Dimes  

A parade of coins brings a fortuitous encounter while collecting donations during the 1950-1970s in the deep south.  Intimate encounters between males of various generations and various lineages are included.

Characters:

Greg:                          Narrator

Emmet Bordelon:        Airline steward, painter

Florence White:        Emmet’s Aunt

Dad:                        Greg’s father

This tale is fiction, all characters and activities are solely from my imagination. (Adult content.)

Dimes

Every year, every darn year, Pammy-Jo and I were forced into community service.  Couldn’t get out of it.  Dad traveled his sales circuit, came home every two weeks.  Mom’s word was law; she meted out the tasks.

“Get a clean shirt on, Greg.  Pammy-Jo—wear a skirt.”  She waved a brown envelope as we moaned.  Again, she signed up for the March of Dimes.  

Inside the envelope were brochures; on the front was a photo of a boy in an iron lung.  His head stuck out the end of a large metal cylinder containing his body.  Mom explained the machinery in the cylinder helped the boy breathe, “Bless his heart, hiis lung muscles don’t work any more.”  

That kinda scared me.

Off we went, door-to-door, every house on our block.  Thousands of people were doing the same that night across the US.  

...

Pammy-Jo knocked, gave the spiel.  I wrote out the envelope with a tiny pencil, licked the tiny packet shut with dimes, quarters.  On to the next house; every door gushed with dinner smells—spaghetti, hot tuna casserole, ground-round frying; beans and rice.  

Down the block.  Back up the other side, we got to the Di Luca house.  Lina Di Luca was Pammy-Jo’s best friend.  Mother Di Luca went to get her purse; Lina and Pammy-Jo started whispering.  While I printed the address on the envelope, Mrs. Di Luca said Lina could tag along to finish the block.  As we left the porch, the girls took off between the houses to see what their other friend was doing.  

Coulda gone home but figured I could  finish all by myself.  Went to the next house thinking of the boy in the photo, head sticking out the end of a big metal cylinder.  Wondered how the kid peed.  Diapers or did someone help him?  Did they…?

Next house was dark, a dim light through the drapes covering the wide plate-glass window.  These people had a doorbell with a tiny light.  Fancy.  

Rang.  Waited.  Rang again and almost turned to leave when the door opened.  Didn’t smell any dinner, smelled like pine oil, but stronger.  Dark shadow of a tall man in the half-opened the door.  

“Good evening.”

“I’m collecting donations for the March of Dimes.  Children with polio need….”  I forgot the rest.  

“Uh, they’re bad sick. Look.”  Quickly dug in the envelope for the brochure as the evening darkened; the man turned on the yellow porch light.

“I heard about this campaign.  Step back.”  He came out, sat on the step, looking at the photograph.  “So sad, boys without a childhood—infantile paralysis….”  Pulled his wallet out and said that America’d get polio whipped down so no one had to use a wheelchair like FDR did.  “That’s why he’s on the dime.   Didn’t know we had a crippled president.  

He handed me a five-dollar bill.  

“Thanks mister.”  Writing out his envelope, I was curious, “Do you have kids?”  

“I care for my aunt—she’s bedbound.”  Paused, “Please come in, she’d love to meet you.  Probably give you a donation.”

No one loved to meet kids when I was young, there were so many, we were treated like nuisances, like roaches.  He took my hand, pulled me up and inside the dark house to the back bedroom.  Everything was so clean and neat, decorated with furniture that had curly designs.  

On the bed lay a thin woman who woke when the man addressed her, “Ahn-tee, this boy came to the door asking for donations.”

She patted the bed near her hip, “What a kind-hearted child.  What’s your name?  Where are you from?”

Suddenly shy, I didn’t know what to say until: “I’m here for the March of Dimes.  Children with polio need… childhoods.”  Patched the answer together.

“Do you have a name?”  She asked again in a high,wavering voice.  “My name is Florence White, and this is my nephew Emmet Bordelon.  Our family is from Baton Rouge.”

“I’m Greg; we live down the block.”  Lot of formality for a few coins, I thought.

“Show me what you have, Greg.  What’s in that envelope?”

I stepped beside her and dumped my envelope over the sheet covering her skinny legs.  Explained about Pammy-Jo running off with Lina instead of helping.  “But I can do this myself.”

“Girls have a lot of business to take care of.”  She winked at me, perusing the brochure, “Emmet, bring me my checkbook.  Let’s help these children without childhoods.  I hear there’s a vaccine coming soon.”  She looked back at me, “Please don’t play in the bayous until you’re protected; polio’s a horrid disease.”

She gave me a check and made me promise to come back.  

“Ahn-tee Florence will be expecting to see you again.”  Emmet Bordelon told me on the porch.

...

Ran to the last houses in the dark.  Went home with a twenty-dollar check and all the donations—Mom was surprised as she added my total.  “Where’s Pammy-Jo?”

I only shrugged..

Between school and dinner were several hours to play.  I’d sneak through the houses and come back around to Florence White’s house.  

Emmet Bordelon sat at the end of the bed while I sat beside her.  She smelled like gardenias.  

Florence White told me about Baton Rouge, New Orleans, the big parades with bands and dancing.  Sounded like fun.  I told her about catching crawdads, playing dodgeball.  

We looked through old scrapbooks and photos of her family.  She had a record of all the great stuff her family did.  Our family didn’t have anything, I think that’s because a few of my hillbilly relatives went to prison.  Most couldn’t read anyway.  

She liked touching my hair, rubbing my hands; always told me to study hard to make myself a good future.  Florence White tired easily, she’d tell Emmet to give me a treat as she fell asleep.  

Emmet Bordelon always smiled, asked me to come again and gave me peppermint candies.

Through that semester, I found the smell in his house wasn’t pine oil but turpentine from Emmet’s oil paints and turpentine. He painted in a room off the back of the house, had a window where he could look in on his auntie through the window by her bed.  Still lifes of fruits and flowers, miniatures from old photos.  No perpetually-miserable Jesus in a cheesy, plastic frame in their house, it was decorated with Emmet’s oil paintings.  I was awed.  

...

My visits halted when Emmet didn’t answer their door for several weeks, his car was gone and the house was dark.  Cuttings of evergreen boughs in a circle were tied with black ribbon hung on their front door later.  

My teacher said it meant someone in the house died.  “People still do that?”

Went home, emptied my piggy bank and ran to the little store, bought a Zero bar.  Asked for a sippy sack, and before I left the store, I wrote on the bag:

“Dear Emmet Bordelon, I’m sorry Florence White died.  Your friend, Greg.”  

I drew several small flowers on the brown paper with the Zero inside and took it to their house, left it inside the screen door.  Had no idea about the details of a death, only saw adults taking food when somebody died.  

As I walked home from school the next day, I saw the drapes in Emmet Bordelon’s big window were open.  Cars parked in front and people inside the house.  I stopped and looked from the street.  No air conditioning at that time, the door and windows stood open, music played.  

Emmet saw me, “Greg, come in.”  

Sweaty, grimy, I went into a roomful of adults.  Perfume, jewelry, suits, church clothes.  I felt small.

“We just came from the funeral home.  Florence wanted me to thank you,” he began and turned to the group. “This is the boy who came to visit our Florence the last few months.”  Everyone looked at me, “Ahn-tee Florence said she loved you visiting her.”  

I shook hands with a lot of adults, all relatives of Florence White and Emmet.  Some spoke creole, I didn’t understand.

Saw a huge portrait hanging over the dining table, painted by Emmet Bordelon.  His name was at the bottom of a portrait of a young lady, feathers in her hair, satiny costume.  They said Florence White was a dancer on the stage years ago.  “That’s our Flo, she pranced all over the French Quarter….” Someone commented.

Dining table was filled with trays of eeny-weeny sandwiches; didn’t know what olives or capers were, but they looked good in tinted cream cheese spread.  With my grubby fingers, dirty nails and was about to grab one, when someone handed me a napkin and a small paper plate.  Why didn’t I know how to be fancified?  

Went to Emmet Bordelon, “I better go home.  Thanks for having me.”

He squatted down beside me and hugged me.  “Come back tomorrow after school.  I want to sketch you.”  He gave me a quick kiss on my cheek and took me to the door, handed me my worn text books, “Please come tomorrow.”

The next day, all the cars were gone from in front of Emmet’s house.  Concrete was baking; feet burned through the soles of my  tennis shoes.  Not a cloud to shade the sun; humidity made me feel like I was melting.  

Stepped onto Emmet Bordelon’s porch.  He unhooked the screen door holding a pitcher of iced water with lemons floating with the whitish cubes.  “Come inside.  Sweltering out today.”  

Took a few moments to become accustomed to the dark, but the fan was on and I had a glass of  ice water on a coaster.  “Bring your drink.  Let’s go to the studio.”  He led me through a spotless kitchen to his painting room.  “Take off your shirt, I’d like to sketch your upper body.”  Only the light from the window, I pulled off my shirt and wiped the sweat off my face.  He sat me on a stool, “Sit, relax and look into the corner of the room, please.”

Every day after school I posed while Emmet sketched, spoke with me.  Said he noticed I wasn’t always comfortable and suspected my parents were overwhelmed.  Polite way to say I was half-wild.  Most important thing I remember him explaining etiquette was respecting yourself and others.  “Makes life easier for everyone.”

I knew not to steal, and Emmet said that even things that you couldn’t see belonged to people.  “Other peoples’ relationships are not yours, don’t interfere.”  Said if I couldn’t show kindness, simply don’t respond, get back to my business.  Warm fingers touched my arms, my neck.  He smoothed my hair and smiled often as I stayed still.  I got all his attention and, as it would turn out, my only advice on relationships..

Mom ruled my home, and Emmet told me about making decisions: Everyone has the right to accept, decline or delay any offers..

Being unsure didn’t stop me from getting a polio vaccine.  It was required for everyone, adults too.

When I was in middle school, I had to mow the yard, help around the house.  Cut my time with Emmet.

Every Sunday afternoon,  I’d go over when Emmet’s friends came to enjoy his new air conditioner.  Always went to his studio first to see if he’d made any of the sketches into another painting.  He had several big paintings of me in the soft light from the window--big paintings, almost life-sized.  

Wandered back into the front room where a group of Emmet’s friends met to watch a boxing match; couch was full, chairs were brought from the dining table.  This was a big, international fight.  They were drinking and joking around.  I followed Emmet to the kitchen when one of his friends, a big guy pulled me over to him, “Come sit on my lap, boy.”

Bells clanged and the match started on the small black and white Magnavox television.  Stacks of cash lay on the coffee table, the guys yelled stupid stuff about the boxers, saying they were strong as hamster farts or had minnow dicks, crazy talking.  I laughed; these guys were funny.  

The man whose lap I sat on grabbed the popcorn bowl and set it on my lap, his hands brushed against my pants underneath; he kept joking with the guys.  

No one noticed except Emmet.  He glanced at me several times as the man’s hand fondled me unseen.  He squeezed my dick and pulled it, then felt my balls, pulled them.  Made me excited, but more embarrassed, more scared.

My face was burning.  

Emmet patted his thigh, “Come here.”  The men made a few comments I didn’t understand.  Sat on Emmet’s knee and watched for a while.  I got down.  Emmet pulled me near and whispered, “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”  I leaned to whisper to him, “I don’t like that.”

“Let’s not say anything about it, okay?  I’ll explain later.”  He gave me a wink as I left.

Being eleven and mostly ignorant of life, I wasn’t prepared for the adult secrets Emmet explained.  He said I didn’t need to be concerned about everyone, only people who came close; people I let get close to me.  Only trusted friends allowed to get near me.  

“Be careful.  The closer a person gets, the more problems they can cause, so keep them at a distance til you’re sure they respect you.  The man who fingered your privates—he made you think he was doing you a favor to get close.  He tricked you by being friendly.  What he did is called frottage and that’s a crime.”

I got the full “disrespect” speech.  Emmet explained boys get raped—I didn’t know that.  Molestation, assault, all kinds of meanness.  “Polite to ask first.  Disrespectful to lie and trick someone.”  

Emmet Bordelon explained men on busses who rubbed themselves against women and children, or showed their privates—said he didn’t know why people did that.  “They forced themselves close.  Uncouth—they’ll have a bad reputation all their lives if they get caught.”

Our deacon was disrespectful, like that man who fingered me.  Glad that deacon liked Pammy-Jo more more.  He’d only tried once on me, I shoved his hand away.

When I was around twelve, Emmet asked me to pose in my briefs.  Emmet and I were close, glad to get out of my hot jeans, tee shirt,  I stood on the stool enjoying the fan’s breezes on my skin.  He came close and rolled the elastic down, “I want to see your hip bones.”  I didn’t mind.

My dick got hard and stuck out, straining against the cotton knit.  I grinned and blushed.  “Be still, you’re a beautiful boy, a classic beauty.”  

How could I be beautiful with my dick sticking straight out?  I stared at the corner thinking about guys exposing themselves in public.  The janitor at our school had done that before; unconsciously my hand went to my groin.  Stroked a little then rubbed my balls.  Looked over at Emmet Bordelon, he was smiling, rubbing the front of his pants too.  

Never said anything about that and he didn’t touch me, I didn’t touch him.  

Until later.  

Figuring we were close enough, I asked him why he wasn’t married, “Because you had to take care of your ahn-tee?”

Canting his head, speaking softly, “I studied for the priesthood, but I left.  I’m homosexual.  That made my work harder in some ways but the confusion stopped when I realized I’m a fag.”  He looked at me tenderly, “We’re all made in god’s image, including me.”  

Can’t say why I wasn’t shocked; it was the next thing he said that disturbed me.  He was leaving.  “Next few months there’ll be renters living here.  Maybe they’ll have children, you can find a new friend.”

Didn’t say anything, maybe my expression did.

“Before I go, I have to show you something to avoid heartaches.”  He took me to his bedroom and opened a small chest, brought out a tiny, thin tin and opened it.  “This is a condom.  If you’re not ready to have children, if you don’t make enough to support them, use a condom with a woman….”  

He talked about sex.  No laughing or joking--used the real words, not poonie or peepee.

Dropped his pants, his boxers and sat on the side of his bed showing me how to rub myself, how I’d get hard when I had a penis like his, and how my testicles made sperm to make a baby come inside a woman.  Explained how feeling a woman’s body tighten around a hard penis was very pleasurable, “Just like your father and mother before you were born.”  

“Did you cop-a-late a lady?”

“No. But I imagine you will.  You’re going to get very horny, very soon, you’ll want to copulate with someone.  If you choose a woman, use this on your penis before you put yourself inside her vagina.”

The smell of his musk rose, his hard cock leaked.  I stared, reached and touched it; he smiled, not stopping me, only watching.  His big cock jerked and twitched, oozed; he sighed, slipped the condom on and rolled it down his cock to his bushy hair.  “Keep it on, keep your semen inside it or she’ll get pregnant.  Hard raising a kid when you’re not ready to support them.”

Didn’t know the words to ask him if he loved me like a friend but figured he’d let me very close:

Snuggled my hips between his knees letting his penis rub on me, his hair tickling my naked groin and I put my arms around his neck.  Felt his chest hairs on my skin.  Didn’t know how to ask and didn’t have the courage to tell him I loved him.  

“Where are you moving?  Far?”  I was finally able to ask.

“I won’t have a home, I’m going to work for Transwestern Air, fly the world.”  He explained how he’d applied several months ago, “May I write you?”

Still didn’t have the words; my tears spoke for me.  Pulled me between his legs and hugged me hard, kissed my neck, “Sweet Greg, you must be careful, take care of yourself.  For me, take care of yourself.”

My life continued much as it had before I met Emmet, and it felt empty without him.  Always happy when I got a letter from him, though my mother had already opened them.

Crazy times in high school, building was huge, so many kids all trying to be different but looking the same.  

Every time I got dressed, seemed my jeans were shorter.  Shoulders widened and I was clumsy.  Classes weren’t hard—just being my age was hard.  I was all joints and points—angular, and pimpled.  Felt like a mutant egret most of the time and adopted the usual teen-boy pose: hair hung over my face; I slouched and slumped.

The only thing that drew me out of my chaos were the postcards and letters Emmet sent.  Europe, Asia, he described cities and people he met.  Sent a photo in his uniform, looking official standing alongside other stewards, pilots and flyers.  

Put a few wet spots on those letters late at night.

Between his words was ease, he was happy.  Circumspectly alluded to beaches, friends, hotels; always careful how he wrote.  I asked my mother to give me the respect of opening them myself.  Sure, I let her look them over.  “He used to be a priest, Mom.”

Summer of my junior year, Emmet suggested I go out to Hobby airport and apply to work, “Airlines are doing great, could lead to a career.”  

I was still overwhelmed with my appearance and increasing amount of schoolwork, and always found the time to write back, telling Emmet I missed him.  

Coach allocated teams and sports.  Didn’t want volleyball or baseball, he put me on the weightlifting squad.  Eleven boys, all equally uncoordinated, began working out after school.  Got to like it, counting the squats, spotting other guys, encouraging each other.  

Started filling out my clothes and it was futile to ask for anything new.  I knew my parents couldn’t afford much.  Started wearing my father’s old uniform shirts and slacks from when he worked at a warehouse.  Removed the patches and had dark, oval spot over the left shirt pocket.  

Weight lifting strengthened me in a lot of ways.  I didn’t care what the kids said, they weren’t close.  My skin cleared up, and I was considered handsome.  Emmet’s advice about respect came in handy, helped me avoid problems and I made a few friends.  Pals only, kept them at a distance.

Among the two-thousand kids in my high school, half were male.  At their ages, they were always springing boners.  Seemed to me like every other guy in the hallways was teasing me from behind their zippers. I kept my enjoyment to myself and my shirt tail untucked.

Thick envelope arrived, I received a letter from Emmet, with a second letter inside, a letter of reference for employment at Transwestern Air.  Took the bus to Hobby and carefully completed the application, attached the letter.  They hired me as a baggage handler on weekends.  

Hot, sweaty and I was working for more than minimum wage, in a baggy coverall.  Other kids envied me, and I felt the adult working with the older guys around the aprons and loading areas.

Senior portraits: I had mine taken professionally after I went to a hair stylist.  Wanted to impress Emmet--I no longer looked like a seedy refugee from the Ozarks, but almost a movie star.  

After he got my letter and photo, he told me I had to pick up my gift, he’d be in town right after the graduation ceremony.  “I’ll get a room at the Rice, and I have a terrific surprise for you.”

Rice Hotel was the top place in town, all the stars and bigwigs went there.  

Everyone expected the grads to go to Galveston, get drunk, screw around.  Emmet suggested I  pack a bag, stay with him for the week.  Gave Mom a stack of lies to get out of the house and didn’t feel guilty, allowing myself a celebration.  Yeah, it felt funny on the bus going downtown with my sister’s overnight bag at my feet

.

The lobby of the hotel was beautiful, huge chandelier, thick rugs, dark wood, brass trim and so cool.  At the desk, I asked for Emmet Bordelon’s room.  Heart began pounding.

“Twelve-sixteen.”  The woman smiled--could she read my mind?  Know why I was grinning?

Elevator, hallways luxurious and so quiet; lavish beyond anything I’d seen outside the movies.  

Knocked, no answer; knocked again--nothing. Boldly, I grabbed the knob--unlocked. Quietly went inside.

Door to the bath stood open, shower on.  Wanted to slip in beside him--should I?  

Slipped my shoes off, hung my shirt and heard two voices from the shower.  Different voices; there were two men in the shower.  Emmet was expecting me, maybe this was his surprise.

Cock leaked heavily, grabbed a tissue as I approached the bath, heart beating loudly through my body—skin pulsed sweat.  Shallow, rapid breathing, I wanted action and hoped Emmet did.  My imagination went wild thinking of being between two men, hard dicks rubbing, all the skin, the strokes, the smell of cum…  “Hold it back.”  I told myself like a healthy teenage boy could.

As a warning, I hummed a pop tune as I neared the shower, “Emmet?  Got some room for me?”

“You’re here, so soon.”  Sounded surprised.

I shoved the curtain aside and saw Emmet, lean body, hair catching water droplets.  Looked at the other man, “Aren’t you supposed to be in Shreveport this week?”

“Don’t you dare tell your mother.”  Breathing hard, trying to cover his groin.

Emmet howled, laughing.  Dad was embarrassed and I, for once, felt I ruled an adult situation.

Room service brought drinks, they forgot I was eighteen but I didn’t like the smell of alcohol.

Dad shot me a few looks, Emmet tried to keep from laughing, “He never told me his last name—how would I know?”

“Is my dad your boyfriend?”  Dad couldn’t look at me.

“He’s, well, he’s….”  Emmet grinned, stared at Dad, “What would I call you?  Daddy-toy?  Local stud?”

“Please.”  Dad shook his head, “Son, sometimes a man has needs that aren’t filled at home.”  

Others’ relationships are not yours, don’t interfere. That thought jumped forward.  I looked at them.  I was relived that I didn’t have to put myself in the center of a conversation with my parents about being a fag.  

“Should I wait for you by the pool?”  It was clear my dad was hopping the fence for male companionship. He was here for the same reason I was and this was their business.

“We’re celebrating tonight.  Dinner downstairs then open house in River Oaks.”  Emmet told us as he slipped into bright slacks and a Hawiian print shirt.  

Three-hour dinner in the cool, dark dining room--beautiful food with garnishes, shiny forks and knives, stemmed glasses.  

They asked me to go to the bar several times for ice,watching me.  Probably first time Dad really looked at me as a real man, an adult though he’d never said much to me at home.  

Three of us went to a mansion under the oaks, white columns, cars parked along the long drive, music played, and the crowd was all-male.  Festive?  It was loud with talk, glasses clinking, bar was busy.  

We went to the salon to meet the host.  Hanging over the divan was a large portrait of a boy.  Had to look twice--that was me, when I was eleven.  Soft light on my face, narrow shoulders, narrow hips—there were my briefs with my little penis straining against the cotton fabric.  

Our host, Kellum, saw me staring, “Gorgeous boy, isn’t he?  One of Emmet’s pieces in the ‘My Boy’ series….”  

Emmet discretely slipped an envelope in my jacket pocket with a check, “This is your cut.”

Dad watched from beside me, I whispered, “That boy is me. Emmet sketched me for several years.”

Tears filled his eyes, “My god what I missed.”  Embraced me and kissed my cheek.  He wandered off, among the men.  Several knew him.  

I went to the caterers, a long table was laid out, seafood on ice, puff pastries with rich filling.  Comfortable to be among so many men enjoying themselves.  I could only blush when they flirted with me; still had my heart secretly set on Emmet.

A string quartet played by the pool. Strange cigarettes fill the air with a harsh smell when my dad found me, and took my arm.  He showed me Emmet’s room key and told me we needed some time together.

“Uh-oh,” I thought, “what’s he going to do?”  We couldn’t snitch on each other without revealing the other’s secret.  Got a cab, oth quiet as we entered the lobby and rode the elevator up.

Door shut, he took me in his arms, “I’m going to make it easy.  No one did it for me, and it’s, well, my job to show you….”  He began undressing me, rubbing his face along each part of me as he undressed; came to my briefs, stood, began kissing my lips and rubbing my dick, fondling my balls.  Knelt suddenly;  pulled my briefs off and pressed his face into my package breathing deeply, “If I’d only known.”

“Are you going to…?”  Still not completely sure what was going to happen, I kept thinking of Emmet.

“Shh, I’ll make it easy.”  Dad’s clothes flew to the chair and he stripped the bedspread back, disappeared into the bath for a moment.  

The room was dark, he sat on the corner of the bed.  One leg on the side of the bed, the other at the foot, “Come sit on my lap.”  

I straddled his waist, on his lap.  Our dicks were both straining, liquid ran down both our rods.  

Slipping his hand around me, he rubbed our balls together, “My sweet boy, I’m going to make it easy for you.  Emmet’s coming later, and I want you to enjoy him, he’s one of the best fucks I’ve ever had.  Just be quiet and hold my neck, you’re going to love this.”

“Are you going to…?” Still wasn’t sure….

“Shh.”  

Lay my head on his shoulder smelling his spicy cologne, his sweat; felt him fiddling with something.  Cold, squishy, he pressed a glob of something slippery at my asshole.  

Jerked a breath quickly.  Felt his fingertip rubbing it around and prodding against my hole.  “Relax.  Tell me about you and Emmet.”

His right hand caressed my back as the fingers of his left hand massaged, probed lightly as I told him about collecting donations, Florence White, posing as a kid.  When I told him about Emmet showing me a condom I stopped to feel his finger plunging slowly inside me.  My heart speeded.  

“Did he suck you?”  Dad whispered.

“No.”  My body was tense, my breath stopped as he pushed a second finger in me.  “He was always nice, he hugged me….”

His right hand came to my asshole, a third finger entered, but only slightly, he pulled my muscle tightly open.  Fingertips found the knot of nerves inside me.  “Daddy!”  I moaned, the sensation was incredible.

“Grab you dick with mine.  When it starts feeling really good, kiss me.”

Didn’t think it could feel better and can’t remember anything but our dicks gushing slippery liquid for a while, then he began rubbing inside harder.  My hips began hunching against him, “Daddy!  More.”

“Kiss me, boy.”  

Hard to kiss when I was breathing hard, I tried and high-pitched mewels sneaked out as I trembled. Began  pulling on my rod, faster, faster.  Dad’s hand came to his rod; two fingers squeezed at the base; he closed his eyes and buried his face in my neck.  

My cum flew up, out and the buzzing in my balls, up my spine and through my body was electric; within only moments, I was temporarily emptied, I kissed his neck.  

“Don’t move.”  He rocked me against him, fingers still deep inside.  “Emmet’s going to put his cock inside you where my fingers are.  That’s what you’ll feel, be patient--he’s got a big dick.  Right now, when I pull my fingers out of you, you’ll know what my heart feels like for neglecting you.”  

Slowly, he pulled his fingers out, I felt the emptiness, longing in his heart.  Holding me against him he apologized, said he had no idea how much I needed him, that I had to go to a stranger for affection.  “It won’t happen again.”

“This is incest, shouldn’t we like--you know not do it again.”  I mumbled.

He kissed me deeply, and sighed.  “Working on the road is hard on everyone.  Hard on your mother, you, your sisters.  Don’t think you’re any less my son, because I love you even more now....your mother told me there was a deacon at the church she occasionally, well, who filled in for me when I was gone.”

I stared, “Really?”  Could this be true?

Then he told me I had two step-brothers on the next block over.  “Look a lot like you.”

End

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