Date: Wed, 30 Mar 2011 04:36:42 -0700 (PDT)
From: Bill <bil47_new@yahoo.com>
Subject: Discovering My Father's Secret Part 1

Discovering My Father's Secret -- Part 1
By Bill

It was the beginning of summer, 1965.  I was 14 - just finished
the eighth grade in school - and I'd be spending a whole week at
my Dad's house at the beach.

Mom and Dad had gotten divorced 3 years earlier, although the
reasons were never discussed with me.  I was an only-child, so
there were no siblings with whom I could wallow in self-pity and
speculation about what broke them up.  My parents gave every
appearance of remaining friendly with each other, and I got to
see Dad on occasional weekends and for a week each summer when
he was on vacation from his job at a major bank. The only good
part of the divorce was that Dad almost immediately was
transferred (I'm pretty sure at his request) to be the manager
of a branch-bank at Rehoboth Beach.  It's one of the resort
towns along the Atlantic Ocean where people from our area have
vacationed for generations.  It wasn't Ocean City, the bigger
and more exciting beach town 25 miles to the south, but it was
still a great place for a kid my age to stay for a week.  Dad
lived in a small two-story cottage that was just a couple blocks
from the wide sandy beach and the town's mile-long boardwalk.

Unlike my previous stays at his house, this time Dad would be at
his job during the daytime.  At age 14, I was deemed old enough
to be on my own during the day.  Both my parents made a point of
warning me about "strangers" who might be acting "too friendly".
And I already knew that I wasn't allowed to go by myself into
the concrete bunker of a building next to the boardwalk that
contained toilets, showers, and a changing area. My parents
didn't elaborate on the reasons for these cautions, but I was
knowledgeable enough about sex to understand.  In fact, a few
months before, a man had offered me money ($20!) to go with him
in his car so he could suck my cock.  I reflexively turned him
down, but for weeks afterward I filled my prolific masturbation
sessions with thoughts of what it would have been like if I'd
gone with him.

My sex education had been reasonably complete for a middle-class
boy of that era.  Even though I was rather shy with others my
age and didn't have a best friend, I had been included in the
pubescent sex-play of several neighborhood boys around my age.
At 12, I was happily joining in their strip-poker games, the
feel-up sessions of each others' developing boners, and (most
excitingly) some brief and tentative cock-sucking, done on a
dare or as the penalty for losing a bet or challenge.  A few
times we even took turns having our bare bottoms spanked while
the others watched.  I wasn't spanked at home, so this was as
much of a new experience for me as the sex.  By the time I was
13, the other guys were getting skittish about doing "queer
stuff", so the feel-ups and cock-sucking ended.  But it didn't
stop us from having group jack-off sessions with a stack of
Playboy magazines that one of the guys had discovered stashed
behind his father's work bench.  Although I joined in with the
group's endless speculation about what it would be like to fuck
a pussy or get a blow-job from one of the voluptuous Playboy
models, I found myself paying as much attention to my friends'
cocks and stroking hands as I did to Miss October's breasts and
airbrushed crotch.  Alone in my own room, my solo-sex practices
sometimes included thoughts of heterosexual sex, but mostly I
fantasized about taboo gay-male sex.  As I jacked my cock toward
a glorious orgasm, amid fantasies of sex with a boy or man, I
sometimes sucked on my finger or thumb pretending it was a cock,
or slid a finger or two inside my asshole.

The first day on my own at Dad's house involved sleeping late,
eating two bowls of sugar cereal, and spending a couple hours
hanging out on the beach.  I kept thinking I should make friends
with some of the kids my age who were on the beach with their
families, but it felt awkward to approach any of them. But that
didn't keep me from ogling the parade of barely-clothed bodies
of both sexes.

Around 1:00, with the sun beginning to my pale skin pink, I went
back to the house and hopped right into the shower to rinse off
the salt and sand.  As usual, I stroked myself to a boner with
my soapy hand.  But before continuing on to a quick orgasm, the
thought struck me that Dad might have some Playboys stashed away
somewhere, which would make for a more leisurely and erotic
masturbation session.

After drying off, I didn't even get dressed before setting out
naked in search of the hoped-for secret porn stash.  His bedroom
turned up nothing, but the desk in his small downstairs study
had a bottom drawer that was locked, just crying out for me to
snoop further.  The key was ridiculously easy to find in one of
the other drawers.  As I opened the mystery-drawer, I found no
Playboys.  Instead, there was something MUCH better -- books.
The thickest one was an anthology of erotica... pornography with
artistic pretentions.  Paging through it, I found short-stories
and excerpts of books from a variety of eras -- descriptions of
wild torture-sex orgies from the deranged mind of the Marquis de
Sade, the florid prose of Victorian porn-writers, the French
BDSM classic "Story of O", a dream-like account of drug addled
Americans and Brits having sex with young Moroccan boys in 1950s
Tangiers.  Although most of the chapters featured heterosexual
activity, a generous portion depicted activities of the gay-male
persuasion.

Setting the anthology aside, I turned to the two much-thinner
and definitely less-literary books that were pushed farther back
in the drawer, and my eyes bulged at the scenes depicted on
their covers.  One of the pulp-porn novels was titled (as I
recall) "Biker Studs".  The art-work on the cover showed two
ultra-masculine men with the muscles of a Mr. Universe
contestant, shirtless and wearing impossibly skin-tight leather
jeans.  One biker -- older and hairier -- had his zipper down,
with the barely-contained bulge of a massive cock ready to
spring out.  The younger one, with a smooth torso of finely
etched muscles, was on his knees with his mouth open hungrily,
clearly ready to devour the other's monster erection.

The second slender porn-book was titled something like "Boarding
School Master", and the cover was even more startling.  It
showed a boy about my age bending over a teacher's desk, looking
back over his shoulder with a distressed look on his face.  His
trousers and underpants were pulled down to his knees and his
shirt was hiked up.  Standing behind and to the side was a
teacher in a British-style academic gown, holding a slender cane
and preparing to bring it down on the schoolboy's shapely butt.

As I glanced quickly through the books, my penis was achingly
stiff, begging to be stroked.  My heart was racing, and my brain
was struggling to process what my eyes were taking in.  There
was no doubt that I was totally excited about the prospect of
masturbating to incredible descriptions of hot gay sex and
discipline.  But I was also thinking "Holy shit!  Does this mean
that Dad jerks off to stories about guys having sex?  And being
spanked?"

Speculation about my father's sexual proclivities was
temporarily banished as I took all three books up to my bedroom
and began reading and stroking.

I started with the boarding school book, finding that it was
composed almost entirely of "good parts" - amazingly explicit
descriptions of gay sex and sexualized spankings, joined
together with a minimum of plot.  I still half-remember the
basic premise.  The main character was a sensitive new teacher,
a boy-lover whose romantic feelings for beautiful younger boys
was manifested in tender kisses and loving mutual blow-jobs...
but who also had a compulsion for being sexually submissive to
rough-trade older students.  An older teacher seemed to spend
all his time caning and then sexually abusing every boy who came
into his grasp.  Students of all ages and proclivities - naïve
beginners, aggressive tops, and slutty bottoms -- were having
nearly constant boy-on-boy sex in the dormitory.

I had been getting pretty good at prolonging my masturbation
sessions in recent months, but I orgasmed twice while reading
the book.  And I couldn't help visualizing Dad masturbating
while he read these same words, an image that excited me for
some reason.  Did he identify with the teachers or with the
boys?  Ever since the spanking play with my neighborhood friends
a couple years before, I had fantasized about it frequently, and
now found it incredibly erotic to imagine myself as one of the
students in the book, being punished and then used sexually.

The book about the muscle-bound bikers was raw and gritty in its
imagined depictions of sex in the "leather men" gay subgroup.
Enormous cocks were always pounding assholes and face-fucking
deep throats, and the bikers seemed to spend far more time in
steamy gay-sex orgies than riding their motorcycles.  A young
candidate for membership in the gang had to go through a lengthy
sadomasochistic ritual for his initiation (in which I learned
the meaning of the term "golden shower").   And in another part
of the story an evil rival gang captured one of the "good"
gang's members, securing him to elaborate bondage equipment,
thrashing him with belts and whips and paddles, gang-raping his
mouth and ass.  It was a short book, with large type, but I was
mentally and sexually exhausted by the time I finished.

I was just getting into a promising part of the "literary"
anthology - a short-story about a boy-brothel in Berlin during
the 1920s - when I heard the front door open downstairs.

"Hey Bill!" my father called out. "Are you home?"

ACK!  I stuffed the books under my mattress and grabbed my
clothes.  "I'm in my bedroom, but I'll be right down," I called
out as I dressed.

As I hurried down to meet him, hoping my face didn't show the
guilt and embarrassment I was feeling, Dad was in the kitchen
fixing his after-work drink - a generous shot of bourbon on ice.

We engaged in some small-talk about how the day went. It was
only 4:30, but Dad's bank branch kept "banker's hours"
(naturally) and was only a 3-minute drive back to the house.

"Some of the young gals at work were talking about a free rock
and roll concert down in Ocean City tonight.  Want to go?"

"Sure!" I said, quickly putting the books out of my thoughts.

"Let me change my clothes, and we can get down there early and
grab some dinner before the concert."

In a few minutes, we were driving south on the Coast Highway.
In 40 minutes we were seated in our favorite seafood restaurant
in Ocean City. The concert on the beach featured a local cover-
band playing British Invasion tunes, surf music, and American
garage-rock.  They were followed by another local band composed
of black singers and white musicians covering Motown and Memphis
soul music.  Both bands were good and there were lots high
school and college kids dancing in the sand.  Even Dad, whose
musical taste was pretty well confined to mellow lounge-jazz,
enjoyed it.  Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed to be
furtively ogling hot-looking teenage boys -- the same ones who
caught my eye.

Afterwards, Dad and I walked down to the amusement park at the
end of the boardwalk, and he gave me money for every arcade game
and thrill ride that drew my interest.

When we finally got back to Rehoboth it was after 11:00, and I
had dozed off in the car.  I went right to bed, not even
remembering the books under my mattress.  But it turned out they
weren't forgotten by Dad.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

"Wah...?"

"Bill; you need to wake up."

"OK," I mumbled groggily, "but why...."

"Get dressed and meet me down in the study."

I instantly came wide awake. "Oh, shit! The books!"

I had been sleeping in my white briefs, and I quickly threw on a
tee shirt and cut-off jeans.  The whole time, I was muttering
curses to myself about how stupid I had been for not putting the
books back before Dad got home from work.

When I entered the small study, Dad was standing there waiting
for me.  On his desk were bottle of bourbon whiskey and a glass
of ice from which he had already consumed a nightcap.

"You've been snooping in my personal things, haven't you?"

Dad wasn't loud or visibly angry; he didn't need to be.  I could
read the anger and disappointment beneath his calm exterior.

"Huh?  I don't know what you...."

"Stop, Bill.  Don't make this any worse by lying.  You left the
drawer unlocked and half-open, for gosh sakes."

My face was burning with shame, and I stared down at my feet.

"I think you'll need to go home in the morning, Bill."

I looked up at him with surprise.  "No!  Please!  Let me stay!
I'm really sorry I snooped, but I want to stay real bad.  Isn't
there any other way to punish me?"  There were a few moments of
silence, and then the words came out of my mouth, bypassing any
conscious thought.  "You could spank me."

My father looked at me for a moment and raised an eyebrow.

Then I added in a quiet voice, feeling my face flush even
hotter, "with my underpants pulled down."

Now it was Dad's turn to be flustered.  He turned his back and
went over to his desk, pouring some more bourbon into his glass.
The ice cubes rattled from his shaking hand as he took a gulp.

"Alright, Billy."  I hadn't gone by `Billy' for several years,
and it made me feel like an 11-year-old again. "Perhaps a good
spanking will be punishment enough."  His voice was still calm,
but the undercurrent of nervous excitement was evident in his
body language.  He polished off the whiskey in his glass, pulled
the desk chair around to face the center of the room, and sat
down.

"Stand here," he said, pointing to a spot on the floor beside
his right knee.

"Undo your jeans and pull them down."  His voice strained to
sound normal.  "Now pull your shirt up to your chest."

I stood before him with my cut-off jeans at my ankles and my
lower torso exposed.  I looked down at my underpants, at the
bulge my dick made in the front.  My brain bubbled with a
combination of excitement and embarrassment as Dad reached out
and hooked his fingers into the waistband of my briefs at both
hips.  He lowered them slowly, first exposing the sparse little
collection of pubic hairs, then the base of my dick.  A moment
later, my youthful cock sprang free, already half-hard and in
the process of pulsing the rest of the way toward erection.

I heard Dad's sharp intake of breath and saw the desire flashing
in his eyes.  It was totally obvious that he was aroused by the
sight of my stiffening cock.

Time seemed to stop as both of us watched my penis arc upward to
its maximum stiffness.  My heart was pounding in my chest, and I
knew instinctively that Dad's was too.  My boner wasn't all that
big - a slender 5 inches (12.5 cm), circumcised, and nicely
shaped.

I tried to remember the last time my father had seen me naked.
And then it hit me... deeply-stored half-memories bursting into
my consciousness... fuzzy recollections of Dad taking me to the
bathroom and standing behind me as I peed into the toilet.  I
had been a bed-wetter until I was 11, and sometimes Dad got me
up at night to pee.  I was almost always half-asleep when it
happened, but now I was remembering the feeling of Dad's hand on
my penis as I stood at the toilet with my underpants pulled down
to mid-thigh... and him fondling my bare butt and manipulating
my boyish dick to stiffness for a brief time after the pee had
stopped flowing.

After what seemed like minutes (but was probably less than 30
seconds) Dad guided me across his lap.  My boner pressed into
his right thigh as my butt stuck up, fully exposed.  The
spanking didn't start right away. Instead I could feel my
father's right hand caressing my butt cheeks, and I heard him
breathing deeply.  Then, SLAP!  The hand rose and came down
sharply.  But again it lingered to feel the smooth skin of my
buttocks.  Then, SLAP!... SLAP!... SLAP!... SLAP!  A steady
stream of hard spanks, spaced a few seconds apart.  It didn't
last very long; maybe 25 whacks in all. The blows stung, to be
sure, but they weren't nearly as painful as I imagined they
would be.  In fact, their primary effect -- like when my friends
and I had done play-spanking - was to make my stiff penis throb
even more intensely with arousal.  I suspected Dad wasn't going
at full-strength, but I didn't know for sure.

After the last spank, Dad's hand lingered once more, feeling my
warm (and no-doubt reddened) butt cheeks.  His fingertips slid
along the valley separating the two sides and gently probed it,
briefly massaging the tender flesh around my anus.  But he
quickly pulled his hand away as if his fingers had been burned,
and he helped me to my feet.  As I stood facing him, my first
instinct was to cover my genitals and quickly get dressed, but I
didn't.  I reached back with both hands to rub my sore bottom
and looked down at my totally stiff penis, watching as it tried
to pulse even more erect.  Then I glanced up at my father and
saw how his eyes were glued to my cock.  He was breathing
raggedly as if out of breath, and his hand adjusted the obvious
erection inside his Bermuda shorts.

For some reason, I wasn't at all surprised by what happened
next.  Dad reached out cautiously and wrapped his hand around my
throbbing cock. The ecstatic look on his face, as he wordlessly
began masturbating me, is burned permanently into my memory.

"Oh, Billy!" he said, almost in a whisper.

"It feels so good, Daddy, when you play with my penis." I hadn't
meant to sound like I was 11 years old, using the word "penis"
instead of a slang term, and calling my father "Daddy"... just
as I had done 3 years ago, when he was still taking me to the
bathroom late at night.  But it came out that way, and served to
elevate our mutual lust.

As he continued to gently masturbate me, he slid off the chair
and onto his knees in front of me, his eyes fixed on the
youthful erection, only inches from his face, as if he were
hypnotized.  His free hand slid inside his pants, groping his
own cock.

"Suck me, Daddy.  Suck my penis."

I can't believe I said that!  It was totally out of character
for me to be either bold or slutty.  But it was equally out of
character for my Dad, who had always seemed level-headed and
proper, to be such a captive of incestuous homoerotic desire.
It was obvious that he wanted to take my cock in his mouth, and
I was just giving him permission.

"Oh, yes Billy... yes!"

See!  I knew it!  But what took me by surprise was that my
father was such an incredibly talented cock-sucker. Compared to
the amateurish oral play with my neighborhood buddies a year or
so before, this was so much more intense that it might as well
have gone by a different name.

He didn't waste time on preliminaries as he immediately took my
cock-head in his mouth, slathering it with his tongue.  His lips
and tongue then slid smoothly down my boner, his cheeks
suctioning to magnify the sensations. And when he pressed his
lips all the way down into the scattered hairs at the base of my
dick, he took my cock-head effortlessly into his throat.  I
couldn't help but groan out loud, and I wanted my father to
keeping doing it again and again.

"You're making my penis feel so good, Daddy!  Suck it!  Suck my
penis, Daddy!  Suck it, Daddy!"

This time it was clear -- to me at least -- that I was
intentionally role-playing, being a little boy again for him.  I
knew it was manipulative, but it just felt right.  And I could
tell that hearing it was ramping up Dad's lust to a fever pitch.

I looked down at his bobbing head, twisting from side to side as
his mouth rode my boner.  And then I looked farther down, seeing
his hand stroking his cock, which he had freed from his shorts
and underwear.

I knew I wasn't going to last long, considering the intensity
with which Dad was sucking me.  I had been totally primed even
before Dad began sucking my cock.  My hands went to Dad's
balding head and my hips began thrusting. I was face-fucking my
own father... and he loved it!

"I'm gonna squirt! Here it cums, Daddy!"

My orgasm crashed through my body with a force I had never
before experienced.  I steadied my hands on Dad's shoulders so
my legs wouldn't collapse under me.  But he kept sucking,
slurping down even drop of my semen before finally releasing my
cock and sitting back on his haunches.

He looked up at me with an expression that began as joyful, but
then changed to anxious and guilty.  Standing up, he began to
tell me something.  "Bill... we shouldn't have... it was my
fault... we can't...."

But I wrapped my arms around him in a hug and said "It was
wonderful, Dad.  I wanted it too!"  And then, for the first time
in my life, I kissed him on the lips.  He kissed me back, hard.
I'd never french-kissed anyone before (though I certainly knew
all about it), but when our lips crushed together, and his
tongue merged with mine, it seemed totally natural.  When the
kiss broke, I pulled off my tee-shirt and was now completely
naked.  Dad had already stepped out of his shorts and underwear,
and he followed my lead in stripping off his shirt.

Dad was a little less than average height -- about the same as me
at that time -- and had a wiry slender build.  He actually looked
a bit scrawny, but he'd been in the Marines in World War 2, so I
knew he was tough.  Looking down at his stiff cock, it was clear
that I had inherited my father's penis.  He had more pubic hair
(though it seemed to be trimmed short) and his balls dangled
lower, but his erection was just like mine - 5 inches of smooth
and nicely shaped cut cock.  My hand reached out, and I took
hold of Dad's dick, excited to feel the power of its hot
throbbing stiffness.

"You like that Daddy?" I asked seductively as I stroked his
rigid boner.  "Want to do some more stuff together?"

"Yes, Bill.  I do," he murmured hesitantly.  "But maybe we
shouldn't."

"Want me to suck your cock?"

"Ohhhhhhh God! Yes!"

So much for Dad's brief attack of guilt and regret.  It was now
rather clear that my sensible, intelligent, conservative father
was as much a slave to his sexual compulsions as I was.  And,
most interestingly, our sexual compulsions seemed to match
perfectly.  Was he susceptible to being seduced into any sexual
activity I might propose?  I certainly aimed to find out.  Maybe
we could even do some of the things I had learned about while
reading Dad's porn books.

"Let's go upstairs and get on your bed," I said.

I was still holding his rigidly erect penis, and I used it like
a leash to lead him to the staircase.  He followed without
resistance.

This was going to be good!


End of Part 1