Date: Mon, 13 Jul 2009 16:27:43 +0000
From: Neil N. Blow <neilnblow@hotmail.com>
Subject: Time for Church! (M/b incest)

This story discusses incest and Father/Son sex.  If this offends you or is
illegal in your jurisdiction, read no further.


* * * *

Time for Church!


"I'm leaving," Mother said, rather frostily.

It was Sunday morning in a rural Illinois town, and I could catch the scent
of her Chanel No. 5 which she wore on Sundays when she went to church.

I looked up from from my place in front of the television and saw Mother in
her Sunday best, wearing the small fur stole, black pillbox hat with half
veil, and the high heel shoes which matched her dark blue dress.

"You have a good time," Dad replied.  He was sprawled out on the couch in
his bathrobe.  His hair was tousled from sleep.  He was unshaven and
slightly hung over.  He had been out all night honky-tonkin' and didn't
"believe in no churchin'" as I had heard them argue before.  "Boy don't
need no churchin' neither" Dad had said.

I turned back to the television, a flickering black and white model.  I was
watching "Davey and Goliath", a children's religious television show.  This
was before cable.  Back then, you were lucky to get three channels, and
Sundays, there was nothing good on, except religious shows, maybe a cartoon
like this.

I heard the back door close and Mother's car start up and pull out of the
driveway.  At least someone in the family would go to church.

I was sitting right in front of the television, about three feet away from
it.  I was still wearing my pajamas, the ones with bunnies on them.  They
had closed feet on the lowers, so my feet would not get cold.  I had pushed
the coffee table across the living room rug, and sat there, with my bowl of
Cheerios and milk and watched another adventure of Davey and Goliath in
rapt attention.  Davey was contemplating stealing a car or something.  I
can't remember.  He always did bad things and felt bad about himself, but
God still loved him.

The sunlight came through the sheer curtains on the window next to the
television, and even though it was early fall, it was warm there on the
carpet.  I was a happy boy.

My Father was sitting behind me on the couch, half-paying attention to what
I was watching.  But I could sense he was watching more than the
television.  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.  Maybe it was
because I could see his reflection in the picture tube, or maybe it was a
sixth sense.  Or maybe I could sense his heart rate increasing or his
breathing becoming heavy.  But I could feel that he was looking at me -
looking at me in that way - a way I was all too familiar with.

He sat there, on the couch, spread-eagled in his bathrobe, and admired his
son's young soft body, my slender neck, the back of my head.  I knew what
to expect next.

Then he said, almost in a whisper, "Time for church, Boy.."

I slowly turned around and saw him splayed there on the couch, his legs
spread wide, his bathrobe opened up to reveal his hairy manhood.  I had
been fascinated by naked men from an early age, and my Father was no
exception.  The hairy legs, the low hanging balls, his large (well, larger
than mine) cock.

I knew what was expected of me, so I didn't argue.  I didn't want to.  I
secretly enjoyed these little sessions.  Leaving the television and my
cereal behind, I crawled over to the couch across the green shag carpet on
all fours until I was kneeling between his legs.

"You know what to do," he said.

And I did.  And I did it, as I had done so many times before, since that
time he taught me about our little game.

I leaned forward and took his warm soft cock in my mouth.  As I took the
head in my mouth, I ran my tongue underneath and heard him let out a long
slow moan. "Oh, that's it, alright" he said.

I took him in deeper, and reaching up with one hand cupped those
magnificent balls in my small soft hand.  With my other hand, I reached
down and unsnapped the snap on my pajamas fly and reached in to play with
my tiny hairless pecker.

I worked his cock into my mouth and felt it get harder.  I was familiar
with this process by now.  I knew enough not to let my teeth touch his
cock.  As I worked on his cock some more, I could feel him start up a slow
rhythm, in and out, fucking my boycunt mouth.

The television was still on, and Davey and Goliath had ended and the "Mass
for Shut-Ins" had started.  I had been to church, before, with Mother,
before Dad said I didn't have to go anymore.  Church made no sense to me,
nor did religion.  They kept talking about the power of prayer, and feeling
the presence of God.  But I never felt it, at least not in church.

But here, kneeling on the living room rug, I felt a power and a presence.
"For God made Man in his own image...." And here I was, worshipping a man.
Was it not worship of God's handiwork to worship the Father?  My Father?
Waves of pleasure washed over my small body.  I knew this was "wrong" and I
knew it was "secret".  And in my darkest hours, I would feel waves of guilt
and recrimination for what my Father and I did.  But right now, it felt
like God's will.  Father was right, it was time for my Church.  This was to
be my place of worship.

My Father's thrusting in my mouth continued, and he started pushing his
cock in further and further into my young mouth, clearly enjoying himself.
I had to time my breathing as the head of his cock jammed into the back of
my throat.  I didn't like being choked like that, but I knew it was part of
the process, and that when he started really ramming it into me, that he
would be close to being finished.

The Priest on the television started reciting the Lord's Prayer...

"Our Father, who art in Heaven.."

(My Father, who is before me, I thought)

"Give us this day our daily bread..."

(Give me this day, my daily cock)

"Thine Kingdom Come, thy Will be Done.."

(Thy Penis come, in my mouth)

With each line of the Lord's prayer, my Father's cock thrust into my mouth.
It was so sacrilegious and yet so beautiful at the same time.  I was
praying, and I felt the power of prayer and the presence of God.  As the
Lord's prayer ended, my father made four final thrusts into my mouth.

"In the name of the Father..." (Thrust!)

"The Son..." (Thrust!)

"And the Holy Ghost.." (Thrust!)

And with "Amen" my Father made a final thrust and came in my mouth.  It was
beautiful.  I had dry orgasm immediately afterword, as I swallowed his
load.

As I pulled my head off his cock, Dad said, "Damn, Boy, that was good" and
pulled his bathrobe together and got up, without saying another word, and
went to get coffee.

That's the way it was with him and me.  We never talked about it, other
than a few words when we did it, or maybe an instruction or two from him.
But afterwards, he said little, if anything other that a few words of
praise, which I cherished.

I crawled back across the living room carpet to my cereal.  The milk had
gotten warm sitting in the sun and the remaining Cheerios were soft and
bloated with the warm sour milk.  I dipped my spoon in and ate them anyway,
letting the warm sour milk and mushy Cheerios mix with the taste of my
Father's semen in my mouth.

* * * *