Date: Mon, 3 Feb 2014 07:59:53 -0800 (PST)
From: Neil Entib <nifty_ntib@yahoo.com>
Subject: I Couldn't Stop part 2

The rest of the day passed awkwardly, needless to say.  Most of this was my
own fault, because Dad and I didn't really pass each other much.  He stayed
outside and worked on the lawn while I kept to my room watching TV and
playing Nintendo.  And trying to ignore the boner that wouldn't go away.

I remember at one point thinking something was wrong with me, that I'd
broken my dick by squeezing it too hard or something.  I realized, even
then, that this was a foolish thought to have, and even if my boner didn't
go down by the evening I'd be able to ask Dad about it.  Maybe.

And when I thought that, my chest fluttered in a way that made me want to
"ping" myself again, right then and there.  But I suspected that I should
wait until this evening because, even in my ten-year-old mentality, I felt
that something was going to happen.  Either that or I would be punished,
but why Dad would punish me after he'd been just as naughty escaped me.

Naughty.  That word, with its connotations of taboo and playfulness.  Only
reserved for one half of Santa's list until now, it reverberated in my head
like a bell tolling just for me.  And we had shared that naughtiness, that
delicious guys-only moment when I convulsed for him and he squirted me in
the face, and I already knew—down deep—that Mom could never find out.
She wouldn't understand.

Dinner consisted of Mom taking me to McDonald's because Dad had to run
errands and he said he would pick something up while he was out.  That was
a relief, at least to me, because I had no idea how awkward dinner would
have been otherwise.  I assumed he just had stuff to do, and it was par for
the course for him, but I'm pretty sure he needed time to himself to think
about everything.  I'd already done enough thinking for the both of us, and
I was nowhere near making sense of my thoughts and feelings.

It didn't occur to me until years later, at a very random moment, that my
extra-long, extra-thorough shower that evening was all about subconsciously
making sure I was clean and presentable for him.  I'd recently switched
from baths anyway, and while I missed the luxuriation from time to time I
was really getting into the feel of the water flowing over my body.  I also
noticed it got me cleaner "down there," and also where baby fat ended and
extra fat began.  I wasn't anywhere near the twink build you usually read
about in stories like this.

After second-guessing myself on what to wear to bed, I finally decided to
go with my standard: briefs and a t-shirt that came down to my knees.
Nowadays I sleep in the nude, but it just wasn't comfortable for me back
then.  Little did I know how much of a tease I was being, with my
little-boy bits subtly rounding out the cotton, only showing when I sat
down, the hem of the shirt hiding it all otherwise.  I suppose I was a
boy-lover's wet dream, in some ways.  I was just being me.

I had the TV on but I wasn't really watching it.  It was almost ten
o'clock, and Nick-At-Nite was playing some old show I'd already seen on
reruns way too many times.  I couldn't concentrate so I turned it off.
After a few minutes with only my own head to occupy me, I picked up a book
off the nightstand and tried to read it.  After that failed, I turned off
the light and lay there in silence, with just the sound of my triphammering
heart.

I listened to the footsteps throughout the house, wondering what my parents
were doing as they moved from kitchen to bedroom to hallway.  Once ten came
and went, I began to get worried that Dad wouldn't come in as promised.  He
couldn't have forgotten, not something like that.  He could have felt bad
and decided to just forget the whole thing, and that probably scared me the
most.  Even in those early days, I knew we had barely scratched the surface
of potential, and I wanted more.  I wanted it all...I just didn't know what
"it all" was.

The floor creaked.  The toilet flushed.  The sink ran, and the window shut.
My mother was in bed; I had memorized that order specifically so I would be
able to "ping" uninterrupted.  About ten minutes later, my dad came down
the stairs but turned into the family room instead of to my room.  I heard
the clink of silverware; he'd brought an after-dinner snack down with him.
This was also standard operating procedure most nights.  He worked hard at
that gut.

I don't know how I was able to nod off, but I did.  I remember waking up
upon hearing the click of my door, and the slide of it along the top of the
carpet.  Out of slitted eyes I watched his silhouette come into the room
and softly close the door.  My heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I
heard the snap of the push-button lock.  That meant Dad wanted privacy.
Maybe more.

I heard him sidle up to me at the side of the bed, felt the soft whoosh of
displaced air that announced his presence.  I clearly remember his shallow
breath, the ragged sound of it.  Like he was psyching himself up for what
was about to happen next.  But I don't think he planned it out.  I think he
planned to come in and see where our feelings took us.  Boy, did they take
us.

We stayed there, on the cusp of action, for maybe three long minutes that
seemed much longer in the dark silence.  Then his hand settled on my upper
chest, covered by the comforter, and stayed still.  I just knew he could
feel my heart through all the cloth.  I could almost imagine his doing the
same.

I kept waiting for him to say something devastating.  Or to suddenly take
his hand away and go back out into the family room, where he slept most
nights anymore.  I was aware that he snored, and it kept Mom awake, but I
suspected there was more to it than that.  It never occurred to me that I'd
never heard them making love, even though their bed was right above mine.
It had never occurred to me to ask, because my understanding of sex was
minimal to nonexistent.

That was to change, and quickly, but as Dad started a circular motion on my
belly, I had no idea.  Absolutely none.

My cock shot up to full mast in an instant, memories of that afternoon
running rampant through my mind.  The closeness we'd shared, or at least
that I'd felt, rushed back in waves that crashed over me, making my head
spin.  With the exception of the digital alarm clock, the room was pitch
black, and not even the small red numbers illuminated much beyond the end
table.  I couldn't see him, nor he me.  It was all touch.

We spent the next eternity, by which I mean about five minutes, in this
kind of limbo, he afraid of what to do next while I lay there begging him
to do anything different, so long as he stayed.  He couldn't hear me
mouthing, "Please.  Please.  Please."  I was silent, but I wanted him to
know.  I wanted him to know I wanted it, whatever he had to give.

He sighed unevenly.  His hand stopped.  It didn't move.  I tried to control
my breathing and found I couldn't do much of a good job.  He could feel my
chest heaving, and he knew I wasn't scared.  Or not as scared as he was;
I'm sure we both were different kinds of terrified.

After another couple of long minutes, I felt the comforter being lifted off
me, all the way down to my feet, the sheet along with it since both were
tucked about the same.  I think I gasped loudly enough for him to hear,
though I'll never know.  I was exposed to the darkness, my little dick
pushing lewdly into my undies, my shirt ridden halfway up my belly.  Maybe,
for the first time, I was aware of myself as a sexual being.

His hand alighted on that space between the bottom of my shirt and the
waistband of my briefs, first with a slight tentative weight and then more
solidly.  I jerked a bit, but only to keep myself from mewling at his
touch.  His fingers were indeed rough from the yardwork and the rest of the
stuff he did around the house and at his job, which kept him busy but
didn't labor him too hard.  Trembling, they squeezed a little, gathering up
my generous layers of baby fat and letting go.  Grabbing and letting go.
He sighed again, then softly cleared his throat.

I heard the shuffle of his bare feet on the carpet and his hand made a
slightly different purchase, more stable, and there was a gentle bump as
his knees hit the edge of the mattress.  I kept my hands at my sides,
though I could feel the material of his pants on the knuckles closest to
him.  I could reach up with no effort and just take hold of his penis,
right then and there, but I didn't know if that would scare him off or not.
I remember thinking that I would let him guide the way—it was a far
wider gulf to cross for him to touch me than I him.  I wanted desperately
to feel that thing between his legs, I didn't know why, and I knew he
wanted to feel mine but I knew why even less.

Because it feels good.  Yes, it did, but there was a reason I'd started to
take showers recently, and Dad hadn't helped me wash my hair in forever.  A
taboo, even without clear reasons, is still a taboo.

Without any light, I can't relate any expressions we had...well, I can
relate mine, which was a mouth-breathing "O" of almost-hyperventilation,
and maybe his was a nervous grimace of concentration plus a little terror.
All I knew was what I felt, and that was his big hand grasping and rubbing
and basically massaging me from undies to neck, now lightly running over my
nipples, which until now I hadn't realized could get so hard and so
sensitive.

I can't really relay with any transparency exactly what this felt like.
Only those who've dealt with the positive sexual touch with a parent can
understand the electricity, the unique trepidation and confusion, and the
elation, though that last one is very dependent upon the person.  My father
and I, in that moment when he moved his right hand to my chest and just lay
his left between my legs, were not who we used to be.  We'd changed.  We
were pioneers, facing an unknown future, good or bad, but he was willing to
tread that path and I was willing to be led down it.  I am convinced that
nothing will ever equal what I felt right then, not even my strongest
orgasms since.  Tens of thousands since that moment, countless with him, by
him, but still not as good as the manly weight and warmth of him pressing
my hard little cock down to my pubis.

"Oh, fuck."  That was me, ten-year-old me, uttering a word I'd only heard
at school and that would never fly at my house in any other context.  Dad
relaxed, as if my potty mouth freed him from the title of disciplinarian.

"Jesus Christ, you're so hard," he muttered.  Two fingers surrounded my
cotton-covered shaft and constricted.  That was a new, better feeling.

"So are you," I whispered.  Don't ask me why I said it before I actually
felt his dick.  I was so entranced by the whole situation that I was nearly
delirious.

"Yeah."  His hands left me just long enough to shuck his pants down to his
ankles, and he bumped up against the bed again, his hairy bare knee against
my hand.  He never asked me if I wanted to touch it.  He never made me
promise that it was our little secret, though we would discuss that
eventually but not in those words.  For then, I put my hand against his
meaty thigh and left it there, feeling the hairs that were so different
from my pasty, smooth skin.

I swear I could feel the heat of him just above my fingers, though the six
inches or so in between made that impossible.  The fingers of my other hand
clutched the sheets with white-knuckle abandon; I was almost frozen in
place.  Mostly because My Dad Was Touching My Cock and the moment was so
precipitous and so serendipitous that anything, any wrong move, could bring
it all crashing down and send him running, never to return to my bedside.
I dared not even speak unless spoken to.

That's one thing I don't get when I read incest porn.  There's a lot of
dialogue, a lot of stuff people don't actually say in those moments.
Either we were weird or there's a lot of faking going on in those tales.
It was awkward as hell for us, which was natural, and neither of us wanted
to speak.  Why would I, when Dad's big fingers worked my shaft up and down
in a slow, leisurely stroke?

I was vulnerable, that's what I was, and I felt every bit of it.
Vulnerable and comfortable and safe all rolled up into one bundle of
feeling.  I would have felt more so if I hadn't been touching him in
return, and that he was letting me was more personal than he'd ever been in
my life at that point.

I could smell his musk.  I remember it to this day, but to a young mind
it's nigh on intoxicating.  Boys, even when unshowered, don't produce the
kind of heady funk a man can.  It's just impossible.  My dad was clean,
fresh off a shower a couple hours ago, but already starting to scent up
again.  It wafted down to my nose, a constant reminder of his presence and
arousal.

He pushed out some air between pursed lips, his grip on me trembly and
stiff.  Of course I wanted to tell him he could do damn near anything he
wanted to do to me, but there was that thin red line between a hot moment
and losing it all, and though I was pretty sure I couldn't scare him off I
wasn't about to take a chance.  I know now that he was being super careful
not to seem like he was forcing himself on me.  You lose so much nuance
when there's no communication.

We were in a dark room, treading our path blindly in more ways than one.

So I decided to hold my breath a little and start moving my hand across his
thigh.  Back and forth a first, as slowly as I dared, and that got his
hands moving again.  I went to the outside edge, around over the knee and
inside in a rough figure-eight pattern that had him still as a statue with
the exception of his hands.  Every few strokes I would flex my dick against
him, to let him know I could feel it and it felt just fine and I wanted to
keep on feeling it.  "Oh," I would whisper now and again, when a
particularly strong twinge would get my hips off the bed a bit.

"Phew," said Dad after a while.  "This is too much."  But he was talking to
himself, and I for one couldn't believe it.  It wasn't nearly enough for
me, especially since I hadn't gotten that awesome feeling yet.  I knew
there was more to this beyond just getting all tingly, and I knew that Dad
was fundamentally different from me in more than a few ways.  I wanted to
find all of them out.  I noted that, although he claimed to be overwhelmed,
Dad didn't stop touching me.  In fact, he moved to my balls and squeezed
them gently.  I keened.

I desperately wanted him to get me naked.  I mean, hell, he was already
ahead of me.

Holding my breath, I moved my hand up along the inside of his thigh until
the tips of my fingers brushed the underside of his scrotum.  This,
however, was not one of those mind-blowingly hot moments.  It was just
warm, loose skin and stray hairs against my fingers.  It was foreign
enough, though, that it made me feel deliciously naughty and want to
explore more.  Dad sucked in a great breath that made me smile in the dark.
We had this secret now, this unbelievable New Thing we shared, and it was
the ultimate boys-only club.

His grip on my balls got so tight that I squeaked and he relented.

"Sorry," he said.

"S'okay," I replied, taking the opportunity to squeeze his own while we
were at it.  They felt so big in my smaller hand, and so old.  Compared to
that bump between my legs that hadn't even descended yet, Dad's balls felt
soft and wrinkly and hairy and just plain big.  They hung down loosely but
jumped a bit when I felt them, as if they were a separate entity reacting
apart from him.  I rolled them around as he rolled mine, swallowing drily,
my throat clicking, knowing that his cock was just beyond my touch, tensing
up and releasing.  I knew he wanted me to.  But I had to ask anyway.  I
thought carefully, and chose my words the same way.  "You want me to?"

Dad paused.  Inhaled, then heaved this big sigh that almost sounded like he
was annoyed with me.  I couldn't see his face, so I couldn't tell.  Holding
my dick as if judging whether or not to continue, he spoke not much over a
whisper: "Yeah.  I can't believe it.  But yeah."

I remember not understanding what he meant by that.  Of course he wanted me
to do it.  Couldn't he tell I wanted him to do me?  Why did he even need to
think about it?  At this point in my young life my mind didn't travel very
far beyond immediate feelings and the thought of never wanting something to
end.  But I never, ever wanted this to end.  Part of my mind even went so
far as to think that I didn't care if Dad forced himself on me down the
line.  At least this was better than nothing.

I never said it was healthy.

Dad's cock stood perfectly perpendicular to his body, about six inches long
if you didn't push back the fatty upper-pubic area heavier guys tend to
have.  Of course, I wouldn't have any idea until the lights came on later,
but it did feel a lot bigger in the dark.  I barely got my fingers around
the base, but when I did, it was as if this light bulb flicked on in my
head that said YOU WERE MEANT FOR DICK.  To this day, when I'm sucking a
dick (especially his) that phrase will repeat and I feel right at home.
Some kind of oral fixation, I guess.

With a grunt, he stiffened in my grip, his hips jerking and making his dick
waggle a bit.  I felt the skin of his shaft slide over the hardness within
and right away knew his was different than mine.  Not uncut, but a more
generous circumcision than mine had been.  I have very little loose skin,
but it serves me well enough.

He made the motions for me, and I held my hand still and let him slide
through my fingers.  I sensed the power behind the hardness, the strain and
strength that he'd used to make me.  And then I thought This has been
inside Mom and then I want it inside me and I shuddered.  My little
ten-year-old mind had suddenly woken up and connected the dots.

"Why..." Dad moaned.  I pressed up against his hand, his big warm hand, and
he started stroking again.  "Why're you doing this..."  I wanted him to
just shut up and feel good and stop ruining the moment.  "Mark..."

"Because."  I said it not only because I didn't feel I needed some special
reason for this, but also because I didn't know what he was referring to.
Why didn't I stop pinging myself when he told me?  Why was I jerking him
off?  Did he think I had seduced him?  If so, the "problem" was as much his
as mine.

"Jesus, that feels good."  I lightened my grip and moved up to his tip,
where I encountered a slickness I knew wasn't pee.  I'd peed on myself
before (still do) and I could tell.  "I want you to stop, Mark."

"No you don't."  I wouldn't let him spoil this, wouldn't let him take this
away from me.  Why did he want me to stop something this good?

"We shouldn't be doing this."  He took his hand off my crotch, and that was
okay, but when I felt his fingers on mine, very weakly attempting to pry
them off his erection, that was the last straw.  Without letting go, I
whirled around and got my legs under me so I was on my knees.  Adding my
other hand like baseball captains do in a game, I covered most of the
length and stroked it.  Dad's fingers tried to interfere, but they lacked
resolve.  "Mark, please."

"No.  Shut up."  I wanted to call him a liar, call him out on trying to
hold this awesome thing back from me, but a few words of defiance would
have to do.  I may have been the weaker person physically, but he was much
weaker emotionally, at least right then.  I didn't have age and maturity in
my way.  An idea came to me then, a Plan B in case he made a serious move
to put me off.  And when I felt him pushing on my shoulders, pushing me
away like he'd done so many times before in my life, I dug my knees into
the bed and hoped my aim would be true.

As wide as I opened my mouth, my teeth still brushed against his head when
I went down on him.  He only gasped, though, out of fear of waking up Mom,
and I had about three inches in before I closed my lips and brought my
tongue up against the underside of his shaft.  Salty slickness coated the
back of my mouth, and that I belong here thought raced through my head
again.

I didn't move.  I didn't have to move, since Dad's hands on my shoulders
were holding me still instead of pushing now.  They pinched my shoulders
past the point of simply massaging and turned painful when his nails
started to dig in.  It occurred to me that I could bite down, really hard,
if he kept trying to push me off, but my goal was to show him how good I
could make him feel, not how much pain I could cause.

I started moving.  Back, of course, since forward would mean gagging.

"Mark...Mark!  Shit!  God dammit!"  He wasn't shouting though, he wouldn't
dare approach that volume.  He hissed through his clenched teeth, little
droplets of spittle raining down on my slowly-bobbing head.  Initially I
thought this gross, but then remembered I had his thing in my mouth for
some unknown but compelling reason.  It twitched and swelled and leaked
more stuff onto my tongue, and I clumsily milked more out as best I knew
how.

Very quickly after I got his cock slicked up and my lips wet, he stopped
resisting.  Not completely, because it just wouldn't do to grab my head and
start fucking away.

I've read a number of similar stories over the years, and this seems to be
a recurring theme with them: Daddy's man-strong resolve and heterosexuality
go out the window once sonny-boy's mouth goes to work on his dick.  What
I've learned, from the true accounts and friends I've made, is that men
sometimes stop thinking about sex in terms of chicks versus dudes once they
get a real good mouth on them.  It's why so many married men—who
wouldn't otherwise hook up with other guys—go to glory holes where their
imaginations hold more sway than who that ass on the other side of the wall
belongs to.

So, I've discovered that what my dad did wasn't exactly abnormal.  Also, he
would tell me later on that Mom hadn't touched him in any kind of intimate
way for almost a year, and she hadn't always been the most physical of
wives.  It was like pulling teeth, getting her to blow him, and when she
did she didn't like it, and he couldn't stay hard.

But with me...with my needful mouth and eager little hands...not only did
those things disarm him and take the disgust away from the act (we all have
issues to overcome, right?), but they also greatly heightened his senses.
I was male, I was young, I was his fucking son, and I was the instigator.
So, after the shock of all this, and coming to the realization that it was
really happening, he gave up and let me into his sexual life.

He started to massage my shoulders, and beyond the wonderful gasping sounds
he made with my every move, he did nothing but let me explore.  Clumsily,
but adequately.

I released my death grip on his dick and grabbed handfuls of his lower
belly (the official term is pannus, inelegant but appropriate) to steady
myself so I didn't impale my throat by accident.  I knew I couldn't bottom
out no matter how hard I tried, but I wasn't going to try either.  At the
time I didn't know exactly what the end goal was, too caught up in the
moment to care.  Bobbing my head and concentrating on not teething his
skin, I felt my own dick twitch every so often against my stomach.  I was
chubby enough so that it arched up toward my navel, a new sensation as I'd
never masturbated naked before.

It really is all about discovery, isn't it?

Dad used his hips as a kind of guide, and after a couple clumsy
syncopations I got the timing down so that those precious three inches were
slipping past my lips without choking me.  Actually, he preferred to slide
the head along my tongue and stay within a very small range, right on the
bulge of his urethra, and after a bit of this I pressed up when he pressed
in, gaining a low moan from him.  His hands trembled terribly.  He felt
scared, as if trapped in this tunnel of pleasure with no way out except
seeing it through to its finish.  I knew what that finish was—it had
painted my face earlier that day—and I wanted to see if I could repeat
it.

I became aware of my pulse roaring in my ears, the fiery warmth of them
too.  Not embarrassment, not humiliation, and certainly not hubris.  This
new sense of togetherness, and I didn't realize at the time how special
that really was.  Dad could have forced me to suck his cock, or coerced me,
but it was I who had done the coercing, in my awkward innocent way.  With
me between his legs, we both fumbled for a relationship where we weren't
sure one existed.  Not the most ideal of circumstances, but this is real
incest.  This is how it happened to us.

"Mark, I—" He gulped, he really did, I heard the click.  "I'm gonna
come."  No asking me to stop, no dirty talk about filling my boy throat
with his daddy load.  I knew he meant he was going to squirt like last
time...I connected the dots again, though the terminology confused me.  His
hips got ragged; he was holding back a quicker, more violent motion.  Just
barely.  About twenty seconds elapsed.  "Gonna come."

"Mhm," I hummed around his corona, squeezing his belly fat, kneading it,
wondering if I would get as hairy as he when I grew up.

"Oh shit.  Shhhhit."  A sharp intake, a strained grunt and my mouth was
flooded.  I mean, just like in the stories.  Then again, I had a small
mouth, but when he told me later that he'd been thinking about this all
day, I wasn't surprised by the volume.  It was more than before, or at
least it felt like it.  He annunciated each volley: "Ah, ah, ah
hnnngggg...aaaaahhhhhhh..."

And then he was done.  He'd held himself still while he came, the twitch of
his cock enough to keep him going through climax, and when I felt his body
relax I realized I was close to leaking his cum right out the corner of my
mouth.  So I moved in slightly, as carefully as I could, and swallowed it
down in three separate, deliberate gulps.  When I looked up I could barely
see, in the near-pitch darkness, him staring down at me, still attached to
his cock.

"Fuckin' Christ, Mark."  And then, to the rest of the room, after he'd
slicked back his sweat-greased hair: "What the hell did we just do?"

9/29-12/31/2013