Date: Sun, 31 Jul 2011 21:29:54 -0700 (PDT) From: Luke Hairyson Subject: My Dad's Hands -- Ch.07 Standard disclaimers apply to this story. All rights reserved by the Author. All events that happen are completely consensual between people involved in the story. If you are not of legal age, reside in an area where viewing such material is illegal, or are offended by homosexuality and/or homosexual themes, leave this site now. The Author retains all rights to this story. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the permission of the author. My Dad's Hands--Ch. 07 "Hey, you've reached Chris, leave me a message." "Chris, please...call me back," I begged into the phone, this being the fourth message I left on Chris's cell in fifteen minutes. Dad was upstairs, dressed and worrying himself over being found out. He didn't speak two words since helping me up off the floor in front of the door. Currently pacing back and forth, trying to decide what to do, I stop and look at myself in the mirror. I'm a mess. Eyes are red, tear-tracks down my cheeks, my furry chest and trail still matted with sweat, lube, and cum. I can barely meet my own eyes in the mirror, not liking the person that I see there. Thinking of Chris and what he must see when he looks at me now. I decide that I must find him, must talk to him. I head to the bathroom. The hot water gives me time to think, and the cool tile of the wall calms my racing mind a bit as I press my head against it. The image of Chris's face is burned into my eyelids. Confusion and disgust were easy to recognize, and was that hurt as well that I saw flash across his features? Chris, my best guy friend since the third day of seventh grade when I dropped my tray in the lunchroom and an upperclassman took it upon himself to catcall and start a round of applause. My face burned with shame as I tried to scoop the grayest looking peas I'd ever seen back into their little yellow square on the tray. Chris ignored everyone else and knelt down, helping me retrieve the rest of my dignity from the dirty tile floor. He was my lab partner, my co-captain on the soccer team, and the first guy I fooled around with. We were juniors at the time; it was after prom. Our dates both went home, and having met up at my house to carpool, we both came back in my civic. He decided to spend the night, which was a normal occurrence, usually staying over a couple times a month. I remember watching him strip his tux off, the weird scent of old dry-cleaning mixing with the dampness from hours of dancing and the scent of our deodorant. We both wore the same brand at the time, and sometimes we shared when one of us forgot ours. I'd seen him naked a bunch of times in the locker room after soccer, and normal attire for spending the night was boxers and maybe a shirt, both of us being comfortable with each other. Although, we'd always try to hide our looking and turn away awkwardly. There was no way in hell I'd ever let on about my feelings for him, scared to death that I'd ruin what we had and that I'd lose my best friend. I would rather burn for him quietly than reveal the brightness of that flame. He saw me as a friend, and I tried my hardest to see him the same way, but something about the way the silk of his green tie moved through his hands, or the way he shrugged the jacket off his shoulders, or each gasp I had to contain with every button of that tuxedo shirt closer to his waistband. I quickly excused myself, claiming an urgent need to pee, and thankfully when I returned he was already changed and lounging at the foot of my bed. I hadn't thought this through very well, because that left me as taking off my clothes in front of him. He was rifling through one of my magazines, Details or GQ, which I realize now should've been a blatant giveaway toward my sexual proclivities. Halfway through changing I realized that I had left a mark in that magazine the night before, across one of the new summer fashion spreads in which there was a particularly charming man in a particularly revealing swimsuit. Hastily wiping the glossy page with a tissue, the page looked a little water damaged, I slipped my t-shirt over my head and silently prayed that he hadn't seen that page yet. "Hey," I said, having just slid my boxers into place. "Hmm," he said with a slight question at the end. Thank God he was still in the first third of the magazine! "You hungry?" I asked, trying to think of anything that might get him to put the magazine down. "A little," he said, closing the magazine and holding it in one hand. "I could go for some of your mom's cookies," he said with a smile. I threw the magazine behind my headboard before I followed him down the hallway. Later that evening, having decimated the cookie jar and the milk, we lay side by side, talking, which was part of our routine before one of us slipped down onto the floor to sleep. I had relaxed a bit from earlier, that was the thing about Chris, he made me feel comfortable and all antsy inside at the same time, like there was this effervescent force coming from behind my diaphragm. Looking back, he used to make me glow whenever I was around him, like he could hit a switch that no one else could. He did it that first day when he helped me in the cafeteria, turning my blush of shame into a full-blown smile. I turned to look at him, which I didn't normally do during our evening chats. He had removed his shirt, and the moonlight made his olive skin look silver. My eyes focused on his shoulder, and the cut line of his bicep radiating down his arm, the soft mound of his pec, and the sharp angle of his chin. His dark chest hair hadn't yet grown in, the only wisps of what would come in the following years were peeking out from his armpit, curling against his pec, and the dark line of soft black hair growing from his navel downward. I looked up at him, his dark brows accented against the white of his eyes, which were staring up at the ceiling. His mop of black hair curled around his face, I knew the ringlets grew tighter after a shower or a face wash. His face turned, and his eyes caught mine, looking at him. I felt like I had been caught doing something horribly wrong, but I couldn't look away and admit that wrong. "What?" he asked, his brown eyes revealing laughter in the silver glints from the moon. "Nothing," I replied, lamely. "You horny?" he asked. I about lost my shit with that question, and couldn't reply in any other way than, "Yeah, you?" "Totally," he said, and I heard the sound of his hand moving down the sheet, crossing onto his stomach and resting again on fabric, most likely that of his boxers. "Don't look, don't look down," my brain was saying, "he'll figure it out, don't look down." "You, uh, wanna," he asked, uncertainly. I could only nod, having lost the will to speak coherently, and I realized that my cock was already rock hard and throbbing. I lay there next to him, feeling his bicep and tricep contract and relax, brushing against the skin of my arm as his hand slid up and down his shaft. We both looked at the ceiling, the only sounds we made were quiet whimpers and the sound of skin on skin. Both being right-handed, my left arm lay between us, the connection against his arm, and I pushed harder against him. His right foot found mine, and his shin pressed against my lower leg as he opened his legs up further. I stretched my hand out toward him, just wanting to feel the skin of his torso against me. The side of my hand and my pinky came to rest against the side of his ass, and I could feel his body moving against the mattress. He wrapped his foot up and over my leg and I pressed my the back of my hand against him. We were both breathing heavily by that time. "I'm gonna," I started to say, as the first rope of my load splattered against my stomach, and I instinctively nuzzled my head against his shoulder, eyes screwed tight, as I continued to shoot. I heard him gasp and realized he was shooting too, my eyes flashing open to see the last few shots of his pearly cum land on the landscape of his abdomen, like milky rivers flowing into the basin of his navel. I realized I still had my face pressed against his shoulder, and moved back awkwardly, not wanting to freak him out. I pulled my hand back from his side, but he left his leg draped over mine, as we both continued to breathe heavily. He turned to look at me; I could feel his eyes on me, and this time I caught him looking. He smiled at me, those full lips revealing his smile, with that one slightly crooked eyetooth, which made me love his smile even more than a perfect one, and then we both started laughing. He grabbed the tissues from my nightstand and we both cleaned ourselves up. He got up to move to his air mattress on the floor, and I whispered, "You can stay up here if you want." I was both shocked and terrified by my audacity. I waited for him to call me a freak or to say he wasn't a cuddling fag or anything, not that he'd ever given me the merest hint of bigotry or homophobia, in fact he often stood up for the kids that were picked on, being even more vocal than I. Although, I figured that was because he was super-straight and confident, whereas I felt like I'd be the next target, like my façade was a transparent shower curtain and the bullies would be able to see right through to my fabulous gay heart. All he did was smile at me and say, "Cool," and then he laid back down. We drifted off shoulder to shoulder, and when I woke in the morning he was already downstairs. We never talked about that night again, even when stories of jacking off and sexual escapades would arise in the locker room. There were occasional knowing glances that passed between the two of us, but neither of us broached it again. Now, less than a week back from finishing my junior year at college and my best friend saw me with my legs in the air, begging to get fucked harder by my own father. The cool tile had lost its ability to calm my mind as the steam from the shower rose around my body like the tongues of condemning thoughts lapping against the shore of my worse imaginings. Chris wasn't only my best friend, co-captain, and confidant, he was also, and more importantly, my first love, but I was always too afraid to tell him. * * * I found him sitting on a boulder by the creek we always visit when running on our favorite trail. He hadn't seen or heard me yet, and I just watched him sit there in the dappled green light. He had bulked up a little since high school, his upper body broad and strong, his legs even stronger, but he still had that stealth about him that he had on the soccer field. Opposing teams would always underestimate his speed because of his size; he stood around 6'1" even then. He would slice through the field before any of them even knew what happened, smiling at me and passing me the ball as we ran down the field opposite each other. He turned to look at me, and I was unable to read what was hiding behind those brown eyes, but they weren't their usual warm, glinty, inviting selves. He rose off the rock with a huff and walked away. "Chris, please, wait," I pleaded as I walked after him, my arm grabbed his shoulder and tried to spin him around. His left hand came up and knocked my hand away from him, as he turned to face me. "Don't. Touch. Me." He spat venomously toward me, and turned and kept walking. It was at that moment that I really started to sob. More than I did when I realized that I would always be second to my mother, more than I realized that I had no real future with my father. This was real heartbreak: to hear hatred and anger drip from the words blurted from your first love's mouth. I didn't sink to the ground. I didn't turn back and run away. I chased him, a sobbing, gasping, blubbering mess. I chased him. I caught up to him, begging and pleading with his continually receding figure to please stop and talk. "CHRIS!" I finally shouted at the top of my lungs, my voice hoarse from the tightness of my throat and the feeling that I might be sick. He stopped moving at the sound of torment my voice contained. Barely above a whisper, I continued, "Chris, I'm so sorry. I never...I...I," and that's when he turned around, and I saw his face up close for the first time that day. I saw that his features were distorted because his eyes were puffy and red, that he had obviously been crying. "You never what?" he spat again. For the first time I felt what it was like to receive his righteous anger, what it was like to be one of those bullies in school whom he stood up against when no one else did. I felt his rage, and I never wanted to feel it again. His voice broke as he continued, "You never what? WHAT? Wanted me to walk in on you and your dad? Walk in on you getting FUCKED?!? What the Hell, Luke? What the Hell am I supposed to think? Supposed to do?" "Please don't tell anyone. I...it only happened today and yesterday...I," I mumbled before I realized I didn't have the words to explain this to myself let alone to Chris. "Oh fuck you. Like I'd tell anyone, what the hell do you think I'd do that for?" His hand practically wrenched the dark curls at the front of his hair, before he clenched his fists and groaned with rage. "I'm sorry, Chris, I'm so sorry." "For what, Luke? Sorry for what? For having me catch you, or for fucking your dad?" He asked, pacing back and forth, hands gesticulating wildly, and the twigs and brush snapped beneath his feet. "Sorry for everything," I said quietly, through the tears that were continuing to flow. "So are you gay, or are you only into getting fucked by your dad? Or what?" "I'm gay," I choked out, sobbing. Every time is like the first time I said those words aloud, shivering and crying as I told Jessica, my best girlfriend that I liked guys. And each time it made me feel as vulnerable as before. "Who else have you fucked with?" he asked, his eyes never meeting mine, his pacing growing even more frantic. "Hmm? Who else?" he nearly shouted. "No one. I mean, I had one guy suck me off in college, but it was just once. No one else. Except that night after prom," I said, not understanding why he was so upset and questioning me about my sexual history. I started to get ticked off at his behavior, who the fuck was he to shout at me with such judgment in his voice? "Why, what the fuck do you care?" I shouted back. His puffy, bloodshot eyes met mine for the first time in those woods, and electricity shot into my soul from the death glare that he was sending me. "If you have to ask that, then I am a more of a fool than I ever realized," he said quietly but with such an edge that I could almost feel the goosebumps spreading down my neck. "What the heck was he talking about? He can't really mean...no...no way," I thought, and the emotions that were playing inside me took a new disastrous course on the rollercoaster. "You don't mean," I asked, confused and yet trying to convey what I thought he might mean. "It's pretty hard to see the first guy you've ever liked...getting fucked...by his own father." His words dripped with an angry, wounded laughter, but there wasn't any humor in his voice, just hurt and betrayal. "I...Chris!" I tried to call, but his form was already blending into the forest as he ran away from me. Hey guys, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I know it is a bit shorter and has taken a slight departure from the incest themes in previous chapters, but this is the story arc which I have been considering for about two weeks now. I hope that you are still enjoying it. As always, I love hearing your comments, suggestions, and ideas. Happy reading (and more)! ~Luke ;-) hairynhard25@yahoo.com