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Kazimov
MY SWEET DRUNK FATHER II
I wasn't sure my father remembered. Did he remember his thirteen year old son lying between his legs, rubbing his cock until it exploded all over himself, as he lay drunk on the living room floor? Did he remember after, me lying on top of him, grinding my dick into him and cumming? Did he remember slipping his rough, red hand into my jockeys and giving my dick a squeeze that sent me another orgasm, spilling my cum into his dry palm? It didn't really matter to me if he did or didn't. It had all happened and I knew it. And after that nothing would ever be the same.
Things were different between us after that night, at least from my point of view. It wasn't that I hadn't had those kind of thoughts of him before, but after those fantasies had become real it was just...different.
I found that I couldn't keep my eyes off of him. My heart would soar if we happened to bump into each other passing down the narrow hall from our bedrooms to the kitchen, or the bathroom, my groin would stiffen and bulge. If our hands happened to touch as we passed food around the dinner table, I was in ecstasy for the rest of the day. But I hid these things very well. I became very good at staring at him without staring at him, spying on him from the corners of my eyes. He had become total sex for me, to the exclusion of everything else. An obsession.
On any day of the week, after work, he stepped through the front door bent-over-weary, face a hard-baked expression that said to everyone: don't bother me!. His face was sunburnt where the welding goggles hadn't covered, and the back of his hands looked like they'd been dipped in boiling water. As he walked to his bedroom he stripped out of his grimy jeans and sweat stained khakis shirt, kicking off his large, dark work boots.
He came out a few minutes later, in leather slip-ons and boxer shorts, walking a little stiffly. He went straight to the refrigerator, crossing the living room, right in front of where I was sitting watching television. But I was really watching him out of the corner of my eye.
As he walked, his cock wagged, bouncing with every step, pressing it's shape into front of his shorts, daring the fly-hole to gape open. Four generous inches, thick and hanging. And below, his fat, hanging balls in their dark, wrinkled skin, dotted with goose flesh and the odd hair. It was all I could do not to attack him on my knees.
My dad was hot all over. Perfectly muscled from head to toe. Solidly built in that natural way common to working men, almost six and a half feet tall. With short dark hair, olive green eyes, and milk colored skin where his work clothes often covered him. His chest was almost hairless, except for a few tiny hairs spiraling around his dark nipples. Initials tattooed on his left arm read, R. D., faded grey, as old pencil marks. His initials.
I stared at the back of him as he entered the dining room and then the kitchen. Thick muscles shifted beneath the smooth skin of his shoulders, like well timed machinery. His ass pumped under the blue fabric as he walked, cheeks grinding against themselves like round stones. Fine dark hair covered his forearms and legs, running down to his red chafed ankles. It was sometimes too much. I rushed to the bathroom and jerked off quickly, cumming into a wad of toilet paper. I flushed it away.
Bathroom Practice
The week that proceeded the following weekend was busy as I prepared myself for my father. I don't know what gave me the idea that I wanted to be with my father like that. We were actually a conservative family in comparison to what I knew of other families. My parents were married and had been so even before I was born. My mother went to church more frequently than she demanded of my father or myself, but on the Holidays we were all there in regular attendance. With both my parents working we were comfortably middle-class.
So my exposure to things of a sexual nature was actually quite limited. Sometimes I would catch something very soft-core on late night cable. But that was mostly all tease and you really hardly ever saw anything stronger than a guy grinding away on top of a girl. And even then you hardly ever saw a guys penis.
My father did keep a foot-high stack of old (before my mother) Playboys. He kept them secreted away under a pile of winter sweaters at the top of his side of the closet he shared with her. I sometimes snuck one out, on those rare weekends when they were both out of the house. But it was nothing but naked girls. That bored me real quick.
So in short, my family was intact and my house wasn't exactly dripping with hard core smut.
But still, I new what gay was. Or queer or faggot. And I knew what they (we) did with each other. Butt-fucking, I heard it called in school, with a giggle, when men stuck their dicks in each other's bums, having sex with each other almost the way men and women did. Or fudge-packing. Anal sex was the proper name for all of it, I had read in a health book I had snuck from the library. I was that, I was gay. And I meant to have my father butt-fuck me.
My first experiment with anal sex came in the bathroom. I had just undressed and turned the shower on to hot when I saw the mop standing there in the corner behind the toilet, like a lone, green sentry. My mother had just mopped the bathroom floor with Pine-Sol and the ghost of it's faint, piney scent still hung in the air. I pulled it out of it's corner and dragged it to the bath mat in front of the tub. On closer inspection it's blunt-shaped end did remind me of a penis, although a slightly thinner one than the two I had personally experienced: my father's and my own.
I treated the rounded tip like it was a dick. My tongue lapped around the sensitive rim of a head I saw in my imagination. My father's. I sucked on the handle tentatively, drawing just a couple of inches into my mouth, getting used to it. A few inches further and I gagged. I pulled away coughing and stared at its wet tip, dejectedly. Oh well. It wasn't really much like a dick after all.
I stepped into the shower, drawing aside the blue plastic curtain. The water was too hot so I turned it a little cooler. As I stooped over, leaning against the cool yellow tiles, I felt for my hole with the blunt tip of the mop. When I found that raised circle of creases I pressed. I felt nothing but dry tightness and biting, red colored pain. The more I pressed, the more it hurt. Relax, I told myself. You have to relax, like your going to the bathroom. Relax. I pressed again.
Owww!!! It hurt and I was getting nowhere.
I needed something to make it slick. Like grease or oil. Lu-bri-ca-shunnn. As I looked around the bathroom I saw the tub of my mother's Vaseline sitting beside the sink. I drew out a thick, cloudy wad on the tip of my finger and worked it over the handle of the mop, sliding down 5 inches. That should be enough, I thought.
I rubbed another grey, greasy wad into the tight, virgin creases of my bum-hole, working the finger in deep. And then two fingers, down to my fist knuckles. I felt ready.
I stepped under the shower and the warm spray drenched me, beating in my ear like a thunderous drum. The mop was sitting in it's bucket outside the shower, it's avocado green handle leaning in past the curtain. I bent over again and maneuvered it into my ass.
I took in a deep breath like I was preparing to dive under water. Just a gentle push and it was entering me, slowly sliding into me with hardly any pain; just the strange sensation that I was in the middle of a long shit. And a growing sense of pressure on my insides that was pleasurable but completely foreign to me.
Passing a few inches, I wiggled the handle around, feeling it press my insides from different angles. An intense feeling filled me like a slow rising heat and I felt a growing pressure building behind my balls. I ran my hand through the soap dish, slicking it up, and began stroking my cock. I bucked my hips forward and back as if I was being fucked. My father was behind me. His strong hands gripping my hips driving himself deeper into me.
"Fuck me, Dad. Yeah! Fuck me! Ohhh...."
I leaned back, crouching, sinking deeper onto the slick wood, my hand a blur on my cock- up, down, up, down- squeezing my head viciously when it came to it. My insides boiled and my balls felt ready to burst. I squeezed my hole tight, struggling to stand up, rubbing my knees together, my toes twisting, thumping on the slick and wet tub floor. My body was a shivering knot.
I orgasmed harder than I ever had before and blast after blast of my pearl-white cum painted streaks on shower wall. I shook and trembled, shooting and shooting, more cum than I had ever shot before. And even after my cock stopped shooting I felt the ghost of it wracking my cock, pulsing up and down its flagging length like a pissing sting, echoing in my balls like a dull electric buzz.
I hung on the wall kissing the wet tile, breathing hard and fast; sweat and water dripping off me. The mop plopped out of me, falling out of the shower. My legs felt sore; my knees weak mush.
My God! That was something. Wow!!
I stepped backwards under the shower stream and let the water washed down my back, down between my legs. I gathered lather on my right hand and soaped back between my legs, slipping a finger into me, swirling it around. The thick greasy feeling that coated my insides wouldn't leave me. I rinsed the soap away and shut off the water.
Stepping onto the bath mat, I grabbed a towel and dried myself off. I wiped a corner of the towel delicately between my cheeks and inspected it. No blood. That was good. I slightly expected to see some, as this was the loss of my virginity, but I guess it didn't work the same way it worked with girls. There was no barrier of flesh up there to proof my virginity, no hymen to brake.
The mop handle looked shiny and streaked with specks of shit a good 8 or 9 inches down from the tip. Wow! I hadn't thought that it had gone that deep. Jesus, Wow! I smiled impressed with myself. It felt like a victory. Who was next? You, shampoo bottle? You want some of this?
I washed the handle in the sink, carefully working soap up and down the affected area so as to leave no evidence. My mother mopped frequently and if things were amiss she would know it. And a mop handle that smelled like shit and left your hands feeling greasy would be quite amiss!
I rinsed it clean and dried it with my towel. There, it looked as good as new. I sniffed it. It reeked of shit! I began to feel panic sink into my belly like a bag of rocks. I needed something stronger than soap to cover the smell. I was starting to sweat again and then my eyes landed on the bottle of Pine-Sol as it sat on the window ledge over the toilet. I doused a little of the amber fluid onto a wad of toilette paper and rubbed it over the handle like perfume. I took a sniff and all I smelled was pine. Good. I smiled broadly, wiping my sweaty brow.
I felt ready for my father. Ready to be fucked. I had no illusions that being fucked by a mop and being fucked by my father's thick meat would be the same, but at least I had some point of reference. I felt prepared.
Saturday Night
Saturday came quickly enough, and with it another barbecue and a lot of beer. Noon turned into 6 o'clock and then 9 o'clock. My father was as cheerful as ever on a weekend. He laughed loudly as he slapped his cards down, waving his hands comically at the men circling the round table. They gave a collective groan, tossing in their hands, as my father raked in a small hill of quarters. Empty beer bottles piled around his booted ankles. A naked bulb hung from the high branch of a tree over the table, lighting the play, gleaming dully on the piles of coins. Tattered white moths and fat brown beetles beat themselves compulsively at the glaring hundred watts.
Every couple of hours he walked to the side of the house guarded by an old oak tree with low growing branches that tried to steal your cap if you weren't looking. He or any of the other men would piss with general impunity against the side of the house. It was just the custom of the land. And it was easier than walking inside to take a civilized piss when `inside' meant having to pass your wife and all the other wives sitting around the kitchen table passing dirty looks your way, as if you had invaded their private space.
On one of these pisses I followed my father to the side of the house. I stepped up next to him, announcing my presence with a cough, as he hauled out his dick. It was dark but not so dark that he didn't recognize me. A soft red glow from a near by window lit us and the narrow grassy alley.
"Heeeey, Bobbeee-e," he said, and already a drunken slur had developed in his speech. His elbow bumped my side, playfully, as he started to piss. I couldn't take my eye's off of him.
Even soft it looked huge; bloated and dark red, practically spilling out of his grip. He looked down at me and winked. I nodded, winking back, and drew down my own zipper. I thumbed down the waist of my underware exposing my dick as it rigidly pointing up. I looked up quickly, catching my fathers eyes on me. He smiled uncomfortably and then quickly turned to follow the pale, yellow rope of his piss as it splashed against the house, ricocheting down on the grass.
I stood next to him hiding my stiffness in my hand as I pretending to piss. I knew what I wanted to do right then, at that very moment. If only I had the guts, I thought. DO IT! DO IT!, a voice urged in my head. Don't be a pussy all your life!
My stomach churned, and bubbled. My mouth tasted strange to me as if I had just noticed it for the very first time. I was walking off the edge of something. Somehow I reached out and touched my fathers cock. His whole body went stiff as I slipped my smaller hand under his, taking over the job of aiming his piss. His hands fell to his sides.
"Whatcha dooin therrre boyyee?" he asked. His head hung down, chin to chest, lazily studying my hand. At any second it seemed in danger of falling off of his strong shoulders.
I smiled, shrugged.
"Hummmmm...," was all he said.
His penis felt warm and soft in my palm, like melting velvet. I squeezed him, sinking my fingers into the dark wrinkly length of his 4 inches. The last seconds of piss lazered out faster and I drew letters on the wall in my dad's beer-yellow piss. I-L-O-V-E-Y...I didn't look up at his face. I couldn't. And he kept his eyes to where his piss hit the house.
I clung to his right side, left arm around his back and my right hand holding his cock. My nose almost met the level of his arm-pit. I pressed close to that damp fragrant spot and something twisted in my stomach like a hunger pang. He smelled incredible---not clean...but just manly. Like sweat and toil, passion, strength.
His piss dwindled and he leaned forward over his spread boots letting the last drops fall between his feet. I squeezed him from the root to the head, like a tube of emptying toothpaste, milking out the last bits of piss. The last drop hung stubbornly from the ragged gash of his piss-hole, refusing to fall. I shook his cock, and he flopped up and down, comically. He felt heavier now. And thicker too, more plump, like a balloon filling with warm water.
He turned towards me, and I suddenly felt his hands on my shoulders; large, rough, and sunburned a deep red; ringless and indefinably masculine. He pressed down and my knees sank into the soft summer grass.
I came face to face with my father's dark, swelling manhood as I hugged him around the hips and rubbed my sweaty face into his hanging erection, inhaling his delicious rank, breathing it down in huffs. I glanced up at him, my cherry stained lips kissing his fat head, flicking my tongue at the moistened tip. He stared up, concentrating on the low tangle of leaves and branches that swung softly in the evening breeze. The underside of his jaw was dotted with dark specks of emerging stubble and a small mole perched on his adam's apple.
I ran my hands up and down the tight, dark denim of his jeans, over his thighs, up and down his calves, squeezing the toes of his boots, before finally locking my fingers around the front his this thick leather belt. I could feel the embossed circles of turquois colored velvet that decorate it, tickling my palms.
He felt perfect in my mouth--- just the right size. I sucked gently at first, concentrating on his soft, round head, massaging him with my lips and tongue, tasting piss or beer in the clear drool that ran down his piss hole. I drew back, squeezing him with my mouth, crushing him against the hard roof of my mouth with my tongue. He made soft animal sounds.
He was as long as he was going to get, (about 8") but not completely hard. That made it easier to suck. I worked my lips up and down his dick, stretching my mouth as wide as it would go, daring myself deeper, to press the tip of my nose against his thick, black bush. Sometimes I could almost feel him beginning to slide down my throat, but then I would choke and panic, pulling off.
My father's face gleamed with sweat. It ran down his neck, dampening his collar, flattening his shirt to his back, making dark fat crescent under his arms. His hands clamped down on my thin boy-shoulders and his fingers dug into to the flesh, painfully. His cock grew harder and began to bend up in my mouth. He whispered something and hissed, as he fucked my mouth, swinging his hips, bashing my face with his balls and pubes.
"Ohhhh... Bobby.....Ohhh.......Mmmmm....Bobbeeeee.......hssssss!!"
He pressed forward, wrapping his hands around my head, locking his dick in my mouth. He shot his hot sperm into me. It burned, splashing the back of my throat, singing my tongue. I swallowed as it came, pumping his thick shaft with my hand, extending the orgasm that had his stomach pumping in out, his head rolling on his shoulders, his lips pressed. Drops of his sweat struck my face, landed on the top of my head. My father stroked my hair. I loved the pleasure I had given him. It filled me with a warm glow.
Behind us dry leaves crackled and a twig snapped.
Someone was entering the side yard! My father's eyes were frantic as he pushed me away. His spent cock plopped out of my mouth as I fell backwards, landing painfully on my bum. My father zipped away his deflated cock. I got back on my feet as a friend of one of my uncles gave a friendly `Hey!' as he saw us.
My father `Hey's back, and nods to him as they pass, joining the other men for more beers, his bladder and his balls empty. This guy...Phil is his name, I think, a friend of my uncle on my mother's side. He's already unzipped and his cock head pears out from his fist, pointing in my direction. It looks almost as small as mine, but uncircumcised. A small snout of skin hangs from the tip, like the collar of a turtle neck. I stand next to him pretending to piss.
He looks younger than my father, and shorter, but still taller than me. I'd guess he was 26 years old. Not as big or as built as my father, but he was almost cute in an older boy sort of way. He wore his dark hair in a very short, conservative style that made me think of men in uniform: cops or soldiers. A thin sleazy mustache grew disparately on his lip, like grass struggling to grow in the cracks of a cement. He grew it to make himself look older, but it had the opposite effect making him look 16 or 17. The older guys were always kidding him about that.
He drew up next to me, looked down and smiled. He held his cock out for a long time but nothing came out. I stood there pretending to piss. After a while it felt safe and I started to put my penis away, more easily now that it has softened a little. I was just pulling up my briefs when his hands locked on mine.
"Wait!"
"What?"
Phil leaned over me, my wrists locked in his hands. His face drew closer to mine sinking to my level. His eyes shined wetly, the corners red with blood vessels, his lids half shut. He smelled of long faded cologne and wood smoke. His arms caught me and crushed me to his pigeon chest. I could feel his heart beating. Thrup! Thrup! Thrup!
And then his mouth was on mine, his lips crushing mine, his hands rubbing my back up and down, stuffing his fingers into my back pockets, squeezing my bottom. His tongue passed my lips, entered me, and feeling it, I pushed back with my own. We felt each other out, our teeth, our gums, our tongues wrestling in wet manic fits. Saliva ran from my mouth in to his and back, mingling. My ears filled with his loud gasping breath, and the wet smack-smack sounds of our kissing.
He kissed my neck and throat, leaving sticky trails of saliva and red marks. He pulled my t-shirt up and worked his hands over my body, massaging his rough palms over my chest and stomach. He licked a nipple and then sucked it, ending it by pulling away, his teeth raking the tender brown buttons. I gasped under my breath and my cock felt intensely hard again.
He moved lower, to my belly button, lavishing it with wet kisses and deep licks, swirling his tongue around like clock-work. He's worked his way down until his mouth finally finds me, hanging swollen in the gap of my open zipper. He licked me, lashing the red tip of my dick with his tongue, and inching up over the top of me like a caterpillar on a branch until his reached my sparse billowy pubes. He sniffed loudly like a dog, and his breath felt hot my skin. I felt his tongue licking the sweaty, musky union, where my cock grew out of my bush.
He lifted my cock up until it's 4 1/2 inches are pressed against my belly, and then lapped at the exposed underside of the head, licking the sensitive crossroads of the cock and shaft. licking the tip. He sucked it in for a second and his mouth felt like heaven: all hot and wet, plush. But then he pulled away, moving down the under side, licking and kissing and once or twice nipping at the tight skin. I'm looking around like crazy, waiting to be discovered.
I forgot all my fears as he took my nuts into his mouth in one gulp. Both at once. He was so loud and wet, slurping and sucking, working my balls with his tongue, stretching them in their thin wrinkled sac. It feels as if he's sucking out my guts and my head wants to float away like a balloon. His head's tilted sideways and his eyes are closed as he works beneath my dick, all stiff and proud 4 1/2 inches dripping in his ear, his almost stubble grating deliciously on underside of my red, bloated head.
He straightened up, eyeing me seriously, hands gripping my hips.
"You want this baby. If you knew how good it could feel," he smiled, his narrow lips falling behind his sleazy crooked teeth.
"Uh-huh," I nod.
He swallowed my cock, starting at the moist, red head. He pressed his lips against it, as if to kiss it, a lover. He pushed himself forward, towards me, his face slowly sinking on my cock. My skin burned under the unrelenting friction of his snug lips. I felt smothered me in a hot, liquid blanket as his meaty tongue and slick, cloudy interiors of his cheeks caved in around me in a powerful vacuum. I'd never felt anything like it before. He was so damn smooth and hot. Nothing like my hand.
I felt every part of his mouth: the hardness of his palette, that row of bony ridges running down the roof of his mouth, as he sucked my throbbing head; the soft sponginess of his tongue as he swabbed it around my cock, sometime digging the sandpapery tip into my piss hole, causing me a jolt; the ocassional jagged pointyness of his teeth. But the best was the back of his throat, that soft curtain of flesh that at my deepest engulfed the tip of my cock in liquid heat. He would sometimes gag, but always sink back, nose to pubes, chin to balls, murmuring sex deep in his throat.
It was a building like nothing I had ever felt before. Soon I felt that familiar growing urgency building up in my balls. He pulled back for the last time, and I felt every inch of his retreat, as his lips made a tight vice around my shaft. When he came to the head he sucked with all his force. His cheeks caved, grew red, and small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. His head barely moved as he concentrated his lips on the sensitive ridge, passing over and over, backwards and forwards, until finally I exploded in his mouth, shaking, eyes watering, hand over my mouth to hush my cry.
I rose to my tip-toes, holding his head, passing my fingers through the short bristle. My stiff cock spasmed as my balls emptied shot after shot of hot cream into Phil's hungry mouth. The orgasms came hard and almost painfully at first, setting an ache in the base of my head. I felt completely spent, like I had emptied my balls down his throat.
Long after I had cum and the powerful squirts had diminished to a slow leak he continued to suck, milking my red, sore cock, tugging-squeezing for the last drops of cum. I pulled away when it was too much and my groin buzzed and my skin felt raw, exposed.
He kneeled on the ground as I zipped up my shorts. Just sort of slumped over holding himself, his head sort of touching the ground, like he was praying to Mecca. His lips were moving and I could almost hear soft murmuring as if he were having a conversation with himself. This was getting to weird for me. Was he crazy or something? Had I just did it with a nut?I turned to leave, walking the other way, when he was up and his hands were locked on me once again.
"You can't just leave, kid," his voice seemed tinged with panic and desperation, "I ain't finished yet. You can't just leave me like this, dude. It ain't cool, you know?"
He placed my hand on his cock. He had to be at least 27 but his dick was no bigger than mine, perhaps slightly smaller. And that was full hard. He poked out of his khakis shorts, pointing somehow at my face. The foreskin had ridden back, uncovering the sticky head gleaming.
He drew up close to me like he wanted to whisper something private in my ear or give me a hug like my grandma does when I haven't seen her in a while like since the last big holiday. He looked at me too seriously and I felt weird and on the spot. My hand still held him, squeezing the loose bundles of foreskin.
"I love you baby, right? You know that."
I didn't know what to say. This all felt very weird.
He kissed my mouth in a clumsy way, with his eyes shut, and his hands holding my face.
"I love you so much, do this for me. Please? Please?!"
He was acting desperate and creepy and I thought that at very the next moment if I said no, he could kill me, or worse.
"Jerk me off," he said in my ear.
I started stroking him while he made out with my neck and ran his hands down the back of my shorts, squeezing my cheeks. His hips were moving like he was having sex with my hand.
"I bet your so tight, right, baby? Tiiiiiiight!" he hissed the last word.
"Harder. Harder,"he urged in my ear before he tongued it,"Don't stop."
I stroked faster, tightening my grip, strangling his cock in my hand, until it turned an irritated shade of purple.
"Oh yeah, baby. Oh yeah...," he wheezed into my shoulder. His cock bounced and throbbed in my hand. He came explosively, first a watery gush and then the inflamed head of his cock erupted thick, white streamers of cum everywhere. My shirt and the leg of my shorts were doused. The smell was almost sickening, that strong spermy smell, almost chemical. He kissed me again rubbing his cum between us. He was smiling and his eyes looked a little watery. Glistening trails of cum ran down my hand, cooling rapidly, growing thick in the night air.
I wanted to leave but he held me to me tight. Finally I loosened one of his arms and pulled away. He quickly drew a twenty dollar bill from his pocket as he saw me backing away.
"Here," he said extending the bill, "Take it."
Finally he just put the twenty into my pocket. And I shouldn't tell anyone about this, he said. Right?
Sure, I agreed, turning around. He wasn't that bad, I thought as I walked to the front of the house, rubbing in the cum stains, making them fade. Weird, though. I'd just sucked off my father and been sucked off by one of my uncles friends which almost made him an uncle and then jerked him off. Crazy! I wiped my hands on the leg of my shorts, feeling the crisp twenty. I had earned that. I felt tired in every way possible. Even though I had just cum I couldn't stop thinking about my father and the plans I had for later tonight. My batteries would be recharged by then, after all I was only 13, just two months short of 14.
Part (3) to come soon
e-mail: kazimov@operamail.com
(Sorry it took so long to finish this second part of MSDF. I just finished rewriting and spell checking last night. I don't anticipate the sequel to take as long. The third and last chapter should be shorter than the one you now see and will deal principally with Bobby and Dad---No sleazy side characters with bad teeth and thin mustaches. Will Bobby's dreams come true? Be there to find out! )