Date: Mon, 4 Dec 2023 14:55:35 -0500 From: Sophomore Hank Subject: Sophomore Year 4 Sophomore Year 4 This is the fourth of a multipart story about my year boarding with a single dad and his two sons. It was a time of highly charged eroticism more than explicit sex and led me to discover a lot about myself. This is my first submission to Nifty. Send your thoughts and reactions in an email, I attempt to respond to all. And remember - nifty depends on donations! Let's help it survive and thrive! Contribute if you can at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Sophomore Year 4 Buck led me back down to the living room and through the dining room towards a half staircase leading to the lower floor of the split-level part of the house. I stopped in the dining room, noticing that instead of the usual furniture, there was an official-looking poker table, with felt top and compartment for card decks. Sets of poker chips sat on a nearby shelf, as well as a stack of class ashtrays and a tray with several liquor bottles. "Yeah, this is where we host poker parties. My boys help out getting drinks and snacks and just keeping the mood upbeat. You have never seen guys have so much fun losing money," he chuckled. "But it keeps me in beer. Well, in child support payments, more like it. Zack's mom works only parttime, so..." "Aaah," I thought, "that helps explain his care with the lights." He let the thought fade as we headed downstairs to a den-like room with a pool table on the right, in front of wide sliding doors to a large patio and a huge back yard beyond. Looking out as the early evening sky started turning pink, I thought, "wow, beautiful but a lot of grass to mow." At the bottom of the stairs, to the immediate right, hung a wall phone, its long cord curling almost to the floor. Just beyond it a wooden bar stretched to the corner and a line of wood stools where I could imagine players sitting and sipping on beers waiting their turn. An alcove behind the bar houses shelves of glasses and bottles and a large mirror. I could imagine myself back there, tending bar during a game. Across the room, along the far wall, a treadmill stood facing a large TV set in the corner where a game played out at low volume. "Wow," I marveled, "Nice pool table!" "Yeah, we also host some mini tournaments here. Boys also help with that. Another source of child-support, you might say." He laughed quietly. I was getting the impression that Buck was a clever entrepreneur and that making and saving money were important in this household. Over one of the treadmill handles hung what looked like a very well used pair of red shorts with a yellow emblem on the front. From my years of track, running shorts were something I knew about. "Wow, are those real Marine-issue silkies?" I asked. "Yep," Buck replied, "authentic ranger panties. Buddy of mine left `em here last year. Well, lost `em in a poker game, actually." He laughed. "Wow!" I said, impressed, "I had an uncle who was a Marine. I used to beg him to let me wear his. He promised he'd give them to me one day, but..." I let that thought fade. "Mind if I have a look?" I tentatively stretched out my hand. "Be my guest." He gently lifted them off the treadmill. "Not sure how fresh they are, though." And he brought them up to his face, pressing them over this nose and inhaled deeply. "Aaah, not too gamey yet." He laughed, "They're getting so flimsy, I'm almost afraid to wash `em. Sure are silky though." He brushed them gently across his cheek and sighed as he handed them to me with an odd, sleepy smile on his face. "You have to be real careful how you wash shorts like these," I cautioned. "Regular detergent and hot water'll ruin `em. You need to just rinse them good in cold water and maybe a bit of real mild soap, like baby shampoo." "Is that right?" Buck raised his eyebrows, sounding maybe a little skeptical. "Yes sir," I explained, "Same with Speedo-type suits. With track team and all, taking care of running shorts like these is one of my specialties." "Well, sounds like our Sailor Hank here's got quite a few specialties" he winked. I once again regretted my stupid turn of phrase. My attention turned to the shorts. They were just like my uncle's, the kind of quality you couldn't find anymore. I pressed them to my nose, half expecting to smell my uncle. The scent was rich, almost spicy and tickling, but not my uncle's. Probably a decade old at least, the shorts were still holding up after what looked like heavy use. The fabric was worn almost paper thin in spots, and a few seams were bare but overall, they held their shape. They weighed almost nothing in my hands, and the silkiness felt amazing. I was surprised that something so small and light could bring back such weighty emotions. I held them up to the window, to better inspect the Marine emblem embossed on the left leg. The light poured through them, bringing the inner liner brief into stark relief. I could make out the leaves on the trees out the window through the single layer of fabric below the liner. My face burned red when I realized what this meant when they were worn. "Yeah, not much left to `em, is there?" Buck chuckled. "I always make sure to `strap up under `em, so I got everything in place. Jacker thinks I'm crazy. `That's what the liner's for, Dad!' he says, but I wouldn't trust that flimsy liner, not for cover or support. He loves wearing `em as is though, floppin' around with every step. He even wears `em out running on the trails," he gestured out the glass doors towards the park beyond the back yard. "But then, he's an incurable freeballer. The commando kid!" He turned thoughtful, "I guess I shouldn't complain. I'm glad that both my boys aren't bashful about what makes us men. I just wish Jacko would take a little better care of his gonads. I tell him, `hey, ya only get one pair in this life.'" Inwardly embarrassed by my own bashfulness, I handed back the shorts to Buck, and he replaced them on the treadmill bar, carefully arranging them so they hung neatly. Watching him I saw that Buck was not really what you'd call handsome even though if seen from the rear his imposing stature and muscularity might lead you to think he would be. But the heavy brow, the broken nose and the thick jaw gave him kind of a brutish, intimidating look. It was his charisma, the unexpected twinkle in his eyes and that 100-watt smile that grabbed you and drew you in. "These are the designated treadmill shorts, so anybody using the treadmill can wear `em. I got some guys who started using the treadmill just so they could put `em on, they're so silky. Who knew they'd be so good for business?" he laughed. "I always recommend pairing with a jockstrap, but since they have a liner, you could go without and still not be in violation of the support rule." I wondered what `the support rule' meant but once again was too shy to ask. "So, your uncle still in the Marines, Sailor?" "Uh, he..." The question caught me off guard. Before I could compose a polite response, I blurted, "He got killed a few years ago, sir." And before I knew it, my eyes watered up. The loss still hit me hard. "Sorry, sir." I muttered as I tried to wipe the tears off my face. "Hey, son, c'mere," Buck whispered softly and put an arm around my shoulders. "There's nothing wrong with tears, not when they're for somebody who brought love to your life." I was both shocked by his sudden tenderness and overwhelmed by the sentiment and before I knew it, I had fallen against his chest sobbing. He wrapped me in an embrace and whispered, "There, there, that's ok, little man, let it out," and the floodgates opened, soaking his poor shirt even more. With my face lodged in the valley of his pecs, as I gulped air between sobs, the scent was amazing, almost intoxicating. I couldn't explain it. After a minute or so, I composed myself and gently pulled away. My cheek lightly scraped against one of those huge nipples, and I felt him give a slight shudder. Though it was fleeting, the exact sensation of that surprisingly firm little knob burned across my skin. Buck tugged the wet wife beater over his head, gently took hold of my neck and with his shirt in hand dabbed at my tears and then wiped my nose as though I were a child. I tried to protest but he shushed me and said, "A man should only be ashamed to cry when it's about money or possessions. Never about somebody you love. Your tears honor your uncle." I was unsettled by this sudden emotional intimacy but also felt oddly soothed. "You ready to keep going?" he softly asked, tossing the damp wife beater over his shoulder. I nodded yes, and as we started walking, still embarrassed I mumbled, "Sorry about all that, sir. I'm not usually a crier." "Hey," he stopped me with a hand to the shoulder and looked me squarely in the eye, "No worries, Sailor. Boys crying is one of my specialties." With that he winked, tousled my hair, and walked into the next room.