17th June 2005: maverick’s ninth story
First let me explain. I’m a married man with two kids – two sons – and I’m not usually into this kind of stuff. It’s just that I kind of saw something that I found a bit – well – unexpectedly arousing, and I thought I’d write it down to make it clearer.
It concerns the older of my two sons – a pretty rough and ready seventeen-year-old called Ashley – and it happened a few weeks ago while the lads and I were staying in Paris together. Ashley is about to leave the family to head off to the States with a couple of his mates and then, in the autumn, he’s off to university, so the Paris thing came about as a way of spending a bit of time with him before he goes off into the big wide world.
My younger son Robbie tagged along because he whined on and on about it not being been fair for Ashley to get a free holiday without him being invited. Robbie’s a persistent sod on matters of what’s supposedly fair and what isn’t so eventually I conceded and let him come with us. But he isn’t really part of this so we can half-forget him.
The few days with Ashley were surprisingly successful. Like most teenage lads he goes through periods of being moody, over-sensitive and sullen, but whether by virtue of effort or sheer good-fortune, he seemed to be able to maintain bright spirits throughout our holiday. Perhaps it was simply that none of his female friends were around for him to get uptight and embarrassed about being seen to enjoy spending time with his old man… who knows!
But the time really flew by and I think we both felt genuinely sad when the last day was suddenly upon us.
The three of us shared a room together in the hotel, three single beds in a fairly large room, slap bang in the middle of the city centre. I ought to add that, when I was making the booking, I’d asked the two lads if they wanted a bit of privacy and suggested a slightly cheaper hotel more towards the outskirts. Ashley hadn’t seemed bothered either way but Robbie had liked the look of the larger hotel right in the middle of things, declaring it to be “Quality” (using one of those grating mistreatments of the language he’s started picking up from school). So I decided to forego the separate rooms to keep him happy.
In any case, we aren’t the kind of family to get hung up about communal nudity: the three of us had seen one another in the bathroom countless times at home and stuff like changing in front of each other has never been an issue.
Even the possibility of witnessing a few bouts of Ashley’s masturbatory fumblings – I figured Robbie to be too young for that kind of thing – wasn’t really a problem. I knew my oldest son to be quite active in that direction and suspected that it was a fairly regular habit of his. Many was the night I’d lain awake, listening to the rhythm of his headboard thumping gently the wall that adjoins our bedrooms as my wife lay soundly asleep next to me. And many was the occasion that I’d had to knock insistently at the bathroom door, hearing Ashley breathlessly calling out that he wouldn’t be much longer as he tried to conceal the telltale slapping sounds he was making.
So the idea of a little nocturnal panting and gasping from Ashley’s side of the room was kind of half-expected. Well, actually it was pretty much fully expected – the lad’s a seventeen-year old walking bag of hormones: I figured there was bound to be a bit of activity going on beneath his duvet sooner or later.
What I really hadn’t foreseen was the effect that his display would have on the stirrings beneath mine.
It must have happened on the third or fourth morning we were there. I’m a light sleeper and it doesn’t take a lot to disturb me, so – at around seven in the morning with the room dimly lit from outside through the thick curtains – I was awoken by rhythmic sounds coming from across the room.
Still half asleep, I felt irritated by the interruption to my sleep. I was grumbling to myself, “Oh brilliant… just what I want to wake up… Ash sorting himself out…”
Then I thought about Robbie lying in the bed near the door. What if, like me, he was being awoken by this? As I said, I thought he was a little too young to know about this kind of stuff and I wasn’t too keen on having him exposed to it like this.
So that’s why I opened my eyes and looked across the room. Otherwise, I guess I’d have just lain there, listening to Ashley’s steadily increasing rhythm and feeling annoyed at being awoken so early by his self-ministrations.
The problem with opening my eyes was that, as soon as I saw Ashley, I was instantly captivated by the sight of what he was doing. I really didn’t expect to feel that reaction, but I could barely take my eyes off him.
I think I must have briefly checked that Robbie wasn’t party to Ashley’s display, and quickly satisfied myself that he was soundly asleep, but my only memory is of that spectacular view of Ash.
He was lying in the half-light, his duvet pushed away from his slim, athletic body, stroking such a long, well-developed cock that it made me wonder, for a moment, if he really was my son!
My own cock is, to say the least, average, but Ashley’s must have been about eight inches long. It was undoubtedly not as thick as my own but its length placed it in a different league, the effect of its size being further emphasized by the slender sweep of its stem and the lighter fuzz of his blond pubic hair.
Like I said before, I’ve seen both my sons naked on many occasions, but obviously never in states of arousal. Ashley’s cock, although I’d never paid it any undue attention in the brief glimpses I’d got of it as he undressed or showered, had simply seemed like a blonder and younger version of my own, but here in its full glory it revealed its impressive differences.
Lucky old Ash, I thought – I guess he must have inherited his endowments from his mother’s side of the family!
I watched my son masturbate with an innocent fascination that lacked any sense of guilt or self-condemnation: those emotions would only begin to painfully exert themselves a few hours later.
I just marvelled at his technique, smiling at the memory of how at his age I’d been as rough and impatient with my own cock as he was being with his. And at the same time I felt a little sad that my little boy was, to coin a cliché, all grown-up in front of my eyes. He really had become a man: if I didn’t believe the evidence of his maturing attitude and growing confidence, his deft handling of the impressive rod between his legs offered its own confirmation.
Ashley’s eyes remained tightly closed throughout his unintended spectacle. His mouth betrayed occasional slight smiles as he explored his own, private fantasies and enjoyed the sensations his rapidly moving fist was giving himself.
His cock was a long arc, curving steeply upwards from his wispy pubic bush to become almost horizontal at its purple tip. His fingers swept rapidly up and down the entire length of it, and his thumb would occasion rub at the dribble of clear liquid which oozed from the narrow slit in the head.
I enjoyed hearing Ashley sigh intermittently through his steadily quickening breathing and I soon noticed that a thin film of sweat was beginning to cover his forehead and his well-toned, almost hairless chest.
His bed started to creak gently but his hand didn’t miss a beat: by now he was too consumed in his own pleasure to care about such mundanities. I think even if he’d opened his eyes to find me staring over at him, seen how engrossed I was in my own son’s sexual performance, he’d have been unable to stop himself continuing.
His hand became a blur sweeping back and forth on his cock and he began to emit short breathless gasps. His forehead was by now soaked in sweat and rivulets of it tricked from his heaving chest. His cock seemed to grow still further and the tip of it throbbed, the purple head looking slick and shiny as it became engorged to full size by his arousal.
I think it was then that I first realised that my own shorter fatter cock was almost as excited as Ashley’s, dribbling precum into my boxer shorts and feeling as if it needed to be attended to by own more-experienced fingers. I hadn’t felt so urgently in need of self-stimulation since – well – probably since I wasn’t much older than Ashley.
Ashley began to grunt as he neared his climax. The headboard of his bed was frantically whacking against the wall as he roughly worked at his cock but I was too caught up in admiring his display to wonder whether my younger son, lying just feet away in the other bed, had awoken.
Ash surprised me further by moving his free hand down to his balls as his orgasm began to build. He took their large saggy bulk into his palm and rolled his balls around, kneading them like he was playing with them.
Then he amazed me by plunging his fingers further down between his legs, pushing them into the hot sweaty cleft of his arse. I was stunned: I had always thought that I was the only guy who felt an overwhelming urge to do that as my orgasm began to kick in.
His cock might come from his mother’s gene-pool, but his technique was all mine!
Ashley opened his legs widely as his cock began to erupt geysers of his semen into the air and onto his chest. His fingers darted deeper between his legs to touch his arsehole while his other hand milked jets of hot white cum from his cock. That same movement had accompanied so many of my own self-induced orgasms; that urge to push my own fingers into the hot, moist forest between my cheeks as I came.
And now here was my own son, who could never have possibly known about my masturbatory preferences, finding himself doing exactly the same thing.
I think that moment brought me closer to Ashley than any of the rest of the Paris trip, if that doesn’t sound too weird!
As his orgasm subsided and he lay with his mess on his chest, recovering his breath, I wondered if, like I had at his age, he assumed that all guys get the urge to touch their arses when they climax. I contemplated having a quiet chat with him, so to help him avoid making a tit of himself as I had years earlier by making a drunken joke about it with my mates, to find myself sitting in silence with them staring at me.
But I thought not. I’d let him make his own mistakes. If he was grown-up enough to have a cock more impressive than his dad’s, he was grown-up enough to take a bit of flack from his friends when he screwed up!
When he’d recovered, Ashley wiped himself down and got up to take a shower.
And that’s pretty much the end of it.
Except – well…
There’s a little bit more.
But this is the bit I feel a guilty about; the bit that’s been screwing me up ever since.
When Ashley left the room to take a shower, I kind of – well – I sort of had a little fun with my own cock while the memory of what he’d done was playing over in my mind.
No big deal, I suppose, but that’s the bit that kind of felt wrong afterwards.
Especially since I came within two or three minutes of starting – an almost unknown feat for me for many years!
So that’s the part that left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I’ve kind of done it a bit since.
Maybe it’s some psychological thing – maybe I’m actually getting off on the idea of a younger me or something – or maybe, and more scarily, my fantasies are actually directed towards my own son. I don’t know. I just know that I enjoy it and the memory of that morning is kind of hard to dismiss… especially when I hear Ashley masturbating in his room when he stays with us on breaks from university…
I just thought putting it down on paper might help. I’m not sure that it does.
First let me explain. I don’t get off on guy stuff. That’s kind of important from the outset. And I’m not into incest in any way, shape or form. That’s also pretty integral.
I just saw something that really – well, I dunno – it did something for me that I wasn’t expecting it to.
Hang on. This isn’t making much sense.
Let’s try it like this.
Every guy wanks for the first time sooner or later, yeah? I mean, they have to, don’t they? It’s got to happen sometime, right?
And it’s no big deal. I mean, it might seem like it at the time, kind of like “What’s all this stuff coming out of my knob?” or something, but at the end of the day it’s just like taking your first crap or having your first nosebleed. Not exactly life-changing.
But the reason I’m writing all this is that I saw something that really turned me on, even though I’d never have guessed in a million years that it would.
And that’s not all.
There’s an additional detail. A kind of majorly important one.
It involved my younger brother.
It wasn’t like totally out of the blue. He’d sort of let me know that day. Said some shit about how it was normal for a guy to play with himself or something. One of those accidentally on purpose comments he likes to throw in. Just to see what reaction he gets.
I guess I shrugged. I don’t really remember.
But he didn’t give up. He started kind of quizzing me. Wouldn’t let it drop. Going on like, “I mean, Ash, it’s no big deal right?”
And I was trying to get him to shut up. He was getting weird like he does sometimes. I think I snapped, “Okay… yeah… whatever.”
And then he nodded and went quiet. He muttered, “Yeah. That’s what I thought. I just… never really thought about it…”
And I smiled at him warmly like I cared. And when he smiled back I turned my mouth into sneer and shook my head. “Jesus… Rob. You’re such a little freak…”
Yeah I’m a shit with him sometimes. I know. But sometimes he really asks for it.
And he knows I really do give a shit about him. I make that pretty clear, when it matters.
But anyway. I got to thinking about what he’d meant and then started wondering if maybe he’d awoken while I was tossing off that morning and maybe he’d seen me…
You see, the two of us were sharing a room in Paris when all this happened. Yeah, I guess I should have explained that from the outset. The most crucial detail in the story and I nearly forget to mention it. Jesus!
But yeah. We were having a holiday together – me, Rob and my dad. It was all part of some wacko idea of my father’s about he and I getting to know one another before I flew from the family nest. Or something. ‘Cause Exeter University’s like a million miles from Taunton, isn’t it? We’re hardly ever going to be able to see each other again…
But it meant a free trip away and I figured it’d be a good break after my A-Levels.
And actually we had a pretty good time together.
It was just a pain that Rob insisted on tagging along. He had to pull his, “Ash gets everything, I get nothing” whine. Poor little Robbie. The plight of the forgotten youngest child.
And dad being such a pushover with him, he agreed.
So what should have been a nice quiet week away together, dad and his eldest son sharing a pint and all that, turned into a Robbie-fest.
But hey. I’m not bitter…
Getting back to the point of all this, though, I remember that at first I felt pretty irritated by the wanking comment. I thought he might be having a go at me. Kind of like, “I know you were tossing off when you thought me and dad were asleep this morning…”
But after a while I realised that would be too subtle Robbie. Way too subtle. If he wanted to say that, he’d just say it. Probably chant it at me, actually, like he was still at primary school.
So then I thought, “Maybe he honestly didn’t know guys sometimes need to wank even when they’re sharing a room… maybe he’d never been aware of it before now…”
I mean, the two of us hadn’t shared a room together since I was about ten. And Robbie led a pretty sheltered life; it was pretty feasible that anything outside of the realms of the dreary computer games he spent most of his time playing would be unknown to him.
So later on, despite my earlier irritation, I muttered something like, “Hey, Rob. You know that thing you said earlier…?”
He looked confused.
But I went on, “Well – you’re right. It’s no big deal.”
And then he realised what I was talking about and nodded. He kept staring at me for a few seconds like I was going to turn on him and say something sarkie, but I didn’t and eventually he smiled.
So that’s how it came about.
Like I said, I kind of knew he was going to do it that same night. Actually, he made it obvious he was – but you’ve gotta believe that I didn’t lie awake especially to hear it. I didn’t make a point of listening out for it.
I’m not that fuckin’ freakish!
But Robbie made a bit of a thing of it, as if he was proud of it or something.
Maybe he thought of wanking as being something that would make him “one of the men” or something. As if it was something separated the men from the boys or some crap like that.
But even in the bathroom, while I was taking a piss and he was brushing his teeth, the state of knob inside his briefs was pretty obvious. And he didn’t seem to mind that I noticed it.
I said something about him flying the flag at full mast but he just beamed back at me. Kind of like, “Yeah, I can throw a stiffie just as well as you guys…”
I was going to say something about the fact his knob wouldn’t hold a candle to mine – I mean, it was a bit thicker, yeah, but it must have been half the length – but I figured that would be step too far.
Much as love to piss on Rob’s parades at every opportunity, I figured throwing a cheap quip about his manhood might be a bit too close to the knuckle. I might screw him up or something.
We put the light out with dad already snoring in his bed. Then I lay back and tried to get some sleep.
Maybe Robbie thought I was already asleep, I dunno. He waited ten or fifteen minutes, I think, and dad was by now snoring loud enough for the two of us. So maybe he thought I’d dozed off.
I just know that just as I was starting to drift off, I became aware of a slow, gentle tap…tap…tap noise coming from across the room from Robbie’s bed.
I thought, “Oh shit. He’s having a wank…”
And I was going to call over, “Hey, Robbie, mate! Can’t you wait ’til I’m asleep or something…?”
But then I remembered that I’d done the same thing that he was doing that morning, and I guess I reminded myself that – well, you know – it’s not exactly a crime is it? I mean, if you’re not even intimate enough with your own family to be able to have a quiet wank with your brother in the room, well I guess it’s a bit sad…
So I thought, “Come on, Ash. Let him have his fun…”
And I lay back and tried to get to sleep.
But the noises from across the room began to get gradually faster and noticeably louder.
Now, let me pause here to say something. Which is that I’m experienced enough at wanking with other guys in the room to know how to sort myself out without my room-mates knowing. Or at least I think I am. I’m pretty good at making a tent with the duvet over my knob. Flexing just the muscles in my wrist so that the bed doesn’t move. Rubbing just the head of my knob with my thumb so that there’s no slapping sounds.
I mean, if you’re pretty horny and you spend a bit of time travelling with your mates or having stopovers, it’s kind of essential to develop a few techniques!
Having said that, I’m not perfect at it. One night, at a hostel in the Lake District, my mate Matt called over in his best English gentry voice, just when I was getting close to spilling, something like, “Methinks there are certain puds being pulled, Mr Edison…!” Woke the whole fuckin’ room up with me lying there with a face like a beetroot.
But usually I’m pretty discrete.
Doing it early in the morning is usually the best bet.
Usually. But not today, apparently.
But to get back to that night.
Robbie didn’t seem to share my talent for late-night secrecy. He wanked like he was alone in a soundproofed room.
His bed creaked and groaned, his fist thumped against his duvet and he panted and gasped like this was his first time.
His first time. I wondered about that for a few seconds and quickly dismissed it.
He was a good few years younger than me but he must have played with his knob by now… mustn’t he?
I thought it over. It was vaguely possible, wasn’t it, that he somehow might not have heard about wanking…? His computer games might have omitted to tell him about it… I mean, Lara Croft’s a very educational character, but…
No. No way. A guy can’t reach Robbie’s age without discovering that amazing connection between his knob and his right hand…
It just isn’t possible.
His activity abruptly stopped.
He was fumbling on the floor. Trying to find something.
Then his torch clicked on.
He pushed it under his duvet and seemed to be studying his knob carefully.
He fiddled with himself and brought his finger up to nose. Sniffed the liquid that was on it.
Had he cum already?
Then he tasted it. He seemed to like the taste because he went back to get a bit more. Then licked his finger again.
Shit. I realised Robbie was tasting his own precum. Had I ever done that? Yeah… I remembered that I had… I’d done it one of the first times I’d wanked.
Robbie kept his torch on, directing at his knob beneath the duvet and returned to his wanking. He began jerking his knob again, this time watching himself intently underneath the duvet.
I could see the shadow of his hand, gliding up and down on his knob, silhouetted on the thin duvet. Three fingers were splayed outwards. He was wanking with just his forefinger and thumb.
I seemed to remember that I’d done it that way the first few times too.
He developed a rhythm again, a slow but regular thumping, and his breath began to quicken as it had earlier.
He was enjoying watching himself. He was just staring beneath his duvet, holding his torch with one hand and jerking away at his knob with the other.
I was thinking, “Oh my God… this can’t be his first time, can it? He can’t really be doing this just because he saw me do it, can he?”
Followed quickly by, “And -shit – I can’t be watching him, can I? Jesus… this is my little brother having his first wazz and I’m spying on him…!”
But I found it impossible to look away.
Robbie’s rhythm began to increase slowly but steadily. He probably wasn’t aware of it himself. His breathing became more laboured – he was panting almost – and I thought I could smell his sweat even from where I was across the room.
The headboard of his bed started to beat against the wall but Robbie didn’t seem to care. I vaguely remembered my own bed doing a similar thing that morning and feeling too caught up to care much myself. So I guessed Rob was just following big bro’s lead (again!).
I’d have to explain to him the difference between a discrete late night tug and a hell-for-leather early morning wank-fest one of these days.
Might come in handy for him.
But for now I just lay there and stared at him. Fascinated by the black shadow of his hand bashing away at his knob underneath his duvet and not knowing exactly why I was fascinated.
Not knowing why my own knob was pushing its way out of my briefs as I watched him, my own precum dribbling onto my belly.
By now Robbie was beginning to lose control. His panting was sounding like the chugging of a steam train or something, and he kept making gasping “ah-ah-ah” noises with every beat his hand was making.
There was not even a half-hearted pretence that he was having a quiet scratch, like I’d heard one of mates trying to get away with, nor that he was getting stressed out by a nightmare or something. No chance! The lad was wanking himself off, going at it hammer-and-tongs, like he was proud of it and he didn’t give a toss who knew it.
Maybe that’s what fascinated me. I’d never seen anything like it, not even from my most not-give-a-shit mates. And I would never have expected to see Robbie, prissy little Robbie, going at himself like he was.
He dropped his torch and opened his legs widely. I thought I knew where his free hand was headed. Another trick he’d learned from his older brother.
Now his fist beat against the duvet making deep, rapid drumming noises.
In the half-light from his discarded torch I could see his forehead glistening with sweat and his chest heaving. Below that was the mound his hand was making, bobbing up and down in time with Robbie’s panting “ah-ah-ah” sounds.
I think his hips were thrusting upwards with every stroke. Instinct was taking over.
I turned to look over at our dad. I really expected he’d be awake. Who could sleep through the din Rob was making?
But he was still out of it. Still snoring but more gently than he had been earlier.
Probably for the best. Dad had this way of acting like he thought butter wouldn’t melt in Robbie’s mouth; like he thought the sun shone out of the place his youngest son’s free hand was now headed.
I mean, he probably thought Robbie wasn’t even sprouting woodies yet. He treated him like that; like a kid.
So it was probably best he didn’t see his youngest and dearest reaching the noisy, violent throws of his first climax. Probably best he didn’t hearing him yelping like was in pain as his balls released their first gusher of cum.
I remember seeing Robbie’s head twitch uncontrollably as his orgasm kicked in. He was making a low moaning sound, the mound of his beating fist still rising and falling rapidly as he achieved completion.
Then the movement and the noise subsided and he just lay there, like he was stunned.
A voice inside my head was saying, “That can’t have been his first time, can it? You didn’t just watch your own brother have a first wank, did you, Ash?”
I was telling myself I should have gone and hid in the toilet while he’d sorted himself out. It would have been the decent thing.
But then my more rational side began to kick in. “It really can’t have been his first time,” I was thinking. “I mean, he’s young but not that young. You started a couple of years before you were his age…”
But then I heard Robbie gasp, in a half-whisper: “Shit! I’m bleeding!”
He scrambled around and grabbed the torch.
I was thinking, “Christ. That must have been a hell of wank to have made him bleed!”
He directed the torch at himself and studied his crotch carefully. He smeared his finger around that area, beneath the duvet, and brought it up to his nose.
I could see the thick milky white liquid on the end of it.
Robbie sniffed it, intrigued.
I thought, “No bones about it, Ash. That really was his first time…”
Yet despite me feeling so bad about watching him, I still felt really turned on by it. I still do, actually. Right now, just thinking of it.
Jesus. I’m sick, I know. My little baby brother’s first jack off, and I’m getting horned up thinking of it.
But – hell – it was pretty good!
And I think I like the guy more because of it, if that doesn’t sound too freakish.
He kind of followed my example, like brothers should, and did his own thing with it.
And Christ he could go some!
He’s just not irritating dweeby little Robbie now. He grew up a bit after that night.
So I guess it’s sort of a happy ending.
I still get turned on when I hear him whacking off in the next bedroom to me when I’m back at home. I dunno if it’s a brotherly affection thing or what, but I think back to that first night, remind myself I was there when my kid brother had his first magnificent spillage, and then wank myself in time with him.
It’s pretty cool. Weird, I know, but still cool.
First let me explain. The whole thing was an accident.
I just woke up and it was going on.
I didn’t expect it and wasn’t looking for it.
But now it’s happened… well…!
It started when Ash woke me up when he got up to take a shower.
Ash is my older brother. Seventeen and arsey as hell.
We were sharing a room, the two of us with dad, because dad decided he’d take Ash on a kind of “leaving home” holiday to Paris, forgetting as usual that I exist.
I only got to go because I kicked up such a stink. Got mum involved. That always helps.
So then it became, “This is for Ash, this is his holiday, but we’ll be really kind and let you tag along, Robbie.”
Robbie. I keep asking them to call me Rob, saying I wanna be called Rob now, I’m not a kid anymore. But like I said, it’s as if I don’t exist.
Except actually Ash has started calling me Rob more often. Ever since that holiday. Bizarre.
But yeah. To get back.
Ash went for a shower and I thought I’d sleep a bit longer until dad came over and pulled me out of bed.
But then there was this noise from across the room.
At first I thought maybe dad had an itch or something. It was like he was scratching. You know, a regular sort of beating sound.
But no. It went on and on. Getting faster.
It was weird.
Well, yeah. Not to you, I know. But, hey, I didn’t know what was going on.
Why’s that funny? Okay, so I hadn’t really put two and two together… you know, hadn’t connected the jokes about jacking off with the gestures guys make with their fists against the fronts of their trousers.
But, you know. It just hadn’t occurred to me. As Ash would say, “Big fuckin’ deal, turd breath!”
It sounds funnier when he says it.
I’m sort of half awake and I realise dad’s doing something that’s making that weird scratching noise.
I looked over at him, thinking maybe it’s some weird joke he’s playing, and saw that his eyes were closed and there was this mound in his bed sheet moving up and down in time with the scratching noise.
And the mound was level with his dick.
That woke me up.
I think I still thought it was a joke, actually, but one of those “adult jokes” he and Ash sometimes play on each other that I’m considered to young to get. But now he was playing it on me.
This had to be good…
So his breathing began getting faster and his hand started beating more loudly and I was lying there waiting for the punch line.
Yeah I know it sounds stupid, but I was.
Hey, shut up. Let me tell this.
It was only when he pushed the bed sheet away that I thought, “Shit – this is no joke! He thinks I’m asleep!”
His dick was hard and his hand was sliding up and down it. He kept his eyes closed and slid the skin of his dick back and forth like the whole thing had an itch but one that wouldn’t go away.
He had a slight smile on his face but I still knew this wasn’t a joke.
This was too serious. I’d never seen my dad with a stiffie, never mind rubbing it like that.
I thought he must be wanking. This must be what wanking is.
Jesus. My dad was having a wank right in front of me!
At first I was totally blown. I thought I must still be asleep and that this was a dream.
But it was way too real.
Especially when he pulled off his boxer shorts and teeshirt and threw them on the floor next to him.
This was no dream. Dreams don’t have that kind of detail.
He started wanking again.
I was sure that’s what it was. Like I said, I’d never seen it or heard it described clearly, but it fitted in with the jokes I’d heard and the hand gestures guys made.
I’d just never realised that guys really did it. I couldn’t see what the point of it was. I mean, it looked pretty dull. Just your hand on your dick going up down, up down, up down… Lame or what?
But dad seemed to really get into it. His hand got faster and faster on his dick which was really big – much thicker than mine and probably a bit longer. His balls, now free from his shorts, jiggled around like women’s tits do when they run.
His other hand went up to his hairy chest and his fingers drew circles around his nipples. He seemed to like that. His wanking grew even faster.
As he kept doing it, I noticed that he started breathing more quickly, as if he’d just been running.
That fitted another imitation of wanking I’d seen at school. A guy would make a fist, beat it against the front of his trousers and make gasps like he’d just run ten miles or something.
And I’ve always laughed like I knew what it was about.
But here was my dad panting like a dog while his hand just got faster and faster.
This had to be wanking. There was nothing else it could be.
Hey, shut up. Like I said, I didn’t know. I was just trying to make sense of it.
I remember, actually, that I noticed an odd smell in the room while he was doing it. A thick slightly sweet smell.
I’d noticed the same smell in Ash’s room sometimes. I’d made a joke about it once and he had said it was socks. But then I’d noticed his underwear, lying on his bed, was wet and had laughed – but he’d told me to fuck off.
I’d shouted over at him, “Hey Ash – you pissed yourself!”
But he’d snapped, “Fuck you, you little freak. I blew my fuckin’ nose in them – that’s all it is.”
And it had kind of looked like snot – sort of white and gloopy – definitely not piss, so I’d left it.
Why he’d want to blow his nose in his dirty briefs… well, there’s Ash for you. Or at least that’s what I’d thought.
But yeah. Getting back.
I figured the smell must be the smell of wanking. And that wanking must be something guys do sometimes. I mean, not just guys at school who love to do disgusting things, but normal guys too. Guys like my dad.
Guys like me, as well. But I think it took a few more hours for that idea to cross my mind.
Anyway, dad’s hand was by now whacking up and down his dick so fast I couldn’t believe it wasn’t hurting him.
He was sweating with the effort of it.
He suddenly opened his legs wide and his free hand shot down to grip his balls.
I thought, “Whoa!”
Then he let out a few short grunts, stared over towards me suddenly, and I closed my eyes to pretend I was still asleep.
I didn’t open them again, thinking he might still be staring over at me, and his wanking seemed to slow down until it stopped completely. There were a few sounds I didn’t recognise and then he came over and shook me in bed, telling me it was time to get up.
He had a fresh pair of shorts on.
He said something like, “Ash didn’t wake you, did he, Robbie?”
I shook my head.
And dad smiled and nodded. “Good.”
I guess I looked like I didn’t know what he meant because he sort of stuttered, “You… er… need your sleep.”
Which was so totally unlike dad – who was always into early birds and all that crap – that I almost laughed out loud.
Anyway, even while dad was showering and Ash was getting dressed, my mind was already racing.
What the hell had I seen? Was it wanking or was it something else?
I once heard an older guy at school brag that he wanked three times a day because it’s “fuckin’ quality, man” and everyone had laughed.
But dad hadn’t looked like he was especially enjoying it. He just got out of breath and got all sweaty. I hadn’t really seen any sign of pleasure or anything else. He’d just done it for a while and then stopped. Like taking a piss.
Another thing making me wonder was that my mum had once said, when I’d called someone a “wanker” in her earshot without meaning to, that “that kind of thing is filthy”.
But dad hadn’t looked too guilty about what he’d done.
So I started to convince myself that dad really had been scratching himself but in a kind of weird way.
Guys don’t wank the way he was. He was doing something different. He must have been.
I tried to ask Ash about it but he made some smart-arse remark back. That just made me wonder even more.
In the end I figured I’d have try myself.
See what happened.
It couldn’t hurt me. It hadn’t hurt dad.
So most of the day I had a hard-on, thinking – like I said – about what it would be like to tug my dick the way I’d seen dad doing that morning. I’d played around a little with my dick before then – I mean, I was hardly a kid – but I’d never pulled the skin up and down over and over like he had. It had never occurred to me as something worth doing…
But maybe it was.
And maybe it was time to find out!
I won’t go into like graphic detail, but that night I tried it.
Yeah – right in the room the three of us were in!
Well, dad had done it with me in the room that morning, and Ash had said something about it being “no big deal” later that day when he wasn’t being such a dork, so I figured it must be something guys do when they’re sharing a room sometimes.
And I just went right ahead and did it!
No – not with them watching, you tosser!
I think they were asleep. I hope so, anyway! The lights were out and they were snoring. Yeah, they were asleep.
And anyway, I kept it pretty quiet.
But it was good. And yes – it definitely was wanking. I pretty quickly realised that.
And realised why dad had got out of breath. And why he’d been sweating so much.
And – yes – what the smell had been!
I’m pretty glad I made such a thing about going along on the trip with the two of them.
It was well worth it.
I mean, even apart from the fact I learned how to wank, the three of us had a pretty good week together.
Dad’s seemed more sorted with Ash ever since – stopped going on about him being moody and stuff. Ash has been a lot less arsey with me. And I guess I’ve seen dad in a whole new light and kind of like him more for it.
So I guess the trip helped the three of us come together.
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