Date: Tue, 5 Jul 2016 02:17:50 +0000 (UTC)
From: a4f101@yahoo.com
Subject: Giving Him the Edge

Here's a story taken from my Tumblr, at a4f101.tumblr.com/storytime. You
can find this one, and the pic that inspired it, here:
http://a4f101.tumblr.com/post/121707687304/

This story is purely a work of adult erotic fantasy, copyright me 2016. I
own it and all legal rights to it. If you're under the age of majority in
your jursdiction, please come back when you're of legal age.

Nifty is an incredible free service that depends on your donations to
survive. It changed my life, and maybe it's changed yours too. Please help
them to keep providing this awesome resource for all of us:
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

I love hearing from you guys. a4f101@yahoo.com. Enjoy.

*****

Joe's head came up out of the water, and he automatically turned to look at
the big clock, a split-second after I did. I was smiling already, almost as
big as he was, as he turned to the stands to find me. I returned his
thumbs-up gesture with one of my own, then watched him bob back underwater,
swimming over to the side of the pool and climbing out.

He looked like a young god, the water streaming down his muscular torso as
he freed his wet, tousled blond hair from his swimming cap. His long-legged
suit clung to the length of his muscular legs like a second skin –
closer, in fact, because it was so tight, digging into the skin where it
rode so low on his hips, outlining the long muscles of his quads,
showcasing the tube of his cock unavoidably. But swimmers can't be shy
about that kind of thing, and Joe had absolutely no reason to be shy.

His teammates and some of the coaches clapped him on the back, fist-bumping
and bro-hugging him, as he steadily made his way over to the stands, where
I sat front-row, taking in his incredible physical beauty, his handsome
face, that big, white-toothed smile that came so easily to him. I could
tell he was about jumping out of his skin with excitement, but he did a
good job of containing it. He was never a showboat, just a determined
competitor, a born athlete, destined for very big things. Nationals were
coming up soon, and from then on, he was on the road to the Olympics.

I planned to be at his side, cheering him on, every step of the way. All
the way to Rio, with any luck. And beyond, if things kept going the way
they were. But like Joe, I tried to keep my excitement in check. My fears,
too. I'd been by his side for every step of this journey, from his first
daredevil leap into a swimming pool as a toddler, all the way through the
early mornings, the long poolside weekends, the late nights training,
through middle school and high school and now college. I'd been a damn good
swimmer myself back in the day, but I'd tried to set that aside and let him
walk his own path. Swim in his own lane, maybe. That was my job. I was his
Dad. This was my son's time to shine.

"You think it worked?" I said as he came up, slapping his big, pumped
shoulder as he leaned on the railing in front of me, smiling up at me.

"A whole second quicker," he grinned. "Yeah, I think it worked."

He looked around, saw nobody around to overhear us. Smiled that smile, with
a deeper edge to it as our eyes met.

"Even if it didn't do a damn thing for my time," he said in a low, sexy
voice that sent a shiver through my loins, "I'd have done it anyway. And I
hope we'll do it again, Dad."

I let out a low grunt, about all I could manage without calling attention
to us. What I wanted to do was leap forward, grab hold of my boy, and plant
the deepest, hardest, wettest, horniest kiss I could on him. I could see in
his eyes he wanted to do the same thing. But there'd be time for our own
private celebrations later.

`It' was as simple as a can of Edge shaving gel, and a five-blade Gillette
Fusion razor. That, and a solid hour in the bathroom of my townhouse. But
it wasn't the tools so much, nor even the act of razoring almost every hair
off his finely-honed machine of a body – it was everything that went
with it. Everybody knows swimmers shave down, to gain that extra edge. I
sure had. And hell, I'd had a lot of fun doing it, back in my day. Me and
my teammates, holding shave parties, sometimes inviting girls, sometimes
not. Sometimes just one-on-one. And you know how it is – put two naked,
healthy young dudes in a room together, add in something as intimate as
shaving each other's bodies, and well, sometimes things happen. More often
than not, a lot of very good things happen. I'd met Joe's mom that way, as
a matter of fact, and even though that had been pretty amazing in and of
itself, and had resulted in this golden god of a champion young athlete
standing before me... it was the other times I remembered best. Going all
the way back to high school, in fact. Me and my teammates, laughing,
joking, dancing around the eroticism of it – before plunging into it,
like we plunged into the chlorinated water. Going for it, and
hard. Thinking of the results, how much quicker we might be able to touch
that wall – and touching each other as we set to work.

The first time I helped Joe, he was 15 and embarrassed about it, like dudes
that age sometimes are. Not an especially hairy kid, though one day he'd
have a nice fan of fine, blond chest fur like I did. But his coach had
suggested it to him, since he was developing quicker than many of his
teammates, and since I'd been a competitive swimmer back in the day,
well... if he couldn't come to his Dad with a problem like that, then I
wasn't doing my damn job. And I was prouder of my bond with my boy than
anything else I'd ever done.

When my boy sprung a serious bone in the practice Speedo he was wearing in
some kind of effort at modesty – I mean, let's face it, sometimes a
Speedo is even more immodest than just going bareass – after I'd helped
him halfway through the process, I just smiled and pressed on. Positioned
his legs a little more apart as he stood in the tub, and set to work
shaving their developing, muscular length. The coating of fine blond hairs
that had sprung up in place of his preadolescent peach-fuzz, all golden and
solid now, fell away with the foam, swirling down the drain as I ran the
shower water over them. Checked my work carefully. Felt the solid thickness
of my own hardon in my shorts. I could hear Joe's breath hitching, could
practically feel the heat of his embarrassed blush radiating off him. And
then I made the decision. Stood up, not hiding the tent in my
shorts. Peeled off my polo shirt, dropped my shorts, and let him see me
there in my trunks, sporting a serious Dad hardon. Saw his scared,
embarrassed, but heated eyes traveling over every inch of my body. I kept
in good shape – not quite as good shape as in my own competitive college
days, but a lot better than most guys in their late 30s.

"Joey, buddy," I said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder supportively,
feeling him flinch a little bit. "Not a damn thing to be ashamed of. Plenty
to be proud of, stud. Believe me, this happens. A lot. It's natural. I've
been there. Let me show you how we dealt with it, when I was your age..."

His mom and I had long been on the skids by that point – my dedication
to Joe's budding swimming career was a big part of that, but not all of it
– so I didn't feel especially guilty when I let him feel the bulge of my
cock against his body, stepping in close to him to go over his tawny young
muscles with the razor a second time. The fabric of my underwear soaking on
contact with his skin. The bulge in his Speedo throbbing harder. When I ran
my fingers carefully, appraisingly over the newly smooth warmth of his
tight young skin, I felt him reach out to touch me back. And I knew. So I
kissed him. He kissed me back. And we took it on from there, to where it
was naturally meant to go between us.

Five very good, very close, very successful years between us since
then. And many more instances of helping him out like that in between. When
he got his scholarship to UAB, I sold the house, quit my job, cashed out my
options, and rode down to Birmingham in the U-Haul with him. A new
adventure for both of us, my hand on my boy's – well, well and truly a
young man, by then - smooth, muscular thigh the whole way. I'm no
helicopter parent, but we had a bond, and I knew he'd need every bit of
support he could get at this next level. He lived in the dorms, and I had a
new job and a life of my own, but we stayed close when he needed it, and
had space to grow too. For both of us.

Turns out, what grew – besides Joe, into the picture-perfect
all-American swimmer jock stud he'd fast become – was us. What we
had. Our shave sessions sometimes carried over into his off-season
too. Other swimmers would ask him how he stayed so clean, and he'd just
shrug, give them that charming grin, and say, "Lots of practice, I guess."
But he'd still do a shave party from time to time too – just to keep
that important connection with his teammates. And if that important
connection naturally became a deeper one, a manlier one, the slide of
foam-slicked young men's bodies together, caught up in the heat and the
hunger and the horniness pent up inside of them, well hell – I'd never
begrudge him that. Enjoyed too much of it myself. And if he was going to
continue to be the leader he was fast becoming, well, maintaining those
kinds of connections was key. Plus, it boned the absolute hell out of me
when he'd recount their adventures, in dorm-room bathrooms, off-campus
house kitchens, even a few times down in the swimmers' locker room on
campus. Made me want to be there myself, sometimes. Talk about the
impossible dream... but I knew Joe was thinking about that too. Gave him a
certain twinkle in his eye, the idea of his Dad in the midst of those
hardbodied college swimmer jocks. Who knew, with the right teammates, the
right moment...

But when we came together, hell, it was something else. The easy way he'd
slide his agile young tongue into my welcoming mouth as he let me undress
him. Peel him down to the bare skin. Run my thick paternal fingers over his
perfect musculature, his tan skin, feeling for the telltale traces of his
regrowth. Slowly, sensually rubbing the gel into foam all over him. Taking
my time. Feeling him press against my own naked body, and begin to coat me
too. Because my boy liked the feel of the manly hair on my chest, my trim
stomach, my long ex-swimmer's legs... but sometimes there was something
pure dynamite about taking each other down to the bare, clean basics. Just
a tuft of hair left to crown our cocks, well below the Speedo line. The
feeling of our skin, warm and clean and moist from our shower, as we slid
back together again in my big bed, and coated each other's fresh-shaved
bodies with the creamy gel of our dad-son cum.

We'd done it just last night, and since neither of us had ever been
believers in holding your loads the night before a comp – my own high
school coach had told us that was crap, he'd sure never minded helping his
guys lighten their loads, and we'd given him the results in the pool to
prove he was right – there was no way I'd deny my champ the sensation of
my big, bare Dad cock slipping up and down his fresh-shaved trench, up the
deep cleft between his muscular swimmer's glutes, before zeroing it in on
the smoothness of his fresh-trimmed hole. I'd taken the pump-bottle of skin
lotion we always used afterwards, pumped out a big dollop onto my cock, and
slipped it up inside of him, savoring the handsomeness of his ecstatic face
in the mirror as I worked my way up inside of him with well-practiced
ease. The feel of his clean, smooth, square young pecs. The faint scent of
the lotion on his strong young neck as I nuzzled my way up behind his ear
to whisper into it, as we locked eyes in the mirror and he moaned his need
back to me.

"Gonna go out there and win this for us, Joey," I whispered, and he nodded
in agreement. "Gonna make your Dad proud. Take it all the way. Show the
world. Be my champ."

"Fuck yeah, Dad," he moaned, pushing his talented, muscular young ass back
down the length of my cock, meeting me half-way. Working with me. "Doing it
for you. Wanna be your champ, big guy."

"Doing it for us, baby boy," I murmured, pulling his head back and angling
in to kiss him, in a deep, hungry, thrusting exchange of tongues. "And
doing it for yourself. I know you can. Know you got it in you. Gonna show
the world how amazing you are. My amazing champ, son. Daddy's champ."

"Oh fuck!" he wailed, and with one slick slide of my hand round his
champion young cock, he was blasting off, all over the big mirror. The
clench and pulse of his hole round me, the sensation of his smooth form,
his warm, twitching depths, the knowledge that he was my boy and I was his
Dad and we were going to do this all the way to Rio and beyond, it was the
perfect storm. Always was. And just a few seconds behind him, I was ready
to touch the wall myself, blasting up inside him with sweating, grunting,
clutching ferocity. Finishing second to my champ, and I didn't mind one
bit.

And now, here we were. He'd cut a second from his lap time today, and I
don't know if it was the extra-close shave, the motivational fuck before a
solid night's sleep in my arms, or just his natural hard-charging
talent. Whatever it was, clearly it was an effective training
regimen. Something was working. Most of all, we were working. We'd already
gone all the way, in so many ways... but we were going to go even
further. Together. Me and my boy. Dad's champion.

"So... maybe we should think about a little touch-up, Dad," he said to me
now, quietly, and I swore I could see his big young cock lengthen in his
supertight swimsuit. I know mine was.

"Maintenance is important, buddy," I growled back, locking eyes with him
over the top of my sunglasses.

"It is," he nodded, grinning that white-toothed smile of his. "Gotta keep
up the training... in and out of the pool."

"That's the spirit, Champ," I grinned back. "Attitude like that'll take you
all the way to the Olympics, son."

"You better be there with me, Dad," he said in that low, husky voice he
used with me at times like this. But I knew his words meant more than just
the sex. They meant... everything.

"Bet your fine, smooth ass I will, Champ," I smiled, squeezing his wet,
muscled, hairless forearm slowly. "There, and beyond. All the way, buddy."

All the way.