Date: Mon, 03 Apr 2006 19:45:45 -0400
From: A. Cheshire Cat <kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com>
Subject: Guys Stuff 4

Warning: if you don't know why you're here, turn away now.

One night when Chad was about nine his father had rented a movie that put
them both to sleep on the couch in the finished basement of the house
they'd soon sell. When they were dreaming the television screen was snow.
These were the days of VCRs and "please rewind" stickers.

There was no sound but for the electronic purr of the television, no
light but for it's nuclear winter glow, no movement but for the rise and
fall of the chests on the couch. Father had fallen into the crease at the
back of the couch and his right arm was draped over Son's smaller body,
an afghan was warmly draped over top their cotton-clad bodies. They
slept, both of them, like babes in a basket adrift in a river taking them
further and further away. Through crocodile dreams they held fast to an
unconscious faith, arriving through the veil of the calm pool that was
waiting for them all along.

Father stirred, suddenly he realized he wasn't in bed. His eyes opened to
find the room ablaze with the light of the flickering screen. He lifted
his ass up and then remembered his son asleep along side him, he shifted
his body ever so gently, to not disturb the boy. His son's little arms
brought the blanket up, venting the warmth that had built underneath,
pulling the wool of its edges up to his cheeks. He was so adorable at
this age. Still such a little boy, Father thought, so precious and
beautiful.

His right arm, draped over his son, was under the blanket and he placed
his hand passionately on his son's chest, feeling the slow bumping of the
boy's heart there. So relaxed. So calm. It was a pleasurable experience.
He put his desk-job hands under the poly-cotton fabric of his boy's
pyjama's, felt the fold and roll of the warm belly, and pulled the boy in
closer. With his fingers he probed the chest to find the tender nubs of
his nipples, without definition, and gently rubbed them as if they were
those of a man, hoping to evoke from his son the same gasp and moan.
To his amazement his son's mouth suddenly opened and his head leaned
back, he didn't wake up, but he stirred, his father brought up the
fingers which had just grazed the boy's body and with a simple gesture,
with the tip of his index finger, he drew an invisible line along the
bottom lip that seemed curled in a exhausted bliss. Ahh, pushing out the
warmest boy-breath, a sigh of sleep.

He remembered the night that he'd kissed his son then for the first time.
He remembered the jam-covered dildo too. The boy was growing up so fast.
He'd stopped all that for so long. He'd stopped trying to push on his
little boy the desires of his manhood: he'd tried to move on from his
inability to love another as he'd loved his mother, he tried so hard to
believe it was wrong to push this unrequited or placeless love onto his
son. But his son was so beautiful to him, his son was all he had left of
something that had built up so solidly upon a foundation of sweet
intentions: his son was all that was left, as if a fruit upon a tree
drowned by drought, a fruit so fresh and healthy and his.

He pulled little Chad's face up and kissed him again, pressing his large
red lips against the silk of his son's. A strong breath came from his
nose and created a whistle over his son's little nostrils. He nearly wept
then.

He decided then he would bring his son to his bed with him.

He got up from the couch and his son barely noticed, his little arms fell
to his sides in dreamy abandon. His father easily picked up his weight
and left the afghan on the couch. He navigated the room's shadow with
stealth and by the time they got to the stairs to go up to the bedrooms
his son wriggled and moaned something, his father said, "We're going to
bed now." He didn't mention of anything else. He brought his son into the
room where, together with the wife that was gone now, in the throes of
passion the vital juices had spewed and stewed and made their son in her
belly. He lay Chad in his mother's spot and gently pulled the warm duvet
over his shoulders.

He took himself then into the washroom and washed his face, the ascent
from the splash revealed a face of a man hardly recognizable. It was
distorted with sinister intentions. He couldn't wash them away. Behind
his tired eyes he imagined his son's face stretching with the agony of
losing his innocence: as a father it hurt him, as a man it gave him the
greatest pleasure.
He didn't want to hurt the boy but he knew it would: his cock stirred in
his cotton pants and rubbed against his thigh. He pulled out his penis
then and started jerking it with a cold indifference. He believed that by
getting rid of the cum tonight he might curb the desire, shelf the syrum
of he beastly hunger.

He went back and leaned against the wall where the towel rack was and his
pants fell down to his ankles. He could imagined his son trying to take
the full measure of his meat, trying to impress his father silently,
having no choice in the matter. He imagined all this with his eyes
closed, as in a dream world, not just a dream.

When his eyes opened his son was standing there, next to the toilet.

"What are you doing Daddy?"

Chad never remembered the dildo, most certainly he didn't associate that
hulking sweet-coated toy with this appendage his father yanked
ruthlessly. Chad rubbed his eyes sleepily.

His father jumped. "Oh, son, I thought you were sleeping." At this point
he realized he was still holding his throbbing cock in his hand, his
pants were still around his ankles. He looked down at his shaft and
followed the line of it to the pouting, sleepy expression of curious son.
He grew incredibly pale, then burned swiftly with a savage blindness.

"Can I touch it Daddy?"

Without hesitation he consented by saying, "I suppose you're old enough
to touch this now."

His son reached up and felt the hot rod in his small cool hands. "It's so
big Daddy."

"You like it Son?"

"What are you doing with it?"

"I'm making jam." That was the first thing that came to his mind. Perhaps
it would be simple enough to suggest that he was hoping to stir in his
the pleasure he had in licking the giant jam-covered dildo from his
infancy. It was a failed attempt. His son didn't really get it.

"What kind of jam are you making, can we make a sandwich with it?"

The innocent remark caused his father to cease for a moment in the
direction he was heading, his cock softened slightly in his son's hand.

"Come on, let's get into bed."

"Am I sleeping in here tonight?"

"You know what, it can be our secret: you can sleep here every night."

His son's face lit up as his father pulled up his own pants. "Really
Daddy, I can sleep with you from now on?"

"Ya, just don't tell anyone at school, okay?"

"Sure Dad, our little secret."

Somehow something happened at that moment. By putting this responsibility
on his son he felt as though he could now do whatever he wanted. Within
this room, especially on this night, as a father he had a control over
the son: teacher, forger, sire.

Leading his son to the bed he raised him and threw him down. It was
almost four in the morning, they had to go to bed but as Dad slipped
under the covers and moved with magnetic smoothness toward the warmth of
the son's little body under the covers somehow time was of less relevance
than ever before, somhow the barriers that should prevent his mind from
travelling this doomed course were blurred, dissipated, darkened: now the
rise and fall and their chests were punctuated by the ticking of their
curiosity.

His son started again, "Can I touch it again Daddy?"

His father rolled over, he couldn't see his son in the darkness but he
knew he was right there.

They were mere inches apart.

"Why do you want to touch it again?"

"Because it was cool, sometimes mine gets hard like that and when I play
with it for a while it softens again, but not until I play with it . . ."

"You want to play with it?" Silence, but for the scrape of his boy hair
upon the pillow, a night's nod in the bed. "Can you reach down and touch
it?"

Suddenly, in the furnace under the duvet his son's little hand touched
the cotton-wrapped cock and yanked, a little roughly perhaps.

Dad jumped.

"Did I hurt you Dad?"

"No, just play nice. Here," he adjusted himself, removing his pants
quickly, "there, how about you take yours off too?"

"Okay." His son was so excited about this.

Soon his son was naked and from the side of the bed his clothes were
expelled. His father suddenly grabbed the boy as he would a woman and
pulled him right up against his length: the body was so nice to hold so
intimately.

"Dad, you're so hot, are you feeling well?"

"Of course I am, I feel better right now than I've felt for so long."
After a moment of stillness his father said, "Play with me son, like you
wanted."

"How do I do it right Daddy?"

"You take it in your hand and slide your palm up and down, oh, yes, oh
gog, that's it."

"Does that feel good Dad?"

"You bet, boy. You bet."

He let that happen for a while and then Dad started petting his son's
head, caressing the soft
boy-hair. He let his hand move slowly down the nape to the shoulder
blades where he started at once to massage the young shoulders. His son
seemed intoxicated with the attention. Till he suddenly stopped.

"What's wrong," his Dad asked, pulling away, "did I hurt you?"

"No, no, Daddy: my hand's sore is all."

"Oh," his Dad laughed, "don't you hate it when that happens?"

Chad snickered that he did but it was evident he had no idea what he was
agreeing with.

"Why don't you try licking it then?"

"Licking it?!"

"Ya, put it in your mouth: it feels so good."

Without even a moment's hesitation his son went down under the covers and
soon he was obviously licking the head of it. His father lowered the
duvet to just over the boy's shoulders.

"Put it right in your mouth buddy. Like it's a big popsicle: back and
forth, yes, that's right, you're getting it down.

He was losing his grip on decency, with each gentle tug of his son's
mouth he felt a greater and darker desire to push it in hard and get it
in: for some reason having it in at its full depth was far better than
this tedious tickling with the tongue. "That's right, put a little more
in."

At the same time as all this was happening his son's little boyhood was
rising and getting harder. Dad's strong hands were rubbing the boy's head
gently, then one had went further down the back and his father had to
lean slightly but soon his long fingers were tracing the hot line of the
boy's crack and a moment later he felt the puckering lips of the kid's
virgin boy-ass.

As soon as his father touched the puckering hole the son pulled off.

"What are you doing Daddy?"

"Do you like that?" He wasn't even really doing anything, just rubbing
the boy's hole.

"Ya, I guess," but it was obvious there was a certain hesitation in his
quivering voice.

He pushed his finger a little more certainly, his son jumped: "How about
this?"

"It kind of hurts a bit."

"Okay, okay, I want you to suck on it again, okay?"

"Yes Daddy."

His son's mouth was on his cock again and one of his young hand's
massaged the length of it
with curious conviction. Dad got a little bit randy then and started to
hold his son's head a little firmer, pushing with a tad more aggression
as he started to fuck his son's face. It felt so good. His son made a
noise but he blocked it out: he made another sound and his Dad said,
"Just a minute longer."

He felt his son squirming a bit and then all of a sudden he imagined his
son's eyes bulging with the force of his Dad's cock up his ass and he
started to cum. He came long strands of it that went all in his son's
mouth and when his son pulled off to swallow more strings of Dad's jam
went all over his face.

But his Dad had just started. This was the opening of Pandora's Box, this
was not the arresting of it.

He suddenly scooped his son's face in his hands and lowered himself to
lick the cum off the boy's face. "Oh, you're so beautiful son, I love you
Chad."

"I love you too Daddy," his son was gasping for air and trying to not
show any sign of strife, he wanted so badly to be a good boy.

He kissed him hard and pulled his young body on top of his and held it
tight. Already he was getting hard again, his throbbing rod filling with
the most evil of intentions.

His father's finger went down to that hole at the bottom of his boy's
courage and pushed again.

His son moaned oddly.

Chad, in the pitch of that night, made to brave this though it hurt more
and more. His father pulled up his own hand and spit on the fingers
without saying a word. He lay the boy on his belly and told him to be
quiet now. "This is only going to hurt this time, I promise."

His son felt the push of his father's huge cock at the door. "Daddy, I
don't think I can do this."

"Sure you can son, come on, just relax now. You're making me so proud of
you. I knew you were ready for this."

It didn't matter anymore if he was ready or not. It didn't matter anymore
if he was a son or not.
It didn't matter anymore if he was starting to cry. All that matter was
the completion of it. The rape had to be done. His father jumped over to
the side of the bed and fumbled in the dark for the light.

He had to see it.

When the light came on he changed position and put the boy dangling from
the side. He didn't chance a look onto his son's face yet. He told the
boy to hold on now, "Relax and it will be over soon enough."

Dad, with a ravenous precision spit another wad of saliva on the little
hole and quickly aimed his cock head at the puckering red door. He rubbed
the door and coaxed it into accepting him.

"Come on baby, you have the strength to do this."

Across the room there was a dresser upon which a mirror displayed for
them in triptych fashion the blasphemy being pushed upon this young boy:
Dad watched his own body now, the way the hair of his chest accentuated
the grabbing and pulling, the way his arms seemed taut with the
relentless grip on the young hips. The way his treasure-trail traced a
path down from the belly-button that heaved with the incessant thrusting
to the torn hole in the young boy. Soon he allowed himself to see further
forward, the glisten of the sweat on the boy's back, the twitch and flex
of the boy's shoulder blades, then up further where at first the boy's
face was buried in the duvet and then a moment later when his son looked
up and found the same reflection his father had found.

His face was red with pain. Yawning with anguish. Suffering a stroke of
melancholy.

Suddenly the blindness that was his father's lust, like a sly and
mischevious demon, lifted its veil of black magic and his father saw his
son's pain: he saw what he'd wanted in his fantasies, the silent cries,
the bulging eyes of it, the rape of the ghost of his past.

He didn't pull out. He instead leaned forward and fell upon his son with
throbbing penis still inside.

Still one with his son's body he then melted and became one with his
son's pain, draping his own hulking, sweating body, red with a lust like
a rage, over his son's trembling, terrified, tired body.

His son tried to move but was reminded of the girth up his ass at every
twitch of his spasming body.

"Daddy," the little voice begged, "are you making more jam for me?"

"What's that boy?"

"Are you going to shoot more of that stuff too?"

Slowly, ever so carefully, he pulled his cock out of the boy. There was
blood on his shaft, there was shit smearing it too. "You're so
beautiful," he said for some reason.

His son twitched and hurt with each fraction of the inches being pulled
from his little bottom.

"You want some more jam, son?"

"Yes Daddy."

"It's called cum, son. We'll call it cum from now on." He figured there
was no sense hiding these things from him now, no sense dressing things
up to sound so sugar-coated.

"You want my cum boy?"

"Yes Daddy," he smiled again.

"Come on up here." He pulled his son up along side him on the bed and
started jerking his cock nice and slow. It didn't take long,

This time the gobs of cum flew through the air freely, landing on his
Dad's belly.

"Lick that clean son. Finish it up now boy."

His son went to licking the cum off his belly.

They were both asleep within minutes awaking with yawns in each other's
arms.

-- -- --

When Chad woke up that night, that Saturday night, over ten years later
the memory of that night graced his mind with its poignant, painful
memory. His father had initiated him into a life of this blessed mess:
all the while, as he grew, he longed to break free of the paternal grip
on his hips. He thought now, as he would wake up and maybe find Kyle
there still he might be able to take this path in a new direction at
last.

But Kyle wasn't there when he woke up. He was alone on the couch. The
afghan that covered his weary, drug-addled body was the same that wrapped
him on an innocent night ages before when it all began.

He heard the door opening, the screen door, then the lock unlatching: his
father was home. It was Saturday night. He had to get ready to go to the
party.

Kyle must have left while he slept.

When his father peered through the door into the living room he smiled,
"Hey Chad, how are you doing?"

"I'm alright. How was your day?"

"It was great. The weather's getting warmer, spring's coming."

"I thought so too."

He'd thought so too.