Date: Sun, 16 Dec 2001 10:15:28 -0800 (PST) From: Robert Borden Subject: My Father With my love and deep respect, this story is dedicated to my friend, John, who I wish with all my heart had been my own father. The story is fiction, but it says what I feel for him. I include no disclaimer about unsuitability and offensiveness for some readers. The story is about love of a son for his father, which should offend no one. MY FATHER by Robert Borden My name is Kevin and I am fifteen years old. I have no siblings, but I have the good fortune of knowing that I was conceived out of the love that my mother and father have for each other, and that I am loved by my parents without reservation. How does one know this, my friends ask. My answer is that one doesn't know it; one feels it. I don't feel it because of extravagant gifts I have been given, or blind permissiveness on the part of my parents. I feel it through the love I see in their eyes when they look at me, and in their voice when they speak to me. And above all, I feel it when my mom pats me on the cheek and smiles at me, or when my dad puts his arm around my shoulders and tells me I did good. I don't always tell my mom and dad how much I love them, but I hope they know. I have so many friends who don't know what it is like to be a part of a loving family. I have friends whose parents beat them or ignore them, and never acknowledge them as human beings who need their love. I have some friends who don't have fathers and are raised by their working mothers, who are too busy and worn down to care. And there are some whose parents were never married. Like most kids, at one time or another, questions of my origin have come into my mind. Could it be that I was adopted? I don't know anybody in my family who has a nose like mine. My dad has hair on his chest, but I don't see any hair coming out on mine. I wonder if I'm illegitimate. Would they tell me if I was born out of wedlock? Did someone falsify my birth certificate? Luckily, those questions, as common as they are among kids, were fleeting in my case. My birth certificate is correct, and my nose is looking more like my dad's every day. I feel sad for those of my friends who do not love their dads, and even more so for those who don't know their dads. My dad is a tower. He's the best looking, the strongest, and the smartest dad any guy could have. And that's what I think! He says he remembers what it was like when he was my age. I find it hard to believe he was ever my age. To me, I'm sure he must have always been the strong, masculine man he is now. Most guys---me included---always find it hard to believe that their parents actually have intimate sex. And we are even rather shocked at the very thought that our dads actually have penises like we kids do, much less penises that get hard! But something happened this past year, not long after my fifteenth birthday, that made me see my dad in a different light. Nothing could change my view of him as the most loving and caring father any guy could have. But I found out something very special about my dad. I learned that, along with all that he is otherwise, he is also a very sexual human being. Why I believed---or why any kid believes---that their mothers and fathers are not sexual could probably be because kids are not meant in this society to have that knowledge of their parents. For the past year and a half, I have known something my dad thinks I am not aware of. When I was very young, I heard stories from my school friends about jerking off, jacking off, spanking the monkey, and all that, and everyone said if you played with your penis, you would get the greatest feeling you could ever have. My dad had always told me that I should be proud of my body and my penis. Finally when I was about twelve years old, I was playing with it one night, and it happened. I could sense that wonderful feeling building inside of my body, culminating in my first orgasm, accompanied by a spurting of thick white sperm. My friends had told me how wonderful it was, but I never dreamed it would be as good as it actually was. One afternoon, shortly before my fifteenth birthday, I came home from school, took a shower, and went to my room. Thinking that I was alone in the house, I put on the stereo with some of my favorite music and lay down naked on my bed. The music took hold of me and I began stroking my penis with the beat. Just after I started stroking, I became aware that my dad was standing in the dark hall watching me. I'm sure he thought that he was being very quiet, but I recognized the sound of his steps as he came up the stairs. I knew he was watching me, but I reasoned that since he already knew what I was doing, it would serve no purpose to stop and act like I wasn't doing it. To this day, I am convinced he does not know that I was aware of his presence. He has never mentioned the incident, nor have I. But in my belief that turnabout is fair play, I determined that it would be nothing less than proper for me also to be silent witness to a similar act of self-pleasuring on my dad's part. I know my dad well enough to be sure in my mind that he enjoyed watching his son masturbating. He may even have been proud of me that I was growing into a sexual person. Not only have I become a sexual person myself, but I have, as he had told me I should, become proud of my penis and the great sexual pleasure it could give me as a man. From that afternoon, I plotted my strategy. I knew that it would have to be on a day when he thought he was home alone---a day when mom perhaps was out shopping and I was safely occupied elsewhere. Days went by, then weeks. On those days when he was to be home alone, I was indeed always busy elsewhere. But one day, school was let out at noon because of a power failure in the building. I walked home. When I arrived at our house, it took me a moment to reconcile in my mind as to what I was looking at. There in the driveway was my dad's car. The garage door was open, and it took me another moment to realize that my mom's car was neither in the garage nor in the driveway. This could be my chance. I very quietly opened the front door and went in. I could hear music coming from the upstairs. It was one of my dad's favorites, Keith Richards' "Wicked as it Seems." I put down my books and removed my shoes. Tip-toeing up the stairs, I could tell the music was coming from my mom and dad's room. The hall was dark, and their door was standing wide open. Peeking around the door jamb, I realized I had hit pay dirt. There was my dad lying only in his shorts on his back, spread eagle on the bed. The bed was situated in such a way that my dad was facing away from the door so I was able to get a full view of his body. With one hand, he was gently rubbing his inner thighs, and with the other, he was slowly massaging his stomach and pubic area. As he did this, he spread his legs farther apart, and I could see his hips gently rotating and rising and falling ever so slightly. After many minutes of running his hands over his body, he stood up and faced the mirror. He still could not see me standing in the hall. Simulating the exotic movements of a male stripper, he watched himself as he slowly removed his shorts, first revealing his perfectly round and firm ass cheeks, with just a hint of dark hair appearing in the crack. Still moving his hips erotically, he brought the front of his shorts down just far enough to reveal his thick dark bush of pubic hair. I felt as though the blood was rushing through my veins at top speed. My penis was hard and I could feel it throbbing against the tight crotch of my pants. "He is my own dad," I thought. "Why am I feeling this intense, almost insane, desire for him?" Soon his shorts dropped to the floor, allowing his rigid penis to bounce out into the air. He stood before the mirror for just a minute watching his hard rod bob up and down. Changing the music to Billy Squire's "The Stroke," he threw himself back on the bed and began a slow fondling of his maleness. He ran his fingers furtively over his scrotum, rolling his balls gently between them. He had his pillow doubled over so that he could prop his head up to give him a view of the slow torture he was about to inflict upon himself. He ran his darting fingers over his shaft, first the lower shaft, then the upper shaft. Then his fingers literally danced around the tip of his penis. Pre-cum was bubbling out of his pee hole, and his fingers continued to tease the mushroom head faster and faster and more violently. My dad began to moan and groan more loudly as though the torture was becoming unbearable. His body began to jump and lurch as though it were trying to escape the relentless torture he was inflicting on the tip of his penis. I tore open my trousers, ripping the band on my briefs, and with pre-cum dripping onto the floor, I grabbed my penis and stroked as hard and fast as I could. I watched as my dad . . . my very own dad . . . had totally and completely given himself over to another God. What was happening to his body was now totally out of his control. It was though he had come under a deep spell of some kind, which never seemed to subside. After at least an hour of this unbelievable torture, during which Coryell's "Angels at Sunset" was playing, another piece of music with a decided rythmic beat began to play. My dad then grasped his swollen penis in his right hand and began pumping and stroking. Slow at first, but faster and faster he went. Then slow again, only to go faster again. Over and over, slow pumping, fast pumping, slow pumping. I could see the muscles begin to tighten and ripple in my dad's thighs. He raised his head and the veins in his neck were thick and red. A torturous look began to sweep over his face, and with a loud yell coming from his mouth, a great long rope of thick white sperm shot from his penis onto his cheek. Then another, and another as my dad bucked his hips as though to throw each volley farther than the last. It was all I could take. It was only after two or three strokes that I shot my own load. I did all I could to point my hard cock downward so that I would shoot into my pants. When I was through, I was breathing heavily, but tried not to make a sound. I pulled up my pants quickly and stood there for just a few moments looking at my dad . . . my very own dad . . . as he lay still with his eyes closed and his hand still clutching his wilting penis. With his other hand, he slowly scooped the thick, pudding-like sperm from his face and neck and then sucked the sperm into his mouth and swallowed it. I watched his handsome, masculine chest heaving as he slowly regained his normal breathing. A thousand beads of sweat glistened on his chest hair. I wanted so badly to run to him, throw myself down beside him and take him in my arms and tell him how much I loved him. My dad told me once that pleasuring oneself is something God-given that all good men do, and they have the right to be totally alone and at one with themselves when they do it. Personally, I believe it is almost like a religious experience. I watched my dad have this experience because I believed I had the right to watch him after he watched me go through it. But maybe it was wrong what we did. Or maybe it wasn't. Both my dad and I got caught up in watching each other go through an intensely personal experience. And we, therefore, went through it together. Although neither of us have admitted to each other what we did, by doing it, we both have created a sort of spiritual bond of understanding between us. As much as I long to hold on to his penis, and he on mine, and mutually masturbate each other, I don't believe that either of us will ever again invade each other's privacy in this or any other way. But somehow after my dad witnessed me masturbating, I could feel a deepening of his love for me, as well as a growing pride. And I hope . . . oh, how I hope . . . my dad, my very best friend, can now feel the depth of my love for him. I would be happy to hear from anyone who was moved by this story, or who has had a similar experience. Robert Borden