Date: Fri, 6 Jun 2014 08:54:54 +0200
From: Zachary Blake <z.blake@mail.com>
Subject: It Started with His Undies - Chapter 2

IT STARTED WITH HIS UNDIES
By Zachyboy

(M/b, dad/son, incest, underwear, oral, anal voyeurism)

(Hold on to your hats, folks. I feel a disclaimer coming on. Yep, here it
is. No animals were harmed in the making of this motion picture. In fact,
no animals were even involved. That's in a different Nifty section. Here in
this section, we take our little boys seriously. Be kind to your kids and
don't try this at home. If the laws and charters of your city, state,
country or, gee, I don't know, the United Federation of Planets forbid you
to read this, well then, skedaddle. And it truly wouldn't kill you to
donate to the Nifty Archive Alliance on your way
out. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html is a cool place to be. Talk about
bang for your buck. Stop procrastinating and give till it hurts. In a good
way. On with the show).

CHAPTER 2. "BENNY AND THE JETS"

So, the thing is, the next morning I should have felt a little guilty,
right? You'd have thought so anyway. The night before, I'd had my finger so
far up my little boy's ass, I was nearly playing speed dial on his small
intestine, but the truth of the matter is, I really didn't feel guilty at
all. I just felt sort of cool and peaceful about the whole thing. Zen and
the Art of Colorectal Maintenance, I guess.

And Benny, for his part, didn't seem to give two shits, if you'll pardon
the pun. If he had any memory last night of his daddy devouring his boy
parts like Thanksgiving dinner at Father O'Malley's house, he sure didn't
mention it. So, shrug, what the hell, maybe I got away with it. I mean, is
that even possible? Give your kid a little shot of cold medicine, wait
until he's out like a light, then spend the next thirty minutes feasting on
his rooty-tooty fresh and fruity like a man fresh out of seminary school
and not have him ponder the meaning of life a little? Apparently so.

We had breakfast, Benny watched Netflix. He's streaming Wild Kratts now and
he's up to about season 90, I'm pretty sure. There's nothing left for the
Kratt brothers to turn into anymore. Swear to God, they're going to hit
those buttons next season and turn into an amoeba and a pancreatic cancer
cell or something. There's just nothing left. But Benny loves them, and I
love Benny, so Wild Kratts it is.

He scampered off to school. No 10-year-old really scampers, but it seems
the right word to reflect his mood. It implies a certain amount of skipping
and carefree joviality, and not so much, holy shit, my dad ate my ass and
scooped his cum into my hole last night, and I'm pretty fucking freaked
about it. What I'm saying is, everything appeared to be boy business as
usual.

And as soon as he left, of course, I got down to my usual business, which
was checking out his undies from the night before. They were still wadded
at the bottom of my bed where I'd taken them off in my lust to get at
him. Benny had slept naked with me last night, my sticky cum turning to a
flaky glaze between his butt cheeks: the Dunkin Donuts of Boy. And you can
bet I'll be in that breakfast line any chance he gives me.

But left alone to my own devices (and say, wasn't that an idea, I thought
to myself, remembering the little four-inch dildo I'd bought on a lark not
too many months ago, when the heady thought of eventually licking Benny's
enticing little cock was getting so strong, it required a prosthetic
pacifier so I didn't jump the poor kid in the bathtub on Tuesday Mr. Bubble
night.

Fishing it out of the back of my drawer, and grabbing the lube for good
measure, I squirted my palm with a healthy glob of Slippery Stuff, always
the brand that pleases, and stood right there at the foot of the bed,
smelling Benny's underwear and getting down to business.

There wasn't much scent left on the colorful little Cars briefs. What had
been there the night before had mostly been lost to the ravages of time and
saliva. They were still damp from where I'd licked them far too sloppily,
getting every last molecule of euphoric taste from Benny's most private
places. Between eating Benny's underwear and eating Benny's ass, it's a
wonder I still had tongue muscles left this morning.

But I sure as hell did, because I licked those babies to another raging
erection, and putting down the underwear, I picked up the little four-inch
dildo, pink as a baby's bottom and rubbery hard, and slid it slowly into my
mouth, licking it, sucking it, moaning a little in spite of myself, knowing
only eight hours ago, I'd had the real deal dancing across my tongue,
waiting for that magical shot of the first watery cum that wasn't quite
ready to pop yet in my son's tiny testicles. Plenty of time to gobble that
later I thought, as I licked my substitute penis and imagined what I'd like
to do to my beautiful baby boy when he got home from school.

My fantasies, I'm embarrassed to say, always lean a little toward the
aggressive side, and I'm sure in my mind, I was treating Benny a little bit
more ruggedly than I'd ever dream of doing in real life. In my mind,
standing there masturbating with a fake cock in my mouth, I had him face
down on my bed, holding him down with my hands as I brought my nose down to
the crack of his pajamas. Breathing deeply until the spicy scent of his
earthy crack filled my lungs I imagined him moaning a little and grinding
his butt back into my face.

"Pull my pants down, Daddy," he says in my fantasy, his treble voice still
years away from deepening. "I want my pants down. Please, Daddy."

"You need Daddy to lick you down there again, baby boy?" I said to an empty
room, my eyes closed, still stroking my slippery dick.

"Mmm-hmm," said the imaginary boy on my bed. "I like it when you smell my
butt, Daddy. It makes me tickle down there."

In my fantasy, I squeeze the cheeks of his ass together, a little rougher
than I have to, and he moans again. My hands feel the soft, hot flannel of
his pajamas. My eyes see the colors and the little Ninjago characters. My
nose smells the fragrant, impossibly beautiful combination of Downy and boy
ass and pheromones. He presses back against me harder as I continue
massaging his ass through his jammies.

With my thumbs, I start to press inward on the fabric, finding his
butthole, finding his crack.

"Daddy! Ummmph!" he groans as my right thumb finds its mark and presses
inward and downward, pressing his undies right into his hole. Pressing his
pj's into him too.

"You like it when Daddy pokes your hole, don't you, tiger? You like it way
down deep inside there."

"Feels good, Daddy," he says in my mind. "Poke it in some more. Really go
deeper."

"Like this?" I groan, sticking my thumb in even farther, the mixture of
heat, pajama flannel and unbridled boy ass making little fireworks pop off
in my mind. My heart is racing. I feel shaky and determined.

"Unngh. Mmmmph! Oh, Daddy! That's so good when you do that so deep like
that. Lick my butthole, Daddy," he moans in desperation. "Lick my butthole
really hard and put your tongue way up inside me."

"Oh fuck yeah," I moan, my eyes still closed, still lost in my fantasy. I
pull his pajama bottoms off roughly, without fanfare. I do the same with
his thumb-lodged undies which come loose from his hole with a soft
moan. The pop of a tiny cork. Unplugging the entry to nirvana.

I mash his ass into the bed and roughly spread his cheeks. He moans and
writhes, wanting it. Needing it. His butt shoots upwards. He wiggles it
toward my eager face like a cute little doggie I'm waiting to sniff. He
whimpers, he waits, he wants me to stop teasing him. And then I go wild.

I spread his cheeks and dive into his ass like a man consumed. He pushed
back and thrashes as I eat his ass and listen to him groan.

"Lick my ass, Daddy, lick my ass, lick my ass." His breath is coming heavy
and his words are gathering rhythm, like a mantra, like a choo-choo train.

"Lick my ass, Daddy, lick my ass, lick my ass," I whisper along with him,
alone in my room, stroking my cock, sucking my fake little dick, as I
shudder from head to toe and my dick erupts with wads of hot goo all over
his undies lying bunched on my bed. I drop the dick and pick them up in my
other hand, shooting the rest of my cum right on the crotch of his
underwear, my thick ejaculate coating the smiling face of Lightning McQueen
or whoever the fuck it is today. I don't even care. I don't even see it,
I'm cumming so hard.

"So good Daddy, so good," I whisper to the empty room, still impersonating
my son's last gasps. I cum so hard I see stars. That's all it takes. Just
the thought of him. Just the scent of him. It's almost like having the
actual, real-life boy for a son is just icing on the cake. If I had nothing
but his picture in my mind and his fragrance in my face, I could die a
happy man. Actually getting to do that to him last night was a preposterous
bonus. The fantasy alone could keep me going for decades.

My breathing slowed, my heart stopped pounding, I came back to the world, I
came back to reality. I cleaned up his clothes, I threw them in the hamper,
I took my shower. Another day had dawned. Another fantasy to get it
started.

Benny got home from school, smiling and happy as always. A little hot, a
little sweaty. It was summer in Nevada, never a crowd-pleaser, and the
slight sheen of just walking from the school bus on the corner had him
rosy-cheeked and flushed as he came through the door.

"Hey, Sport," I called from the kitchen. "Come get a snack."

He did, and we sat at the table, eating grilled cheese with raisins –
don't ask, his favorite – and talking about the day. He had soccer in
gym class, scored a goal but broke a shoelace. Math seemed to be a blur of
triangles, trapezoids and pentagons, none of which he seemed to give a shit
about, and frankly neither did I, because at 38, I've yet to get myself
into a tough fix where I've magically wormed my way out by measuring a
fucking trapezoid, but hey, fourth-grade teachers have to make a living
too, I guess.

Anyway, it was much the same as it always was: Tales of a Fourth Grade
Somebody, but I listened intently like I always did, following a wise quote
I'd tacked up on my refrigerator. Because if you don't listen intently to
the little stuff when they're little, they won't tell you the big stuff
when they're big. Because to them, it's always been big stuff, all of it.

"I'm sticky," he announced suddenly. And by sticky, he didn't mean
cum-splattered and glazing over like the night before, when I'd unloaded
the ejaculatory equivalent of Hoover Dam and finger-fed it up his honey
hole. He just meant he was hot and sweaty and wanted to wash off the dust
of the day.

"Why don't you hop in the hot tub," I shrugged, cleaning up the
dishes. About five years ago, I'd cashed in a little leftover 401K money
from a job that didn't pan out and instead of rolling it over for, I don't
know, enjoyment in the old folks home, I said what the fuck, and bought us
a hot tub. I've never regretted it either. That much instant stress relief
for $5,000 ought to be illegal, and probably is in some wacky
countries. All I know is, that hot tub has been a nearly-nightly friend,
offering a quick wet down and a relaxing massage for more days and nights
than I can remember.

"Okay, Daddy," Benny chirped, and with the casual, completely unembarrassed
"no further ado" that comes so naturally with boyhood, he shucked off his
clothes, shirt, pants, undies and all, and shot out the door into the
rejuvenating warmth of the spa outside.

Out of his sight line, I quickly picked up his discarded clothes, and on
the way to the laundry room, unwedged his underwear form the leg of his
pants and gave them a sniff. Pure heaven. They were still hot, fragrant and
ripe from the sweat of his crotch. The front pouch was still toasty warm
from his little dick and smelled faintly of pee. The elastic leg bands were
actually damp with salty, tangy moisture, and I knew, because I tasted
them. Like vinegar and graham crackers. Delicious. The ass fabric was a
gift from the gods of Mount Olympus themselves. Rich, wild, boyishly musky,
straight from the source, still hot from his body, strong and fresh and
good. I breathed deeply, lungful after lungful, like a thirsty man gulping
water in a desert. Satisfied, I shucked my own clothes into the laundry
basket on the floor and joined my son in our private back yard.

"You got a big cock, Daddy," he giggled as I walked into view. "And hairy,
too."

"Nothing you won't have in a few years, slugger," I grinned at him. "All
the ladies will be chasing you down to get a hold of that thing."

"You're funny," he said, dunking his head under the water and coming up
again quickly, his hair wet and glistening in the four o'clock sunlight.

I climbed in the tub and sat across for him, enjoying the day, enjoying the
life we had, enjoying the warm, bubbly nakedness of him.

"Know what I'm doing?" he giggled.

"I have no clue," I said honestly.

"I'm lining up my butthole on the water jets," he grinned.

"Thrilling," I said drolly, but in all honesty, it was.

"When I put my butt like this," he said, scrunching his face a little and
contorting aquatically into a reimagined position, "all the water shoots up
into my butt crack." He paused and grinned a little more, as if this might
shock me. "And sometimes a little piece of water goes right up inside my
butthole."

"Really," I said casually, completely faking boredom. "I suppose it goes up
your butt and shoots out your ears."

"Nope," he announced proudly. "Just up my butt. I don't know where it goes
after that."

Where indeed, I thought. I wouldn't mind following that MapQuest upriver to
see where it led.

"Want to see my butthole after I do it?" he giggled.

Oh God, this kid was going to make me cum in the hot tub.

"Sure," I said nonchalantly. "I never miss a chance to see a kid's
butthole." And Lord in Heaven, that part was true.

He stood up on the side seat, bent forward a little, and spread his cheeks
for me right there for God and Country, and there I was, face to face with
the most perfect little rosebud that ever crinkled in the breeze.

"See?" he said proudly. "It gets it nice and clean."

"No poop there," I had to agree. "Clean as a whistle."

"You should blow on it," he giggled.

"Blow on it?" I said, genuinely befuddled.

"If it's a whistle, you should blow on it!" he said cheekily, proud at his
own cleverness. And with that, he started walking sideways around the bench
and bringing his cheeks, still spread widely apart, even closer to my
hungry eyes.

"Okie-dokie," I shrugged. "Ask and you shall receive, nutbag." And with
that, I sure as hell did blow on it. Like the lady said to Humphrey Bogart,
I puckered up and blew. And he giggled again as my cool breath blew into
his hot hole.

"You're a good butt blower, Daddy," he grinned, plopping back down in the
water.

"Oh, I've got all kinds of magic butt blowing powers," I told him. "Some
day I'll have to show them too you?"

"Like the way you licked my butt when I was sleeping last night?" he said
with another giggle.

"Like the...whah..." I sputtered.

"Like the way you licked my butthole and my pee cock last night," he
repeated with a grin. Pee cock was his cute little kid word for penis. He
used to say it all the time when he was 4 and 5. It sort of fell out of
vogue after he turned 6. I have to say, it was more than a little exciting
to hear its revival.

"Did you like it when I licked your butt and your pee cock?" I asked him
quietly, with a smile on my face.

"Oh yeah," he grinned enthusiastically. "But next time you should let me
come out and wash my butthole on the jets. That way you won't get poop
breath."

Not really an issue, kiddo, I thought to myself. Not even remotely an
issue.

And with that, the subject was over. He went back to trapezoids. Or Brenden
Dixon's new electric scooter or some equally inane bullshit lost in the
buzz of my tingling headspace.

Did that mean he was okay with it? All the stuff I did with him the night
before? He hadn't dreamed it, he knew I did it, and it was no big deal? He
wasn't uncomfortable? He was utterly unconcerned?

I didn't know if it was a fluke of the moment or if the open season sign
had just gone up.

But the night was young. My dick was hard.

And I was damn sure going to find out.

END OF CHAPTER TWO

(Thanks to all who wrote. I really enjoyed your letters).

Coming soon, Chapter 3: "The Things We Can Do with our Pee Cocks"

Peace, friends.
Zachyboy
z.blake@mail.com