Date: Thu, 13 Dec 2001 16:31:04 -0800 (PST)
From: Balthazaro <balthazaro@yahoo.com>
Subject: Italian Family, Part I

This work is copyrighted by its author.  It may not be
used without his express permission.  Private
individuals are given permission to have one (1)
electronic and/or one (1) printed copy of this story.
Nifty is given permission to archive this work.

If stories about homosexual acts offend you, please
don't read it... I hate to cause conniptions.  *grin*
If you like it (or don't like it) please let me know
at balthazaro@yahoo.com.

------------

My wife Carla was cooking bacon, and the smell of it
rose up the stairs and made my mouth water.  I
desperately needed a shower after my morning run; the
days were getting warmer, and I was really sweating
now even in the mornings. As I walked past my son
Steve's room, the rising sun cast my shadow against
the bathroom door at the end of the hall.  In passing,
I wondered if this was how Steve had seen me when he
was a baby; ten feet tall, with arms that could span a
whole room.

As I took off my sweaty gear in the bathroom, I ran my
hands along my pecs and down my muscular legs,
admiring myself in the mirror on the door.  Despite
the current good shape I was in and the runner's
muscles on my 6'1" frame, I had been well on my way to
turning into my father at one point. I was built
naturally lean, but I had started to develop a pot
belly a few years ago from sitting at a desk all day
and eating Carla's high-calorie Italian meals.  When I
turned 30, I started jogging again and working out at
the local gym, and the fat slowly melted away.  I made
a mental note to myself to warn Steve about it too,
when he got older; he looked just like me and the
Giani family "curse" would start showing on him too
the minute his metabolism started to slow down.

Steve had been quite a shock to Carla and I; she was
16, I was 17, and our parents were furious.  We were
both still in high school and had no way to provide
for a baby.  Carla's family were recent Italian
immigrants, Tuscans from Firenze. My family had been
in America for two generations but we were still very,
very Sicilian.  Both of our families were strict
Catholics, though, which made an abortion out of the
question.  We got married in the Church, and all the
relatives hugged each other and cried (even though
they hated each other before that, and still do).
Sometimes I wondered what would have happened if she
hadn't gotten pregnant, or if we had defied our
families and not married; God knows we didn't have
much in common other than sex in those days.  We
fought a lot in the first year or two - it was rough,
living with someone you hardly knew - but we had
hammered out a truce when we realized that it would be
bad for Steve to hear us fighting.  Over the years,
we've come to have the same sort of comfortable
relationship with each other that so many of my
friends' parents had had in school.  I also wondered
how many of those couples' easy familiarity with each
other hid the sort of disappointments and resentment
that stayed just under the surface in my marriage; I
never paid any attention to them, because they were
just parents, peripheral to the world that my friends
and I shared.  Now, from an adult perspective, the
things they did and said took on new meanings.

I turned on the shower and stepped into it, fluffing
up the thick growth of black hair around my slowly
hardening cock and watching as the water dripped down
it.  One of the reasons that my marriage never worked
out the way I wanted was simple. I had been fighting a
war that Carla didn't know about when I was fucking
her brains out on the family couch: other boys turned
me on, and that was the ultimate no-no.  Being gay was
rough enough these days in "normal" families and
cities; being gay in a big Sicilian family in Queens
was a death sentence.

As a kid, I slept in a room with my two older
brothers, and I could watch them jerk off just about
every night in the light coming through the window.  I
never really thought about any of it; it was just the
way things were.  When I was thirteen, I woke up one
night with my cock hard as a piece of iron.   My
brother Tony (then 16) was lying in a patch of light
from the window stroking his giant cock and moaning
softly.  I started jerking my little prick and
imitating what he was doing, and it started feeling
better and better.  My brother Vincent was dead
asleep, completely out of it.  After a while my
foreskin started squishing each time I slipped it over
the big head of my cock, and I stared down at my dick
in shock.  I had no idea that this could feel so good,
and I understood now why my brothers all liked to do
it so much!  I heard Tony whisper "Oh God!  Ah,
Madonna..." and I looked over to see him tense up with
seven inches of thick cock sticking up over his fist
as creamy white cum shot all the way up over his head
and stuck to the wall.  The next shot went all over
his face, and he twitched and went "uh!" as the next
two or three loads drooled out of his big meat and ran
down on his stomach.  He wiped his face off and got up
with his boner sticking out in front of him, heading
over to get tissues from the box on the dresser.  As
he was cleaning off the wall and cursing under his
breath, I felt something give right under my balls,
and I yelled as I shot a thin stream of clear fluid up
into the air.  It felt so good, I didn't even think
about the fact that Tony was standing there; I didn't
care, I just had to scream because it felt so GOOD.
Tony said "Shuddup, stupid!!  If you wake Mom up we're
all gonna get it!" and came over to the side of my
bed.  I was lying there covered in cum, and didn't
feel like I could even move.  He threw me some
tissues, and said "Was that the first time you ever
came?" and I nodded, still trying to catch my breath.
He grinned and said "Welcome to the club, little bro...
you're turning into a man!  Pretty soon you'll be
sticking this thing in all the pussy you can find!"
and he reached out and gave my now-limp cock a thump.
For the next three years, Tony, Vincent and I all beat
off whenever we could get away with it.

Thinking about watching my brothers during those long,
horny nights had gotten me hard as a rock.  I looked
down in the shower and saw the pisshole at the end of
my thick cock distended and staring up at me as if to
say "well?"  I had been overjoyed as a kid when I
realized that I was growing to match my brothers'
proportions, and my cock finally topped off at a
little over nine inches and about five inches around.
Where my brothers' cocks were straight, though, and
got thicker like cones toward their bases, mine was
the same thickness all the way down and curved up at
the end.  I wrapped my soapy hand around the shaft of
my cock, and gave it a few long, gentle strokes.  The
foreskin slipped back and locked behind the flared
ridge of my cockhead, and I could feel my balls
drawing up tighter to my body and getting ready to
pump their load of jizz out into the rushing water.
My toes tightened on the porcelain of the tub.  I
could feel the rush down my spine that told me I was
close; precum started drooling out of my cock as I
fisted it faster and faster.  Thinking of Tony lying
there that first night shooting his sperm out all over
his face did it.  I shot hard, jet after jet of my
seed pumping out all over the shower curtain and my
hand.  I wanted to yell, to scream, to fall out with
the feeling of my orgasm; I had always been inclined
to be loud when I was getting off.  Biting my lip and
moaning, I leaned against the shower wall and panted
as the last of my load slid over my fingers. Having
kids had taught me caution about being but so loud;
Steve had come running into the bedroom one night when
I had just shot a load into Carla, thinking I was
hurt.  The resulting uproar was unpleasant for all
three of us, and so I had learned to keep quiet
(however much it went against my natural
inclinations).

Finishing my shower and turning off the water, I
pulled a towel off the rack and dried myself off.  One
of the best parts about getting off in the morning was
the relaxed way you felt when you went to greet the
day.  Going through these morning rituals helped me a
lot; by the time I reached work, I already had my head
immersed in whatever I had to do that day.  I was a
design engineer at an automotive plant, so I was ahead
of the game if I could get to work already knowing
what I was going to be doing.  Long ago, I learned
that if I went to work horny I had a hell of a time
concentrating on anything.  Since I had to sneak
around to get any male action at all, my hand was my
best friend; Carla and I had stopped having sex six
years ago after Maddy was born.  She didn't want any
more kids, but wouldn't agree to getting a
hysterectomy, or letting me get a vasectomy; being a
good Catholic still, birth control was out of the
question.  I think she was just tired of sex in
general.

Walking back towards my room, I realized that I had no
idea if Steve was awake.  He was going to be late for
school if he didn't get up, and if he missed the bus I
was the lucky guy that got to drive him.  I listened
at his door, but didn't hear anything, so I opened the
door and stuck my head in saying "Hey, Stefano, you
got to get up..."

As I leaned through the door, I stopped in amazement.
Steve was lying in bed, the covers thrown off,
pounding away on a dick that looked even bigger (from
where I was standing) then the one his old man had
just finished beating on in the shower.  Two big
walnut-sized balls were pressed up against the base of
the shaft, ready to squirt.  I had opened the door at
the critical moment, and even though he was obviously
embarrassed, my sixteen year old's cum was flying
everywhere and his orgasm had complete control of him.
 I could hear him moaning softly on each breath, even
though his eyes were glued to me where I stood in the
doorway.  I was thankful that I had only leaned in the
door, because seeing my son with a huge boner had made
my own cock so hard it had forced the towel from
around my waist.  I waited until he was finished, and
said "Glad you're awake; you're lucky it was me and
not your Mamma or all hell would have broken loose."
I then almost ran back into my own room, towel in
hand.  As soon as my door closed, I wrapped my hand
around my cock and only three strokes later was
pumping another load off into a pair of dirty
underwear.  Jesus, my son was HUNG!  Once I calmed
down from my second orgasm of the morning, I was
repulsed at myself; bad enough I was in a loveless
marriage, now I was hot for my own son.

I got dressed slowly, trying to think objectively
about what I had just seen.  My mind was whirling; I
could barely button my shirt.  It was a shock to think
of my son as a sexual being, first of all - I could
remember when he was toddling around in diapers!
Second (and most disturbing) I was seriously turned on
by the sight of Steve whacking off, especially with
that monster he'd been packing between his legs.
Third, as I had told him before running off, if my
wife caught him spanking the monkey like that she'd
lose her shit - and the last thing I needed was to
listen to Carla throwing a fit and hauling poor Steve
off to church for the priest to yell at him.  Come to
think of it, the priest would probably try to get into
his pants.  Growing up Catholic left you few illusions
as to what the clergy got up to when they thought they
wouldn't get caught.

By the time I got downstairs, Carla had fixed a
frittata with the bacon and Maddy was setting the
table.  Carla kissed me good morning and said "You
better eat, you'll be late.  Is Stevie awake?  I
knocked on his door and he answered, but maybe I
should go up and make sure."

"No, Steve's up." I said, laughing a little to myself
at the double meaning.  I had tried very hard to break
myself of the habit of calling him Stevie, because he
hated it... he said it made him feel like a little kid.
My pop wanted to call him Junior since we named him
after me, but I told him it made him sound like some
kind of hick.  Now I only called him Steve, or Stefano
(his real name, just like Maddy was Maddalena after my
grandmother, God rest her soul).  I guess it was time
I dealt with the fact that he was growing up in more
ways than one.

No sooner had I said this than Steve came sidling into
the kitchen, not looking at me.  "Morning, Ma... morning
Dad... morning Maddy".  He grabbed a piece of toast and
a glass of juice and headed back up the steps.

"Where are you going, young man?" Carla yelled.
Jesus, I thought to myself.  Just what I need.  "You
don't feel like you need to eat with your family?  You
think maybe I don't want to know if my son is eating
right?"

"Hey, Carla, give the kid a break, huh?"  I looked at
Steve and he was looking at me, but with a really
weird expression.  He quickly looked away.  "He's
gotta get ready for school, doesn't he?"

Carla seemed to be taken aback; I normally didn't get
involved in this kind of discussion.  "Well, I just
worry about him.  You know I worry about you, don't
you, Stevie?"  He flinched at the name, and said "Yeah
Ma" and went back upstairs.  Maddy was oblivious to
all of this, sitting and eating her frittata with
little happy sounds, but looked up as Carla rounded on
me. "So why do you suddenly care whether your son is
ready for school or not?  Like you ever talk to him!
He could be doing drugs or anything, and we'd never
know the way you ignore him... God knows, he won't talk
to me!"

At this point, I realized that this was not a
conversation that we needed to be having in front of
Maddy, and that Carla wasn't going to back down
easily.  I also knew that I didn't have the time it
would take to hash this out before I went to work, so
I said "Yeah, you're right... I haven't seen much of the
kid.  Maybe I'll drive him to school today."

Leaving my wife with a dumbfounded expression, I got
up, pecked her and Maddy on the cheek, and got my
coat.  As I was standing in the hallway, Steve almost
ran me over on his way out the door to catch the bus.
"Hey, you!  The running man!  I'm gonna take you to
school today, OK?"  He looked at me with mixed
embarrassment and fear and turned pale, but only said
"But... um, yeah, sure, whatever." and sat down on the
steps.  I could tell he thought he was going to get it
for what I had seen earlier, but didn't see any way
out of his predicament.

As we both settled into the seats of my Lincoln and I
pulled out of the driveway, Steve stared resolutely
out the window.  I could tell he was wrestling with
it, and I figured I'd wait and see if he wanted to
talk.  Finally he said "Look, Dad, about this morning...
um... "

I felt bad for him; I knew he was horribly
embarrassed.  "Look, Steve, I didna drive you to
school so I could bitch atcha... ah, I t'ink it's great
dat my boy is growin' up."  Boy, that sounded stupid,
old man.  Get a grip here.  "It's prob'ly my fault,
cause I just come in your room like dat.  What I mean
is, when I was your age I was beatin' it two and t'ree
times a day, so I'm not mad or nuttin'.  Just don't
let your Ma catch you at it, hah?  She'll lose her
shit all over everybody and we'll all end up at church
for t'ree mont's or sometin'."  He grinned in spite of
looking guilty; he knew how awful it got when Carla
decided we weren't religious enough.

"Well, I can tell it upset you a little."  Steve said,
his voice cracking in spite of the fact that his sense
of humor was coming back.

"Oh yeah?  And why'dja t'ink dat?"

"Because your accent gets really strong when you get
upset, and I feel like I'm ridin' wit' da godfatha
ovah heeh."  I reached out and slapped him playfully
across the back of the head and he burst out laughing.
 We didn't talk much for the rest of the trip, but I
could tell he was a lot more comfortable with me than
he had been when he got in the car.  When I let him
out, he said "See ya later" and went on into the
school building just like normal.  I headed for work
feeling like a good dad.  If only I could get the
image of my son's naked cum-covered body out of my
mind.

For the next month or so, life seemed pretty normal at
my house.  Carla and I worked out the whole "you don't
spend any time with Steve" argument later that night,
and after that things went along pretty much like they
always did.  I tried to keep myself from thinking
about what was going on in Steve's room.  Once or
twice I'd catch myself listening for moans or any
other sign that he might be beating off when I was on
my way to the shower, but I never heard anything.  I
recognized the signs of obsession in myself, and I
tried like hell to resist thinking about it, but every
morning when I shot my load down the drain, I was
thinking about Steve beating his monster prick.  My
work suffered the first few days; I couldn't focus on
anything.  I would be sitting at my desk, or my
drafting board, and suddenly the image would flash in
front of my eyes and my cock would get rock hard in my
pants.  One of the problems with having such a big
dick (though not as big as my kid's, I thought to
myself) was that there wasn't really any hiding it
when it stood up.  I had to wait for it to go down
before I could get up; several days I ended up working
late or taking lunch at odd hours because I couldn't
get my cock to behave.  Once I even beat off standing
in the urinal in the men's room at work, so that I
could go back to my desk without embarrassing myself.

Every time I looked at Steve now, I caught myself
staring at his crotch like I was some sort of teenaged
slut hot for action.  I hadn't been this worked up in
years.  After a couple of weeks, I managed to get it
back under control and stop thinking so much about
what I had seen.  Fantasies need fuel just like fire,
and Steve was definitely keeping a low profile around
his Dad.  Despite the occasional flash of heat, I
could function, but I decided that I had to get some
action somewhere other than from my hand.  I figured I
would run over to the neighborhood mall that weekend;
one of the department stores there had a bathroom with
a glory hole in it, and I had gone there twice before
when the need got too bad to handle.  I could slut it
up there, and not be recognized by anyone since the
partition masked all of me but my mouth.  I knew I'd
be fantasizing about my son while I sucked off a few
strangers, but that was OK... maybe I'd find a new
fantasy.

As I was getting ready to go out the door that
Saturday afternoon, Steve came down the steps and said
"Dad?"  I looked up and winced.  Being only 33, I felt
like I made a pretty good Dad most of the time since I
remembered what it was like to be his age.  In spite
of this, there were times when I felt 90 years old...
especially when I looked at the shit my son wore to go
out with his friends.  He had on a bright orange
t-shirt with a goggle-eyed fish in the middle of it,
and a pair of those jeans that were so baggy that the
crotch bound his knees together; they were so loose
that he had to hold them up at the waist when he was
walking.  It's no wonder I had never figured out how
hung he was; you could hide five children in those
baggy clothes.

I told him "Surely you're not going out looking like
that?  My father saw me leave the house looking like
that, he'd beat the hell out of me... after he fell out
laughing, of course.  You look like a shoplifter."

Steve gave me the look kids reserve for their parents
when they are subjected to statements like that.
"Everybody in school thinks these clothes are the
bomb, Dad... it's not like I wear 'em to church or
nothin'."

"The bomb, huh?  You look like a refugee, so I guess
bomb is pretty close to it.  What do you need?  I was
just headed out."

"Oh!  You're going out?"  A look of disappointment was
plain on his face.  "You coming back soon?"

"Eh, I don't know.  I've got to run to the mall for
some stuff, and got a few other errands to run.  Why?"

"Oh... well... oh.  Wait, you said you were going to the
mall?"

"Yeah..."  Oh boy, I can see where this is headed.

"Could you drop me off there?  I'm supposed to meet
Louie and Jim and a couple of the guys from school
there, and they'll give me a ride home but I gotta get
to the mall.  I was going to ask if I could borrow the
car, but if you could drop me off..."  He looked at me
hopefully.

"Well, if you don't need a ride home, I guess so.  I
don't want to have to go looking all over the mall for
you when I'm ready to go, though, so make sure you
have a way to get home."  How did I get into these
situations?  Here I was going to the mall to suck some
dick and try to get over my visions of my son, and
he's going with me... This was not what I needed at all.

We drove to the mall, and with a "Thanks, Dad, you're
the best!" Steve took off to look for his friends.  I
grinned, remembering what my old man would have said
to me if I'd hit him up for something like that.  Time
to hit the store john and see what the day had brought
me.

I opened the door, and I was in luck; there was nobody
there.  I took the stall against the far wall and
waited.  The way the bathroom was laid out, there were
two doors in a sort of airlock at the entrance, so you
could hear people coming in before they could see you.
 Along the same wall as the door there were two
urinals and one stall, with a glory hole about three
inches across punched into the partition.  It was
located so that the people coming in or pissing
couldn't see the face of the person sitting on the
toilet, but the guy in the stall could see from the
chest to the knees of anyone at the urinals.
Instructions to "show hard cock for blowjob" had been
written over each urinal, and most people who went in
there knew what the deal was anyway from the
gloryhole.

I waited for about ten minutes before I heard the
outside door open.  I leaned back so that I wasn't
visible and watched as a burly guy about my age came
in.  He pulled out an average sized cock and pissed,
and then stood there stroking it gently.  I ran my
finger along the edge of the hole, and he brought his
cock over and stuck it through the hole for me.

After my long dry spell, the first taste of his cock
was like heaven.  I licked along the head of his cock
as he groaned under his breath and I heard him mutter
"Gimme some head, dude."  I slid my lips around the
head and wrapped them tightly around the shaft of his
cock as I slid it home in my warm, wet mouth.  He gave
a little sigh of satisfaction as I bottomed out
against the partition, and he started pumping his hips
and fucking my face with his six-inch prick.  I could
taste precum drooling from his pisshole every time it
swiped across my tongue, and I pressed my tongue
against the tube on the underside of his cock with
each thrust to get more.  I could tell it had been a
long time since he had cum and that he really needed
to get off.

My own cock was throbbing against my stomach as I
sucked this guy off, his breath coming harder and
harder.  After about five minutes of his brutal
mouth-rape, I heard him whisper "oh man, I'm gonna... "
as he went up on tiptoe against the stall wall.  He
grunted and I could feel the first blast of hot
cock-spit shooting past my tonsils.  A second and a
third shot followed, and it was thick and salty and
wonderful.  He groaned and leaned against the wall as
the last few spurts poured into my mouth.  I ran all
the way down his cock and held it in my mouth, milking
the last few drops out of his bulging cumtube with my
tongue.  As his cock started softening in my mouth, he
pulled back slowly, hissing in his breath at the
almost-painful sensation of his cockhead slipping past
my tight lips.  Sticking his deflating member back in
his jeans, he zipped up and left.  I stroked my cock
gently, but I didn't want to get off so quickly.  I
knew the afternoon could have more in store, and if I
came now I'd feel so guilty I'd race home.

I was so consumed with teasing my cock without letting
it come, I almost missed the sound of the door
opening.  Leaning back, I looked through the hole and
saw... an orange t-shirt with a fish in the middle of
it.  I was overcome by panic, and I almost bolted out
of the stall then and there.  The only thing that kept
me in place was that I had no possible justification
for being in that store; I felt sure that the sound of
my heart beating was audible through the whole store,
if not the whole mall.  I felt trapped like a rat in a
cage.

After a few seconds, a thought pierced my panic; what
the hell was Steve doing there, anyway?  I thought he
was supposed to meet some friends... I almost broke my
neck looking back through the hole.  He was standing
at the urinal next to the hole, and stroking that cock
that I had fantasized about so many times in the past
month.  It was even bigger seen from this angle; it
stuck straight out like my brother Tony's prick, but
it was the same thickness all the way down its length
like mine.  It was enormous... I almost fell off the
toilet seat.  He stood there, rubbing it, and was
waiting to see what I was going to do.  Thankfully,
since he couldn't see me, he had no idea who I was.
There were no veins on that monster of manhood; it
looked like polished stone, the foreskin slipping back
and forth over a huge purple knob at the end which had
already started to drool.

What choice did I have?  I put my finger through the
hole, and my sixteen-year-old son turned and stuck his
firehose of a cock through the wall for me to suck.  I
reached over and wrapped my hand around it, making the
tip flare even more.  It was bigger than I remembered,
and it pulsed in my hand like a rocket about to go
off.  All I could do was stare at it... I forgot where I
was, who I was, and who this cock belonged to... it
became the center of my universe.  I don't know how
long I would have sat there just running my hand along
it if I hadn't heard my son's voice whispering "Come
on dude... suck it for me."

I leaned forward, licking the tip of that colossal
organ, and tasted my son's tangy precum.  It was sweet
on my tongue, and made me want more of it, made me
want to bathe in it, to spread it all over my body and
howl at the Moon like a madman.  I slid his foreskin
over his bulging cockhead and stuck my lips over it,
then slowly rolled the foreskin back until it locked
behind the ridge of that huge purple helmet.  The feel
of his foreskin sliding around in my mouth like that
made Steve whimper; I could feel his cock getting even
harder.  I was in heaven, and wanted this to last
forever, but I knew that like most boys his age he
just wanted to get off.

I pulled him forward with my hand until I could lift
his balls through the hole too... I didn't think this
glory hole had ever held so much meat before.  I went
down and sucked on his balls like a real cockpig,
licking my way through the sparse black hairs there
and then tonguing back up the side of that turgid
column of boymeat.  His breath started coming in
little gasps, and when I glanced down I saw his toes
clenching in his Teva sandals underneath those
ridiculous oversized cuffs.  His cock was bouncing
with his pulse against the side of my face, as my
rough tongue worked its way over every inch of that
olive-skinned pole.  He was panting, no doubt
wondering why I was prolonging this so much; his balls
were drawing up tighter to his body telling me that
his cock had had about enough teasing, regardless of
what I might think.  I slipped the giant head of his
meat back between my lips, and slid down the length of
his pole.  The thickness of it distended my jaws, and
when I felt the head slip into my throat there were
still four or five inches left to go.  How was I going
to take this monster?

By this point, I was beyond shame.  My pants around my
ankles, I knelt down in front of the wall and stuck my
nine curved inches between his calves.  I could feel
him shift and look down, and heard him say "whoa!" as
he unknowingly admired the rod that made him.  Having
gotten a better angle, I could take his whole cock
down my throat.  Despite my gag reflex, I had to have
it.  I wanted to taste his cum and nothing was going
to stop me.  He started rubbing his legs together with
my cock trapped between them as I mouthed his enormous
boymeat, feeling that precum making my throat slicker
for its invader.  He started panting like a dog, and I
knew it was only a matter of seconds.  Sliding back a
bit, I got the head of his cock out of my throat and
into my mouth just in time to hear him go "Uhnnn... oh
god..!!"  and shoot a massive gusher of hot cum.  I
felt like I was drowning; I could have died then and
been perfectly happy.  Each successive shot was a
little less force, a little less cum, but they were
still sweet, still tangy and tart and wonderful and
Steve's.  I stroked his rod with my free hand, milking
more of his juice into my hungry mouth.  He had
collapsed against the partition, the force of his
orgasm leaving him spent like driftwood abandoned on a
beach.  I was about to cum just tasting his hot
essence, and I was almost at my peak when I felt him
spread his legs and step back from my upthrust
prickmeat.

I must have moaned, or something; there's no other
explanation for what came next.  As if realizing that
I was so close to getting off, I heard my son say
"Lemme help ya with that, man." ....

... And a pair of hot lips wrapped around the end of my
curved, veiny cock.

He hadn't sucked anyone before, apparently, but it
didn't matter one bit.  The idea of Steve sucking me
off had only crossed my mind during my most shameful
fantasies; the reality of it pushed me over the edge
faster than you could say "shoot off".  His mouth made
it about three inches down my cock on the first
stroke, just in time to take a gusher of cum that had
him gagging and pulling back.  I kept shooting (what
else could I do?), blowing two giant spurts of jism
all over the far side of the stall wall.  As if from another
dimension, I heard him say "Jesus!", and felt his lips
go back over the end of my pulsating, throbbing,
cumming rod again.  He took the rest of my load in his
mouth and licked me clean, and then jumped up and said
"uh, thanks!" and ran out the door.  I got up off the
floor slowly, feeling like my hips had been displaced
from the force of my orgasm.  I knew I had to get up,
had to go clean up the jizz on the stall wall and
floor, had to go home and face my son and try to lead
a normal life knowing what I did.

I had sucked my son's cock.

My son had sucked my cock.

Life would never be the same again.