  And, he let me – pushing out, pulling my face into him, huffing like a bull in heat, balls pulled up tight. I even stuck a finger back in the wetter he got, rubbing his hard nut, while I lapped his churning orbs of fertility. Then I headed back down, sucking around my thick digit, opening him up, then using that opening to go deeper with my tongue, pushing it back inside when I pulled my finger out.

His moans were animal. Again I realized – like I had last night – the old man didn't get sex like this:  unbridled, uncautious, unleashed.  And, I could tell – he loved it. More than that – he needed it. It filled him, made him whole again, after a too-long period of dormancy. I think he realized, in that moment, that it made him more of a man, not less of one, to let himself go like this.


That and so many thoughts pin-balled in my frenzied brain as I fed at his increasingly willing man-hole, but eventually I pulled myself out of my lust, and back to my larger task.  I'd conquered this last incestuous taboo – knew I would come back to play on this fertile ground – and returned to my original, more urgent, mission.


Slowly, I modulated my ministrations, easing off my feast, reigning in my desires. I transitioned out of my whore-state and brought us both back from the edge. 


I had a plan and I was sticking to it.  It was another thing the old man had taught me – drilled into me.  "Stick with the plan, kid.  Sometimes, it's all you got."


So, I eased back, slowed down, regained control.  This was the side-show before the main event, and I wanted to change the rhythm, move the journey on.


Dad wasn't the only one with skills in the sack.


I pushed him gently back down to the bed, lowering his legs, and he complied, still breathing hard.  His balls were tight up against his turgid shaft, and I licked them, loving them, sucking on first one, then the other.  I couldn't take both in my mouth, yet, but I would.  In time.


I think he also figured out that now – this moment - was about possibilities.  I was showing him all the things two men could do together, and more importantly, what he could do with me.


I kneeled up, straightening.  I breathed, one, two, three deep sucks of air to regain my equilibrium, continue what I'd started.  But, I also knew the picture I presented, face wet with ass-juice, sweat gleaming, cock hard as a rock, dripping a long strand of pre that touched the bed.  I wanted him to see me was as I was, a full sexual being, in his prime, secure in the knowledge of who I was, and what I wanted.


His eyes glistened and danced, taking me in.  Dad was all in now. I let him look at me.


"Hands behind your head, Sir."

He did it, showing off his big arms, round biceps and hairy pits.  The chest formed a nearly perfect `V', the hair matted with sweat.  His cock stood, waving over his stomach.  God, he was a sexy man.  The perfect man.


"You're face is all wet," he said, leering at me.


"I been eating ass, Sir," I said, proudly.


He was having fun with it now, pushing the envelope.  Testing me.  Seeing how far he could go – how far I would go.


"What are ya, kid?  Some kind of a fag or something?"


He smiled at me when he said it, but beneath the smile was something deeper.  I saw the Marine Corps Drill Sargent who'd let a young grunt suck his cock.  I saw the dude that liked to rock it in the bedroom.  I saw his own perversion, rising to the surface.

"Sir, yes, Sir.  I'm a fag, Sir.  Big fag."  I posed, arms up, popping my pecs and biceps.


His smile was big now, relaxed.  He even chuckled at me, as I posed for him. 


Sex could be fun – should be fun – loosening him up was part of it, letting him know that I wanted this kind of interaction, too, as well as pure, unbridled lust.


I shimmied back, pulled his legs closed, and went for his feet.   I'd learned they were an erogenous zone that he'd probably never discovered, and I wanted to know more. 


I massaged each, but also sucked on his toes, worshipping them.  It was a thing for me, too, something I'd fantasized about, but I'd never found a man that I wanted to service in this way.  Never found a man that I could honestly and completely submit to, by taking this position.  Maybe that's because there was only one man I could imagine giving so much power to . . . Him.  My Dad.  My Creator.


My God.


He'd been here all the time, in the center of my life and consciousness and erotic soul, and now he was letting me be . . . me. 


I moaned, demonstrating my pleasure.  He responded. He pushed his foot into my mouth and I sucked, greedily.


"Jesus, kid."

"Need it, Sir."  My communication was clear, powerful.  Truth.  I did need this, and I needed him to know it.


I slathered the other one, getting lost.


His other foot rested on my shoulder, and I could imagine a time when I could simply drop my body to the floor, worshiping his gleaming jump-boots, while he sucked on a cigar after dinner and sipped his whiskey. 


I pulled off.

"This is who I am, Sir.  No one knows, but you."


He looked at me, adjusting to this new picture of the second son that was being born, right in front of him.


Then, the tenderness that I craved, and that allowed me to reveal myself in the first place.


"I understand, boy.  I get it - I . . . I'm getting it."


Still, a pause.  Still, a hitch.  I knew that this might be difficult for him, so I expressed that.


"I'm sorry, Daddy." 

He looked more certain now, even if he was exploring new, shifting ground.  But the soul of the man who loved me responded, in a clear, steady voice.


"Don't be, sorry, baby boy.  Never be sorry for who you are.  I told you – I want you to be happy.  It's all I ever wanted.  So, just go for it, kid.  I want to see it.  Fuck – I like it.  It's turning me on.  Can't you tell?"


He reached down with his hand and grabbed the base of his stiff cock, making it swell up and spit a stream of juice out of the hooded crown.


Then, came another unexpected gift.  He winked, smiled just enough, repeated my own words back to me.   "The door's closed – it's just us, son - just you and me and no one else."

I whimpered with relief, hearing his permission, then licked the underside of his feet and let go, completely.  There was no holding back now.  My last secret was out and I could be the dude I wanted to be, for a certain kind of man and a certain kind of moment.  This man.  This moment. 

"Boots, too, Sir, please.  One day.  Please, Sir."

"Of course," he growled, letting the Drill Sargent out, allowing his inner dominant personality to enter the room.


I dove one more time onto his feet, sucking first one, then the other, as deep was I could take them, choking myself, gagging the way I didn't on his cock.


My face was covered in spit.  My cock was raging hard.  

I moved up his body, stopping at his thighs, working first one, then the other.  The urgency of the moment was building, but I wasn't going to fail in my duty to serve him.  I needed to show him that, too.  I'd promised him a massage, and he was going to get it – but he was getting something else, too:  The half-crazed submissive muscle-jock that rarely got a chance to get out, and never had a chance to serve a man like Him. 


I could feel his eyes on me.  Could sense his growing willingness to be served.  He allowed me, in that moment, to show him who I was, at core.  His son, but more than that.  His boy.  Daddy's boy.  Willing to do anything Daddy wanted, willing to do anything Daddy needed.  I was a man, yes, but I was his man.  Always had been.  Always would be.  This is why I knew it would work.  At core, if he took charge, settled into his role – the role he had always been most comfortable in anyway – I'd follow.  Do anything.  Take any order.  Follow any lead.


I passed over his cock, but sat down on it, rubbing it against my lubed hole.  In my preparations for the massage I'd shoved Vaseline up there, like a good boy should.  My ass was full of it, greased, ready for access.  I rubbed my crack back and forth on his pole, while I kneaded his chest, toyed with his nips.  His eyes were closed now, cock pumping.  He was loving this, don't think he'd had anything like it – and if he had, he'd paid for it, so this was different.   This was a gift, not a session with a bill due at the end


"Arms," I whispered.  He unlocked his hands from behind his back, and lowered them to his side.  I grabbed his biceps, massaging deep.  There was still pain – here quite a bit – but he didn't need to be told what to do.  He exhaled and inhaled, deeply, allowing me to ease his tension, salve his discomfort. 


Then leaning over, gripping his shoulders.  His cock popped up, and it played against the crease of my ass.  Like it had a mind of its own, like it was finding it's target, painting my ring with pre-cum.


I massaged hard.  My own muscles were getting tired now, my hands, too, but this was where the most tension lay, so I dug into the back of his neck, moving down and back, down and back.  I kept this up for some time, working the knots, kneading hard to remove the last of the tension stored there.


And, then, I slowed my attention to his shoulders, signaling the end – touching him more sensually. 


I was also signaling a transition.  A beginning.


He groaned.  This was mixed with lust.  He knew it was coming to the end and he knew by the play of my ass, what came next.  He wanted back in, just as I wanted him back in.


I slowly played my fingers down his front, stopping at his tits.  I grabbed each, rubbing them, hard, like men do.  His body twitched and he pushed up, arching his back, flexing his hips. 

My ass and his cock danced a dance – toying with each other, but soon the urgency of my need had me following him and goddamn if he wasn't playing hard to get.


I saw the smirk.  Realized he liked this game – drive the boy crazy with dad-dick, see what he'll do to get it inside him.


"You want that dick, boy?'


"Sir, yes, Sir.  So much."

"Watcha gonna do then, boy?"

I groaned. 

"Please, Daddy . . ."


"Don't `please, daddy' me, kid - what have I always told ya about what to do when you want something?"

I pushed back my ass, his cock sticking straight between my cheeks.


Groaning, lustful, needy, I said, "You always told me . . ."


I paused, letting the moment draw out.  Then, using the best imitation I had of his rough, stern voice, but adding a layer of depravity that I'd never accessed: "`If you want something, boy, go and get it.'"

He grinned.  It was Satyr-ish and cocky, relishing his power and the depth of control his training had instilled, but thoroughly enjoying the sexual thrall he had me in.  


"So, get it."


It's hard to describe what happened next.  I let go of the last vestiges of my constructed self and became something else.  I became what I had always wanted to be, had always suspected was lurking beneath my lowest depths, beyond even my fantasies. 


I let go of me and journeyed into Him – became his adjunct, an extension of his power, a tool for his pleasure and consumption – the urgent, needy cock hound, born, bred and trained (Inadvertently?  Subconsciously?  Explicitly?) by my Marine Dad, for my Marine Dad. 

I grabbed a pec, latching onto his tit with my eager mouth. I sucked like a new born calf, hungry to fill a void that had been empty for far too long.


"Yeahhhhhhhhh . . . . " he uttered.


With my other hand I reached back and grabbed his stiff cock, still shocked by its length and girth.  I guided the head to my hole, pushing back on it.  This time it slipped in, but it was still a sharp, painful invasion.


I cried out.


"Ohh, fuuck dad – awwwhhh," I gasped, my mouth full of his thick, stiff nub.  Even his nipples seemed huge.   The size connection linked in my brain. 


"So big.  So big," I mumbled, sucking and groaning, his cock expanding in my stretched hole.


"Take it, boy - show daddy how much you need it."

He was in it, now, finding himself.  Being the man I needed him to be.


"Take it all."

So, I did. I pushed back, impaling myself, down to the root.  I growled the growl of a new man, finding his new voice, testing it.  The doors were closed.  The sound filled the space.


I needed this so bad.  I was consumed.


"Fuck yeah, boy.  Take that big dick - make your dad proud."

Drool was dripping down my chest.  My cock ached.  My balls were crushed into his pelvis and still I pushed harder.


I bayed again as I adjusted to his huge cock. 



"Ride it, kid. Ride it," he growled


I did, pulling up and pushing back down, while he thrust into me.  I lost myself.  I grabbed onto his pecs and kept riding, my ass consuming his massive cock.


"Fuck, boy – fuck it's so tight.  Fuck you make me feel good, son."

"Yes, sir.  Want to, Sir.  Need to, Sir."  My voice was thick, loud, desirous.

I pulverized myself on him.  He'd grabbed my thighs, giving himself leverage and started to fuck me while I fucked him.  Lust consumed us.  A private dialogue blossomed, a new language we were learning, together, which fed on itself.


"Like that cock, boy?"

"Love it.  So much."

"Cock that made you."

"My cock, daddy.  Cock that busted my cherry."


"Thought you'd been fucked before, boy."

"No, Sir - not like this, Sir.  Nothing this big, Sir.  Nothing so deep."

"Like this?"  He pushed up, hard, contorting himself to go deeper.

"Yesssssss.  There – your place."

"Where my seed goes, boy?"

"Yes, Daddy's seed.  Seed that made me.  From the cock that made me."


I ground into him. 


"Show me – show me how much you love it."

He grabbed my dick with one hand, my balls with another.  He was so hard inside me – had gotten even bigger, but I knew, somehow, he wasn't gonna cum – not yet. 


He growled.  "Ride it."


I bounced up and down while he pulled my balls and jerked my dick.  I didn't care how deviant I looked.  I need him to see it, needed to show him just how extreme my greed had become.  Passion consumed me. 


"Play with your tits, boy."


I did.  It was the last trigger.  I pinched them hard and began bucking.  Sweat dripped from me and I used all my muscles to contort myself on him.


"Show me, boy.  Shoot it.  Shoot your load for daddy."

He pulled harder on my cock and balls.  I was crazed now and my hole started making squelching noise.


"Fuck, it sounds like a pussy back there."


"Yes, Sir.  It is, Sir.  Your pussy, Sir – pussy for you, Sir."


"Blow it, boy.  That's an order.  I want to see you shoot," he commanded.  It was the Drill Sargent voice, laced with taboo-slamming lust.

And, I did what I always did when he gave me an order.  I followed it. 


The orgasm boiled up inside of me.  I was consumed with perverted passion, my balls churned, and then my cock exploded.  Cum shot out, over the bed, painting the wall behind him.  He pointed my dick up and another spurt rose above me, then fell back down, splatting on his chest.  He pointed my cock again, using it like a hose, and cum painted my own chest and face.  I kept riding.  I'd never felt anything like this, the orgasm rocketed through me, and still I came.  He pointed my cock down and thick ropes spurted out onto his neck, one painted his cheek, more cum pooled between his pecs.


"More, boy, give me more."

My hole twitched, vise-gripping his steel cock, and more cum erupted, like a second orgasm, called up by the order he had just issued.  I shot another jet, high in the air, landing between his pecs perfectly, painting a picture of passion that just drove my pumping hose to shoot more. 


Then, in a final purge, my young stallion balls poured cum out of my cock like a faucet, covering his hand, soaking my cock and forming a thick wet pool on his stomach that dripped down to the base of his tool, where it smacked and splatted against my still driving jock-hole.


I kept heaving.  I kept feeling more cum push out.  I'd never cum this much.  It felt like my insides were pouring out of me.


"Yeah, boy . . . fucking hot!  Cumming for your daddy.  Showing me how much sperm you can make. So proud of you boy – so much cum in your balls."  And, as he kept up this litany of paternal pride, he continued his paternal pile-drive, power-fucking himself into my guts, pumping the river of cum from my draining nuts.

I shook and quivered.  I was losing muscle control, so he let go of my balls, which only caused more cum to spooge out, and grabbed my pec, steadying me.  But, I was collapsing, losing it completely.  He let go of my cock and grabbed my other pec, smearing me with my own seed.  I moaned, loudly and fell forward, leaning into his strength.


"Dad, oh, Daddy. Daddy."

He lowered me down while my hole squeezed and clamped his rock-hard cock, and I fell on his chest, completely spent, stuck to him by the mass of man/boy-juice that cemented us together.  He held me, wrapping both arms around my back, whispering in my ear, calming me, letting the moment play out of my pores and limbs.  I stayed there for half an hour or more, allowing the aftershocks to ripple through me.  And, still he held me.  And, still his cock remained rock hard. 


Periodically he would push deeper, and I would twitch and flex, only responsive, no motor control at all. 


Slowly, ever so slowly, it subsided, but I remained high, floating, out of myself.  He kept whispering, kept holding, kept caressing, kept hard within me.

*  *  *  *  *


The storm subsided outside.  Our breathing synchronized.  I felt like I could lie here forever, but Dad's urgent need, still inside me, pumping with the rhythm of his heart, called me to attention.  My old self would have fallen off the man, rolled over, slept or prepared to exit.  But, my new self sustained complete urgency of desire, despite the fact that all of my seed had been spent.  My new self had a duty to serve.  It was Dad's turn now and with my load gone, I could focus entirely on his pleasure.


I lifted up, slowly.  My copious cum had matted his chest. 


I pushed back my young, muscled ass, taking him back down to the root, then clutched his piece tight, massaging it.


His lids were half closed.  His lips pierced, exhaled.


"Damn, baby, that feels so good."

I kept it up, a slow, strong caressing with my inner walls.  My hole had been wrecked by his beast, but my muscles retained strength and tension.  I'd always dreamed of something like this, some big man who could go deep, take control of my insides – a tool that I could worship with my young, nearly virgin ass. 

Deep down maybe I'd wanted a pussy, but could never admit it to myself.  I know I never believed I had one . . . until now.


Out of me came words.  "I love it so much, dad."

His chest rumbled.  He'd restrained himself while I sated my hunger, but his insistent cock told me that his time was coming.  I pushed down, just as he pushed up, instantly synchronized, even though this was only our second coupling.


"Uuuurrrrrrrr," I growled.  It hurt so good.


A whispered voice came out of him while he caressed my thick thighs.  A man I didn't know. 

"No one, baby . . . no one . . ."


It took me a while to figure out who I was listening too, but then I got it.  It was his sexual self.  That self you only share with your lovers, the ones you combine with to create your most intimate moments.


Of course.

Of course it was a man I didn't know.  My father had kept it from me, like too many fathers do.  But, here he was now, in bed with me, deep inside me, pulsing, leaking the juices that would lube the way to the flow of seed we both knew was coming.


I'd already voiced my intimate self to him, so I stayed open to his.  But, I spoke louder.  Why should we be whispering in this space, our space, behind our locked doors, behind our drawn blinds, in our remote cabin on the lake?

"No one, what, dad?" I asked.


His eyes opened, looking at me.


"Talk to me, Daddy.  Tell me."  My voice was encouraging, but forceful.  Not loud, but not a whisper, either.  I squeezed his pole, encouraging,.


"Son . . ."


"Tell me, dad.  I want to know."


"No one – no one's ever taken it like you have.  I – I have to hold back.  Be careful."


I pushed down as he pushed up.  I was completely open.


"Not with me, Pops." 


"A couple of times," he went on.  "Some whore in Texas and a grunt that begged for it, right before I got out – but not like this.  Never like this."

The image of my dad nailing some hungry grunt fueled my passion.  My cock, which had been spent, started to tense, rise.


"See, Pops – you've done this before.  It's in you to do this.  You just need to let it out."

He grabbed my hips and thrust upward, egged on by my encouragement.


"Unnnnggggghhhh," I moaned, loudly.


He kept pushing, trying to go deeper, even though he'd reached the extreme limit of his length.


"Doesn't that hurt, baby boy?" he asked.  His question seemed a contradiction, given how hard he was, how deep he was pushing.  There was no relaxation in the probing of his sturdy cock.  At the same time, he wanted to know.  Needed to know, and I heard him.


I told the truth.  No secrets.  No more secrets.


"Yeah, dad.  It hurts.  But, in a good way.  In a way I've always imagined.  Wanted." 


I ground into him, trying to explain, eyes back open, piercing into his.  "It's cherry, Pops.  Losing your cherry hurts.  But now that you took it – it's yours.  To use.  I need it like this, Pops.  Always known I have.  It's one of the reasons I put in so much time at the gym, I think.  Getting strong, I guess.  Because . . . I was preparing for this, hoping it would happen like this – with you or some other man.  Someone that could do me like no one else could."

He thrust hard into me again, testing my limits.  I didn't flinch.  I just took it.


"I can take it, dad.  I want it like that."


He kept looking at me, and now he was pumping, working his hips in a way you can't really imagine your dad can.  But, this was his sexual self – the last piece of him that I'd never known, and he was showing me.  He was a cocksman, I realized then – had been, all his life.  But, he'd always had to hold back, because of his size, his girth, his steely hardness.  So, being a cocksman for him meant being gentle, easy, caring – not being the man I was urging him to let loose.

In one way, I was getting cherry, too.  Getting a masterful lover that had done more than his fair share of work in the bedroom, but probably never really had the chance to let go.


He challenged me.

"It's not cherry if someone's been in there before."

We were talking now.  Communicating directly, while also fucking.  And beneath the tone I heard it – just a hint of jealousy that he hadn't, in fact, been the first man in my hole.


"Yeah it is, Daddy," I said, sleazily.  "No one's ever been so deep.  No one's ever pushed through where you are now.  No one's ever touched the place I knew was there, but had never felt.  But, you did, stud.  So fucking big.  So fucking strong."

He stopped.  His cock was twitching and jerking inside me.  I wondered if he was about to come, but I realized, feeling him, watching him, learning him, that this was a man with control when he wanted to exert it.  He was stopping because he wanted to, not needed to.  I clutched and relaxed, clutched and relaxed.   As I met the man he really was, I relished in the joy of showing him my true self.


This was me. 


He needed to see it and I needed to show it.  Daddy's jock slut.  Daddy's drooling cum whore.


And, yeah, I was drooling.


My voice was throaty, heavy with lust.  "I need it, dad.  So bad.  You don't know . . . this big dick.  Daddy dick.  Hurting me inside.  I'll beg for it if you want, sir.  You can take it any time.  Any time - any way you want.  As hard as you want."


He reached up with his finger, putting it on my lips.  He'd heard enough, he was saying.  Not shutting me down, just understanding.  He got it.  I could see it in his eyes.  It was there – deep within him, and it was coming.  But, on his terms and in his time. 

He looked at my face, eyes taking me in.  He stopped, and held my waist steady with one arm, signaling me to stop grinding into him. 


We remained still like that, for a moment, him watching me with his gun-metal grey eyes.  Then, his finger reached out.  He brushed up along my ear, pulling away a long, thick drool of my own cum that had splattered in my passion.


He lowered it – I reached my head down, thinking he wanted me to clean it off – but he pulled is finger away.  Then, he rubbed my seed between his thumb and forefinger.  Smelling it. 

He was like some big, giant, hairy ape, finding a new substance, inspecting it.  I saw him considering it.  I saw him make the decision.  He was going to taste his son's cum.  His hand lowered, moving to his lips, and I reached up, grabbing his wrist.


"Not that way, Dad."

There was a question in his eyes, but then he became momentarily obsequious to my experience with mansex.


The largest puddle of my sperm had pooled in the crevice of his neck, between his thick pecs.  I pushed aside his hand, pulled up on his cock, making sure to not release it, and then leaned down, pursing my lips, sucking up my essence, collecting it in my mouth.


I rubbed my cheek against his hard unshaved jawline, making my way to his lips.  I kissed him, gently at first, prying him open, and then let the seed fall into his mouth, coating his tongue.


He was completely still, almost tense, but then the short fuse lit, and his body reacted.  I felt him swallow, and then his heavy tongue pushed into my mouth, his lips grinding against mine. I tasted my young potent cum and the warm blood from his split lip, then opened my mouth to consume the urgent need I'd awoken.  Locking onto his stubbled lips, I felt the surge of the animal burst loose, escaping from his cage.


He thrust into me, lifting his body off the bed, grabbing under my legs.  His muscles, relaxed after my deep care, came alive again, renewed, strong, surging.  He swung his legs off the bed, pushed himself forward, easily lifting my full weight, as gravity sunk me down on his tool. 

The next thing I knew he was slamming me against the wall.  For the second time in a day he had me pinned to the hard sturdy wood of the cabin, but this time he was inside of me, using me the way I'd begged him to do.


A picture fell, but he kept pumping.  I held on, gurgling.  I caught the hint of blood as it dripped down his neck.  He was in full rut now, slamming himself into me, my head banging against the paneling.


I egged him on, releasing my lips from his, wrapping my thick arm around his neck, pulling him into me.  This is what I had craved from him, this is what I knew was within him, this is what I knew he needed to release, but had always held back.


"Yes, yes, yes."

He bit my neck, and kept fucking me.  It was hard, brutal.  Rape – no other way to put it, but you can't rape the willing and it was more than that – my desire matched his, my hole had become me, sucking him in.


He pulled me up, turning me around. He lifted my jock heft like a rag doll.  His bloody mouth attacked me again, biting, spitting into me just as I had done in our fight.  He shoved his tongue as far into me as it would go, then pushed farther as I opened my mouth to the limit. 

He'd got it – he'd figured out that with me, with our bond, with our abiding love, certain passion didn't need to be checked.  If anything, it had to be released, otherwise it would consume us.


He lifted his knees on the bed, throwing me on my back.  He was all animal now.  My only job was to get out of the way and take it.  I splayed my legs open and he grabbed them both with his thick arms, throwing them over my shoulders, plunging to the hilt.


At this angle, with this leverage, using this access, he pushed in deeper than he ever had been.  I fucking howled, the sound that escaped me echoed off the walls.  The pain was so intense, but my body, used to it now, welcomed it, my hole pushing out, my legs spread to their limit.   The pain was matched only by a pleasure so vital it consumed me.  No matter how often I'd imagined being taken like this, the fantasy didn't even come close to matching the reality.  It was everything I wanted, and more, everything I needed, and more.  It was everything.

"Yes," I moaned.  "Fuck me, Dad."

And he did.  There was nothing but him.  I clawed at his strong back, raking him, and the pain urged him on – he hurt me back.  He pumped me, pinning me to the bed, using his hole – the hole that he had made with the cock that he was using now – thrusting and thrusting and thrusting.

The storm had picked up – lightning flashed – the wind raged, and I swear he'd called it up, like a God commanding the elements as he conquered his willing sacrifice. 


And, he liked it. 


I could tell - he liked pummeling me.  Part of it was payback for our afternoon fight, part of it was lashing into me for bringing out the beast he'd kept so well tamed for so long.  The huge length of him sawed in and out of me, long-dicking me with a skill and precision I imagined was unmatched, so entirely did he control his thick, insistent cock.


I don't think I lost consciousness, but I know I went somewhere – with him, probably – to the wild jungles of his hunting ground, a place that only a few had been and those, just to the outskirts.  But, he raped me on that fetid soil, claimed my carcass for his very own, taking my submission and using it against me, as his dominance rose within him, conquering.


There was no sound coming from him, other then full, throaty breathes, his lungs feeding the needs of his fully engaged body.  Veins popped, sweat dripped into my face, nostrils flared, a brutal primal man-stench emanated from his body, fueled by testosterone and pheromones, pumping out of his pores. 

And, all the while, the sloppy, discordant sounds of the hole he had made, and the bull balls slapping against my swollen asslips.


He covered my mouth with his, spit transferring, tongues joined, breathing into and out of our lungs with less and less pure air and more and more carbon dioxide, pushing each other to rabid dizziness.


He pulled off of my mouth, sucking in air, and simultaneously pushed his forearm into my throat.  Again, a surprise from him.  While at my most vulnerable, he cut off my oxygen supply, even though I was already deprived by our minutes of intimate breathe-exchange. 


It was payback for my threat to end his life earlier in the day.


My eyes bulged, but I didn't fight.  This was his kill, and if he wanted to take it, I wouldn't resist.  I looked into his eyes, which blazed with dangerous violence.


I felt his cock expand, lengthen.  I couldn't imagine it could get any bigger, but it did.  My own balls, crushed by his pelvis, surged forth, the lack of oxygen forcing them to release – a fight or flight response surely, pushing out one last seed of life-giving sperm before being extinguished, as the alarm bells of my body blared, "Danger, Danger, Danger."  My hole flexed and twitched as seed spewed out of my crushed cock, providing more cement to our slick, sick bind.  His eyes turned nearly evil, but lust-filled, knowing that he'd made me come again, using only his ass-fucking dad-cock to push out my breathless orgasm. 

And, then the jealous flicker of light that I'd seen only a glimpse of earlier, blazed in his eyes as he unloaded sperm that claimed me as his own.


Each word was punctuated by a vicious fuck-thrust of his spewing cock.






















"And, no one else's."

Then he pounded harder, brutally punctuating his possession.  With each level this man reached, another surged unexpectedly from behind, like a battalion of Marines, storming a hill.


My eyes widened. 

He was claiming me and it was all I ever wanted.  No matter how close to blacking out I was, there was only one answer I wanted to give.  I threw my arms around him, clasped him with the last strength of my legs, pulled him into me as hard as I could.


"Yes, Sir," somehow spitted out of my nearly blue lips.


He lunged one more time, the prior shots into me a mere prelude to the gushing seed that invaded my guts now, the bull claiming his cow, the stallion claiming his mare, the Marine Dad claiming his Jock Son. 


He pulled up, his roar drowning out the thunder he'd evoked, releasing my throat.


I'd never felt anything like what was happening inside me.  His cock was alive, like a snapping dragon, consuming me from the inside out.  The heat of his claiming seed burned me but I sucked it in with my still twitching hole.


His hole. 

Daddy's hole.


At the last surge of his urgent sperm, he released my legs, broke free of my arms, and – motherfucker – dad pounded his chest, mimicking the ape I'd imagined earlier.


"Oorahhhh!," he roared, beating his thick hairy pecs.


I held open for him, awed by the power of the Man who had made me, trained me, released me, and then taken me back, claiming me for his own.


He held that position above me, conqueror, warrior, father – veins bulging, chest heaving, sweat pouring from his massive frame.


The room was spinning, and his looming body seemed to sway.  I couldn't tell if it was my altered consciousness, or his own loss of muscle control, having spent everything in me, using all of his energy to take me and own me.


His full frame lurched once more, then fell on top of me with a hard thud.  He wrapped his arms around my back, then dug his teeth into my shoulder, owning his kill.  It hurt.  I cried out, writhing, consumed by this sudden sharp infliction of pain. It thrilled through me, and I embraced it.  Whether he'd broken skin or not, it was another mark of ownership.  Dominance.


I wrapped my arms back around him, pulling my legs into his, pushing my hole on his still pumping cock, assuring him with each physical response, that I welcomed his ownership.


Accepted it.


Heaving we held each other, becoming one.


*  *  *  *  *


Day passed into night, and night into day.


But, we stayed in our jungle, mating, as the storm howled outside our locked cabin, beside the vacant lake, on the edge of wilderness.




A lot more happened that week.  Maybe one day I'll write about it.


But, I'm back at school now.  The season is coming to a close.  We did pretty well this year – better than last year – and all of my stats have improved.  But, the class-load is killer.


Dad came to every game, of course.  Even the away games.  It's been really hard being away from him.  Harder than anything I've ever done.  But, after each game I ended back in his hotel room.  We haven't stopped, if that's what you're wondering.  It's only getting better.


Remember that Coach in the story?  The one that told off my dad? 

When I got back to school, after our first practice, I asked to see him.  He's a big guy, but not as tall as dad.  Just thick.  Real brawny, hairy like an ape, with a bit of a gut to match.  He coaches special teams, so I don't get a lot of interaction with him.  But, I thanked him for what he did and said.  Told him it made a difference.  Honored what he'd said about me, and how it had made an impact on Pops.


He didn't say much, but I could tell he took it all in. 


"No problem, kid," he said.  "Glad I could help.  Meant everything I said to your dad.  Every word of it."


Then, he went back to his playbook, and I figured that was the signal for me to split.


At the door, though, he called out to me.


"Hey, kid.  This job don't pay me enough to survive, so I teach a couple of classes each semester.  I been looking at your transcripts.  Looks like you pretty much suck at math."

"But, I'm trying – working really –"


"Yeah – whatever.  I talked to your teachers.  You're heart's not in it.  Mostly they're taking pity on you, cuz you work so hard."


"But, Coach –"


"Listen, kid – all I'm saying is you should check out my classes.  You excel at English.  I teach creative writing.  You should give it a try."


"Sure, Coach.  I'll take a look at that."


"I already emailed your dad, kid.  He's on board."


"Um, sure – I –"

"He said it was your decision.  But, he told me to tell you that if I thought it was a good idea, you should do it.  And, I think it's a good idea."  Then, he looked at me, real Dad-like.


I snapped to. 


"Yes, sir.  I'll sign up today."

He pulled some paperwork from his desk drawer, holding it out to me. I came back to the desk and took it from him.


"It's all taken care of.  You just got to sign there.  You're dropping chemistry.  I'm pretty certain that's gonna kill ya, and we need you focused on the team."


"Yes, sir," I replied.  I signed the forms and handed them back to him.


"Not that I'm a lightweight.  I expect the same focus in my class that you bring to the field.  No less."


"Yes, sir.  Understood, sir."


"Now, get out of here.  The reading list is on line.  First book is due before our first class, which is Monday.  See you then.  Close the door behind you."


I did.


So . . . this story – which is all true – was his last assignment for the semester. 


"Write about the most important event in your life.  You can fictionalize it, or not.  Just make sure it's from the heart."


So, that's why I wrote this.


Fucker gave me a B minus. The first draft was riddled with notes.  "Too porny.  Backstory? Where's the heart?"  Shit like that – and spelling and grammar errors all over the place. 


But, in his class, if you re-did the work, and it improved, he'd up the grade.  So, I re-submitted, and got a B.  This time there were less notes, more questions.  I submitted again, before the deadline, and came away with a B plus, but still only got a B in his class. 


But, at the bottom of the last page of the last draft, he wrote:  "This is improved, but could be better.  Do again."


I got the feeling that something else was going on – maybe he was enjoying himself too much, reading about me and my dad.  But, I'm good at taking direction, so I did one more draft and sent it to him by email.  A couple of weeks later, I got it back, hard copy, by regular mail. 


It was folded, and the pages were stuck together.  When I pulled them apart, I saw the A at the top of the page.  Right beneath it was a pretty large stain. 


Fucking gave me a hard-on, thinking of Coach beating off, reading my stories.  So, that's why I posted it here. 


Hope you enjoy it, too, and maybe came a few times.


The End



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