Date: Mon, 24 Sep 2007 15:42:33 -0700 (PDT)
From: Scorpiojames@yahoo.com
Subject: Smoking and Stroking 6: Coda

Author's Note: First, thanks again to everyone who has written me about
this and other stories I've written.  It's VERY much appreciated.  Second,
I've decided to close the "Smoking and Stroking" story with this chapter
and begin a new story with these characters in the very near future.

Smoking and Stroking - Coda

Thanksgiving weekend had passed and my family moved into our new house.  I
will always remember that weekend because, over the course of a few days,
my Father and I began having sex together.  It began one night when my Dad
caught me smoking one of his cigarettes and stroking my dick.  He ended up
joining me in both activities that night and, over the next couple days,
the two of us became more and more intimate, sharing each other's bodies
and expressing a desire for the other I don't think either one of us really
knew existed until then.  We really never talked about it much or tried to
figure out what it meant or what we should do about it.  We simply gave in
to our lust for each other and progressed from jerking off together to
jerking each other off, then sucking each other and even exploring some
butt play.  As we became more comfortable being sexual together and
interested in seeing where we could go, our love for each other seemed to
deepen and change.  I no longer felt like a kid, but was beginning to feel
like a man - a man with a healthy sexual appetite and my Dad seemed to
perceive me as such too.

I've never really questioned my Dad's sexuality or how he felt toward my
Mother.  All I know is, at some point, the two of us began looking at each
other as more than just father and son.  We were lovers, playmates, and
buddies.  And our love for each other had found a new depth and new modes
of expression.

My Dad became a father when he was rather young, so he was (or seemed to
me) still pretty hot and horny by the time I hit 14.  I think he was around
34 or 35.  He wasn't in great shape.  He had a beer belly and was a bit
overweight.  But to me, his size gave him a solidity and "manliness" that
my scrawny, relatively hairless 5'10", 145 lb. body craved.  He had a full
head of gray hair, a nice thick carpet of gray hair on his chest, big arms
with coarse hair on them and best of all, a gorgeous, thick cock surrounded
by a bush of salt & pepper pubic hair.  Below that swung a huge pair of
nuts in a very round, smooth sack covered with thin blue lines.  His ass
was also smooth, except inside his crack and around his asshole.  I spent
those 4 days that weekend exploring every inch of my Dad's body up close,
taking in every detail I could and committing them to memory.


Even though we had moved into a new house, I stayed in the Junior High
School I had been attending and wouldn't change schools until I started
High School the following fall.  We still hadn't sold the old house, so I
would go to school, then go back to the old house and wait for my Dad to
come pick me up on his way home from work.  The house had no furniture, so
I would sit on the floor and do my homework, using my books as a desk,
until my Dad arrived. I still think about those afternoons, when my Dad
would walk into the house wearing a shirt and tie, having left his suit
jacket in the car. I would look up from my homework as he came in, smiling
at me, and my heart would begin to pound and my stomach would get fluttery.
I was totally infatuated with my Father.  I loved him, but was also in love
with him, and felt that love on both an emotional and physical level.
Almost as soon as he was in the house, greeting me with a smile, my dick
would get rock hard and my lust for him would overtake me.

"Hey, Buddy," he would say, closing the door behind him as he entered the
living room.  "How you doing?"


"Hey, Dad," I would reply, getting up and walking over to him.  "I'm OK."

More often than not, my dick would be straining inside my jeans as I went
to him, and I loved the idea of letting him see my excitement as I got near
him.  I would give him a quick peck on the lips, then wrap my arms around
him and give him a huge hug.  This was one of my favorite things for two
reasons.  First, as I lay my cheek on his chest and squeezed my arms, I
would inhale and smell my father.  Even though he wore a T-shirt, his scent
would seep through the fabric of his shirt and as I inhaled, I could smell
a combination of cigarette smoke and musky body odor that, to me, was
better than any cologne I'd ever smelled.  To this day, I find my father's
odor intoxicating.  Second, as I stood hugging him, pressing my erection
against him, I could often feel him getting hard.  My father was taller
than me, though not by much, so as we hugged, I could feel his dick growing
against my waist.  We would often stand there, pressed against each other,
feeling the other's hardness, for what seemed like a long time, though it
was only a few minutes.  Then, separating, we would stand across from each
other, smiling, maybe kissing again.

As we stood there, my hand would almost instinctively go to his crotch and
I would rub his erection through his pants, feeling the outline of his cock
head and shaft trapped inside his briefs.  Usually his hand would be on my
shoulder or maybe gently gripping the back of my neck in a paternal gesture
that was both supportive and encouraging.  I would pull down the zipper of
his pants and slide my hand in, feeling the soft cotton encasing his warm
balls and again rub my hand up over his hard penis.  He would often return
the gesture, first rubbing my dick through my jeans, and then tugging on
the top button, popping the waist open, exposing the waistband of my
briefs.  Then his hand would plunge in, gripping all of me in one hand,
almost lifting me up by the crotch.  And there we would stand, again for
what seemed like a long time, just rubbing each other through our
underwear, enjoying the quiet moment together.

On some days, that was all we did.  Perhaps we would kiss some more, or we
would hug again and he'd slide his hand around to the back of my jeans and
cup my ass in his hand.  Then he'd say quietly in my ear, "C'mon Buddy,
we've got to get home."  And that was it.  We'd separate, zip up and I'd
collect my homework.  Nothing more was said about what we'd done or what we
wanted to do.  My father would light a cigarette while I collected my
things and we'd leave the house, drive home and join the rest of my family
for dinner.

On other days, when we weren't expected home or pressed for time, we would
go much further.  Once again, having a house to ourselves, we would engage
in activities we'd never tried before, exploring not only each other's
bodies, but also our creativity and the depth of our lust.  But those days,
when my father and I would learn so much more about each other and spend
time following our lust to new places, are to be described another time.