Date: Sat, 7 Oct 2000 17:35:59 -0400
From: Jim Stanley <storiesince@hotmail.com>
Subject: Chapter 13-Teen Crisis

Teen Crisis
Chapter 13

I was seventeen when I graduated from high school.  My father turned 69.  I
came home one day to find a bereaved father in tears.  My mother died from
a sudden stroke.  I put my arms around him and held him close for what
seemed hours.  We both loved her very much, he in a deep and special
way. But it was because of her death that my life would change radically at
this time.  I loved my father deeply in his crisis and vowed to stay close
to him.  An opportunity to go to college came, but I chose to attend local
schools to attain my degree, just to be near my father.  Five years went by
and I received my degree at age 22.  My father turned 74 and, more so now
than ever, I was determined to stay near him.  I searched for ways of
seeking employment locally and chanced upon a once in a lifetime
opportunity.  I had always had an interest in baking and a local baker
retired, offering his business for sale.  I talked it over with my Dad, and
he was excited by this prospect.  I detected relief from knowing that I
would be with him and close.  He added, "That would give me the chance to
work with you in the bakery and we could make a go of it, perhaps adding a
coffee shop to it."  I sensed his excitement and we decided to invest in
the business.  As luck would have it, we prospered.
	After my mother's death, my Dad languished for several months.  I
did everything I could to console him and, gradually, he began to come out
of his depression.  Somewhere in this period, I suggested moving my bed
into his room so as to be near him.  He seemed to like that idea.  There
were times during this period when he would have depressing dreams and
nightmares and I would leave my bed and crawl in with him and hold him
closely.  He never objected to this and allowed me to massage his chest and
face in a loving way.  Often he would say, "Son, I love you very much."  I
would always respond, "Dad, my love for you is the same.  I can't begin to
show you the depth of that love."  He would sigh, nod and smile and I would
continue with our embrace and massage.  The dreams were always related to
my mother.  In time, these subsided and normalcy in his sleep returned.
During the night, I would often hear him and see him in the dimness of the
night-light, massaging his cock and testicles.  Once, I woke and looked
over to see the silhouette of my father's naked body and hard cock.  His
right hand moved slowly and rhythmically up and down his hard shaft and I
desperately wanted to go over to him and love him from head to foot.  Also,
since we were alone in the house, we often observed each other nude.
Seeing him this way, always excited me.  My eyes drank every inch of his
body, the gray hair on his chest, the graying around his cock and balls,
the gentle feet, the swaying of his uncut cock, the softness of his
buttocks, the slightly protruding paunch covered with the softness of the
gray hair.
	My mother was in the habit of washing his back when he took a bath.
One day, while taking a bath, he called "Stan, would you come in here and
wash my back for me.  I miss having your mother do that."  I needed no
other motivation for that and it became a standard daily practice.  At this
time, too, he suggested reciprocating the act.  My usual practice when
washing his back was to have him kneel in the tub. I would lather his back
and ass with soap and gently wash and massage him.  As my hands came to his
ass, I would massage the cheeks of his ass tenderly, paying close attention
to his exposed and relaxed asshole.  In washing, I would playfully wash his
asshole, inserting one finger, then two, sometimes three into his hole, and
wash in a fucking motion, gently, steadily, rhythmically.  My washing would
continue down to his balls, which I would knead gently in my hands.  His
cock always responded to these actions, but, at that time, we chose to
pretend to ignore these erections or semi erections.  When it was my time
for a bath, he would often enter in his boxer shorts and, more or less,
replicate my washing of him.  He gave special attention to my hole and
would often linger long and tenderly here.  His fingers toyed expertly with
it.  Sometimes, he'd insert his thumb, his other fingers massaging the base
of my balls and recessed cock.  He'd move it in and out in a fucking
motion.  He alternated with his index finger, first one, then two, then
three.  Once he inserted four and part of his thumb and commented, "Tell me
if I'm hurting you.  I want to be gentle."  My response was always, "No
Dad, you're doing fine.  I feel only your gentleness."  I liked to think
that he remembered my sitting on his cock while he pretended sleep on the
sofa and judged this to be something I liked.  Indeed, I did.  Several
times, hunched over this way, I shot into the water as he probed my hot
asshole and massaged my balls.  I wanted to scream my enjoyment at these
times, but constrained my joy to a whimper and sigh as signs of
appreciation.  I would always see his hard cock protruding from his boxer
shorts as well as visible wetness seeping through the left leg of his
shorts.
	When finished, we would always towel each other's back.  Once, I
suggested rubbing some lotion on his back after a bath.  He replied, "I was
going to ask you about that.  Sometimes my back feels a little itchy
afterwards."  Then that became routine for him as well as me.  We would go
to his bed and he would lie on his stomach, a towel underneath him.  We
would both strip down to our shorts when massaging.  Later this would
change.  I would usually begin by massaging his upper torso.  I would begin
with the back of his neck, relaxing the spine.  Then I would proceed to his
back, using long strokes that went from his shoulders to the base of his
buttocks and balls.  I would massage and knead the muscles of his ass,
allowing my fingers to roam freely in the crack of his ass.  Usually, his
cock and balls were perpendicular to his legs, and, as I massaged his
buttocks, his cock and balls were clearly visible between his outstretched
legs.  Then I would move down his legs to his thighs, his calves, and his
feet.  Normally, I would linger around his thighs, allowing my fingers to
roam freely over the visible parts of his cock and balls.  At his feet, I
would massage the soles and each of the toes gently, allowing my hands to
roam from his feet, up his calves, to his thighs.  Then I would have him
turn on his back.  Inevitably, his cock and mine were semi-erect.  I'd
begin, as before, massaging his upper torso.  I'd massage his face and
cheekbones, then his chest.  On his chest, I would use long strokes from
his shoulders to his cock and balls, putting gentle pressure on the base of
his cock as I approached it.  He seemed to like having his nipples
massaged.  I would alternate between a full palm rubbing of his nipples to
a gentle kneading of the nipple between my fingers.  Sometimes, getting
carried away, I would knead the nipple firmly and he would respond with a
sigh, the unspoken symbol of his and my satisfaction.  I would proceed down
his legs from the front, giving his thighs close attention and then work my
way down the calves to his feet.  Last, I would move back to his cock and
balls.  I would knead his balls gently with both hands, massaging, at the
same time, the recessed part of his cock that ran from the base of his cock
to his asshole.  Invariably, his cock would harden and I would take it
firmly between both hands and massage it gently.  Always, the droplets of
pre-cum would appear and I would take swipe at them with my fingers and
taste.  I could do this since, most often, my father's eyes were closed.
But I would never bring him to an ejaculation at this time.  That, too,
would change.
	As I mentioned, he would reciprocate these actions with me.  But he
added touches of his own.  When massaging me, he would kneel over me.
Often, he would let his hard cock and low hanging balls slide over my lower
body and massage the droplets of pre-cum from his cock into my body.  Since
I tended to keep my eyes closed, he experimented, too.  Once, while
massaging my asshole with his fingers, I detected a subtle change in
pressure and fingering.  I judged it to be his cock.  He had inserted the
head into my asshole and pretended as if it were his thumb.  I felt his
cockhead spread my asshole gently, slowly, tenderly, and felt the wetness
increase with the pre-cum lubricating my hot hole.
	Another time, as I lay on my back and he massaged my cock and
balls, I detected another change in technique.  I managed to squint at his
doings, and his tongue searched for the juices that emanated from my hot
cock.  His technique was to lick and squeeze my cock in the massage.  Each
time he squeezed, more pre-cum spilled from my hot cock.
	And so went our life after my mother's death.  This was to change
drastically in the days to come.