Date: Tue, 3 Jul 2012 02:47:57 +0000
From: TX coyote <txcoyote@hotmail.com>
Subject: Clif and Me

This story is a work of fiction, though I wish it weren't, and I hope you
do too. If you like it, I would love to hear from you. You can write me at
Txcoyote@hotmail.com.

The usual disclaimers apply: for adult readers only. Contains graphic
depictions of sexual activity between men, some of whom are related.

++++++++++++++++


My home is beautifully situated. From high on a hill at the edge of town, I
can stand on my patio and watch the sunrise, or lie on my bed upstairs and
watch through the glass wall as the sun sets over the green hills to the
west. My wife and I bought the house when we first married. It was far
beyond our means then, but we were in love and optimistic and far too young
to understand what sometimes happens to dreams. Our dream of owning this
home did come true, with luck and perseverance, and we each set out on
promising academic careers. It was like the dawn of the world, we had been
favored, and nothing could stop us. Our careers advanced, we filled the
house with the sort of furniture and art we'd always wanted, we had parties
with good friends, and we went on loving each other.

As soon as it was no threat to her career, my wife got pregnant and bore a
healthy son. We wanted more children, but there were sensible reasons to
wait a few years, so we did. And in the meantime, with absolutely
indifferent suddenness, everything changed. When my son was 6 years old, my
wife was driving him to his piano lesson when they were struck by a police
car that went out of control in pursuit of a suspect in a robbery-slaying.
My son was unconscious when help arrived, and didn't awaken for several
hours. When he did, there was no evidence of any lasting damage, thank
god. He wondered where he was and what had happened, because he'd lost all
memory of the accident. He wanted his mother. When I told him his mother
was gone, he just looked at me, as if he didn't believe me but was willing
to go along with it for a while. Over the next 24 hours he asked me twice
more where his mother was, and twice more I told him before he finally
cried.

The insurance money went into a trust fund for Clif, and I managed to keep
the house and to keep us together. My wife's parents and my own sister
offered to take him, but neither he nor I wanted us to be separated. We
shared a pain that nobody else would ever completely understand, and that
made us closer than we could ever have been otherwise. In most things Clif
was a normal little boy, but we were bonded as equals in sorrow. When a
moment of grief washed over either one of us, the other seemed instantly to
know, the way identical twins say they know when one of them has been
hurt. This sharing made him the person I was closest to, more intimate than
with my other male friends or with the women who were ready to offer me
solace. It seems strange to say that a 30-year-old father felt that his
6-year-old son was his best friend, but there were many times when I felt
exactly that.

With time, we grieved less, and life tugged us relentlessly forward. I had
my career, and Clif had his growing up to do. But even after the pain had
ebbed for each of us, the special channel between us was left open. When I
had a disappointment, Clif would sense it. He'd crawl into my lap and hug
me and look at me with his big, brown eyes, and without his having asked me
anything, I'd tell him what was wrong in terms that he could understand.
Then we'd hold each other for a long time and talk in low voices to each
other and we'd end up making each other laugh. I'd fall out of the chair
with him and roll on the floor and we'd end up lying face to face on the
rug. I'd cradle him and kiss his soft hair until he fell asleep in my arms,
and then I'd carry him to his room, undress him, and put him to bed. When
he was asleep, I could sit and look at him for hours. He was the most
precious, miraculous thing in my life. Sometimes I felt I had put all the
love I'd had for my wife into him and still loved him for himself besides.
It was the most natural thing in the world for me to lay my hand on his
butt and leave it there, letting my love for him radiate into his body.

We had fun, too. Clif had a good imagination and a sly sense of humor. I'd
be shaving in the bathroom, and Clif would come to lean against the door
and say something like, "Dad, I've been thinking. I could use a couple of
extra bucks. What'll you give me to grade your papers for you?"

"Well, now, Clif," I'd say, "the last time you graded papers for me, we had
to move to a new state and change our names. Remember when the mob came to
the house with those burning torches? Remember when they tried to set fire
to the house? Remember when I faced them down on the front porch . . ."

"That was me, Dad, actually," he'd say.

"Well, yeah, I let you give it a try that time. It's probably a good thing
I stayed out of sight behind the door, anyway; if I'd shown myself, they
would have been in such a panic, people would have gotten trampled."

He'd say, "That's why I put that sack over your head. So how about the
money?"

"What do you need money for?"

"It's a little matter that doesn't concern you," he'd say.

"Get some girl in trouble, did you?" I'd ask.

"Nobody you'd know," he'd say.

"I guess I can see my way clear to a couple of bucks to help a fellow out."

"Thanks, Dad," he'd say. "You're a regular guy." Then he'd walk over and
slap me on my naked butt and stroll out of the bathroom.

Clif's mind seemed to have erased all traces of the accident that took his
mother's life. He wasn't frightened of cars, or movies with chases in them,
or policemen. The only thing that gave him trouble was something that lots
of children fear: thunderstorms. During a daytime storm, he'd stick close
to my side, and it wouldn't take more than an occasional wink from me to
help him through. But if one came up during the night, he was sure to wake
me up by climbing into bed with me.

"My room's being painted," he'd say.

I'd sleepily nod and pull the covers up around him and then draw him close.
He was small, and slept curled up, so even though I slept nude, there
wasn't any danger of his encountering my troublesome erections.

I say troublesome because there was something in my feelings for Clif that
made me uneasy. You have to understand that I wasn't reacting sexually to
the little boy I lived with, much less to my son; I'd never felt any
conscious desire toward another grown man, nor anyone under age. This
wasn't lechery, though I expect no one will believe me when I say that. I'm
telling you a story that could get me locked up if the wrong people could
get their hands on me. But men get hardons for lots of different reasons. I
got one once when I had to refuse the pleadings of a tearful but unpassable
student; I was sorry for her, but at the same time it excited me to feel
the proximity of that emotion. I've also gotten the makings of an erection
in corny movies when the townspeople improbably band together to do
something noble for a worthy but long-suffering character. Your dick isn't
just a barometer of horniness; after all, it gets hard when you dream, no
matter what you're dreaming about. The whole mixture is so complicated,
nobody has any business judging anybody else.

Anyway, I never did more than stroke my sons' butt through the covers and
hold him close to my bare chest while he slept. I was troubled by my
feelings, but I knew that underneath everything was love, so I let things
go this far and no farther. Maybe I'd meet the right woman and get married
again, and things would take a different course. I met a lot of women,
quite a few who were jewels, and I thought often about getting married.
Clif liked a lot of them, and I think we could have made the transition
with a little effort. But none of them had what it took, I guess. I'd date
them, and sleep with them, and they'd mother my son, and maybe we'd even
talk about the prospect, but it never happened. I think Clif benefited from
having them around, but I don't think he ever found anyone he truly wanted
to have for a mother. And maybe that's ultimately why I never got married
again.

Years passed and brought only the usual changes, nothing as traumatic or
unsettling as my wife's death. Clif grew up as a normal little boy, did
well in school, had lots of friends, played sports, took lessons in piano,
dance, and tennis, had dogs, joined the scouts, went to camp, discovered
sex, discovered girls, went to parties and dances, grew tall, and was
popular. In the natural course of things, he looked elsewhere for a lot of
the things I used to supply him with: comfort, stimulation, companionship.
Of course I was a little sad, as what parent isn't, but I was glad to see
him growing up so competently. And we still had a good relationship, not
nearly as rocky as some of his friends had with their parents. If he came
in later than he should have, I'd slip my glasses down to the end of my
nose and say, "What have we here?"

"A late son," he'd say.

"A late son tinged with alcohol," I'd say.

"Did you ever drink something called "Sex in the Jungle?" he'd ask.

"I never drank anything remotely associated with alcohol in my life," I'd
say.

"I forgot," he'd say. "But if you had, would it have been the
aforementioned Sex in the Jungle?"

"Would this beverage have been mixed by the co-captain of the football team
in a trash can bought specially for the purpose?"

"It could well have been."

"In that case, if you puke, do it in the bathroom, not in the flowerbeds;
I'm told the pink stains are very obvious the next morning."

"Much as I hate to think about it, puking is what I'd most like to do."

I instructed him, and the next morning he was able to eat breakfast.

We still sometimes spent evenings together, though not very often. He would
study at my desk, and I'd read nearby. Once in a great while, we'd go out
to dinner together, or I'd have a party and he'd stay for the first hour to
greet some of my old friends whom he knew well enough to call friends of
his own. They all adored him, and praised him to me incessantly. I made
ironic remarks, but the truth was that he remained the center of my
life. My career, my friends were second to him. I endeavored to be such a
good parent that he would never realize how much he meant to me.


Clif had turned into a beautiful adolescent, which is a heartbreakingly
evanescent thing to behold. He was tall and poised. He was graceful and
unselfconscious. When people asked him trivial or flattering questions, he
had a way of tucking his chin thoughtfully for a second, then looking
broadly into his questioner's face and firing back a question of his own. I
felt that I was sharing my house with someone who was part stranger, part
myself.

Clif hated football, but he liked other sports, and he liked the arts about
as well. He danced every chance he got, which included a role in at least
one recital a year. I attended them all, of course, as I did the track and
field games where he competed, or the tennis matches where he did better at
doubles than at singles.

He wasn't that much of a cook, even though he liked to eat well enough, and
enjoyed dishes that most of his peers might have recoiled from. But cooking
wasn't one of the many things he was drawn to. So it was slightly
surprising one night when he invited me to dinner and declared he was going
to cook it himself. I knew something was up.

He made salad and pasta with tomato sauce and garlic bread, and he
furnished a very good wine and cheese with fresh fruit for dessert. It
didn't stretch his culinary skills very far, but I was grateful for every
morsel.

When we had exhausted the small talk and the pasta, I asked him what was on
his mind.

"I don't feel normal," he said.

"In what way," I asked.

"Sexually," he answered, without blinking.

"So who decides what's sexually normal?" I asked.

"Nobody told me," he said, "not even you."

"That's because I don't know," I said.

"Is there such a thing as normality?" he asked.

I started to answer, and then stopped.

"Well, is there?" he asked.

I am ashamed to say I slipped into academic mode at that point, and the
conversation kind of fizzled. I felt guilty later for not being brave
enough to hear what was on Clif's mind. I guess I was more afraid of what
was on mine.

In spite of his being so competent and athletic and self-assured, Clif
never got over being afraid of thunderstorms. There probably wasn't anyone
but me who could have detected the signs, but I always knew, and whenever
it was possible, I put my arms around him when lightning flashed.

One night after a faculty dinner to honor a retiring professor, I drove
home through rising wind and found that Clif hadn't yet come home from some
party he'd attended. I never waited up for Clif because I knew he always
took good care of himself, so, being a bit heavy with wine, I took myself
to bed.

Early the next morning I drifted slowly up from sleep and a dream about my
wife. For a few moments, I forgot that she was dead and I believed I was
holding her there in bed. The smell and the feel of her smooth skin were
vividly real. Then I realized it was Clif, who'd crawled in bed with me in
the night. He was lying with his back to me and I was snug against him, my
arms around his body. And suddenly I realized with a shock that we were
both naked, and even worse, that I was pressing a hardon into the small of
his back. I wanted to move, but I also wanted to go on holding him, the
most beloved thing in my life. Clif was sound asleep. My heart raced. I
would let him go in just a few seconds, but I wanted a guilty moment to
savor the crazy feelings that were crashing through me. Holding him was
like holding a woman, except that where my hand pressed against his chest
there was no swollen breast to cup, but a flat plate of muscle. His body
was hard, as I knew from countless embraces through our clothes; but I
wasn't prepared for how soft and smooth his skin felt. I let my thumb glide
slowly over his chest, as gently as possible. He continued to breathe
slowly and deeply. My nose was pressed into his hair, and I breathed in the
young, fresh smell of him. I grew so excited I had to suppress a groan of
passionate intensity. I wanted to crush him in my arms, I wanted to kiss
his beautiful mouth and feel his hands on my body. I wanted us to close the
last gap that separated us and to belong to each other completely. I felt
no revulsion at what I was thinking, only despair that barriers were set to
our love for each other. I was struggling to keep my hips from pumping
against his hard ass. I knew it would take only a couple of strokes and I'd
have an orgasm against his smooth brown back. I wanted to. I wanted to wake
him up with kisses, to roll him over and engulf his body, to feel his
manhood against mine. And a part of me felt he would embrace me as
passionately, but a part of me was scared of what would happen if he
didn't. I fought myself harder than I ever fought anything else in my
life. And at last I drew slowly away from him, slipped my arms from around
him, rolled carefully over, and got quietly out of bed. I went into my
bathroom and showered until my hardon subsided. I was as intensely alive as
I had ever been, even during the first flush of romantic love with my
wife. I was happy and pessimistic at the same time, glad to be facing a big
truth about myself and frightened of the outcome.

I got dressed while I stared at his still sleeping form, and crept out of
the room.

How many fathers, I wondered, had lusted after their sons? Is it something
that rises up far more often than we will ever know? How many of them act
on it? Who could ever tell his friend if he did? What effect did it have on
his son? Was he warped by it? Or was it a way for his father to give him
some otherwise inaccessible part of himself, something to guide him when
life demanded hard choices? I had heard of primitive societies that
practiced ritual homosexuality as part of puberty rites; and there were of
course the Greeks, who raised the love between men and boys to cultural
status. But I knew of no case where the lover was the boy's father. Was it
really rare, or had it been censored out of history? What could anyone
object, anyway? There was no danger of inbreeding, after all. It seemed the
ultimate form of intimacy between any two people who loved each other. But
there was still the problem of social taboos, and the emotional damage they
could inflict. If you love someone, you don't sacrifice his emotional
health to your physical desires.

I thought it odd how readily I accepted my feelings. Many a man would have
rushed to a psychiatrist or a priest or shot himself rather than
contemplate what I was contemplating. Did that make me somehow depraved? I
never felt so for an instant. I was in love with my son, it was as simple
as that.

I thought that probably I'd been in love with him ever since my wife died,
and I was just waiting for him to acquire the maturity that would enable
him to love me in the same way. I thought of fables about souls that had
loved each other before birth; wasn't it possible for two of those souls to
have been born into a father and his son?

But that felt like rationalizing, so I made myself get busy with the sort
of weekend chores that are always stacked up around a house. Clif woke up a
couple of hours after I had, and after he'd showered and dressed, we ate
breakfast. I was amazed how comfortably I sat there with him, munching
toast, laughing at his description of the party he'd attended the night
before, and knowing that I now loved him in a way probably nobody could
understand. There was a moment during breakfast when the conversation
naturally hit a lull, and I was gazing at him. He looked back at me
steadily, as if he were as sure as I wanted to be. I thought he could read
my feelings, I wondered if he'd been awake in bed this morning. I hoped he
had. But we didn't speak about anything, we just looked at each other for a
minute and then went on eating.

I scarcely thought about anything else except my new-found passion all
day. There was no question what I wanted; but how would he feel? How was I
going to sound him out without doing harm to the good relationship we'd
developed over the years? I didn't have a clue. I figured it would either
occur naturally or it wouldn't, in which case I would at least have known a
kind of love few people ever experience.

The front that had come through the previous evening settled into a cold
day and a frigid evening. I worked around the house all day. Clif was in
and out, but mostly gone. I expected him to be gone that evening, which
half disappointed me and half excited me, because I had the prospect of
finally indulging the fantasies that had been simmering in my head all day
and releasing the sexual tension that had stayed built up since this
morning. In short, I wanted to jack off thinking about my son.

Late in the afternoon, he telephoned to ask me what my plans were for the
evening. He proposed that he bring home some Chinese food and that we spend
the evening at home.

I built a fire and brewed some tea before he got there, and we ate dinner
in the living room, sitting on the floor by the coffee table. After dinner
we cleared away the food, and I poured myself a brandy and sat down again
on the floor, leaning back against the couch.

Clif went to the fire and stirred it and then came to lie on the floor at
my side, his head about level with my knee. We murmured a few remarks and
both watched the fire.

Abruptly he turned on his side to face me, propping his head on his bent
arm.

"Did you mind me getting into bed with you last night?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I like sleeping with you."

"Most people wouldn't understand, would they?" he said.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"The way I figure it," he said, "if you wait until you understand
something, it'll be too late."

"You may be right," I said.

He rolled over and placed his hands on my thighs just above my knees and
pushed himself up and toward me until his face was a few inches from
mine. We stared into each other's eyes.

"I love you," he said.

I raised one amazingly calm hand and placed it against his cheek and
smiled.

He said, "This won't look good on your vita."

I said, "This better not cut into your study time."

"It won't," he said.

I placed my other hand on his face and slowly drew him toward me until we
kissed. It was the most delicate of kisses, but it tore down both our lives
and rebuilt them in an instant.

I drew back a little and looked at him, and then I smiled.

"I don't know if this is all right," I said.

"Tell me if you figure it out, OK?" he said.

"I'll keep you posted," I said.

He smiled. I slid my arms around him and rolled us over so he was lying
flat on his back and I was covering his body with my own. He put his hands
behind my neck. We looked at each other for a long time. I felt love going
out of me like a river and flowing into him. I never knew there could be so
much of it. He gradually grew excited and his breathing came
faster. Abruptly we kissed again, this time more passionate, and my tongue
grazed his. He moaned into my mouth and clutched at my shoulders. I pressed
down on him with the weight of my body and stabbed my tongue into his
mouth. In a matter of seconds I had become more aroused than I ever
remembered being. I ground my body against him and crushed him in my
arms. We kissed more and more violently, and he whimpered and struggled
against me. The room was spinning. I was holding the same body in the same
way I'd held him ever since he'd been born, but he'd finally blossomed into
a being who could reflect back everything I was capable of feeling. He was,
in the most literal sense possible, a part of me, and that was one of the
keys to the force that drew us together; and he was separate, an individual
in his own right, and that was the other key.

I wrenched free of our kiss and held him away from me to look at
him--looking was as much a feast as devouring. I wanted to see his need, I
wanted to see this forbidden need written on the face of my son. And it was
there. His face was strange to me in its passion. It occurs to me now that
I might have been alienated to see this most secret side of his nature, but
at the moment I only exulted in it. I was triumphant. He dug his fingers
into my arms and panted, and his fair soft hair fanned over his half-closed
eyes, and his always brave mouth was half open and his lips looked
swollen. I knew that he was as much the master of himself as I was at the
moment, and that he had known at least as long as I had what was looming
between us. A brief smile passed over his face, but his desire was too
strong and it was followed by the frown of sexual heat. He wanted me as
much as I wanted him, and he would have torn at anyone--even me--who stood
between him and the fulfillment of his desire.

He tried to lunge for me against the strength of my arms, and he was almost
a match for me, but I held him off so I could cruelly watch lust play over
him. He gritted his teeth and stared at me with what could have been
hatred. Did he want to get at me to make love to me, or to rip me to
pieces? I suddenly understood that this wasn't love I was seeing, but
need. Need grew out of love, but swamped it as it grew, until it was
sated. Then love would reassert itself, gentle, unselfish, concerned. It
was only in the arms of love that you could expose so nakedly your need,
and need is self-centered. So we were each ready to kill to take what we
wanted.

I suddenly wanted to feel his skin, as I had that morning. I pushed him
away from me and began to unbutton his shirt. He clung to my arms and
stared at me the whole time. I tugged his shirt free and peeled it back
over his shoulders. I glided the fingertips of my right hand smoothly over
one shoulder and down his chest to his left nipple. He arched his chest and
closed his eyes, and I thought, for the last time, "exactly like a woman."
I used both my hands to graze the skin of his chest and his nipples, I ran
them up to his neck and around to the back of his head, running my thumbs
along his jaw, then down to rub his flat belly. He rolled his head and
clenched his hands on my upper arms hard enough to bruise them. I kept on
stroking his bare skin over and over, memorizing every inch, trying to
figure out how to possess all of him.

Then I suddenly ran my hands down from his belly over the front of his
pants and pressed against the stiffness I felt there. He let out a choked
cry and snapped his head to the side and then bucked toward me and bit my
shoulder through my shirt. I rubbed his crotch as he groaned over and over
and clawed at my back. The tone of his voice started to rise, and I
realized he might be in danger of climaxing already. I hated to give up the
feel of his packed crotch, but I wanted much more of him before he came, so
I drew him into a tight hug and rolled over onto my back. I tried to soothe
him a bit by stroking his back, but first I finished peeling off his shirt
so I had his torso completely naked under my hands. I slid my palms from
his shoulders to his jeans-covered butt and back again, over and over, and
he moaned slightly and clung to me and rubbed his face against my chest.

Exactly at the moment I realized I wanted to feel his skin against my bare
chest, he reached for the buttons on my shirt and clumsily undid them. When
he had opened the top few, he began kissing my chest and pressing his palms
against my skin. I threw my head back and thrust out my chest, and at the
same time I captured his lower body in the vise of my thighs and
squeezed. He nipped at my skin with his teeth, and finally found one of my
nipples. I let out a small cry as he fastened his mouth around my flesh and
began to suck and to flick his tongue back and forth. I wondered fleetingly
if he had practiced his techniques on girls, but I quickly lost track of
the thought. He moved to my other nipple and while he worked on it, he
finished unbuttoning my shirt. Still sucking, he ran his hands over my
stomach and up my sides, then over my shoulders to my neck until his
fingers ended up twined in my hair and he quickly brought his mouth up off
my chest and kissed me again.

For the first time our bare chests were pressed together. I could feel the
dampness from his saliva and I could feel how smooth and warm and alive his
skin was. We went on kissing while our passion mounted again, and we
squirmed against each other, our hands sliding everywhere on each other's
body. We kissed until need took over again, and this time, he was in its
grip. He suddenly rose off me and turned toward my feet and began removing
my shoes and socks. I was left panting and squirming on the floor for the
few seconds it took him (with surprising dexterity) to get them off me, and
instantly he was fumbling at my belt. In a few seconds he had it open and
my pants unbuttoned and the zipper drawn down. I lifted my hips and helped
him shove my pants down my legs, and he swept them off, leaving me naked
except for my shirt hanging loose from my arms. He turned back and started
to reach for me, but before he made contact, I caught both his wrists and
stopped him. He looked at me, and I rose up and pushed him backwards onto
the floor in front of the fire. I forced his arms above his head and
pressed them there until he got the idea. Then I turned to his feet and
began to remove his shoes and socks. When his beautiful feet were bare, I
unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. He raised his hips, keeping his
arms above his head where I'd put them, and I slid his pants off his legs
and over his feet.

He was naked and his dick gleamed hard and shiny in the firelight, exactly
like mine. He lay spread out before me, his arms above his head as if tied
there, and he looked up at me knowing that my next move would be exactly
what he wanted. I leaned over and lightly kissed his flinching belly, then
I flung one leg over his torso and straddled him as I reached up and
gripped his wrists again. I was kneeling over him, the insides of my thighs
barely touching his ribs, my dick throbbing over his chest, his dick
arching toward my ass, and I looked down into his face. He was staring at
my dick, seeing it for the thousandth time, but for the first time hard. I
watched him look at it. I guessed what he was feeling: that it was
beautiful, that it made him feel strong and secure, that seeing it was the
fulfillment of a lifetime's longing. I felt proud of my dick, and it grew
harder and flexed because he was looking at it and seeing it hard and
excited and needy. Liquid was forming at the tip, ready to drop to his
chest. I held still and let him look his fill. But I knew, because I felt
the same way about him, that he could never get enough of seeing my dick,
whether hard or soft, and feeling and studying it. It was an icon of
wholeness that neither of us could ever fully comprehend.

He made a movement with his head as though to get closer to my prick, but
instead of granting him his wish, I drew away from him. I moved down until
I was kneeling between his open legs, and I pulled his arms down to his
sides, but I kept his wrists restrained. Now it was my turn to adore his
dick. It was the most absurdly beautiful thing I'd ever seen. It throbbed
and dripped a clear liquid onto his belly. I looked at it from the top and
from both sides. It was curved slightly upwards so that, lying on his back
as he was, it nearly touched his stomach. It tapered from the tip to the
base, as though it were designed for fucking something tight. The head was
heart-shaped and a darker red. In our ignorance, my wife and I had agreed
to the doctor's perfunctory request to circumcise him when he was born, but
at least they had done a neat job. The shaft was gnarled with blue veins,
with a couple of small moles at its base. The hair surrounding it was light
brown and curly and surprisingly thick. His balls were tightly drawn up to
the base of his dick in their wrinkled, hairy pouch, so I couldn't tell
exactly how big they were. I caught the sweet, sharp smell of his crotch,
tangier than the familiar smell of my own, by reason, I supposed, of his
youth. I felt I had discovered an entirely new world, concentrated in the
crotch of this teenaged boy.

I blew on his nuts and he squirmed. I held on tighter to his wrists and
blew again. A desperate sound came from his throat. I leaned over and stuck
out my tongue and barely grazed the hairs on his balls. He went stiff all
over and struggled. I looked up and could see his head thrown back and the
veins standing out on his neck. I continued to tickle his balls with my
tongue, and he threw himself from side to side. I had to anchor his legs
with my knees. His cries grew more frantic until I finally took mercy on
him and lifted my head.

I looked down on a landscape of passion. His belly heaved, his chest pumped
up and down, the muscles of his arms stood out, and he threw his head from
side to side. When he recovered enough to look at me, I couldn't even
recognize his face, so strange had it become. It was a man's face, not a
boy's. It was the face of a stranger. I knew what I wanted to do.

Without any warning, I plunged my mouth over his cock. He let out something
like a shriek, and it took all my strength to keep him pinned in
position. His dick fit into my mouth as perfectly as I knew it would. I had
never had a penis in my mouth before, but I knew from having been sucked by
women that teeth could be unpleasant, so I kept them out of the way. I held
his dick in my mouth, and sucked hard on it, and rubbed it with my
tongue. I wanted to give him pleasure, and I was doing it. But at the same
time, I wanted to devour him, and I was doing that. I wanted to violate his
will and his masculine self-possession, I wanted to reduce him to
helplessness. I wanted him to feel as vulnerable as he really was, and I
wanted him to know how little his facade really mattered. And at the same
time, I craved having his dick in my mouth; I felt nourished, completed,
subservient to his masculinity and to my own needs. I was abandoning my own
pretensions at the same time that I was demolishing his. We fell together
into a truer world.

My holding him captive by pinning his arms seemed to feed his frenzy. He
was bucking out of all normal control and trying to feed his dick to me in
erratic thrusts. His cries grew more piercing, and I could feel his dick
grow harder, the way I had often felt my own grow stoney in my hand before
an orgasm. I knew he was going to cum, and I lost the last shred of sanity
and self-consciousness. I plunged down on his dick and held on to his
thrashing body and sucked for all I was worth, and with a few more lunges
of his tight body, he filled the room with his cries and my mouth with his
semen. I hadn't even thought about it, but I swallowed readily and relished
the brackish taste. Mostly I was aware of the condition he had been reduced
to and my own exultation and near orgasmic joy in bringing him there. I
moaned and shook my head and tightened my grip on his bruised arms as he
spasmed helplessly into my mouth.

He wailed out his orgasm and his body jolted convulsively toward me until
his passion was over. Then he fell back panting as small tremors washed
over him and his head lolled from side to side. I kept his dick in my mouth
as his orgasm subsided. I finally released his arms, and his hands flew to
my head and held me against his crotch. Finally a movement of my tongue
against the sensitive glans of his penis caused him such unbearable feeling
that he cried and tugged at me, and I finally let his cock slip out of my
mouth and looked up at his face.

You forget what it was like when you were young. I was wildly excited
myself, but I realized he had just cum, and I wondered if that would change
things. Would he feel guilty now that his frenzy was over? Would he be
horrified? Would I alienate him if I didn't curb my own lust at this point?
I looked at him to see what he was feeling, and I was amazed to see that he
was still feeling desire--it was as boldly written on his face as before he
came. I suppose I too once had such enormous stores of sexual energy that a
single orgasm couldn't deplete them, but I'd forgotten about those
days. Now I was delighted to be reminded of them. It meant I wouldn't have
to forgo my own climax.

No sooner had the thought flickered into my mind than Cliff grabbed me by
the shoulders and pushed me over onto my back. In a second he was crouching
over my loins and looking into my face with almost frightening
earnestness. Then he bent his head and began to kiss my dick, starting at
the sensitive spot just under the head, making me flinch and groan as he
worked his way slowly down the underside of my shaft, planting open-mouthed
kisses on the underbelly and coming to my balls, which he started lapping
with his tongue. I spread my legs to give him room and flung my arms out to
either side and surrendered wholly. I suddenly thought, "He sees my hard
dick, he sees me having sex, he's looking at my cock and balls, I can
finally show them to him, I want him to look at my hard dick and my balls,
I want him to see." I felt such a surge of excitement that I thought I
might cum any minute, and I suddenly wanted his dick in my mouth when I
shot off. I squirmed around and wedged my head between his thighs and
grabbed his dick. It was still as hard as ever. When I stuck it into my
mouth, I heard him cry, and then his mouth came down over my dick for the
first time.

I had had plenty of blow jobs from women in my life, some of them
excellent. I had had clumsy attempts that were exciting because of the
inexperience of my partner, and I had had skillful performances from old
pros. But I had never had what I can only call such an articulate blow job
in my life. I mean that I felt his every touch and movement with complete
clarity and almost unbearable intensity. It was the most exquisite pleasure
I've ever had. It was drawing me rapidly to the brink. My heels were dug
into the carpet, my hands were clutching his waist, and my mouth plunged
over his hard cock, trying to bring him something like the pleasure he was
giving me.

I couldn't hold out for long. His movements became more frenzied as I
worked on his dick, and I began to buck my hips helplessly off the floor. I
felt it starting from all points of my body at once and zeroing in on my
crotch, and I started to tremble like someone with the ague and to moan
from somewhere in my throat. I tried to keep pumping on his dick, but I was
losing control of my body. I made spastic, irregular lunges over his hard
cock, and then I slid his dick out of my mouth and grabbed it with one hand
and began to jack him off into my face. My mouth stayed open, my breath
came in gasps, and I uttered a crescendo of cries as he sucked harder and
writhed on top of my body, until, with a shudder of my whole body and a
choked scream, I began to ejaculate into his mouth. As soon as he felt the
first spurts of my orgasm, he began attacking my dick in a frenzy, sucking
the cum out of me for all he was worth, and thrusting his dick down into my
fist, which I was somehow continuing to pump. With my second spurt, I heard
him give a loud grunt and knew dimly that he was coming too, and I fumbled
his prick into my mouth and received his second load of cum while he took
mine. Our bodies trembled together and shook, and we gasped and swallowed
and convulsed in each other's mouth until we had emptied all our seed and
begun to relax. He collapsed on top of me, which drove his dick even deeper
into my mouth, and I slid my arms around his hips and clutched at the
cheeks of his ass. His dick slid right to the back of my mouth just as I
swallowed, and it miraculously went directly into my throat as naturally as
if it belonged there. I felt it did belong there. I wanted the two of us to
become one being, I wanted as much of him inside me as I could get. At
least I had two loads of his cum.

When he got his breath back, he rose off me and turned around and fell into
my arms.

We lay there holding each other and slowly recovering. His head fit just
under my chin, and I could smell his hair, as I had that morning. I had an
uncanny feeling of peacefulness and completeness, as if something utterly
right had taken place when the time had come.

We must have both drifted into a doze for a little while. I came alert when
he shifted in my arms to raise his head and look at me. I brushed the hair
from his face.

"OK?" I asked.

He smiled with that brave, strong mouth of his and nodded.

We were silent for a while. Then I reached for him and he came into my arms
and we held each other close. I knew there would be all kinds of problems,
but I was safe from them all right now.

"Ready to go to bed?" I asked.


We got up and gathered our clothes from the floor and shut off the lights
before we went into my bedroom. We climbed into bed and I clicked off the
lamp, and we lay facing each other. I could see his eyes glinting in the
dark.

He said, "At least we'll save on laundry--only one set of sheets to wash
now." I could feel him smile. "But maybe a few more towels."

"Promise me something," I said. "If you ever change your mind about this,
you tell me straight out."

"Dad," he said. I waited. "I think this is just fine."

"Me too," I said. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he said, and kissed me lightly before settling his head on my
shoulder.