Hit The Pause Button, part 1
by Greg Scott
All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc. In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it. Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.
I sat in the living room thumbing through a magazine, but I was not really paying any attention to anything I saw. Instead I was remembering the afternoon that had culminated in the most intense sexual experience of my forty years.
Missing was the sense of relief that usually accompanies my sexual release. No, I felt remorse, guilt and more than a little fear. I had just had mind blowing sex with my friend's son, a boy more than twenty years younger than I. Furthermore, I had told that boy how I had spied on my son and another of his friends blowing each other one day in my son's bedroom.
Those were the facts, and there was nothing I could do to change them. What worried me was the realization that teenagers talk. Teenage boys especially like to talk about their sexual exploits. I definitely didn't want my son to find out what I had done with his friend while his mother, my wife of twenty years was in Japan on business. I didn't want him to learn that I had spied on him exchanging blow jobs with his buddy (or lover, I really didn't know which). And I didn't want him to discover that I had shared that information with another of his friends.
I didn't expect Jordan, my afternoon playmate, to tell Mark directly, but if Jordan told any of their many mutual friends I knew that it would eventually make its way back to Mark. I knew that would ruin my relationship with my son and probably my comfortable marriage as well. Jordan had come out of the closet just about a month before the boys graduated from high school. He didn't really have anything to hide. I did!
I heard Mark come through the front door. He walked across the foyer and came into the living room.
"Hey Dad," he greeted me.
"How was bowling?" I asked pretending to be interested.
"It was okay," he said as he kept walking toward the stairway that led to the upstairs bedrooms. He climbed the stairs two at a time.
I think that catching Mark and his buddy, Greg in the sixty-nine position that afternoon recently is what eventually led to my seduction of Jordan. I thought of it as a seduction, but it didn't really take much effort on my part to accomplish my objective. Boys that age don't need much encouragement when it comes to sex.
Watching Mark and Greg bring each other to orgasm in each other's mouth made me recall my own adolescent play with a couple of guys in my class. I hadn't looked at guys that age from a sexual perspective in years, although I did sometimes engage in liaisons with guys closer to my own age.
After my voyeuristic experience outside Mark's room, I started noticing young men much more often whether they were walking down the street, appearing in television commercials or stopping by to pick up my son for a baseball game. To say that I noticed them is an understatement. I objectified them, to use the terminology of the feminists. I lusted after them. I jacked off picturing them.
I even started noticing what a good looking kid Mark was. I don't think that I had ever thought of that until that day that I saw his naked butt moving back and forth as he pumped his load down another boy's throat. Before then, he was just my son, an all around good kid. He was a middle of the road student, and adequate athlete, dated reasonably attractive girls. I loved him and considered myself a lucky dad, but I never really looked at him in any sort of assessment.
The day that I came home from work early, enexpected and unheard, my consciousness of my son changed. It's not that I started fantasizing about him. No, I definitely did not do that. However, I realized that my son was a sexual being. I didn't know if he was gay or straight or bi, but I knew that he was every bit as sexual as I had been at eighteen.
That realization made me think of him as more of a man, something of an equal, I guess. In a few weeks he would be heading off to college, and our relationship would change forever. It undoubtedly already had changed, but when changes come gradually they're not as noticeable. I knew that when he came home at the holidays for his first extended visit I would notice a big difference in him. He would be more independent than his mother and I would probably be ready to fully admit. That's just the way it is.
"Hey dad, can you come upstairs please," Mark called from his bedroom.
His request stimulated an immediate tightening of my chest. His request was unusual. In fact, I don't think he had ever summoned me before, at least not since he was a little kid and needed help with something.
As I got out of my chair and moved deliberately toward the stairway, I tried to trace my steps from this afternoon. Jordan and I had used Mark's room for our tryst. I gave Jordan a choice. He chose Mark's room, probably because it seemed kind of sexy to be using his friend's bed while having sex with that friend's dad. I had felt relieved by his choice, because I was afraid that I might have experienced pangs of guilt using the bed that my wife and I share. I had never had any of my man-on-man sexual encounters in my own house before.
I had remembered to grab my condom and the wrapper to discard both in my bedroom's toilet. I'm not sure if plumbers would approve, but that had worked. Suddenly, I had a fearful realization of the possible reason for Mark calling me.
I was right. Before I even entered Mark's room I saw him bent slightly over his bed as he ran his hand across his bedspread. I steeled myself and walked into the room.
"My bed's wet," he stated matter-of-factly.
"Did you spill something on it?" I asked pointlessly.
"No," he replied with the answer that I knew to be true. "I can't figure it out."
I froze as I watched Mark bend over further and sniff the wet spot. I knew what he would smell. Jordan had produced a remarkable amount of cum when I fucked him on that bed a couple hours before. I had wiped everything up with a handkerchief, but a damp spot remained. I thought that it would have dried by now.
"Dad, it smells like cum!" he said startled.
Mark had never used that word in my presence before. His face grew a little red as it apparently occurred to him that he had just admitted knowing what semen smells like, although I'm sure any boy above the age of twelve or so would know that.
I knew there was no arguing about his conclusion. There is nothing else in the world that has that same odor. Even if there were something else that smelled like that, I couldn't come up with any explanation for how any mystery substance would have found its way to Mark's bed.
"Sometimes guys leak a little at night. It's normal."
So there I was in the unfamiliar position of trying to convince my son that he had had a wet dream.
"No way," he said.
"It's possible that you didn't even know it," I said desperately grasping at any explanation that would lead him away from the truth.
"Dad, I jacked off in the shower last night and again this morning. There's no way I could have had a wet dream."
"Well, guys your age can produce a lot," I said. It really hadn't yet occured to either of us that he was telling me about jacking off, a subject that neither of us had ever broached.
I knew I was trapped when he pulled back the bedspread.
"The sheet is dry," he said.
"Well, I can't explain it," I said as I turned to leave.
Thankfully, he let the subject drop, although I knew he would consider various possible explanations, not that there was any that made me comfortable. At least he was kind enough to not bring it up again over dinner or while we were watching a DVD afterward. In fact we didn't really talk much at all.
Once the movie was finished, I popped the DVD out of the player and announced that I was going up to bed.
"Me, too," he said.
"You go ahead, I'll get the lights and check the doors," I offered as he headed up the stairs.
While I was at it, I put our glasses into the dishwasher and put away the remnants of the snacks that we had during the movie. After turning out the lights, I too climbed the stairs.
As I walked down the hall, I noticed that Mark's overhead light in his bedroom was on. That was unusual. He usually used only the more mellow lamp next to his bed. The light shown brightly out his open door into the otherwise dark hallway.
As I aimed for my room, two doors beyond Mark's bedroom, I saw his reflection in his wall sized mirror, the same mirror that I had used to spy during his acrobatics with Greg a few weeks before. I paused briefly when I saw what he was doing, wondering if I dare become a voyeur again.
Mark was lying on top of his bedspread, naked. With one hand he was rubbing the wet spot, while the other hand was stroking his rigid and, I noted with some pride, impressive cock.
I resumed my determined stride and walked past his door. I couldn't restrain myself from looking directly in as I did. I jerked my head back to the hallway as I noticed that his head was raised looking directly at me. We locked eyes for an instant.
Once I crawled into my bed, I began to stroke my own hard tool, concentrating on my mental image of Jordan as I did so. I began to finger my hole as I constructed a fantasy of Jordan fucking me with his oversized cock. As I came, though, Jordan's face was suddenly replaced by the equally appealing face of my son.
I fell asleep soon after, but my night was filled with fitful dreams. I awoke the next morning with my usual wood, but I ignored it as I took care of my morning routine.
Once I was showered and dressed, I headed downstairs. My path, of course, took me past Marks bedroom. He was asleep and fully under the covers except for his head. I felt a tinge of disappointment that more of him was not visible, but I noted that his face looked angelic. As that thought occured to me, I smiled and thought that angelic looks can be deceptive. Last night he had proven that he could be a little devilish, although I couldn't guess his motivation.
I had finished breakfast by the time Mark came down. He wasn't a breakfast eater, but he could empty a pot of coffee if time permitted.
He entered the living room, where I was watching the Sunday morning public affairs shows on TV. I turned my head to greet him, but noticed that he was wearing only boxers.
"What's on your schedule for today?" I asked, trying not to react to his unusual lack of attire.
"I think I'm just going to hang with you, if that's okay."
"That's fine," I said. "Are you feeling okay."
This was highly unusual. Most Sundays he would be off with his friends all day.
"I feel fine," he said. "I just want to spend some time with you, just us two, before I go to college. If you've got something to do, I can just play video games or something."
"No, no. That's great. I would love to spend time with you. You want to do anything special."
"Just hang out around here...you know, relaxing and talking and stuff," he said.
I noticed what was obviously dried cum around his navel. He had clearly not bothered to wipe up after his display the previous night. I wondered if this might be just another act in the same show. I had the sense that he was trying to embarrass me or test me or something. He never came downstairs shirtless or without pants or at least shorts.
"Do you want coffee?" he asked walking toward the kitchen.
"No, I've had plenty already," I said.
He took longer in the kitchen than he needed to pour his coffee. When he returned to the living room, he had the start of a tent in his boxers. I had the idea that he had been fluffing himself while he was out of the room.
He came back, put down his coffee cup and stretched. He raised one arm and then the other above his head. I was stuck by how much hair he had under his arms. He put his hands on the small of his back and arched he back so that his groin was pointed in my direction. Either I had an overactive imagination, or he was showing off his body to his own father.
Whatever question I had soon was answered. When he finished his stretching, he reached into his boxers to readjust himself, but not to make his cock less obvious. No, he brought it upward so that it was even more prominent.
I quickly turned my eyes toward the television.
He plopped down onto the carpet at my feet. He set his coffee cup on the floor and scooted backwards, forcing my legs apart, until his back was supported by the front of my chair. My legs were touching his bare arms.
He used to sit this way when he was a kid, but he stopped when he hit puberty. Consequently, the feeling of our seating arrangement was strange but familiar. He took up much more room now than he had when he was eleven or twelve, and my legs were a bit uncomfortable being so far apart.
I wanted to ask him what the hell was going on, but I was afraid of his response, even though I had no idea what that response would be. I decided he would give me a clue when he was ready. In the meantime, I would allow him to play whatever game he was playing.
I glanced down at him. The fly of his boxers had gapped in such a way that his ample, dark pubic hair was visible. I thought how it was like looking at my own.
We watched the rest of the television program in silence. Once it had ended, he broke our self-imposed silence with a question that I had sort of been anticipating.
"Dad, can I ask you something?"
"Sure," I replied, although I was anything except certain that I wanted to hear what the question would be.
"Did you make that wet spot on my bedspread?" he asked with a slight quiver in his voice.
There was no point is claiming that I hadn't, since Mark had no way of knowing that anyone else could have.
"Yes," I said.
"How?" he asked.
"How?" I repeated. Was he really going to press this further?
"Yeah, how?" He wasn't going to let me off the hook.
I decided to go for the least painful explanation.
"I felt like jacking off. Your bed was there. Certainly you know how guys can be. It's not that different when you get to be forty than it is when you're eighteen." It was fiction, but it was plausible. It was an embarrassing story, but it wasn't humiliating.
"Did you do it because you saw Greg and me in my bed?" he asked, seemingly less nervous now.
"What are you talking about?" I tried to stall for time to think.
"Greg saw you watching us," Mark explained. "He said you watched for a long time."
"Yes I watched, and yes that was why I jacked off in your bed," I confessed, even though half of it was a lie.
"Did you get turned on because of Greg or because of me?" Mark asked. All traces of nervousness were now gone from his voice. Of course, he had the upper hand, and he had to be aware of my awkward position.
"I wasn't turned on; I was just curious. That's all," I tested an explanation.
"Dad, Greg saw you jack off while you watched us," he said.
"He did?" I knew I was defeated, although I still held my biggest most important secret. Jacking off in your son's bed is still better than admitting to your son that you fucked his male friend in his bed.
"Greg said you had a great looking cock and that you shot a lot into your hand."
"This is embarrassing, Mark," I admitted the obvious.
"Yeah, I'll bet it is," he said somewhat triumphantly. "So which one of us turned you on?"
"Okay, if we have to talk about this I'll tell you. It was the whole event that turned me on. I got excited because I was remembering some similar experiences that I had when I was around your age," I painfully admitted, but it was still better than the full truth.
"Didn't I turn you on at all," he pressed. He just wouldn't let go. "I mean it was my bed that you chose yesterday for your jack off session."
"You're my son, Mark," I pleaded for mercy. "I can't get sexually excited by you."
"I don't believe you."
With that he stood up and dropped his boxers, revealing a fully erect and, frankly, beautiful penis. He leaned over and started to kiss me directly on my lips.
I fought the kiss at first, turning my head and pulling back as far as the chair would allow. Then the memory of his cock kicked in, and I began to return the kiss. His tongue entered my mouth and began an urgent exploration.
Finally, he stopped the kiss as quickly as he had begun. He took my hand and led me to his room. He deftly removed my shirt, slipped my shoes off without allowing me to sit and pulled down my trousers and boxers at the same time.
By this time, I was fully aroused. He grabbed my hard cock and moaned as he stroked it. I returned the action, out of my mind with lust.
He pushed me onto the bed with more force than was necessary, given my now willing acquiescence to his every desire. He devoured my cock, scraping it with his teeth on his way to impaling himself on it.
He swung his body around so that his own cock was pointing at my face. I moved my head forward and tenderly took him fully into my mouth, hoping to inspire him to be more careful with his teeth. We were in the same position that he had been in with Greg when I had spied on them.
After a few more minutes of oral action, he pushed me so as to indicate that I should lay face down. He moved himself with great agility to straddle my legs. He pulled apart my butt cheeks, spitting into the crevice but missing my hole with his aim. He rearranged his saliva so that it was atop my hole.
He spread my legs apart as he repositioned his knees between mine. I heard him spit again, apparently into his hand. I looked over my shoulder to see him spread an insufficient amount of spit onto his rigid cock. I knew what he wanted.
"We should get some lube and a condom," I said.
"We'll be fine this way," he stated firmly.
With his hands he spread my cheeks as far as he could. I felt the tissues around my anus stretching. Then, almost immediately, he placed the tip of his dick against me.
"My son is going to fuck me," I thought in disbelief coupled with ever growing lust.
He put his full weight on me, and somehow his cock forced its way into my cavity. I felt his pubic hair resting on my butt as he buried himself to the hilt.
The pain was so intense that I actually thought that I might lose consciousness. I had been fucked plenty of times, even without artificial lube, but I had never been entered without adequate preparation. Most of my lovers took their time to make sure that I was properly loosened up.
Mark pounded me. He grunted. He groaned. He repeatedly shouted, "You're so fucking tight; you're so fucking tight; you're so fucking tight."
After no more than two minutes, and probably a good deal less, he screamed, "Take my cum. I'm shooting my cum into my own dad. Oh my god, oh my god. Oh, fuck."
I had not yet recovered from his painful entry, so I was relieved that he was cumming so soon. Plus the lubrication of his semen made his final few strokes seem bearable. What the boy lacked in technique, he made up for in volume--the volume of his cum and the volume of his screams.
When he had recovered from his potent orgasm, he pushed himself off me. He ran his fingers in circles on my back as he finished his recovery next to me.
I had lost my hard on, but his tender touches brought my cock to life again. I thought to myself about his cum inside me, and my cock became ready for some relief. I hoped that Mark would feel like participating, even if he only cupped my balls while I jacked off. Of course, what I really hoped was that he would do much more.
"Well, Dad," Mark said just sort of letting the words hang there.
"What, Son?" I asked as my hand began to slowly stroke my own cock.
"I guess now you know what Jordan felt like yesterday."
Oh my god! How did he find out about that already?
"What are you talking about?" I asked, playing dumb, although I knew he must have evidence.
"I saw you two in your car heading in this direction, yesterday. I didn't go bowling. I wanted to take my chance to even the score."
"What do you mean?" I asked the pointless question.
"I watched everything from the hallway, just like you watched Greg and me. I saw you fuck him, and I saw Jordan cum all over my bed."
"Oh my god," I said quietly as the realization sunk in.
"Why did you choose Jordan, instead of me?" he asked, sounding younger than his eighteen years.
"I didn't think you would be interested," I said. It was the truth, but there was more to it. I really wanted Jordan's hot little body.
"You could have asked me first," he said nonsensically.
"Fathers just don't go around asking their sons if they want to have sex," I explained, hoping it would make sense to him even in his apparently jealous state.
"But you let me seduce you. Is that so you don't have to feel guilty about it?" he asked with some obvious bitterness.
"I just didn't think you would be interested in your old man," I clarified.
"But you thought Jordan would be interested in my old man?"
"Look, Mark, it's complicated. I love you, if that's what you're worried about," I was desperate, now. "What is it you want?"
"I want you to stop fucking around with guys," he said, taking the whole thing in a direction that I hadn't expected. "What would Mom think, if she found out?"
"You're not going to tell her anything are you?" I pleaded.
"No way. That would just hurt her."
"It's complicated, Mark. You know that," I said as I hoped he might understand the sexual tensions of a married man drawn to other males.
"Dad," he said quietly.
I just nodded at him to continue.
"I love you, and I want to have sex with you again, but you disgust me."
I felt like I had received a spear to the chest.
He walked to the bathroom, and I heard him turn on the shower. I lay in his bed for a few minutes, my cock fully deflated, wondering what was going on inside Mark's head.
I put my clothes on and walked downstairs. I had no idea what to expect when Mark came down. I felt as if my whole life were on hold as if Mark had hit a pause button on the DVD player right in the middle of a climactic scene of a movie.
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