Date: Thu, 18 Aug 2016 00:34:06 +0000 (UTC)
From: a4f101@yahoo.com
Subject: My Little Problem

Here's a story taken from my Tumblr, at a4f101.tumblr.com/storytime. You
can find this one, and the pic that inspired it, here:
http://a4f101.tumblr.com/post/125979350324/

You can also find a whole lot more of my stories here on Nifty - look for
'a4f101' in the Prolific Authors listing.

This story is purely a work of adult erotic fantasy, copyright me 2016. I
own it and all legal rights to it. If you're under the age of majority in
your jurisdiction, please come back when you're of legal age.

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*****

OK, I admit it - I got a problem.

It's not a new thing. It's been around for awhile. Probably since I was a
teenager. Since I got into the thick of puberty, and shit started to get
weird, like it does for all of us.

Now, I'm not gonna try and be one of those guys who puffs his chest out and
beats on it about how straight he is. I love pussy. Always have. Since I
was 15 and got my first taste of it, I was hooked.

Only... that was about the time I got hooked on this other thing, too.

Alright, alright. It's jockstraps. Huffing on jocks, to be precise. Mine,
other dudes', doesn't matter. Well... other dudes' straps are better. Don't
ask me why, it's just the way I'm wired, OK? Since the first time I slipped
mine off in the locker room after a game, and caught a whiff of it, all
freshly sweaty and tangy with that special musk I was just starting to get
back then - that scent of a man - and my cock boned up like crazy. Made me
so nuts, I hurried home, pulled it out of my bag, locked my bedroom door,
and whacked out three loads in a row, huffing on my own jock stink.

There's just something about a good strap. I love wearing `em, seeing `em
on a dude who's built to wear one well... and most of all, bunching a
fresh-worn one up under my nose, over my mouth with one hand, while I wail
on my epic hardon with the other. Never fails to bring off a huge nut.

Even now that I'm pushing 40, with a hot piece of ass for a wife, two kids,
a decent job, nice house, new Tahoe, living the heterosexual American
dream, every chance I can get, I'm huffing on a strap and beating on my
dick like it owes me money. Spraying my cum all over the muscles of my
stomach.

It never went away, much as I hoped and prayed it would. Just got stronger
over the years. I was a three-sport athlete in high school, played ball at
State in college, and I kept myself in prime condition afterwards. The wife
says I don't look a day over 30, and I always fuck her real good for the
compliment. And hell, she's almost as hot for the idea of me wearing a
strap as I am. I figure I got to set a good example for my boys, keep them
from becoming lazy fatasses like a lot of kids seem to turn into
nowadays. What I'm saying is, staying in shape gave me even more
opportunities for strap play over the years, and shit, I'm just as nuts for
it now as I was 25 years ago when I first discovered this kink of mine.

Now, I get offers, and lots of opportunities, but I've always been
faithful. Never strayed. But I've thought about it. Every man does. More
often than not, though, I'm fantasizing about fucking around while I'm
having one of my strap-stroke sessions. And since I like it best when it's
another fit dude's strap - like the ones I sometimes swipe from the lockers
at my gym, like I used to swipe my teammates' back in the day - well, I
guess you can guess what I'm thinking about when I'm huffing on some other
dude's sweat and ball stink.

I told you I don't make a big deal about being straight. I got gay friends,
had plenty of gay teammates, and I know I'm the type of dude a lot of gay
dudes are into. I'm cool with all of that. If one of my boys turns out that
way, so be it. But hell, the pictures in my mind when I've got that funky,
sweaty cotton all bunched up under my nose, inhaling and tasting that
scent... well, maybe I'm a little bit gay after all. Picturing in my horny
mind the way the straps indent a muscled man ass. The way a good-sized cock
and balls fills out the pouch, makes the mesh swell intriguingly. The way
the waistband soaks up his sweat. The way his damp bush might curl out over
the top of the band. The way two perfect, thick glutes get showcased by the
elastic. The way those glutes look when they flex, shift, dimple, all
framed by those two straps. The way a dude's ass would look, all muscled up
and presented perfectly in his jock, presented perfectly to me as he arches
his back and tells me to go for it, to get my face up between his cheeks,
up in that deep, sweaty, furry crevice... to get him nice and wet for a
fucking. To fuck him while he wears his jock. To make him shoot his thick
cum into the pouch. So he can let me suck all that salty, funky man cum
right out of the mesh when we're done.

Shit, I gotta cool down here, or I'm gonna bust too quick.

So... I have a problem. I know I'm not the only one - thanks, internet -
but that doesn't help me control it. And lately, it seems like it's even
worse. Because now, I have a regular supply of other dudes' straps
available to me.

Because my oldest boy Max is turning out to be a jock like me. And that
means there's another dude, right here in my house, wearing a
strap. Leaving `em laying around to get washed. To get souvenired. Giving
me even more opportunities to indulge in my favorite thing.

That's what I was doing this afternoon. I had a flex day, so I used it to
take care of shit around the house, mow the lawn, wash the car, fix the
garage door opener, crap like that. All while wearing my current favorite
jock, this soft cotton one with a lowline waistband that feels like a warm,
soft hand cupping my cock and balls. Getting a good sweat into it. And once
I got done, and I knew I still had time before the boys got home from
school, well... I got the urge. Felt my big dick growing in anticipation,
inside my sweaty jock. So I cruised past Max's room, and right there in his
laundry hamper was the jock he wore to practice yesterday. Fuck yeah -
jackpot.

Of course, I always feel guilty about it, but you know what they say - a
stiff dick has no conscience. And mine was stiff as hell, and it definitely
had no qualms, as I stripped out of my shorts and T-shirt, down to that
soft jock already straining with hard dick, and kicked back on the sofa
down in the basement rec room with Max's funky teen athlete's jock pressed
to my face. Let the images in my mind push the guilt aside, for now. Tried
not to picture my big, handsome kid wearing this strap - tried to make it
some anonymous young jock dude instead. And mostly succeeded.

Things were going very successfully, as I strummed my big, heavy,
precum-leaking cock, images of smooth, muscular young jock asses hot on my
brain as I inhaled the sweat and ball funk from Max's used jock.

"Fuck me, dude," the husky young voice of my fantasy jock stud said. Then
in my imagination, he looked over his shoulder at me. And it was Max. My
boy, horny and lusty and begging for my cock. Begging for me to fuck him in
his tight, sweaty young strap.

"Oh fuck!" I moaned, and the fantasy kid - my fantasy son - grinned and
nodded and spurred me on with a deep flex of his sexy young ballplayer's
ass.

"Yeah... fuck me, Dad," he moaned lustily, and that was enough to tip me
over the edge and send my spurts of hot cum all over the sweaty crunch of
my abs. I moaned as the hot jets rained down on my stomach, huffing even
deeper on my kid's jock, smelling his youthful, masculine tang as my cock
throbbed in my hand.

"Dad?"

My eyes shot open, and saw... oh fuck, Max standing there at the top of the
basement stairs, bookbag over his shoulder, a look of total surprise on his
face as he saw what I was doing. Saw his Dad, naked but for a jock, big
sticky cock in his hand, another jock stuffed up against his nose and
mouth, a spray of fresh cum on his stomach. A moment passed like that, and
for some reason I couldn't get it together enough to grab a pillow or my
shirt or something to cover myself.

But maybe I didn't need to. Because Max's confused face gave way to a big
grin, making him even more handsome. And then he closed the basement door
behind him and came down the stairs. All I could do was stare, terrified at
what he might say, as he dropped his bookbag and stood over me.

"Jeez, Dad," he grinned. "You too, huh?"

I gave him a confused look, but he was already tugging his T-shirt up and
off, revealing the sexy crunch and flex of his mostly smooth muscles. He
was destined to be a big, strong guy, just like me, and already he had all
kinds of tight, sexy muscles. Definition to kill for. Even better than I
was at his age, and I was no slouch at 16. Even Coach told me I could have
passed for a senior, or even a college kid, with the muscles I had back
then. And Max was doing even better. Proving it to me as he hooked his
thumbs in his basketball shorts and tugged them down his long, strong,
lightly furred thighs. Quads for days. Crisp, light-brown hair growing in
real nice on `em. And front and center, a fresh white jockstrap, showcasing
a very nice young man's bulge. A bulge that was growing, shifting, tenting
as he kept on grinning down at me.

"Dad, is that... one of mine?" he said quietly. I flushed hard, and he just
nodded. It was all that needed to be said, all that could be said.

"Shit," he murmured, and usually I'd call him out for the language, but
fuck - I was in no position to do that right now. "I thought I was the only
one..."

I still had that same confused look on my face, even though my mind was
already there, getting it.

"Sometimes you leave yours in your hamper too, Dad," he said simply, and
then reached down and trailed his fingertips along the hard muscle of my
inner thigh. Tentative at first, then more self-assured, especially when I
moaned and flexed it a little for him, instinctively.

Max had this look in his eyes. I knew that look. Saw it in the mirror of my
bathroom, or the locker room at the gym, if things were quiet enough, as I
watched myself huff a fresh-worn jock and felt myself up. Admired my own
muscles. Sometimes slipped that stranger's fresh-worn strap on myself and
took it even deeper.

That look my big, hot kid had, that look that was identical to mine - a
look of lust, of fire, of intensity. It got to me, broke down whatever
barriers of decency, of normalcy I might have tried to put up, and they
crumbled into dust when his fingertips reached the pouch of my own jock,
tucked sweatily under my balls, and sank into the sweat-damp bunch of the
fabric. I moaned, and saw my hand reaching for his swelling jock bulge, and
when all he did was nod and smile, I was lost. We both were.

The feel of my big, good-looking jock kid's strained pouch was intense. The
heat, the hardness, the throb, the faint sweaty dampness of it as I
caressed and explored, as he pressed his bulge even more into my big,
cupping hand. When he squeezed the fabric of my jock in his hand, then
brought it up to sniff deeply, with a husky moan, I almost lost my load
right there and then. My cock had barely even gone down since he'd come
through the basement door. Now, it felt harder than it had ever been. Even
harder than those times in college when me and a good teammate bud of mine
jocked up and... well, that's a story for another time.

"Fuck, this is my own damn kid," I thought, but then my cock twitched and
began to stiffen up again, and he saw it, and he grinned, and he subtly
licked his lips a little with a horny little grunt, and his own big young
cock twitched in his jock pouch, and that was the end of all that.

I don't know if I grabbed him and pulled him down to me, or if he was
already coming in to meet me, but our lips crashed together with a hungry
moan, our tongues already out and meeting hard between them, and then the
warm, lightly sweaty weight of his muscular young jock body was on top of
mine, sprawling and squirming as I clapped one hand on the big, tight
muscle of his bare ass and the other on the back of his neck, pulling us
deeper into the kiss.

The feeling of his moist, cock-strained pouch against my big, bare, leaking
Dad cock was like heaven, just like the feel of his smooth, hard young
muscles against my own. He growled into the kiss, all manly-like, and
flexed his tight-end's glute under my hand, and I hunched my cock up
against his bulge in reply as the spit began to flow between us in earnest.

When he pulled back, grabbed his previously-worn jock that I'd been so
hungrily huffing on when he came in, and brought it up to his handsome face
to inhale deeply as he ground up against my big dick, I nearly lost it
again.

"Fuck, kid," I moaned, playing my hands over the forbidden fruit of his
tight-muscled torso. "Seems like you and me got the same problem, huh?"

Max grinned, slow-ground against me again, and leaned back in to kiss me,
the scent of his jock all over our lips and tongues. I was hard as an iron
bar, and good to go again. And since I'd just cum, I could go a little
longer this time...

"Doesn't feel like a problem to me, Dad," he murmured when we came up for
air. "Feels more like... an opportunity, am I right?"

I couldn't help but chuckle, and cuff the back of his had
affectionately. Little hard-bodied, jock-sniffing smartass. He really was a
chip off the old block.

"So show me how deep it goes with you, kid," I grinned, and with a big
smile and a lusty chuckle, he did. As it turned out, it went plenty deep
with him, just like it did with me. Maybe this wasn't going to be such a
problem, after all.