Date: Sun, 14 Feb 2021 00:42:45 +0000 From: Dazing & Confusing Subject: My World of Scattered Memories -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- My World of Scattered Memories **************************************************************************** DISCLAIMER: This story contains sex between males, some of whom are related and underage. If such subject offends you, then you should move on to greener pastures. It also contains unprotected sex, which can be a health hazard. While I do not condone unprotected intercourse between any genders, in this story the premises make characters safe, allowing for this small creative freedom. While no underage boy has been harmed while penning this story, in real world kids may and do get hurt: respect them and do not engage in any inconsiderate activity with them. You must discern the boundaries between fantasy and reality. If you are under the age of 18 or anyway too young to be reading such material, or if you are in a country where it is not legal to read such material, then please leave and come back when it is legal for you to do so. The author retains all copyrights to this story and no publication may be made, with the exception of the web sites to which this story has been posted, without consent of the author. Note: This story is best appreciated considering it as a sort of slow food experience. Fast food sex consumer might not find immediate satisfaction. I want to thanks a writer friend of mine, who inspired me to take out of the drawer this writing adventure and have it posted. Yes, you, with the guilty look. You know damn well who you are. Also, feel free to reach me by email at That-Brain-in-a-vat@protonmail.com or at Wickr: blueroyale1 for any constructive criticism or just to say you liked the story. If you enjoy reading stories on Nifty, then don't forget to donate! Help them help *you* It's easy, just follow the link http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html **************************************************************************** I climbed down the last few steps, and that's when the scent hit me. I halted, closing my eyes as to leave out any interference from my surroundings; then I started to breathe the air in, slowly inhaling that scent still lingering in the dim basement. They say the sense of smell is uniquely intertwined with memory; it is so powerful that can instantly trigger the phantom of places, tastes, and people. So I stood there, attentive, as the most unexpected thing was happening inside me. It was like a time portal, suddenly sweeping me from my home to a completely different environment. The room looked enormous to me. Neon lamps from the ceiling threw a cold artificial light onto the otherwise hot and damp environment; a couple of them flickered incessantly in a looping buzzing sound. On one side of the room, a few guys were scattered lifting weights: some catching their breath between sets, others pumping iron between grunts. On the other end, two men were walking toward the corridor that led to the locker room; one of them, a red haired man with a towel thrown over his shoulder, said something and then busted into a contagious laughter, soon joined by the sound of the heartfelt laughing of the other guy. It was an inconsequential detail, and yet, to this day, I sometime still wonder what all was the fun about. Memories are strange like that. In the center of the room, there was a boxing ring, and a few feet at its right side, a man was laying blows with accurate precision and ferocity into a punching bag. Sequences of fast double fists while jumping lightly on the balls of his feet over the mat. Jab and cross. BAM BAM! The mix of sheer power and agility had my attention glued to him. All the details etched in my mind: the wiry musculature, his black hair matted to his forehead, his midnight blue eyes staring the black bag ahead, the sweat trickling down his neck, teeth clenched. BAM BAM! Another jab and cross sequence. He moved around the punching bag like a predator circling his prey; his bulked quadriceps made his gym shorts ride up, nesting into the crease between his powerful gluts. BAM BAM! His arms flexed and bulged from the exertion, while his chest heaved in controlled breaths under the damp fabric of the navy blue training tank top. I could see the curly dark hair plastered to his armpits, and the sudden thought that it was a funny place for hair to grow made me smile. It must tickle an awful lot. BAM BAM! Then he stopped, hugging the black bag to support his weight. He looked toward me; he saw my grin and smiled back showing a row of porcelain white teeth. That smile brightened his handsome, youthful face, conveying a sense of innocence that would have been impossible to imagine just a minute ago. He waved his hand at me, fingers and palms wrapped in black bands made him look like a warrior to my eyes. At that time, I thought this was the man I wanted to be. This was also one of the earliest memories I had of my father. A memory that accompanied me throughout the years and defined the figure I had in my mind of my Dad. When, later on, I revisited this very memory through more grown up eyes, the feeling it awoke in me started morphing into something I wasn't ready yet to understand or accept: the thought that this was the man I wanted to be *with*. I do not care convincing you how much of what follows is real and/or how much is bullshit, so don't bother asking. In these memoirs, for all intents and purposes, my name is Lucas, and this I'm sharing with you is my story. The summer of my twelfth year had been a hot one. I remember the TV news saying it was "the warmest summer of the last 5 decades", but then again they said that pretty much each year and will continue doing so in the years to come. Yet this time it really felt like it; I could feel the moist heat cling to my skin and, in spite of wearing only a sleeveless shirt and board shorts - almost my basic uniform in the summer months - not even the light evening breeze from the windows would refresh the air. My mother was in the kitchen amid the clangor of pans and cookware, busy over the stove, while I had thrown myself on the sofa in front of the TV in the living room. There was some show on it and I was only mildly interested, when I heard the handle turn; my Dad appeared at the front door, holding his briefcase in one hand and his jacket on his other arm. It was a good hour past the time he would usually be home and indeed he looked tired, but when I moved toward him, he took a deep breath and put on a smile. As I took the jacket from him, he rested his arm around my shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "Hey buddy," he said with his baritone voice; he walked the few steps to the sofa then plopped heavily on it, kicked off his shoes and crossed his ankles on the coffee table in front of him. "How was school?" "It was OK," I shrugged. "Nothing noteworthy, really". "Yeah, yeah. Nothing ever happens, I get it," he added, laughing knowingly. His face appeared more relaxed and, with a gesture that was so typically 'Dad', he pulled down his tie and undid the top button, allowing a few strands of hairs to spill out from his shirt. "I don't mind if you're starting to notice girls, and there's one - or even a few - at school that are catching your eye," he added with a wink, "but remember, your grades come first." "Gross, Dad!" I countered, feigning to be offended, and forcing a grimace. He just laughed good-naturedly, and patted on the sofa. "Come; let's watch some TV, while your mother gets dinner ready." I sat at his side, resting happily my head on his chest. He smiled at me, tousling my hair, and then wrapped his arm around my shoulder, letting his hand casually drape over me. For the life of me, I can't remember what was on TV, I just laid there, staring blankly at the screen while breathing in his scent. "Earth to Lucas, Earth to Lucas", the voice of my mom brought me suddenly back. I shook from my torpor, and looked at her, while she hid a chuckle. "Sorry, Mom. What did you say?" I asked. "I said, go wash your hands. Dinner's ready". Then, exchanging looks with Dad, "your brother, apparently, won't be joining us today," she added in a slightly annoyed tone. "He's going out with a few friends from the team, after training. Again." My father shrugged his shoulders, offering only an understanding expression. Then he slapped my thigh as he stood. "Let's go buddy. We'd best do as your mother says. I sure don't want to get on her bad side, today", and took a few fast steps toward the bathroom, only to stop in front of her and lay a kiss on her lips with a grin, then moving on. I rushed after him, and a few seconds later, we were washing our hands together at the bathroom sink. "So, buddy, have you thought how you wanna spend summer vacation?" "Jeez Dad, I'm not sure. I don't feel like committing to anything in particular, just yet. You know, so many lazy days to spend." "Smartass", he chuckled. I retorted, splashing him and scuttled off to the dining room, hotly pursued by Dad, who tried to whip my bottom with a towel. Still laughing, I halted on my track, as I almost stumbled upon my mother. "All right boys. Be seated" she said; then shook her head. "I swear, sometimes I feel like I have three children", she added with an unconvincingly scolding tone. Dinner went on as usual: I attentively picked the food apart, setting aside what I didn't like, while Mom and Dad talked about their respective day. My mother was a doctor at St. Joseph Hospital, while my father was a business consultant, so nothing about their conversation could ever captivate my interest. When my brother graced us with his presence, which, in spite of my mother's complaints, was quite usual, he and Dad spent part of the dinner talking about sport. That's the one thing they had in common, a world they shared and that was entirely precluded to me. In fact, my father had always been big on sport, any sport really, though he had always been passionate about boxing, while my brother was on the wrestling team. I grew up envying their relationship: watching them having fun catching ball, or my father teaching him how to throw a football. That just wasn't me. I remember when, as a little boy, he tried to teach soccer to my brother and me; Stephan was engrossed in learning and showing Dad his newfound skills, while I got bored and left. The fact that Dad barely realized that I was gone, hurt me. I watched them from afar, having fun by themselves, and even at such young age, I started wondering why I couldn't be more like my brother, and why Dad didn't push harder to involve me in their sport activities. Thinking, and especially overthinking, that I was very good at. But that doesn't mean I wasn't close to my dad. We often joked, and I would talk to him about movies, games, he taught me about stars and constellations, and when I was too engrossed in a book, he would try to distract me asking what the story was about and engage me in a conversation. That was actually the main issue: I was a shy boy, and always found it difficult to ask for affection, in spite of how much I was be starving for it. After dinner, we settled down on the sofa, my father lay on his side, his masculine, well-formed feet slightly crossed at the farther end, and I snuggled up on the carpet, in front of him. He wrapped an arm protectively around my chest from behind, letting his hand rest on my slim shoulder. I closed my eyes, letting out a muted, contented sigh. While Dad watched the TV, I stole furtive glances at him from under my eyelids; my glance traced the pattern of hairs on his arm, the defined muscles of his powerful legs at rest. I felt a sudden swelling in my chest that barely left any more room to breathe in the air, and I found myself holding my breath without even realizing it. Feelings of confusion overwhelmed me; I was still not equipped to process what was happening to me: there was a longing burning deep inside me, and I could not comprehend what it was nor how to quell it. Instinctively I brought my hand up to my shoulder, to cover Dad's. He casually turned his face toward me, and gave me a soft smile, before turning his eyes back to the screen. All of a sudden, I was overcome by emotions. Just I couldn't decipher them, and that was panicking me. I stood up, and dashed away, under my father's questioning look. Trembling with bewilderment, I rushed upstairs and into my room; I closed the door, and rested my back on it. Tightening my jaws, a low and frustrated "what?!" growled its way out of my mouth. I lowered my eyes, looking at the small bulge covered by a double layer of fabric, that boldly took residence in my groin; I hung my thumb on the rim of shorts and underwear at the same time, and pulled away from my body. And there it was, emerging smugly from between my thighs, my stiff penis, engorged to full tumescence, and looking back at me with its skin-covered snout. I stared at it for a few seconds, then hooked my middle finger under my thumb and slung it at the offending prick, with a frustrated sigh. Ouch, that hurt. I tried to restore the normal rhythm of my breath, then laid on the bed, avoiding to provoke any further the impertinent little offender: a couple of years earlier, that didn't go well. It was a lazy afternoon of a similar hot summer, just 3 years earlier. I was laying on the bed with a book in my hands, the ever present companion when I was spending my time idly alone in my room. That day, the wave of heat had been stronger than ever, and aside from the book, I didn't have much more on myself: only a light shirt and my white briefs. I was engrossed in the reading of a fantasy novel telling the story about how Myrddin was entrapped by Nimue in a crystal cave; and while my left hand held the book against my stomach, my left one, beyond the paper curtain, was lazily resting inside my briefs. It was just a careless gesture, I wasn't really putting my mind into it, and surely no intention. My fingers toyed with my little penis, as it simply were a sixth finger among its companions. The fingertips running through its short, limp length, caressed it, occasionally holding it between thumb and two other fingers. The index run to the very tip of the small prick and dived between the folds of its bunched up foreskin, applying a small pressure till it could brush the lips of the small orifice under it. The humidity captive under the folds of skin, allowed the fingertip to idly stroke the soft slit of the little glans. As much as this might sound disingenuous, I feel compelled to assure you there was no malice, nor real purpose in that small gesture. It was a simple and uninterested entertainment while the attention was all drawn to the heroes of the book. There was no interest into those few inches of flash, which later on would become the main carnival in the life of any teenager. And this particular piece of flash was rolled into its natural protective skin. Such an apparently inconsequent detail, though, was an inspiration to invite my fingers at a further carefree exploration: covering and uncovering the rosy cherry that topped the small flash tube. After a dozen pages worth of reading, that repetitive act ended suddenly diverting my attention from Myrddin's adventures to the strange, soft tingle at the tip of the little prod. My eyes grew big and bigger as I observed a few drops of clear but slightly grey-tinted liquid coming out from the lips of the small slit. That was not pee. I was sure of it: I must have broken something. Maybe I was sick and on the verge of dying. I quickly jumped from the bed, trying to make order through my thoughts. What should I do? Could I ask Stephan? No, that was out of the question. My older brother would have probably run to my parents. Maybe I could look for some answers among my mother's medicals book. Yes, that's it. But... where do I start? I was at a loss. I decided to forget about it all. Leave alone my penis for the rest of my life, and hope for the best. And that's why, that day 3 years later, I decided to still leave it alone and distract myself with a book. I didn't last much, though, soon I dozed off to sleep for few hours. Slowly surfacing from my slumber, I half opened my eyes and stretched my arms, gently rubbing my torso on the soft sheets of the bed. The summer air was thick with humidity, in utter contrast with my dry throat, and the only slices of light came from a faint streetlamp outside my window. I sat up in my bed, and slid both legs to the edge until I felt the hardwood floor under my feet. I needed to quench the thirst that created a sandy feeling in my esophagus each time I swallowed. I walked almost blindly toward the door, then down the stairs, moving lazily to reach the kitchen. After gulping down a glass of water, a satisfied, relieved sigh escaped me. I had no idea what time it was. Everything was silent and the air stood still. Mom usually turned in early, since she was always first to leave the house; her crazy schedule at the hospital dictated mercilessly the rhythm of her workdays. Dad, by contrast, had much laxer working hours; that meant he might start his day a bit later, but there were times he would have longer hours at work. This allowed him to stretch the time he would turn in for the night, so he could exercise in the basement. He used to train regularly at a gym and practice some more at the boxing ring, but as work and family demanded more and more of his attention, he preferred to set up a small gym in the house. Opening the narrow door, I stood at the top of the basement stairs; there was no noise coming from the large room downstairs. I climbed down the steep steps, one at a time, brushing the wall with the palm of my hand as I moved, shadows enveloping me. I still don't know why I was there, in my father's realm; probably I was drawn to it, looking for closeness with my Dad without him having to actually be there. I climbed down the last few steps, and that's when the scent hit me. A smell that brought back to my mind almost forgotten memories, images of my dad working his body off, sheer power that shaped his movements. In that very moment, I was assaulted by the realization that my yearnings took the form of my Dad. He was at the core of the longing that heaved on my young chest. I quickly turned around, overwhelmed with emotions I was unprepared to deal with; I rushed to my bedroom, jumped on my bed, and then hid my head under the soft pillow. I was scared. Scared; and eager; and excited, as the stiffness between my legs aggressively reminded me. I stood still, my belly resting on the mattress, as my tumid penis pressed deep onto the sheets. Few dozen minutes later, I finally succumbed to sleep. Morning came, and my room, flooded with sunlight, welcomed me to new day. Yawning, I sat on my bed and stretched. Walking out to the corridor, I was headed to the bathroom, when I noticed my parents' bedroom door ajar. If it was early enough in the morning, Mom was probably downstairs having her coffee, unless she already left for work. I slowly moved one feet after the other, light on my legs, and silently approached the door. A blade of light entering from the corridor slashed into darkness of the room, cutting into the form resting on the bed. Dad was laying on his side, facing the door, and I could hear his breathing, regular and deep. I was drawn to his motionless body; only his chest heaving in harmonic rhythm with his soft snore betrayed his sleep. I looked at his handsome, youthful face, tracing the lines of his straight eyebrows that curved slightly up just toward the end; I recorded his closed eyelids, the shape of his mouth, full lips disclosed, darker than his skin tone. They looked soft, almost plump, in their relaxed state. My Dad's lips, so very alike mine. The same lips that often brought smiles on my own mouth. The same lips that had laid thousand kisses on my face, since I was born. Kissing the top of my head when he was proud of me; kissing my forehead, acknowledging his love for me; kissing my cheeks, often blowing a raspberry when he was being playful. I moved my head closer to his, pushing away the distance between our lips. I longed to experience a different kiss from that mouth. My breathe got caught inside my chest, my lungs reluctant to let go; I licked my lips, biting softly on my lower lip, and closed the gap with his. Our lips touched, and suddenly my lungs decided to release and quickly intake air again, letting the scent of my father fill my nostrils. Flecks of heat rushed from the touching lips through my whole face, morphing into emotions that were shattering me from the inside. My tongue tentatively slipped its tip between my lips, searching for his, and painted a light stroke over them. Then I pulled my mouth away, watching him, needing him in ways I could not put in words nor conceive, yet. My heart almost skidded, I was bewildered. I moved away, retracing my steps back and out of the room. My heart was fibrillating, my breath was short and I felt dizzy; just before closing the door again, a blade of light from the corridor cut into Dad's handsome face, and I could have sworn I saw a speck of light reflected on his pupils.