Date: Sun, 2 May 2010 13:56:30 +0100
From: Harry Miller <harry.miller67@googlemail.com>
Subject: Tactile Sam, Part 4

EXPLICIT CONTENT FOR ADULTS ONLY. This story is a work of fiction: the
characters aren't real, the plot isn't true, the places don't exist.
The story contains scenes of a sexual nature between a father and his
young son.  If you are a minor, or it is illegal for you to read this
story, then stop reading now.  Commercial use of this work is
prohibited without the author's express permission.

I was so frustrated at the lack of stories on Nifty that involved
frottage, I decided to write my own.  It's a shame there aren't more
frot stories - why don't you write one and submit it?

This is the fourth story in the Tactile Sam series; I have received
much useful feedback to the story so far, thank you.  Please continue
to let me know what you think.


Tactile Sam, Pt 4

I'm holding back the tears as Adrian walks through the gate.  Not
because of what I've just done with him, but because it brings back
such intense memories.  He looks so much like his Dad and he reminds
me of his Grandmother, may she rest in peace.  I'd put the day of her
funeral to the back of my mind some time ago, but holding on to Adrian
makes it all come flooding back.

She died when Greg was born.  His brother, Adrian's Dad, was just 8 at
the time.  He was very confused, upset, angry and like me, exhausted.

The funeral went as well as could be expected, and everyone was
incredibly supportive, offering help and a shoulder to cry on.  But
what I needed, and what my sons needed, was for us to have some time
alone together, as a family.  Once all the guests had left the house,
the wake was over.  Greg was in his cot, asleep, and his brother and I
slumped on the sofa, still wearing our black suits, white shirts,
black ties, black socks, and black shoes.

My son cuddled up to me: he had found the day very stressful, not only
because it was his mother's funeral, but at his age he didn't totally
understand everything that was going on, and what it meant for the
future.  And what he did understand and feel, he couldn't really find
a way to express it.  I put my arm around him, and pulled him in
close.  We sat there for what seemed like an eternity, just staring
into space, holding on to each other.  Every now and again, a single
tear would travel down my cheek, but I was all cried out and this was
the most I could muster at the time.  I lent over, and kissed my son
on the head.  He looked up at me; his face also wet with tears.  He
turned slightly so that he could wrap his arms around me, whilst still
essentially sitting on the sofa.  He put his hands inside my suit
jacket and around my waist.  His hands were cold, I could feel them
through my cotton shirt.  His arms weren't long enough to reach all
the way around, but he held on tight, rested his head on my chest, and
seemed to relax.

Again, we just sat there saying nothing.  My boy was gently moving his
left hand up and down my side, caressing me like he might a pet;
comforting for him, comforting for me.  He moved his hand lower, until
it was stroking the outside of my thigh, and then over to the top of
my thigh.  His thumb was on the inside, and every time his hand
reached the top of my thigh, he would lightly touch my crotch.  For
some reason, my dick immediately responded and started to swell.  His
thumb was gently prodding my nuts; my dick swelled more and started
straining against my briefs.  Without a thought, I used my right hand
to undo the zip on my trousers, and then moved it away again.  I said
nothing, he said nothing.  My son paused for a moment, and then
slipped the tips of his fingers inside the opening to my trousers and
found my knob pressing against my soft, cotton briefs.  My head fell
back and I let out a slight moan.  Just this gentle tickling of my
knob was having a sensational effect on me.  I hadn't cum for the
longest time, and my balls were aching for some kind of release.  He
then used his whole hand inside my trousers to gently stroke me
(although he could have been just stroking my briefs, and my dick just
happened to be underneath, he was so light-fingered).  While his
seemingly expert thumb kept tracing around my knob, his fingertips
moved to cup my balls.  Individually, his fingertips scratched lightly
against the cotton fabric.  I started to groan somewhat, this was too
intense; I could hardly cope.  He moved his fingertips up and down my
shaft and I held on to him more tightly, pulling him in against me,
showing how much I appreciated what he was doing.  I kissed his soft,
brown hair repeatedly, and again he used his palm to stroke me,
pressing harder and harder.  My left arm drifted down his side and I
gripped his bottom with my whole hand.  I was moaning loudly, and
breathing very heavily.  I was close.  His pace picked up and his
fingers started squeezing my knob again at the top of each stroke.  I
felt a tremor build up inside me, and then my whole body went stiff.
I came, with shot after shot spurting out inside my briefs until they
were soaked, the whole of the front of my briefs becoming saturated
with my cum in a large wet patch.  I could feel the excess cum forming
a pool around the base of my dick.  I began to relax as the wave of
pleasure subsided and I slumped back into the seat.  I held my boy
tightly, and again he put both arms around my waist and hugged me
back.

I loved my boy so much.  I pulled him onto my lap, and hugged him
again.  My hand grazed against his crotch, and despite his age I could
feel his little dick poking up.  I knew that I could make him feel
better, and slipped my hand inside the pocket of his suit trousers.
Once inside, I could feel his dick properly, despite the cotton of the
pocket and of his little pants.  Very gently, I rubbed my fingertips
against his dick, as he had done for me.  He leant back against me and
seemed to relax further.  Just using the tips of my fingers (his dick
wasn't that big after all), I slid my hand slightly up and down to
tickle his knob.  He squirmed and wriggled; he may not have understood
exactly what was happening, but was certainly enjoying it.

"Daddy..." he whispered.

"Are you OK, son?" I asked.

"Yes Daddy.  I... I... Oh Daddy, that's so nice," he moaned.

Spurred on, I used my other hand to rub up and down his thigh a couple
of times, and then slipped that hand into his other suit pocket.  With
my index finger, I felt my way underneath his little balls, and
tickled them.

"Oh Daddy, oh dear, I... it... oh wow," he moaned, louder.

"It's OK, son, it's OK," I reassured him.

I quickly sped up the movements of my hands in his pockets and he
squeezed his thighs together so that my index finger was pressed right
into his little balls.  At the same time, I noticed that my own dick
had hardened again, and was pressed right up against the crack of his
arse.  We were now as one, pressed right into each other; him
squirming against my own dick, and me working his little package.  It
was so intense, and got faster and faster, hotter and hotter, both
moaning louder and louder.  I leant back and pulled him against me so
I could hump more against him whilst at the same time pushing my hands
harder in his pockets against his dick and balls.  It seemed to last
forever, it seemed to take no time at all.  Then...

"Daddy!" he shouted, and that was it.  I saw stars and exploded
another huge load into my briefs; I was bucking up into the air, and
he stiffened up, stretching his legs and arms and letting out a cry.
I was breathing heavily against his neck and crying out as I just kept
shooting.  He shook a little and I held him tightly against me.  For a
second, both our bodies were completely stiff.  Then we relaxed and
slumped back into the sofa.

He turned, wrapped his arms around me again, and we just lay there
cuddling.  Before I knew it we were both fast asleep, exhausted.  When
I awoke an hour or two later, he was still out cold.  I carried him in
my arms to his room, stripped off his clothes and slipped on his
pajamas, tucked him up and let him sleep.  My boy; I love him.