Date: Sat, 20 Jul 2019 13:52:24 -0400 From: RJ Subject: Common Law - Ch. 1 Common Law by RJ This piece of fiction is about a teenager who finds himself co-parenting his son with his father. If you are offended by themes of incest and adult/youth, do not read. Shout-out to my buddy Jack Younger who helped inspire the premise of this story. Keep an eye out for some of his works. If you have any questions or comments about this piece, want to know about any of my other works, or just want to reach out, please don't hesitate to email me. A list of my works, including links and descriptions, can be found here: https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI. If you would like to be added to a mailing list for this story (or all stories) and receive emails about any updates, let me know. Please also consider donating to Nifty if you can: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html ~ Intro ~ I was scared shitless. I could see my hand shaking as I reached for the door, and I tried my best to take as deep a breath as possible in order to steady my nerves. As I pushed the door open and stepped into my father's office, I realized facing him was only the first of many battles. At least, that's what it felt like. It was as if Michelle and I had brought war upon ourselves. "Dad?" He didn't shift his head much. Only his eyes moved, flickering towards me over the top of his reading glasses that sat studiously at the end of his nose. He was busy. I knew he was busy, because he always was this time of year, slaving away at his desk with nothing but a pen and a calculator. Being a business owner who was for whatever reason deeply mistrusting of anyone who worked in finance meant doing his own taxes. Dad often stayed cooped up in his office for hours at a time in March and April, sifting through stacks of papers so large that I felt bad complaining about having too much history homework. But despite the ordeal he was going through, he didn't look irritated by my interruption. That was the thing about Dad. Never once did he make me feel like my presence was a bother. I think it was his demeanor. He had a strong sense of patience about him, and a resolute calm that some people often misconstrued as detachment. But I knew him. He wasn't detached -- not in the slightest. He just wasn't incredibly expressive. He was more reserved than most, and it probably would have done him well to be a little more vulnerable with people, but my father had a firm grasp on himself and was very aware of the world. He just didn't have time for any "fussy nonsense" (as he called it) like small talk and niceties. He always had time for me, though. Always. As he lifted his face up to look at me, I felt instantly calmer -- not completely calm, but enough for my heart to stop thudding so violently. It was that look he gave me. To anyone else, he would just seem a touch unapproachable, and I could understand why. For one, he was in a biker gang, and most of the guys look tough as nails already. He had that stoic face of someone you just didn't want to fuck with, featuring strong, chiseled bone structure, thick facial hair, weather-worn skin, and a faint scar that cut diagonally across his nose that all mixed in a way that made him look a little dangerous. But I'd known him long enough to understand his minor shifts in his expression. I knew what it meant when his nose flared, or his thick brows shifted, or when he stuck out his bottom lip a tad. I knew how it felt to receive a real smile -- not just one of those small, polite ones, but a wide, comforting one. I knew how impossibly happy he was whenever he dared to showed his teeth, like when he laughed a full-bellied laugh -- music to my ears. They were all fairly subtle things, easy to miss, but the easiest way to read him was through his eyes. Something about them was incredibly expressive. I'd look into those rich, dark green irises and know exactly what he was thinking. Maybe we just have that connection. So when I held his gaze while I stood in the doorway, I knew instantly that he was concerned, probably because of the anxious way I clutched at the hem of my shirt. "What's up?" he asked. I found myself unable to speak for a moment. I knew I could talk to him pretty openly about most things, but at that point in my life, there were only two things I didn't want to tell him -- and this was one of those things. I was still afraid of what he'd say after I dropped this bombshell. I liked to think that I hadn't disappointed my father too much up to that point in my life, but this sure as hell could have been a good place to start. "I... um..." Fuck, I was embarrassed. Dad squinted at me slightly. "What's wrong?" he asked before cocking his chin as his eyes went to my hands. "You hurt?" "What? Oh. No," I said, moving my arms to a limp position. I realized I was clutching onto my side, so it probably looked like I had injured myself. I looked up at my father again, who was clearly waiting for me to speak. His eyes said it all: "Spit it out, kid." I took a breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. I knew that I should just be direct. Dad has always been a forward, no-nonsense sort of person, and I knew to at least given him that respect. Plus, the sooner I spat it out, the better -- like ripping off a Band-Aid. This was a sticky bandage, though. "Michelle's pregnant." The silence between us was so heavy that my knees felt wobbly. His gaze was intense, mostly because I couldn't read his eyes. He had tilted his head just enough for there to be a glare across his glasses. Was he mad? Confused? Judging? I couldn't anticipate what he was going to say. It was killing me. That's one thing I didn't like about him: sometimes he took far too long to respond, leaving me twitching in suspense. Finally, he set his pen down and took his glasses off, rubbing his face once with his hands as he sighed. I took that as a sign of disappointment, and I was ready to hear that in his tone. However, when he did respond, his voice was the same as it usually was: deep, tempered, and oddly soothing. "When'd you find out?" "This morning," I tell him. "At school." As soon as homeroom was over, Michelle pulled me aside right as I exited the room, trapped me against a random locker, and quietly broke the news to me. Even though she told me to keep quiet, I nearly panicked in front of all my peers, and who would have blamed me? What the hell were two thirteen-year-olds going to do about this? Pregnant? I didn't even like her that much! In that moment, I was just as mad at myself as I was at the both of us, mad that I tried so hard to keep up a lie. I was only really dating her because I wanted to feel normal, but if I was being really honest with myself, I knew that I wasn't into girls. Not in a way that would make me heterosexual, at least. I was just afraid of being gay, and now look where fear and pretending got me... "How far along is she?" I shrugged. "We don't know yet." All she did was take a few pregnancy tests. Honestly, it could have been a few weeks, or it could have been a few months. We had had sex a decent amount of times. I didn't even know when girls started showing. "Did you two talk it out?" I nod. We talked it over after school. That's why it took me so long to get home. A lot came up: the stupidity of us thinking we'll be fine not using a condom every now and then, the fear of how our parents were going to react, the curiosity of how it'd affect our future. "...And?" I blinked. "And what?" "Does she want to keep the baby?" I gulped, feeling red in the face. That was the major question, right? Though I think Dad knew. Otherwise, Michelle and I could have swept this under the rug. No one would have had to know. But Michelle was adamant about this. At first, I thought she was crazy, fucking insane really, for wanting to see this through. "Yes." Dad gives the slightest nod, looking like he anticipated that answer. Then: "Do *you* want to keep the baby?" I even suggested adoption, since abortion was off the table. We could easily relocate the baby to a loving home, right? But the more I begged her to see things from my side, the more my viewpoint shifted. I started to like the idea of getting rid of the baby one way or another less and less. I couldn't quite put my finger on what that feeling was, but it was a sensation I couldn't shake: I wanted the baby. I felt this undeniable connection to my future child already. So what the hell were we going to do? I mean, it was crazy. Me? A dad? Her, a mom? I felt myself shaking. "I don't know what to do, Dad," I said in a choked voice. "Well, what did you tell her?" I felt ashamed to say it out loud. In the end, I didn't know what to tell her. "I told her I didn't think we were ready." Fear struck again. Dad stared at me before speaking again. "You knew this could happen, Mitch." I winced, but he was right. Was he disappointed? I wouldn't have been surprised if he was. After all, he taught me better than this. He taught me all about sex before I even knew what sex was. He armed me with all the knowledge a kid would ever need, and still, I failed him on something as simple as using protection. Now my girlfriend and I were going to have a kid. A fucking kid. "I'm sorry," I said in a small voice. I was starting to feel dreadfully uncomfortable now. I just wanted to crawl under my sheets and sleep this all off. Maybe it was a bad dream. Maybe in the morning, Michelle wouldn't be pregnant, Dad wouldn't be debating how to properly punish me, and my biggest worries would be about soccer and making sure I turned in an already-late assignment by third period. "C'mere," he said. He beckoned me over to his desk, and when I got to the front, he gestured for me to come around to his side. So I did. As I got closer, he stood up out of his chair. I didn't know what to expect. He had never hit me before, but I wouldn't have put it past him to start now. However, I was very pleasantly surprised when he reached out, grabbed my shoulder, and pulled me into a loving embrace. I felt his broad arms wrap around me, and I buried my face into his able chest. He felt comfortable and secure. Breathing in his familiar, natural scent had a calming effect on me, and I quickly found myself hugging him back. "We'll figure it out," Dad said calmly, rubbing my head with one of his hands. "K?" I nodded against his chest. "Okay." We let the hug linger for half a minute more before he pulled back, held my face in his hands, and kissed my forehead. "I'm sorry I messed up," I muttered. "Enough of that," Dad said, holding the back of my head as I looked at him. "What's done is done, alright? Only look forward." "I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do, Dad," I admit. For once, he didn't fault me for my use of bad language. "A kid's not the end of the world." "It could be," I mumbled bitterly. He just gave me a look that only flared up the need to defend my anxiety. "I'm just scared," I admitted, finding it difficult to meet his eyes. "What if we really aren't ready? What if *I'm* not ready?" "You will be," he assured me. "You've got me, kiddo. And I've got you." He gave my shoulder a supportive squeeze. I couldn't help but smile slightly up at him. "Thanks, Dad." He just responded by stroking my hair a bit, giving me a sense of instant calm before he patted my arm and started to sit back down in his chair. "Now go tell your girlfriend that you'll be there for her," he said firmly, grabbing his glasses and pen again. I nodded a little. "Yes, sir," I said, and within a second, he was already crunching numbers, focusing on the task at hand. I took my leave, not wanting to disturb him any longer. When I closed the door to his office, I let out a long breath. I felt better, surprisingly enough. Sure, it was a lot to handle, but I had a secret weapon: my father. As I pulled my phone out of my pocket to call Michelle, I knew that, with him in my corner, I could get through this. We could all get through this. ~ Chapter 1 ~ It's April 15th. Tax Day. Usually, Dad is way ahead of the game and has everything mailed to the IRS by the first of the month. That's his goal, anyway. This year, though, he kept getting set back by forms not being received on time and people not getting their shit together -- all things that are out of his control. He's scrambling. He only just finished completing the state tax forms a few minutes ago, and the post office closes in twenty. "You should have just bit the bullet and gotten someone to do your taxes this time," I tell him, watching him quickly stuff the appropriate forms into envelopes. "Shut up and make yourself useful," he says, tossing me an envelope to close. I just shake my head before sliding my tongue along the adhesive of the envelope while he does the other. Stubborn brute. This is what he gets, though. His construction business has only been growing, and being responsible for all those people's paychecks makes taxes all the more convoluted. "Here," I say, handing him the sealed envelope containing his federal tax forms. He mutters a "Thanks", quickly looking around the kitchen for something. I look at him with an amused smile before I feel something tugging at the hem of my boxers. When I glance down, little Mason is peering up at me, holding up his arms. I chuckle as I squat down, scoop my hands under my son's armpits, and pick him up. "Oof, you're gettin' big, buddy," I comment, but he just rests his head against my shoulder as he sucks on his thumb and watches my dad search for something. His wallet, maybe? "Where's Papa Joel going?" Mason asks sweetly before putting his thumb back in his mouth. "Papa's got an errand to run," I tell him before I hear Dad cuss. "The keys!" he says loudly (though "loud" in the context of my father is simply a smidge above one's normal speaking voice). "Where the fuck are my--" "Dad," I say, cutting him off. He looks at me before following his eyes to where I'm pointing: the table, where his car keys are lying so obviously on top of scattered forms and documents. Mason giggles. "Papa said a bad word." "Sorry," Dad mutters before snatching up the keys, patting his back pocket to make sure he has his wallet, and then checking that he has the envelopes he needs in hand. "Alright," he says, sighing heavily. "I'll be right back." He turns to head out, but Mason immediately whines. "Wait!" he cries. "Kiss!" Dad just gives Mason a tired look. "I'll only be gone for a little--" "Kiss!" Mason insists. I just chuckle. Mason is incredibly affectionate, albeit a bit needy at times, and always wants to make sure that goodbyes or goodnights end with hugs and kisses. He tends to get what he wants anyway since I'm always willing and Dad has quite a soft spot for him. I watch as my father hesitates for a moment, clearly torn between rushing out of here and giving Mason a goodbye kiss. In the end, he relents, and I see a gentle smile appear on his lips that completely softens his face. "Fine," he says, coming over quickly. Mason smiles as Dad leans in and gives him a quick peck on the lips. "Happy?" Mason nods, grinning as he sticks his thumb back into his mouth. Then Dad turns to me. "Suppose you want one too?" I blink for a moment, caught off-guard until I realize he's probably joking, because he hits me with the tiniest smirk before saying he has to rush. "Drive safe, please!" I call out as he quickly exits the house, the door slamming shut behind him. I find myself staring at the door, wondering, thinking... I wish he *had* kissed me. I can't remember exactly when I stopped giving my dad pecks on the lips, but I know it was when I was in middle school, that age when kids started considering physical affection with one's parents "weird." They used to be perfectly innocent kisses, just like Mason's. But I don't want an innocent kiss. I want something a little more, like when Dad and I-- Mason gets my attention, completely distracting me. "Can we play Doctor?" I smile, nodding. "Sure, baby." So much has changed since Mason was born. I've changed. I'm not the same scrawny, nervous boy of thirteen I was when I knocked up my first and only girlfriend. I've matured, both in body and mind. "That's what happens when you have a kid," Dad used to say. A child, one that you created, one that you're taking care of, responsible for, it really puts things into perspective. When I was still going to school, I wasn't trying to graduate just for myself. When I was sixteen, I wasn't flipping burgers at a fast food joint and washing dishes at a shitty Italian restaurant just for a little spending money. Making sacrifices to my social life and my extra-curriculars (like soccer) were necessary decisions. After all, every choice I make is an investment into Mason's future. That also meant taking care of myself physically. "Sound body, sound mind" was another one of Dad's borrowed phrases. He started buying healthier foods: more fruits and veggies, less meats and snacks. We worked out together nearly every day too, with the limited equipment we had in the basement. Through high school, I developed into my body, and now, at nineteen, I'm in the best shape of my life. Strong arms, broad chest, visible core, powerful legs. I don't claim to have my father's bulk, though. He's always had that manly build (with a soft coating of fur) all boys aspire to have when they're older. He's just maintained it over the years, and impressively so. It was hard not to admire my stud of a father growing up. Even today, sometimes I look at him with total, boyish admiration -- mixed in with that sexual, even somewhat romantic attraction to my father. Is that normal? No, I suppose it's technically not normal, but can anyone blame me for having a bit of a crush on my father? Growing up, I only ever had him. People always say that a boy's first love is his mother, but I didn't have a mother. I had Joel, the strong, patient, secretly soft man who guided me every step of the way through my adolescence. I can't remember a time where my body *didn't* respond to him in some way, even as a little kid. Maybe it's just because I was gay and didn't know it. And now that he's been helping me raise my son, it's almost like we're partners. It doesn't help that he's downright handsome, especially since he decided to keep his head shaved and get rid of his beard. Now he has a thick mustache, a prominent soul patch, and light one-day scruff on his chin. Topping it all off with a simple silver hoop in each earlobe, he's a bit of a stand-out guy, someone who looks sure of himself but with a badass flair, someone whose buttons you make sure not to press. That tough exterior of his peels back whenever he's with me, though -- and most particularly when he's with Mason. Mason has become the light of our lives. Every day, I wake up to those big hazel eyes of his, his red lips stretched into a smile to show off his little teeth before, in his soft, slightly raspy voice, he whispers "G'morning, Daddy." Often, I'll wake up with his fingers poking my cheek or playing with my belly button or tugging at the hairs around my nipples. He always wakes up before me, and since we share a bed, his boredom is often taken out on me. I don't mind sharing a room with him, though. It's necessary because of the limited space in this small house, but he's more often than not a complete joy. He loves to cuddle, is all smiles and giggles, energetic without being rambunctious, quick on the uptake, never shy and always sweet. He's perfect. He makes being a father seem, in most regards, easy. To think, almost six years ago, I was terrified of becoming a father at thirteen. But Dad kept his word. Through the pregnancy, he guided me with his wisdom and experience. And once Mason was born, nearly all my fears disappeared. I wonder if every new father feels that way the first time they look at their child: that indescribable pride, that overwhelming joy, the crazy marriage of fear and excitement. In that moment, in the delivery room, the first time I held my baby boy, I realized I really did have nothing to worry about. It was hard on Michelle, though. Her parents essentially exiled her to her grandparents' when Michelle broke the news. Her grandparents didn't approve of the pregnancy either, but they nevertheless took care of her. I did everything I could, too, because I thought we were in this together. I went home with her after school every day, massaged her back when her back pains were flaring, made her weird herbal teas that were supposed to help with the baby's development, rubbed her belly and spoke to the little boy growing inside her... I wanted everything to be perfect, and I tried my damn best to make her feel comfortable and supported. Still, we fought a lot. She snapped at me often, blamed me for making her look the way she did, and complained about how much she's giving up for this baby. It was interesting how the more she seemed to be dwindling, the more I was into the idea of being a father. I was in it for the long-haul, and I was worried that she'd bow out. When I expressed my concerns to her grandfather, he chalked it up to hormones. But even after Mason was born that August, nothing changed -- just new complaints: breast-feeding was exhausting, the crying was too much to handle, sleep was hard to come by. Frustration was her default mood. Eventually, after nearly an entire school year, I (once again) offered to take Mason off her hands in order to let her rest, hoping that things would change. Finally, she agreed, and it was astounding how quickly she got her energy back when she got a taste of life without Mason. But it didn't actually help *us*. Sure, she visited my house after school to visit the baby fairly often, but over the next several months, her visits became more and more infrequent -- until, when summer came, she stopped coming altogether. She moved that season. Something about her dad relocating for work, halfway across the country. We had a small, barely two-minute discussion on what to do about Mason because it was clear to both of us that I cared far more about him than she did. Already, she was looking forward to doing normal teen things, like going out with friends to the mall and flirting with boys that weren't me. So finally, when we said goodbye, when I saw the lazy, absent way she said goodbye to her son, I didn't shed a tear. It never seemed like a huge loss to me. We had been growing apart for a while, and when it came down to it, I didn't think Mason needed a mother -- least of all, one like her. If I grew up without one, I knew he'd be fine. I never tried dating after that. Didn't even have sex with girls that were very obviously interested in me. For one, I simply wasn't interested in pretending to like girls anymore. I knew I was gay. I had to be. Plus, I knew I didn't want to subject Mason to an unsteady stream of girls popping in and out of the house. What if he started calling one of them Mommy? What if I actually ended up dating one of them but they left just as easily as Michelle? It was something I didn't want to concern myself with. Boys were off the table, too. Even though I knew I liked guys, I didn't have the motivation to come out of the closet and explore that side of myself. I didn't have the urge, or the time, or the need. I was far too focused on Mason, and I was happy without all that. I think it paid off, too. I was never distracted, and so Mason had my total attention. Papa Joel's too. I smile whenever he calls my dad that, and even Dad approves. He hated the thought of being referred to as "grandpa" because it made him feel too old, considering he hasn't even hit forty yet, but "Papa" seems appropriate to me anyway. He's practically Mason's second parent. Dad was always willing to watch Mason when I was at school, always waited for the bus with me to greet Mason when he got home from kindergarten, never once made me feel bad about not having money when I was too young to work, was consistently available to share his insight on being a single father... He's been there since day one, and that's all that Mason needs: a loving, stable family. Mason and I play Doctor for a while, where I lie on the couch and pretend my leg is blistered and broken. Mason, with his toy stethoscope, runs diagnostics with the aid of his stuffed panda bear he so creatively christened Pandy. Mason consults with Pandy before deciding my leg has to be amputated. I feign shock and pretend to weep for the loss of my leg, and Mason laughs excitedly at my playful, dramatic reaction. He pounces on me, resting on my chest before breaking character. "You don't have to cut your leg off, Daddy." "Phew," I say, pretending to wipe sweat off my forehead. "What a relief." He giggles when I kiss his nose. "Thank you, Doctor." "You're welcome, Mr. Patient," he says, poking my chin. I laugh. God, he's so cute. I smile at him before patting his bottom. "I think it's bath time, mister." "Nooo," he whines, pouting. "Yeees," I drawl back, laughing. "You stink." "Do not," he says, blushing and then closing my nostrils with his fingers. "Do too," I tease before nudging for him to get off of me. "C'mon. I'll even add bubble bath." Suddenly his eyes light up, and he practically vaults off of my torso, making me grunt in pain. "Okie!" he says, hopping in place, somehow brimming with energy. I can always count on Mason's fascination with bubbles to aid me in getting him to take a bath when he's not in the mood. I smile as he leads the way upstairs into the bathroom before he looks up at me, waiting for me to start the water. I turn the faucets and adjust the temperature before kneeling next to the tub, plugging the drain, and waiting for the tub to fill. "Grab the bubble bath for me," I ask him, and, using the stepstool, he grabs his favorite brand from one of the higher shelves. After handing it to me with a prideful look, I smile at him and start pouring the product into the tub. It has a faint lavender scent to it. "You can't bathe with your clothes on, y'know," I remind him, and Mason giggles before starting to strip. Once naked, he doesn't wait for the tub to fill. Quickly, he straddles the edge of the tub before sliding into the bath with a splash and sinking in neck-deep. He gives me a cheeky smile when he sees he got water and suds on my shirt. "That was rude," I say with a grin. "Sorry, Daddy," he says softly. "Yeah, yeah." I mess with his hair before cutting the water flow and then turning to him. "Alright. Stand up." He knows that the first step is scrubbing. After that, he can play. He stands up for me and I scoop up some suds before starting to clean off his body. He's still got hints of baby fat on him, but he gets leaner every year. The other day, I even noticed he has a somewhat defined core, which was surprising but also made me proud. My little boy's growing up quick. Soon enough, he won't be the squeaky, smooth-skinned child he is now. He'll start sprouting hair under his pits, above his lip, in his groin. His voice will get deeper. He'll get taller, bigger, stronger. Just the thought of that makes my heart race, because I'm so stoked to watch him grow. I make sure to clean his private areas, including his bottom, since Dad always said "You can't trust a boy to wash his own ass." Mason always makes a strange little noise and then giggles whenever I wash him there. I've told Mason before that he can do this all himself (under my supervision, of course), but he prefers when I do it. Not that I mind. I like taking charge of my boy's hygiene. I like making sure he's squeaky clean, especially around spots that a normal boy would miss. It's oddly intimate too, having free reign over my son's body, touching him in ways that would make me want to kill anybody else (besides Dad). I think it's mostly because whenever I bathe Mason, I think of Dad doing it to me growing up. This is a family thing. Just us guys. Finally, after getting each of his legs and feet, I let him go. "All good." "Nuh uh," he says, his body all soapy. "You forgot my hair, Daddy." "Silly me," I say with a slight laugh. "Sit back down for me, baby." I scoop up more suds before working my fingers into his whitish-blond hair, rubbing the pads into his scalp to really work the soap in. Mason hums a little tune that I don't recognize -- probably something from a cartoon. God, he's obsessed with cartoons. As the suds build up on his head, I chuckle a little, pulling my hands away. Mason looks curiously at me, clearly wanting in on the joke. "What?" "Nothing," I say. "Just extra sudsy today. You look like you've got a 'fro." "Really?" he asks, though I wonder if he even knows what an afro is. Still, he's eager to know, and he puts his hands on the edge of the tub, bouncing about. "I wanna see! Show me!" "Alright, alright, relax," I say, chuckling. "Hold on." I look around for the small handheld mirror, finding it near the sink. When I bring it back to the tub, Mason snatches it from my grip to quickly check himself out. Immediately, he bursts out giggling, lightly touching the edges of his "new hair." "It's so big!" "Looks good on you, cutie," I comment, smiling. Then he looks at me, setting the mirror down. "I wanna do you!" Mason says. I laugh. "You'll get my clothes all wet!" "Nuh uh," he claims. "Uh huh," I tease back, tickling him. He giggles, trying hard to push my fingers away. "Come in, then." I smile. "You sure there's enough room in there with your big butt?" I tease. "Yes!" he says defiantly before looking around the tub, taking my question very seriously for a moment. It makes me laugh softly to myself. "There's lots of room!" he decides. "Well, alright," I say. I flick soap off of my hands and arms before peeling off my shirt and then stepping out of my boxers. I can feel Mason watching me as I undress. It's certainly not the first time he's seen me naked, and it sure as hell won't be the last. Besides the fact that I kind of like when Mason looks, it's just a principle of parenting. Dad was never really a prude when it came to nudity, and I want to set the same example for my son. Still, he always seems to watch so intently. I wonder if he's thinking what I used to think: "Am I gonna be as big as Dad one day?" I'm sure every little boy has wondered about what his dad's got between his legs, especially around puberty. We all want to know how we stack up against our fathers. I never had to wonder, though. Dad never necessarily pranced around the house naked, but I've seen him casually in all his glory many times, like during baths or when he'd change in front of me, and that thick appendage between his legs has always, in a primal way, fascinated me. It's the essence of his maleness. When I was younger, sometimes my pecker would get hard looking at him. Frankly, it still happens today, but now, I'm a little better at keeping myself under control. Then there's the scientific side of things: sometimes when I see it, or his furry balls underneath, I can't help but think "I came from there." The thought is both amusing and intriguing. I definitely inherited my father's manhood. Now that I'm nineteen and practically fully grown, I think it's safe to say that we're essentially the same size. Even though we differ in a lot of ways (I'm a blond rather than a brunette, my face is a softer version of his, I'm far less hairy, I'm leaner, my eyes are a little lighter), it comforts me to know that we match where it matters. "Scooch over, baby," I tell Mason, and he slides back enough to let me climb in. I lower myself into the tub with a sigh before Mason climbs between my legs and sits right in my lap like usual. Most of the time I'll just sit in the tub with him since he likes the company. Other times, he'll want to reciprocate and give me just as thorough as a washing as I gave him. "Can I give you a beard?" he asks me. I smile. "Go for it." He smiles as he scoops bubbles between us and starts applying them to my face. I stay still, amused by the concentrated look on his face as he sculpts pretend facial hair onto my face. It takes him a few minutes before he leans back and then giggles. "You look like a wizard." Instead of responding, I blow air sharply out of my nose, causing some of the bubbles to shoot onto him. Mason recoils but then laughs, finding it hilarious. He lets out one of his signature little squeals, which only makes me laugh too. "Knock, knock." Both of us turn and see Dad in the doorway. Excitedly, Mason says "Papa Joel!" and stands up too quickly. He slips before I can catch him, thankfully only landing on his knees, but he splashes me in the process -- and that in and of itself is plenty enough to get another good laugh out of him. "Careful, tiger," Dad says before he comes over and joins us by the tub. He closes the lid on the toilet and sits down with a heavy sigh before giving me a casual smile. "Nice beard, by the way." I laugh. "Thanks. Grew it myself." Dad smiles as he brings a beer to his lips and takes a decent swig of the amber liquid. "Make it on time?" I ask. He nods before swallowing. "Two minutes to spare," he says. "That's good. Now you can relax." He lets out a gruff sort of laugh. "'Relax'. What's that?" He takes another sip of his beer before his eyes catch something: Mason, who's staring up at him. The little guy managed to hide most of himself behind a shield of bubbles, so all either of us can see is his face. "What are you lookin' at?" Dad asks. Mason giggles. "You." Dad seems to find that amusing enough to smile a little more broadly this time, and I feel my heart warming. It's always nice to see him smile like that. It's a rare treat. But Mason really brings that out of him more than anyone else. I remember when Mason was smaller, Dad would use his baby voice and have tickle fights with the little tyke, openly goofing around and laughing until he noticed that I was in the room too. Then he'd clear his throat and go back to normal. I always found it amusing, and maybe a little sad. Can't help but wonder what holds him back. "Hey, so, been meaning to ask you," Dad starts to say, and when I turn my head back towards him, he continues. "Give any thought to going back to school?" Oh boy. Not this conversation again. "A little." I keep my attention on Mason, who continues drawing things into the top, smooth layer of bubbles. "And?" "Isn't it too late to apply?" I ask, though I'm just looking for excuses. "Gateway has rolling admission," he says. It's the closest school to us. Only a fifteen-minute drive. "I don't have a car, though." He shrugs. "We can figure it out." "Dad..." That's his way of saying he'll take care of it. As much as I appreciate the offer, I've taken too much of his time and money by having a kid. I owe him so much. How the hell am I ever going to repay him? He just shakes his head. "I want you back in school," he says. Even though I worked pretty often (usually taking my bike or, if it was bad weather, borrowing Dad's truck), Dad didn't necessarily love the idea of me taking a gap year. He was afraid I'd never go back to school, and frankly, the thought of going through the tedious task of getting a college degree isn't super appealing. Not only that, but it's always seemed like a bit of a scam to me. Dad doesn't have a college degree, and he's fine. But he wants "better" for me -- whatever that means. I guess I can't deny that getting my degree would open up some major doors for job opportunities. If I'm going to continue to provide for Mason, I'll eventually need a real job, with real benefits. Mason climbs into my lap again, putting his hands on my chest. "You're gonna go to school?" he asks curiously. I turn to him, smiling. "Big boy school," I tell him, my arms resting on either edge of the tub. "Maybe." "Definitely," Dad corrects me. "I don't even know what I'd study." "What about English?" he asks. "You like books." I snort. Funnily enough, I used to hate reading. I only got into it when I became a part-time high school student, part-time stay-at-home dad. If I wasn't doing homework, or tending to Mason's every need, or cleaning up around the house, I had my nose deep in a book from the local library. "And do what with that?" I ask. "That's not where the money is." Then I smirk, turning towards my dad, who's taking a sip of his beer. "Maybe I'll study finance, just for you." He actually lets out a laugh, rolling his eyes. "Not my son." I chuckle. "Oh, c'mon. I could be your guy." He squints at me a bit, seeming to mull over that idea. "Don't know if I can trust you," he says. He says it in such a deadpan voice that I'm unsure whether or not he's joking. But I see it in his eyes. He's being playful. "Ouch." "Did I hurt you?" Mason asks, and when I look at him, he seems concerned. Then I laugh, realizing he thinks my "Ouch" was in reference to him. "No, baby," I say, and he smiles, looking relieved. The three of us chat for a bit, Mason and I soaking in the tub while Dad just sits and drinks his beer. My son rests between my legs, his back up against my torso as he pushes bubbles back and forth on the surface of the water. Eventually, he makes an announcement: he's hungry. Dad downs the rest of his bottle before standing up. "We still have some hamburger left over." "Yeah!" Mason says excitedly. "And hot dogs!" I chuckle as Dad nods. "Good point. I'll go start the grill." Mason peers up at his Papa Joel. "Can I come?" he asks. "Depends. You done with your bath?" Mason turns his head towards me and I just nod. "Yeah!" Mason says, smiling brightly. "Well alright then. C'mon, tiger." Dad ushers for his grandson to stand up, and, without caring about getting wet or sudsy, he scoops a giggling, naked Mason up with one arm and holds onto him. "How many burgers you want?" he asks me. "One or two?" "I could do two," I say, starting to get up myself. I lean forward to unplug the drain before I stand up in the tub. "Can you pass me a towel before you go?" Dad turns and grabs a fresh towel from the rack before tossing it to me. "Do you want cheese on yours, Daddy?" Mason asks in his "fancy waiter" voice. I smile. "Yes, please and thank you, my good sir," I say before stepping out and starting to dry off my torso. "I wanna put the cheese on it this time," Mason requests. "Maybe. If you behave," Dad says, giving Mason's side a little tickle. I smile at the sound of Mason giggling as I bend down to dry off my legs quickly. Then, as I stand up straight and rub the towel under my pits, I notice Dad is still in the room, looking at me. Staring, really. I pause. "What?" "Did you get taller?" I blink. "Um. I don't think so," I say, scratching my head. Did I? "Huh." He seems to be pondering something. "You look... bigger, is all," he says, and then, I notice his eyes flicker right to my groin. It's quick, and if I had blinked, I swear I would have missed it. But sure enough, Dad was sizing me up. Before I can even think to move, he shrugs and pats Mason's bare bottom. "Let's go grill." I watch as Mason cheers excitedly as they exit the bathroom. I bite my lip a bit when he's gone, feeling that tingling sensation creep into my cock. Fuck. Here we go again. The wave is swelling up. In the past few years, my attraction for my father seems to come and go in waves. I'll have long periods of time where I don't think of my father "in that way." During these stretches of time, even if I fantasize about him when I'm jerking off, I can keep my arousal at bay. More importantly, I can keep my feelings under control whenever I'm with him. Right now, though, those stirrings are pressing and insistent. When that wave starts to rise, I get antsy and anxious around him for a few days until I finally come to my senses. Maybe I'm just horny. I mean, I haven't jerked off in... how long now? Christ, it's been quite a few days. Maybe I should bust one out quickly before this last-minute cookout and get rid of what must be pent-up energy. Scooping up my clothes off the floor, I head straight to my bedroom and get right in bed. As soon as my fingers find their way around my cock, I sigh and relax, letting my mind drift -- though it doesn't drift far. In fact, as my mind does almost whenever I'm this horny, I'm automatically fixated on one particular memory... It was a few nights after I first took Mason in. It was the dead of summer, humid as all hell, pushing upper nineties every night, so I had nothing on besides my boxer briefs with the fan blasting on high. I set little Mason down in his crib beside my bed. Just a week prior, shortly after my fourteenth birthday, Dad and I had built that crib together, completely from scratch. He had access to plenty of lumber, and he snagged the highest quality wood he could get his hands on. We worked together in the garage to cut, shape, sand, and polish an entire crib for the baby. It took two days, but I look back on that weekend fondly. Somehow the act of building shelter for a new member of our family brought us closer together. Once I set Mason down, I collapsed on top of the sheets with a sigh. I felt a bit sticky, but I reached behind me to tilt the fan and ensure that Mason was getting the full effect of it rather than just me. That's when Dad came into the room. I heard him clear his throat to get my attention, and I almost gasped looking at him in the doorway. He was in his underwear too, but that wasn't what shocked me. It was his smooth head. He was rubbing his palm over it. "Holy shit!" I said. "Language," he warned. "Sorry, but... damn Dad!" Just thirty minutes prior, Dad had a full head of hair. Now it was gone, freshly shaven. He winced. "Too much?" "No, not at all," I said honestly. "Just... different. Why'd you shave it off?" He wasn't balding or anything. "Haircuts are damn expensive," he said, and I couldn't help but laugh. He was always looking for ways to save money. Shaving his head seemed like a drastic way to get around that, though. Maybe the heat wave motivated him to chop it all off, because I'd jokingly considered doing the same thing. "Does it look bad?" "Nah," I said. "You look good." And I meant it. I really, really meant it. "Come here," I added, beckoning him over as I sat up. "I wanna feel." He trudged over and sat next to me on my bed, and I reached up to run my palm across his head. It was impressively smooth, and not a cut to be seen. "That's crazy smooth." "All about the technique," he said, and I noticed him glance at my lips. "You shave yet?" I'm sure I blushed. Most of my friends were starting to grow visible mustaches at the very least, but I barely had anything. Plus, what sparse hairs I did have were hardly noticeable due to the light color of my hair. "Not really," I said. "Huh," he said, seeming to take that information in. "You know how?" I made a face. "Um..." He just patted my thigh. "C'mon. I better show you." There we were, standing at the sink in the bathroom, a father teaching his fourteen-year-old how to shave. He showed me his stash of creams, razors, and moisturizers, and guided me through getting rid of any blond hairs that sprouted from above my upper lip. When we finished, he ran his thumb across the skin above my upper lip to make sure it was smooth. "Looks good," he said before he held up the razor. "You're welcome to use these razors. For your face only." I couldn't resist a laugh. "I don't have any body hair, Dad," I said, running my hand over my smooth chest. "You've got pubes, don't you?" he said blankly, putting the razor away. I blushed. "Um. I guess. Why would I shave there, though?" He shrugged. "Some guys do." None of my friends shaved, but maybe it was an adult thing. After I thought about it, I realized a *lot* of the guys in porn had smooth groins. My eyes flickered towards my Dad's crotch. "You don't," I said. I'd seen his goods plenty of times, never clean-shaven. "Hell no," he said immediately, and I laughed. "I only trim." I snort. "Like a haircut?" "Yeah, like a haircut," he said back in a mocking voice before muttering "Smartass." I smiled before biting my lip. "Why do you trim them? Do you *have* to?" I asked. He looked at me. "No, not really. It's all personal preference." "So why do it?" He shrugged. "It just looks better." I laughed. "Well I don't care about that." "That's obvious," he said. "I've seen the jungle you've got down there." I hit his arm in retaliation and he gave me a half-smirk. "Dick." "Watch your mouth," he warned me before his eyes went to my crotch. "You fine with what you've got, or do you want me to show you?" In the end, mostly because of his "jungle" comment, I decided to let him teach me the ways of manscaping. Plus, a part of me just wanted to look like him -- in all regards. He wanted to see what we were working with, so I tugged the front of my boxer briefs down a bit, showing him my pubes. He reached down and grabbed at them with his fingers, feeling out the texture and how they curled at the ends. I felt my body tense when he touched me at first, but after a second, I relaxed. Then, grabbing a pair of his special scissors, he bent down in front of me and started giving me a haircut. It seemed like a meticulous, tedious, slow process, almost like he was going hair by hair, but frankly I was a little excited to match my dad. At one point, the waistband of my underwear was getting in the way, so he looked up at me and said "Mind dropping 'em?" I hesitated before tugging my boxer briefs down and letting them fall to my ankles. There I was, totally exposed in front of my father as he went to town on my pubes, carefully trimming them down like they were artisan hedges. He even had his concentrated "work-face" on -- a focus expression whenever he was doing construction. It was fine at first. I kept myself composed. But soon, his wrist kept nudging my cock, and sure enough, my horny ass started to get hard. Every muscle in my body started to tense up. Normally, being hard wasn't a huge deal. Considering it'd always been just the two of us in this little house, I'd caught him masturbating on a few occasions, and him me at least three times as much. Plus, it wasn't unheard of for either of us (mostly me) to pop wood during one of our work-outs and tent our shorts a bit. Dad never paid much mind to it. He just said it was the adrenaline, getting the blood pumping and all that, and it made sense to me. But this was different. Direct skin-to-skin contact was giving me a boner, right in front of his face. It wasn't like I was in bed and he was in the doorway, or like my hard-on was trapped in my shorts. There was nowhere to hide this time. But all Dad said to acknowledge it was "Don't worry about it." I let out a breath, looking straight ahead as Dad snipped away my pubic hairs. I practically jumped when he pushed my cock away with the back of his wrist so that he could take care of any hairs on the underside of my shaft. He finished up a few minutes later, standing up to admire his handiwork before handing me some moisturizer. Apparently trimming and shaving can make the skin irritated if you don't calm it down, so I rubbed some of the oil into my pubes before tugging my underwear back up and sticking my still-hard cock in. It bulged out a bit, but thankfully Dad wasn't bothered. "Thanks," I said shyly. "No problem." He washed off the small scissors before putting them back in its case. "Just take your time when you do it yourself. It's all about patience, especially if you're doing your balls. And clean up the mess," he added, pointing to my pubes that were scattered on the floor. "I don't wanna see pubes all over the house." I quickly swept them up with the bathroom dustpan while Dad put away his kit. Just as I dumped them into the garbage, though, we both heard Mason start crying and headed back to my room to investigate. Turns out it was as simple as Mason's pacifier falling out of his mouth. I smiled and brought it back to his lips, and he quickly took it in, instantly calming down. He just peered up at the both of us with his big eyes. I felt Dad stand next to me as we peeked into the crib. He put his arm around my shoulders, half-hugging me to him. "Can't tell you how proud I am of you," he said suddenly. "Of me?" I asked, surprised, looking at him. "You've been so good about... all of this," he said, gesturing to the crib. I smiled. I knew he was referring to my actions during and after the pregnancy, as well as being the one to suggest we take Mason in. I stayed very much on top of things, wanting to care for my son as intently as possible -- though I couldn't take all the credit. "You've done half the work," I reminded him. He let out a little laugh through his nose before he moved to my bed and sat down on the edge of it. Then, he lied back with a sigh, letting the fan cool him off. "You're what got me through that divorce, you know," he said after a pause. I raised my eyebrow. If it was something he never really talked about, it was anything that had to do with my mother. I was too young to really remember any details about her when they split up (what she looked like, what she liked to eat, what her laugh sounded like), and whenever I cared to ask questions, Dad never really gave me much to work with. So eventually, I just stopped asking about her. "How?" I asked, joining him on the bed. He shrugged. "Guess I was so focused on you that I didn't have time to think about her much," he said. I smiled. "So I was a distraction." "An eye-opener," he corrected me. He had me young, too. Not nearly as young as I was, but he was only seventeen. He and my mom married as soon as they could, but since they only married for my sake, there wasn't enough love there. So it didn't last long. "Gave me perspective." "Is that good or bad?" I couldn't really tell from his tone. But he turned to me and gave me a smile. "Good." He peered at me for a bit before asking "I didn't screw up, did I?" I almost laughed. "What?" I didn't know what he was referring to. "With you not having a mom and all that," he said. "I always wondered if that's what you needed." But I shook my head. "I only needed you, Dad." I swear his eyes shimmered a bit before he looked away, staring up at the ceiling in thought. At that point, I had a question of my own, and I asked it as I lied down next to him: "Do you get lonely?" "Not really," he said, and honestly, I believed him. "I have you. And Mason, now." "But what about your, uh... needs?" I teased (that's what he said the first time I caught him jerking off: "I have needs too, Mitchell"). Surprisingly, he laughed. "I get my fill." "Does that mean you're dating or something?" I asked curiously. "Not necessarily." I smiled to myself. It was easy to picture my stud of a father getting around without the romance, virile as he seemed. But I still wanted to tease him. "So I'm never gonna meet anyone?" "Nope." "A stepmom might be nice," I joked. He snorted. "Not while you're living here." "Why not?" "Because I've seen your browser history," he said. "I know what you like." At first, I completely froze, caught off-guard, blushing intensely. But then he turned to me with a little smirk. "You're not slick, you know." At the time, we only had one computer -- and I really thought I had covered my tracks. Usually I'm good about deleting my search history, or just using incognito mode, but maybe I slipped up one afternoon and Dad got a small taste of what I like. My interests in porn varied. I went through phases, where one week it'd be nothing but creampies and the next it'd be orgies upon orgies. I still watched plenty of straight porn, so long as it featured a hot male performer. Maybe Dad saw my stepmom phase, and that's why he was worried -- but I just liked watching young studs fuck women older than them, because I was sick of watching "teen" porn and being reminded of Michelle. He must have thought I was a pervert or something. Is that why he never brought any women around, or was he just teasing me back? "Now I'm embarrassed," I said with a nervous laugh. "Don't be," he said, reaching over to pat my thigh. "It's not a big deal. I was the same way your age. Nothing but porn and... well..." He made a jack-off motion with his hand. "But we didn't have the internet back then." I liked where this conversation was going. "What did you have?" "Magazines," he said. "And tapes." I felt a little relieved that he didn't care too much about the porn. That's something we hadn't ever mentioned before. Hell, we never really discussed masturbation much either -- just the fact that it was a thing, and that it was natural to want to do it. It was nice to know that my dad had the same sorts of impulses that I did when he was my age. "How often did you do it?" I asked. "Jack off? At least twice a day, every day," he said. "Sometimes more." I noticed him absentmindedly nudge himself in his underwear. I mimicked his motions, but mostly because I was already still a little chubby down there from my earlier hard-on. "Pretty much the same for me." "I figured," Dad said. "You're at that age." I bit my lip slightly. "Do you still do it a lot?" "Not really, no," he said slowly. "Every few days, I guess." I guessed that that was a normal amount. "Do you watch, like, porn and stuff?" Dad paused before saying "Wouldn't you like to know." Yes, I would. I couldn't help but be curious about what my dad beat off to. Was it threesomes? Facials? Anal? Public sex? What really got him revved up? Honestly, speculating about it was making me a bit horny, and when I tried to discreetly grab my growing hard-on through my underwear, I let out a tiny but involuntary grunt. It felt too good, and I couldn't stop myself. Dad's head turned to me. "What?" "Nothing," I said quickly, embarrassed that I had made that noise. His eyes looked down to my hand that was attempting to cover-up my boner. "What's goin' on down there?" he asked. "Nothing, Dad." He smirked ever so slightly before resting back comfortably. There was a long pause between us before he spoke up again. "Tell me about Michelle." I looked at him. "What about her?" He didn't face me as he spoke -- just kept staring up at the ceiling. "Obviously you guys had sex." "Um. Yeah." "So?" He paused, waiting for me to speak before he added "What's she like?" What's she like? Was he asking me what it was like to fuck my girlfriend? "Um. Good, I guess," I said, swallowing thickly. Now that I was thinking about Michelle a little more intently, my cock was actually going down. "Was she your first?" he asked me. I nodded. "Yeah." "Hmm," he said as if he was thinking. Then, I noticed some movement. He was touching himself. It wasn't anything crazy. He was just gripping his dick through his boxer briefs and stroking himself very slowly back and forth. "I lost mine to Naomi Miller." I was heating up intensely, all over my body, my cock becoming full-blooded again. When I looked at Dad's face, I saw that his eyes were closed. He seemed to be thinking about this Naomi chick, reminiscing, lightly playing with himself. My heart racing, I couldn't resist slipping my hand into my underwear to wrap my fingers around my cock. "Who was she?" I asked, wanting him to keep talking. "First girlfriend. Tight little thing," he said softly. That's all he said about her -- at least, all that I could decipher. He mumbled something before trailing off, focusing on his hand and his cock. I looked back up at the ceiling, listening to Dad's steady breathing and the sound of fabric shifting back and forth. Was this happening, or was I dreaming? I heard something slap, sounding like skin on skin, and when I looked over, I saw that Dad had set his cock free. Hard, it had smacked against his stomach before he picked it up in his fist and started stroking. I was transfixed. I had never seen anybody masturbate up-close before, and this was my dad, of all people. My father, who I had thought about since I discovered the joys of solo-play. His cock looked powerful, as unequivocally male as the rest of him, and he gripped himself with a practiced technique. I couldn't stop looking. Well, not until I felt his eyes on me. I peered up at his face and we locked eyes for one brief, intense, horny moment. Then I looked away quickly, back at the ceiling, my hand still slowly stroking myself. "Don't be embarrassed," Dad said. "I'm not," I replied. "We've already seen what we've got." "I'm not embarrassed, Dad," I insisted, though that was mostly to convince myself that I wasn't. I hadn't necessarily meant to stare. But I did. And I wanted to do it again. He didn't say anything more but just kept stroking himself with his left hand, his right arm nudged up against my left. Even with the fan on us, I was getting quite hot, maybe even a little sweaty, but I didn't want to stop. In fact, I wanted to keep this up. It felt good, lying side by side with him, touching ourselves. And when I finally pulled my cock out from my boxer briefs, it felt oddly freeing. In a way, we were in this together. I turned my head towards his face again, and when he noticed me looking, he turned to me too. There was a moment where he was clearly thinking about something before he started to shift. He lifted his right arm and was clearly intending to put it around me, so I lifted my head and rested the back of my skull against his shoulder. With his arm tucked around me, I was getting even harder, even hornier. We both increased our tempos, his strokes sounding wet and sticky. Then, he took his left hand, licked his palm, and brought it right back to his cock. Now he was a bit more wet, and those slick noises echoed around the room. I did the same thing, getting my palm wet with my saliva before continuing to stroke myself. I moaned out a bit when I started working my sensitive head, and Dad seemed to approve of that. "Atta boy," he whispered. He kept his arm around me still, and I even felt his hand move around my chest a bit, his fingers brushing against my nipple. Fuck, that felt good. I noticed it getting hard from his touches. I couldn't tell if he was doing it intentionally or not, but regardless, I loved that slight electric feeling he was giving me. "Nice 'n easy," he said softly, and I realized he was giving me pointers. I slowed down my strokes a bit, considering I had increased to a more vigorous pace once he started manipulating my nipple. I switched to the pace he was working himself at, matching it perfectly, down to the way he twisted his wrist a bit to increase pleasure. "There you go," he said, patting my chest lightly before chuckling. "Incredible, isn't it?" I didn't know exactly what he was referring to, but all I said was "Yeah." Was he just fascinated by the fact that we were doing something like this together? He called masturbation a natural urge, but doing it together... That was surely different. "You're growing up so damn fast," Dad muttered, and I couldn't help but make the connection to the fact that he was staring at my cock, as if he was gauging my growth by how big I've gotten down there. "Can't believe you're a man now." A man? I was only fourteen. "I am?" In my periphery, I saw that he nodded towards the crib. "You made him. A beautiful boy. You're a man now, Mitch." When I turned to look at his face, I noticed we were much closer now. Much, much closer. He was focused on our lower bodies, but he shifted his face towards me after I did, and our lips were barely an inch apart. I could feel his breath. Taste it, even. And then, somehow, with one of us shifting ever so slightly, our lips brushed against each other. I'm convinced it was by accident -- the first time. I don't know what compelled me, but that light teasing of a kiss only made me want more. I kissed him. And he didn't stop me. He didn't pull away. He allowed it, and because he let it happen, we were fucking kissing. And this wasn't one of those innocent kisses. We were locking lips, holding them together for a long moment before, slowly, we started moving them against each other, getting just a hint deeper... It was too much. I grunted and, all of a sudden, my orgasm washed over me. I swore under my breath as my young cock throbbed and I started to cum, pumping out a heavy load all over my stomach. My eyes were closed until I finally finished, and as soon as I opened my eyes and looked down to investigate the mess, Dad started to cum. And boy, what a sight that was. He stroked himself quickly up until the last moment, and then let those first few shots shoot out before stroking out the rest. I watched as thick ropes of his creamy cum shot up onto his chest and even onto my arm. It was a huge load -- the type you only see in a good porno, and here I was, witnessing it in person from the man I loved most. It took him a while to calm down, but he eventually relaxed, loosely holding his cock in his fist and catching his breath. Then, he seemed to realize what had happened, because he quickly pulled his arm from around me and stared up at the ceiling. I felt awkward, like he was holding his breath now that the horniness had worn off. Did he regret it? Was he going to say something? It was a lot -- I knew that. I mean, I had just jerked off with my father. And kissed him! And Mason was right there in his crib, privy to the entire thing. It was all so much so suddenly, and I think Dad knew that. He was probably just horny and not thinking *too* clearly. God knows I know how that feels. He cleared his throat after a minute, pulled up his underwear, sat up, and said he was going to bed. I just nodded as I covered myself up. "Okay." I cleared my throat too. "G'night," I said in a small voice. He glanced at me briefly before standing up and leaving the room without another word. We never talked about that night. Never did it again. And I don't know about him, but I sure as hell never forgot.