Date: Sun, 6 Apr 2014 16:40:21 -0700 (PDT)
From: Dave Krenshaw <davekrenshaw@yahoo.com>
Subject: My Son Austin and Secrets of Grant Grove:  Installment 1

	 My Son Austin and Secrets of Grant Grove:  Installment 1

		 by Dave Krenshaw:  davekrenshaw@yahoo.com

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using, immediately.

This story is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents portrayed in such work are either the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, that you yourself have knowledge of is entirely
coincidental.  Also, please keep in mind that nothing in this story is
being presented with the intent of condoning or promoting unsafe sexual
practices of any kind whatsoever.  All comments as to this story are
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I moved here about six years ago in order to make a fresh start of things,
so to speak; and take full advantage of a juicy job promotion opportunity
in the corporate world.  To be frank, when I first came out here to live, I
was far from enamored with the "charms" of Grant Grove, this quiet but tony
and somewhat humdrum suburb nestled in the heart of Nebraska but,
evidently, not in direct proxmimity to any place one likely ever heard of.
Yet, over time, I came to realize that Grant Grove had its pluses afer all;
and, yes, installing the swimming pool in the backyard, at my
fourteen-year-old son Austin's urging, turned out to be a great asset,
indeed, in more ways than one.

Well, to be frank, while it is NOT something that I go around advertising,
I have been contentedly carrying on a sexual relationship with my son since
he was nine years of age: It all began on a night when he had had a few of
his little classmates over for a sleepover in our home.  We are in many
ways living our lives as husband and wife, well, AT LEAST behind closed
doors I should say.

I do not expect ALL to approve of or even understand the relationship I
share with my son.  I love my son; and he loves me, as far I know anyhow,
in the same way.  Besides, Grant Grove is just full of a rich but sordid
history marked by tawdry tales and salacious secrets; and, frankly, those
here who in public hold themseleves out as high and moral are in truth far
from pure as snow.

I am Jayse Layne, though my legal name is Jayson David Layne, Jr.; and I am
an accountant for a worldwide media company who also does returns for
locals during tax season to help cover expenses.  I am forty-four; and,
still a bit on the muscular side, my brawn a residual of my days of yore
playing on the basketball team in my undergrad.  With light-brown hair
slightly tinged with gray at the temples and greenish-blue eyes, I am still
a full five-feet-ten-inches tall; and have a lightly hair chest and
mildy-defined pecs complimented by an attractive treasure trail of hair
extending down to my pubes.

My son Austin is the spitting image, so to speak, of his mom, my beloved,
who suddenly passed away presumably from a congenital heart defect and
about one year before the relocation to Grant Grove.  He has wavy
sandy-blonde hair and sparkling marine-blue eyes, a few freckles on his
cheeks, and adorable dimples.  He competes on the soccer team in school;
and, as a result, has muscular legs.  His complexion is milky-white; and
compliments his smooth baby-soft silky skin all over and his
modestly-but-well-enough-defined pecs: He is about five-feet-four inches
tall; and weighs one hundred pounds.  The best thing about his physique is
that he sports one rockin' rear: I mean he has buns so plump, so soft, so
inviting, and so jiggly: One could even perhaps bounce a quarter off of
those.

After a hard day's work full of its usual chaos, I arrived home a bit
tapped, to say the least; and, after a light early dinner, retired for the
night; and was now lounging in the comfort of my king-sized bed with its
maroon modern canopy and below a mirrored ceiling.


I must have dozed off even sooner than I had expected, as I was awakened by
a familiar tug of the corner of the quilt.


"Austin?!"

"Yeah, Dad."

"You're okay?"

"VERY okay, Dad."

"THAT goes without saying!," I crooned, chuckling in reply.

Squinting a bit while still in a state of half-slumber, I could make out
little more than the sexy silhouette of my fully nude son highlighted just
a tad by a hint of moonlight escaping through a slit between the
wine-colored drapes.  Licking my lips in anticipation, I wanted nothing
more than to hold his plush baby-soft body in my tender, loving masculine
arms.

"I am really late."

"As USUAL, now get that sweet ass of yours in bed already, pronto THAT IS,
where it BELONGS!"

Austin knew darned well what I meant; and, without skipping a beat,
hightailed his keester right into what is OUR bed; and was once again in my
loving arms, as I wish him to be.  Well, for those wondering, he does have
his own room, but in many ways the same is just for show: He has not slept
as much as a wink THERE for the LONGEST time.

I began caressing Austin's silky chest all over while spooning him.  Upon
lowering my hands to his hips, I felt the familiar leather band of his
jock-strap.


"Now, Austin, we have been through this one hundred times.  What happens to
young lads who wear sexy jock-straps teasingly to bed?"

Austin began to giggle uncontrollably, the sound of his laughter was
turning me on even more than I already was and was getting my alrady-hard
eight-inch cut cock very much close to rock-hard.

Catching his breath, he blurted out: "They GET IT up the rear!!!"

"Right as rain, Austin, my dear.," I growled.

I quickly slid aside the vertical part of the jock-strap not quite fully
covering the crease between his buns; and pressed my cock right in the
crease and directy against his awaiting pink-pucker love hole.

"You want me, Austin?"

"I...uh...I...."

"Say it!  Say it nice and loud, son."

"I do, I want you, I DO want you,...uhm...Dad!!!!"