By Natty Soltesz
Dad’s good at hiding it. Actually, it drives me crazy because I’m wanting it so bad, and he must know it, but he never gives me a nod or a wink or any indication of anything when Mom’s around.
Even if she’s outside, gardening or talking to the neighbors or whatever, and we’re hanging out in the house on Sunday watching baseball and I know she’s not gonna be back for at least a half hour, and even if she did come in the house we’d hear the door and have enough time to quit whatever it was we were doing, he still keeps that poker face.
Sometimes I’ll do all I can to get a rise out of him. Like I’ll wear my little blue shorts that Mom always tells me to change, because they’re so small and they hug my butt just like Dad likes. I know he likes them cause he never tells me to take them off, and if I’m wearing them when Mom’s not around it’s the first place his big thick hands go to, sliding down my back and cupping my cute little bubble butt in my silky shorts like it’s a peach he can’t wait to bite into. I’ll wear those and nothing else if it’s hot enough, and while he’s sitting on the easy chair I’ll lay belly-down at his feet, just enough in front of him so he can see my butt. I’ll shift my legs and sort of rock back and forth and I know he must be looking. Sometimes I’ll even hear a rustle like he’s adjusting himself, but when I turn around to tell him I’m going to kitchen and ask him if he wants me to get him a beer, he’ll be just staring at the TV again, watching the game like he was doing it the whole time, and I can’t tell if anything’s going on in his pants because, like I said, he hides it too good.
“Sure thing, kid,” he’ll say, with a little smirk, and I’ll get up to get his beer, sort of hiding my boner cause he might get mad if I’m so horny when Mom’s around. He’ll still have that smirk on his face when I hand him his beer, but I don’t know what to make of it. It could be the one way he acknowledges it when Mom’s around, this indication that my butt show made him horny, or it could just mean that he thinks I’m a good kid for getting him a beer.
And if I’m feeling really horny and reckless I’ll use the bathroom when he’s in the shower, brushing my teeth for the third time that day, trying to make conversation with him so I can stay a little longer. But even if he does finish and I’m still there, he’ll grab his towel from behind the curtain and wrap it around himself before he comes out. And don’t get me wrong, I like looking at him like that – his wet hairy chest and glistening shoulders and the little white towel that barely fits around his tree-trunk thighs – but it’s maddening, too. He’s my dad – we’re both guys. Mom doesn’t suspect anything, he’s even said as much to me, but he won’t even let me see him naked if she’s in the house. And if I question him about it he says, “There’s a reason she doesn’t suspect,” and reminds me that it’s his responsibility to enforce these rules, that it’s for the best, that he’s the dad and I’m just a kid – as if I needed to be reminded.
So when Mom’s around I’m left to my own fantasies and whatever else I can scrounge, which usually involves getting into Dad’s underwear in the laundry basket, which I’m almost sure he knows I do because he’s always buying new underwear and throwing it right on top of the pile when they’re dirty. And if Mom’s around I have to wait until nobody’s looking so I can grab them and whatever other pairs are in there so I can take them back to my room and sniff till my heart’s content. Then I have to sneak them back and repeat the whole high-wire act again. But I sometimes swear that Dad’s teasing me with them because he keeps buying sexier and sexier underwear, and I guess he can get away with it cause Mom thinks he’s buying them for her, but if he’s out doing yard work he’s sure to wear some pair of tiny bikini briefs that he just sweats right through, or if it’s after baseball practice and I get the greatest gift of all, his sweaty jock. And I think that maybe he’s sniffing mine too, my little briefs that I’m sure smell good like he always tells me I smell, like a fresh, healthy boy. So it’s sort of like this secret message center that we have, the one way we communicate, through our underwear.
One of the only few times that Dad broke his own rules was when we were out in the yard practicing my swing and Mom was inside cooking dinner. He was getting behind me and adjusting my posture like in the movies when a girl is acting all dumb and the guy is sort of slyly getting up close to her, but this was real cause I really do have trouble hitting the ball. He kept showing me and getting behind me real close, kicking my legs apart to widen my stance then holding my arms in his to show me how to follow through. I could feel his crotch against my butt and he must have been really horny because the longer he stood there the more it started to swell against me, but he didn’t move away. Then he was saying that my back was all wrong and I needed to adjust my torso, “like this,” except instead of just pulling back on my chest, he ran his hand up under my shirt, and for one blood-pumping instant his bare hand was sliding against my skin and he just held it there. Then he took it away. Tossed me the ball. I hit it and instantly wished I’d missed it on purpose. Though he was pretty proud of me.
The closest we’ve ever come to getting caught was once when Mom had left to go to the supermarket, and he had me over his knee in the kitchen. He was punishing me because earlier that week I’d screwed up big time.
What had happened was I’d been really horny one night, and Mom had fallen asleep on the couch, so I’d snuck into Dad’s room where he was sleeping, just to get a look at him, or so I told myself. I know he sleeps in his underwear, and seeing him like that is better than nothing, better than my fantasies. And the door was open so I just crept inside, and in the moonlight from the open window I could see him sprawled out on his back with just the sheet twisted around his leg, and he was wearing his thong of all things, but the worst was that he was completely hard. I mean, the thong was barely containing him. I could hear Mom snoring downstairs and I just couldn’t resist, I got up close and then I saw that there was a wet spot on the pouch, right at the tip of his erection. Dad was snoring too and I just wasn’t thinking about it, I just had to have taste of him. So I really carefully peeled back the thong and there it was, the thing I love more than anything else in this world, all nine thick inches of my Dad throbbing right there in front of my face. So of course I just had to stick my tongue out and take a lick, which I never should have done because for me, a taste of him is like a potato chip, you can’t have just one, and soon I was suckling his whole cockhead and swallowing down what kept oozing out of it, and it was only natural that I stuffed more of his cock in my mouth, I was feeling so hungry. And the next thing I knew Dad was stirring, and I looked up and he was looking at me with this mixture of surprise and anger and horniness, but it was too late and the horniness won out and before he could do anything he was blasting a big load of cream down my throat, which I swallowed so gladly, so relievedly, even with the knowledge of what was coming next, which was him banishing me back to my room with a stern face, whispering that this would call for severe punishment later, but I almost didn’t care because it had so been worth it.
So Dad had me over his knee in the kitchen and he was spanking my bare butt when Mom walks into the house out of nowhere. I mean, usually we’d at least hear her car pulling up, not that Dad even takes the risk of us doing anything when she’s that close to coming home. If she says she’ll be back in an hour we’re done in fifteen minutes. If she says two hours, forty-five minutes. But Mom had forgotten her credit card, so there we were when we heard her unlocking the door. And actually, Dad had one of his fat fingers inside my butt and was really sort of roughly jamming it inside me, and I was just groaning because I knew I was gonna get fucked and fucked hard for how bad I’d been, but there was Mom coming inside. So Dad slipped his finger out of me real quick and pulled up my shorts and when Mom saw me over his knee he had to construct this really quick lie about how I’d thrown firecrackers at the neighbor’s dog, which was a good lie I guess but then Mom was really mad at me and I was grounded for a week, which sucked but then Dad felt bad and when he went to kiss me goodnight that Wednesday he slipped me the tongue, just for a second, and it was great.
But the best is when Mom is getting ready to leave. Sometimes she does it on a whim – like any given Saturday morning she’ll wake up and say, “I think I’ll go visit Grandma today,” and instantly my heart starts pumping. “Would you guys like to join me?” I’ll look to Dad and one impossibly tense second will pass before he says, “No thanks, hon – I think we’ll just relax here for the day.”
Other times, though, she’ll have been planning the trip for weeks, like when she had a conference in Minneapolis. And those trips are the worst (or best?) because not only do I know what’s coming for sometimes months on end, but I know that once it comes we’ll be free for not just an hour or a day but for a couple of weeks, nothing but me and Dad and the whole house to ourselves to do whatever we want. But I still have to wait. And when it gets to the point that she’s packing her bags and taping the number of the hotel on the fridge, “just in case there’s an emergency,” I’ve probably jerked off a million times just imagining what Dad is going to do to me and let me do to him. But I try not to jack off at all for those last couple of days cause I know Dad will want to see how much I can shoot for him.
Finally Mom will have her bags all lined up at the door, and she’ll kiss me and tell me how much she’s gonna miss me and I tell her I’m gonna miss her too, and Dad will help take her bags to the car so I’m there alone for a little bit and now my heart is really pounding, I mean like I just cleared all the bases, pounding. And once I hear her car pull away I’ll start lowering the window blinds and shutting all the curtains. And Dad will shut the door and lock it and finally look at me and say, “I was thinking we could order a pizza for dinner tonight and just stay in.”