Date: Sun, 24 Apr 2011 18:17:37 -0700 (PDT)
From: Neil Entib <nifty_ntib@yahoo.com>
Subject: I Couldn't Stop

Even if I say this story is fiction, just to cover my ass, there's no way
you can know whether I'm telling the truth.  Ultimately, that lies between
me and my dad.  So if it excites you more to think I'm lying, there's
nothing I can do to stop you.  Have fun!  ;)

COMMENTS WELCOME TO: nifty_ntib@yahoo.com

I COULDN'T STOP

I'm pretty sure I was ten when it happened.  I had been bribed the year
before (I'll be your friend if you take all your clothes off) by a
schoolmate of mine into playing naked games with him, and as far as I can
remember, that's when I discovered that my little cock felt pretty damn
awesome when it got hard and something was rubbing it all over.  Of course,
that's another story, as they say, because you're here to read about my
dad, not my friend.

I was pretty lucky.  My sister had been born two years previous, and she
had taken my old bedroom while I moved downstairs to what had been a former
office/storage space.  Twice as big and more private, I think it was a
pretty damn good tradeoff.  I had a queen bed and plenty of room to move
around and do homework, laze about, and other things a ten-year-old kid
likes to do.  Also, lots of things I could write for this site, but I have
to stick to my dad for this one.

I can't pinpoint the month, but it was definitely spring or summer, because
this story centers around the yard work that Dad would obsess over every
year.  He didn't have a job with regular hours; he more or less did the
books from home with the occasional road trip.  Still, he wasn't the best
father in the world, and even after this incident he wasn't the best.  We
didn't do any miracle bonding like you read about; life just kind of kept
going on...with benefits.

Dad was a big man.  Back when I was little, he'd stopped smoking out of
concern for my health, and as a consequence he'd taken to eating as a
substitute.  I'd say around this time he was approaching 280, and no, not a
solid wall of man-muscle.  He had a belly; hell, he was already older than
most fathers with kids my age.  Rugged good looks, I guess...but greying
and balding, with big aviator-style eyeglasses.  But he was my dad, and I
loved him.  Still do.  Sometimes I still show him just how much, heh.

Oh right, yardwork.  Dad was obsessed with the yard and garden.  Maybe it
was because we had such hard winters and he wanted to see something pretty
as long as he could in the summer, and keep it that way.  He mowed twice a
week, like clockwork, and other days were spent weeding or fixing things
around the house.  He was a big guy, but he liked to work outside.  I liked
to watch television inside.  That would explain why I was big for my age,
even then.  No waif-thin boy body for me; I was still very much covered in
baby fat.  Molestable, sure, and I don't regret anything I did or that
happened to me.  Maybe I regret that I didn't do more!

I awoke at the early hour of 10:30am to the sound of our trusty Toro
rumbling past my bedroom window.  Dad didn't care if I was sleeping or not;
the lawn had to be done.  It was the perfect indicator of a late
spring/early summer morning, though.  I tried to doze, and succeeded for
about three minutes until he made another pass and I just decided to get up
for good.  Or at least stop trying to go back to bed.  If anything, there
were cartoons on.

 After sliding out of bed, I waddled sleepily to the bathroom and came
back, flopping onto the sheets.  In those days I wore an oversized shirt
that came down to my knees, over a pair of Hanes briefs.  Never white,
always colored.  Somewhere there's a Christmas video of me at thirteen,
sitting cross-legged and opening presents, my developing bulge clearly
outlined for the camera to see.  Then again, my dad was behind the camera,
and he knew how to use the zoom feature in all the right ways.  I've only
seen that tape once, and I want to see it again.  I was a cock-tease even
when I wasn't thinking about it.

Pulling the covers back over myself, I turned the TV on and started
flipping through channels.  If I had found something to watch, this may
have never happened.  Thank God the programming was boring that day.

Some short time later, when I shifted position, I felt that wonderful
tingle that sent a shiver up and down my spine.  Yup: I lifted up my shirt
and sure enough, I was pushing out my underwear with my little two-inch
erection.  Well, that merited some taking care of.  I left the television
on whatever inane programming was on and got into position: on my stomach,
still clothed, my right hand rubbing my cockhead between two fingers while
my left was trapped between my bare thigh and the bed.  This was how I
would do it, rubbing away while gently rolling left and right on the bed,
until I got tired and my hand either became numb or sore.

This was one of the last times I masturbated this way.  I'll give you one
guess as to who taught me how to jack off correctly.

 I didn't think about much while I writhed around slowly.  I thought about
my "friend" who liked to hump crotches with me while he looked at his dad's
Playboys placed above my head.  He's married now, with a kid, while I know
I've been fascinated with dicks since as early as five.  I wonder if he
even remembers what we did, or if he would admit to any of it.

As far as I can recall, I must have just spaced out with the pleasure.  It
happens, you know.  I was probably fantasizing about those immature things
kids fantasize about at that age, in that time: Care Bears, Teenage Mutant
Ninja Turtles, things like that.  Maybe I'm just weird.  But then again,
I've always known that.  I didn't hear the mower shut down, and I didn't
hear the screen door that led out to the yard shut as Dad came inside.  I
had less than a second between when I thought I felt someone approaching my
bedroom door and when Dad opened it without knocking.

 My head was turned to the left so I could watch whatever was on, and I saw
the door move out of my periphery.  And as the rush of adrenaline I felt
surged through my body and right to my cock, the constant waves of pleasure
suddenly kicked up into a whole new level.  Heat flushed my face, I could
hear my pulse in my ears, but I couldn't stop myself.  There was nothing I
could do to stop my fingers from manipulating the flesh between them.  Part
of me was so ashamed that I'd let my dad catch me doing something so dirty,
so forbidden...well, maybe not forbidden, but definitely private.

Another part of me was thrilled on some morbid level, at the fact that I
was somehow sharing a deeper part of myself with him.  I know it sounds
silly, but when your father is kind of distant (big Christmases to make up
for the rest of the year), any opportunity to have any kind of closeness is
one to be treasured, even if it's touching yourself in front of him.

I saw his figure in the doorway, but I couldn't see his face.  I knew he
knew exactly what I was doing, but I didn't know how he felt.  I was,
however, slightly bolstered by the fact that since I was ten he could most
likely write it off as kid stuff and leave it there.  I didn't think him
the kind of person to give me the "hellfire and damnation and hairy palms"
speech, since he'd never gone to church except to watch my Christmas
pageants.  On the other hand, I sure didn't expect the result I write here.

"C'mon, Mark, stop pingin' yourself," he said in the gentle twang of his
birth state, just enough for me to hear a trace of my Grandma, who still
lived there.  Dad is the only one who has ever used that word for
masturbation to my knowledge, and I've always wanted to ask him where he
learned it.  Perhaps from his dad, who died before I was born.  I'll
probably never know.

The conviction in his voice was weak at best.  He wasn't disgusted with me,
which was good, but his tone suggested that I either shouldn't have been
doing it then or I should have been more careful not to let him catch me.
Either way, it didn't stop me.  Didn't even slow me down.

Dad closed the door, and it was over.  But it wasn't; I had moved up to a
whole new level, my heart beating heavily in my chest, my pulse hissing in
my ears.  The television was long forgotten; I kept thinking about that
moment when the door opened, trying to see the look on Dad's face, and
every time my cock jumped a little, wondering how he felt about it.
Wondering if he did it.  Wondering what he'd do if he caught me again,
though at the time if he'd decided to spank me over his knee that might
have made me even hornier.  Plenty of stories about that too, right?

It may have been five minutes, it may have been ten, before Dad came back.
I do vaguely recall hearing the mower starting up and making a few passes
through the back yard before stopping again.  We would later have a
discussion where he would confess to me how conflicted those few minutes
were for him, as a father and as a person.  I've told him many times how
glad I am he came back.  But that's getting ahead of myself.

This time I heard him, but I was more scared than excited because now, if
he caught me again, he might follow up with action instead of just words.
I had plenty of time to stop, but I didn't.  It just felt so damn good.

The door opened, and I heard him sigh over the sound of wood sliding over
carpet.  I know I heard him sigh; my senses were on fire and finely attuned
to sound.  I was closer: to what, I didn't know, but the feeling was
stronger and I knew it was leading me somewhere wonderful.  So I kept on
doing what I was doing, come hell or high water.  I was heartened by the
fact that Dad hadn't said anything yet; usually if I didn't do as I was
told, he would get on me right away, but not this time.  And somehow, on
some level, I knew this was different.  Different and naughty.

Burned into my mind is the image of my father's silhouette in my bedroom
doorway, faceless because I couldn't turn my head far enough.  Just
standing there, slightly deflated, and thinking.  Later on I would come to
find out what he was thinking, a couple years later, and he now knows he
made the right decision in my eyes.  I've never looked back, never
regretted it.

"Mark."  It must have been only two or three minutes, but it felt like an
eternity.  I couldn't answer him.  "Quit it."  He sounded so weak, so
noncommittal, so unlike his usual self, and I felt another surge.  On some
level, I knew I held power over him, something I'd never done before.  All
because of this strange, wonderful sensation and my unwillingness to quit
while he watched.  Back and forth, back and forth, slowly on the bed, the
warmth between my legs growing ever so slowly.

I started breathing hard when he let go of the doorknob and stepped into
the room.  Things were changing, things were going to be different, and
something was going to happen soon, and that excited me greatly.  It was
just us two in the house for the afternoon, which is why he left the door
open so he could hear anyone coming in upstairs.  This he also told me
later.  If Mom had been home, he might not have even taken the chance.  We
had all memorized the squeaks and thumps of approaching footsteps in the
decade we'd lived in that house.

He approached me slowly, cautiously, like a curious observer witnessing
some odd event.  Each step he took sent new feelings through me: shivers up
and down my spine, my triphammering pulse, yet another surge in my cock.  I
was in some kind of glorious trouble, something for which I no longer
thought I'd be punished, or even reprimanded.  By coming into the room and
not outright doing anything, Dad had become a co-conspirator in the
naughtiness; we shared the blame, and even if it had ended at that point I
could have held it over his head.

But instead he stayed.

As he came even with me, I could turn my eyes and finally catch his
expression.  It didn't trouble me, because he wasn't mad.  He seemed
neutral, the most neutral expression I'd ever seen on his face, looking
down at me but not looking into my eyes.  Not looking at my crotch, either,
just watching me.  "Remembering what it was like," he would tell me later,
and I can't blame him.  What father, realistically, hasn't caught his son
jerking it and not been reminded of himself at a young age?  I'll never
have kids, but I can totally see the logic there.

He stopped, and here is one of the most erotic moments I have ever had: the
sight of my dad's arousal.  I remember exactly what he was wearing: a
heather grey T-shirt with his alma mater's logo on it, sweat-stained around
the neckline and armpits, little bits of cut grass here and there.
Loose-fitting Zubaz pants, white with purple zebra stripes, as was the
fashion back in the 90's.  Couldn't see his shoes, but they didn't matter.
What did matter was the tent in those pants, which was level with my face,
and when it finally blocked the TV my eyes naturally focused there instead.

Dad had a boner...a very obvious boner...and he was making no move to hide
it.

Things had changed so fast.  I had only seen my father's penis once, when
we were changing at a pool somewhere, and even then I hadn't paid much
attention to it.  I remember seeing all the hair with just his head poking
out—he was a grower—and then it was gone, behind a swimsuit.  But
now, as he stood there with his legs slightly spread, I could see the bump
it made behind the seam, and once he stopped, I could see it move.  Flexing
once every few seconds, the way it does when you clench your ass muscles,
moving up and then down like a living thing.  He was doing it in front of
me, I couldn't take my eyes off it, and he knew this.  Somewhere in the
back of my mind I knew that things had changed forever, that whatever the
outcome of this day, I would have memories to carry with me the rest of my
days.

"You can't stop."  He meant it as a question, but it didn't quite come out
as such.  Oh, I could have, but then I wouldn't get to see what happened
next.  Whatever that was.  No way was I going to stop, now that Dad's
entrance had basically given me carte blanche to see how far I could take
it.  I shook my head slightly, to answer his question, and he sighed a
little, his tent bouncing up again, growing a little.  My right hand was
starting down the road to cramping, my left was getting numb, but the
pleasure coursing throughout my little body remained.

I tried to look up, into his eyes, and I got there for a little bit before
the strain became too much and I had to look down again.  He was
forty-seven at the time, and he looked it.  Like I said, no gym bodies, no
blond Adonis locks.  He was sweaty and heavy and balding, but he was, and
still is, my dad.  He had a strong face, a genuine smile (when he was
smiling), and now he was watching me with an intensity that would have been
unsettling if I hadn't been so horned up putting on a show for him.
Besides, I was more interested in his crotch than his face at the moment
anyway.

We stayed that way for another short eternity, mesmerized by each other's
bodies and actions.  I could look at nothing besides that lump, and Dad
never moved as if he wished to stop me.  The feeling just continued to
build, ecstatically smoothly.  And then he whipped it out.

He moved so fast it took me a couple of seconds to shake off my mesmeric
state and actually see what was in front of me.  One hand pulled down the
elastic waistband of the pants while the other disappeared inside, and I
watched as the lump disappeared, only to be replaced by the actual thing,
heavy-looking and hard.  I remember I didn't gasp, or moan, or anything
like that.  I just stared, and my hand started working harder on my own
erection.

Dad tucked the waistband under his balls and sighed now that his junk was
free, but it was a sigh of many dimensions.  Relief, terror, the thought of
doing something he could never take back.  It was the most terrifying
moment of his life, he told me, but also the most liberating.  Instead of
feeling like a predator, he himself was surprised at the closeness and
bonding he felt sharing that moment.  I know that sounds hokey, but for
those of us who've experienced that kind of bond, it's possible.

It looked much bigger then than now, but everything does when you're ten.
Average, really: about six inches long, little more than an inch thick,
nice head proportionate to the shaft, light brown pubic hair under his
belly, and a ballsac that was more of a pouch than a hangy-down bag.  I
liked that because it was more solid, and felt good on my tongue...but
again, another story.  Dad took its base in his right hand and began a slow
stroking, only to about halfway up, the pressure from his finger forcing
out a little drop of precum that stood at the slit and shined in the light
of my bedroom.  Even back then, I knew I was doing something to my father
that sons didn't normally do to their dads.  I loved it, and I cherished
it.

I was in uncharted territory now; we both were.  My little-boy tinglies had
transformed into something more solid, a swirling mass of heat and pressure
behind my cock that throbbed and beat like a drum with my pounding heart.
My fingers were quite sore, but the pain was still less than the pleasure
they were giving, so I pressed on.  I kept pinging myself, even though my
daddy had told me not to.  I knew, then, that he secretly hadn't wanted me
to stop.  He stood there, right beside me, stroking off and watching his
little boy writhe around on the bed on the way to something exciting and
beautiful and forbidden.

My attention was focused solely on that big, thick hand, those fingers that
still had bits of grass clinging to them, wrapped around my father's shaft
and pumping.  The bottom half of his gut wiggled with the motion, something
you just don't see in the pornos: a normal man getting off the way he knows
how, not how people want to see it.  I later found out he was edging almost
the entire time, and when he asked me if I thought he was a monster for
watching me, I told him I thought it was the coolest, most awesomest thing
he had ever done.  It sure beat the hell out of those big Christmases.

"C'mon, Mark," he whispered.  He didn't dare speak it, I think, for fear of
hearing his own voice urging his son to climax for him.  Even though I knew
something big was supposed to happen at the end of all of this, I wasn't
sure how to bring it about.  The feeling was still a background thing, but
more and more I could sense I was approaching some point of no return.  My
whole body was tense (I would be sore all the next day), repeating the
motions like rote memorization.  The drop of fluid on the tip of Dad's cock
started to drip down, but he caught it on his finger and smeared it around;
I was aware of how fucking manly that was.  I didn't expect it to cause me
to lick my lips.  I swore I could smell whatever that liquid was, and the
thought of tasting it appealed to me strongly but I didn't know why.  Maybe
that was the best part about it.  Just something I wanted to do.

I dug my little hips into the mattress and ground my cockhead between two
fingers, letting out a grunt.  I still do the same thing to this day when
I'm close to coming: hold breath, grunt, gasp, hold again, rinse and
repeat.  I must have looked a sight there, my small round body moving
around in ways it shouldn't know for years yet.  But I saw the look of
expectancy on Dad's face when he saw I was getting close, saw his hand
quicken on his own length, and it was a race to the finish.

I came first, of course; it was Dad's plan all along to see me climax
before he did.  He wanted to watch his boy experience his first orgasm
which, up until just fifteen minutes ago, he had never thought about in his
life.  Something had awoken inside of him, and I was the cause of it.

It crashed over me suddenly and fiercely.  One moment I was just enjoying
the building tension between my legs, the next it all fell away like water
receding before a tsunami.  At that moment the realization came to me that
I could no longer back away.  Whatever was going to happen was going to
happen, and no part of my body would stop until it was over.  Panic gripped
me, and I tore my eyes from Dad's dick to his face, my mouth agape.  His
eyes were bright, focused.  He knew.

"Daddy..."  Yeah, another hokey moment, but I really said it.  I wanted to
ask him what was going on, why couldn't I stop it, why didn't I want to,
but the one word was all I got out before it shut everything else out.  I
was aware of some muscle deep down pulsing my dick up and down and my
butthole open and shut.  It wouldn't stop.  And then all the nerves down
there exploded at once, blurring my vision and taking me a step back from
reality like a drug.  Dad says I moaned loudly and grunted through my
orgasm, and I believe him.  Why wouldn't I?  I just kept staring at him, as
if his eyes were the only thing keeping me from falling off the edge of the
world.

"Yeah...oh yeah, oh Jesus," Dad whispered back, holding my gaze, his eyes
glassy and his mouth agape.  I was just beginning to come down from my peak
when I felt the first shot of his semen across my cheek.  He was standing a
good three feet from me, but it splattered all the way from my neck around
to the edge of my open lips, warm and sticky, like icing on a freshly-baked
cinnamon roll.  I don't think I ever thought he was peeing on me; I knew
this was something different and special, something I had caused him to do,
and though his face looked strained and his brow was sweating profusely, he
was enjoying it.  I had never seen him like this, and it occurred to me
that that was how I must have looked just moments before.

I turned my eyes downward just in time to watch the second thick rope shoot
from his cock and land across my neck, catching the edge of my nightshirt
and soaking it through instantly.  A little bit of the first shot dripped
into the edge of my lips and I licked at it instinctively.  It was salty,
and a little bitter, but all I really remember was thinking This came from
inside my daddy.  And I loved it because it was special like that.

Dad pounded up against his cockhead, two or three more shots flying out and
landing on the edge of the bed or the carpet.  One drop flew off and landed
on my forehead, and that was about it.  The end of my own orgasm was fading
away, and my hips stopped moving though my fingers kept playing around
while there were still feelings to be had.  Suddenly I saw how hard he was
breathing, and for a moment I thought there was something wrong with him.
Whatever had happened had taken a lot more out of him than me, presumably
because he was so much older.

Finally, he let his junk go; it hung semi-limply, redder and bouncing
softly with his pulse, fluid covering his pee-hole.  I tell you, I wanted
to lick it off so badly right then.  If Dad had come closer, I would have.
Instead, he turned and left the room.

I felt relaxed, if apprehensive.  I was discovering for the first time the
post-orgasm letdown, but it wasn't as strong as the sense of peace that
accompanied it.  If what we had done was somehow wrong, at least we had
done it.  But I hoped to God we could do it again.  When Dad came back in
the room, the solemn look on his face didn't give me much hope.  His pants
were pulled back up, and he was wiping his hands dry with a washcloth.

"Do you need this?" he asked.  At first I didn't know what he meant, but
then it dawned on me that he was asking if I had squirted like him.  I felt
around my underwear, but found nothing.

"Nuh-uh."

"Okay.  Well...I gotta finish the lawn, and I wanna come back and talk with
you a bit.  Sound good, Scooter?"  Scooter was one of a few nicknames Dad
had for me, but he hadn't used any of them in a few years.  It made me feel
good.  It made me feel closer to him.  It also reassured me that I wasn't
in trouble.  The knot that would have formed in my gut wasn't there.

As Dad turned to leave the room, he patted me on my back, but this hand
lingered, his fingers trailing down my shirt-covered spine and over my
buttocks.  It sent a shiver throughout my body, and I didn't know why, but
I was closer than I had been before today.  All I knew was that it made me
feel awfully good, and I wanted it again.

I waited until I heard the patio door close before I turned over and
crawled back under the covers.  My little-boy boner had turned back into a
little-boy bulge, hidden by my oversized shirt.  I sat there and looked at
the television without really watching it.  Finally I let out a long sigh.
"Wow."  And then I turned on Nickelodeon and settled for Eureeka's Castle.

The next time Dad made a pass by my bedroom window, he was whistling.

4/15-4/23/11