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Learning from Daddy - Part 2

Posted by: SoloTouchArchive Author: admin Posted on: 13 Oct 2002 1 comments
3 likes views Category: Sex Stories Male Gay Tags: Dad son

by Rodman After I saw my Dad beat off in his secluded outdoor shower, things weren't quite the same for the next few days that remained of our beach camp break. On the surface, of course, things went on much the same. But I found this complete revelation of male sexuality very exciting and disturbing. In the next few days I found myself watching my father's movements closely and wondering where he might be going, and what he might be doing, every time he went out of my sight. I even looked at his discarded clothes, when I saw them at the construction site when he worked on the shack,in a different way. Because they were so close to this being who had revealed this awesome sexual power, they had a strong and special significance. I didn't do anything to them, like touch or smell them, since my father was around most of the time and my senses were constantly full of his presence, so I guess I was pretty discreet. My father certainly never seemed to notice. I'm sure this was the start of what has been a lifetime of being discreetly watchful and observant. Although I seldom appear to look, I miss nothing,and though I maintain a veneer of polite ignorance or unawareness, very often I am seething inside. This probably also explains my strong interest in voyeurism. (I have one confession to make, which I have only told one other person before, which is that I once did do something to a garment belomging to one of my father's friends. He was an extremely handsome cop from a nearby town, tall, rangy and dark, and one night he called by the house, in uniform, to talk to my Dad about something. It was a summer night and took off his cap and placed it upside down on one of the dining chairs in the dining room. He was talking with my Dad in the living room. I remember to this day how I sneaked into the dining room, picked up the cap, smelled the guy's scent, and with the tip of my tongue, licked off his sweat around the rim of the headband. I must have been about 14.) But back to the shack. A day or two later around mid-morning my father suggested that I go and set up some stockpiles of drift and dead fall wood for our campfire in a well-wooded part of the beach about a quarter of a mile away. The idea was that my Dad and his buddy would come by and load the stockpiles onto the back of the jeep in the afternoon, so we would have plenty of firewood for the rest of our stay. (Gathering firewood was a daily chore, which I, as the youngest and most nimble member of the group, was always assigned to.) I realised that my Dad would probably make use this opportunity, although not with a shower, since he had already taken one a couple of hours ago and complained about the early morning chillness. I decided that when I was sent off I would hide out in a spot of scrub just behind the fishing shack, where I could see everything pretty well. I took some water, cookies and an apple in a bag from the shack, and told my Dad I was setting off and would be back in around 2 hours. I promised as usual not to go anywhere near the surf. I headed off along the floor of the hollow the shack and campsite occupied, and once I was out of sight, quickly doubled back.A quick scan of the campsite, including the showere area, showed no sign of my Dad. He had to be inside the shack. The shack was built of a pretty motley collection of materials. At best, it would last for only a few years, but my father and his buddy had scavenged some old windows from a shed on the buddy's property, a lot of weather-bleached old lumber, and tar paper and sheets of iron for a roof. It was a summertime shelter, quickly thrown up and full of small chinks and draughts. On the side facing the campfire were two windows and a door. The other walls were solid except for a window opposite the door, which gave the kitchen end of the shack light and a view outside. Inside was simple. There was a wooden all-purpose table and chairs, a sink and counter crudely mounted on a timberframe beside the kitchen window, and a bed in the corner furthest away from the two windows and the kitchen window. Quietly, I crept up to the kitchen window and peered in. I knew that I would have a good view of the inside of the shack because my father had stuck an old mirror on the side wall between the kitchen window and the door, which he used for shaving. He also placed a candle beside it at night, so its reflection would supplement the light provided by two paraffin lamps. And I knew from this angle, because I had lain on the bed and noticed it, that the mirror showed only a slice of the room. But from outside, you could see the entire inside. Then I jumped! Because standing close to the mirror and just out of direct line of sight from me, was my Dad. His arm reached out and picked up a bottle from the sink counter and then he receded from sight. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom in the shack, I saw him standing by the bed. The door was closed, and I saw, locked with a stick of wood pushed into a hole in the frame. He'd also drawn the sheets of dark fabric we used as curtains to keep out the early morning light. As I watched, my Dad appeared to be looking at his reflection in the mirror. With a slow movement he pulled his T shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. He ran his hands over his pecs and down his stomach, brushing what I could see was a growing bulge in his shorts. He undid his shorts and stepped out of them. He was nude. The splendid cock I had goggled at the other day was stiffening, the red cockhead just emerging from his foreskin. He tickled his balls, moved his legs apart, looked down and then lay down on the bed. Very quickly he devoted hiself to bringing his cock fully erect. And believing he was alone, he was vocal - much more so than he was in the shower. It was almost, listening to him through the flimsy timber wall, as if he was talking to his cock. He said, to my 12 year old mind, dirty words that we weren't allowed to say. Oooh, yeah, you wanna fuck? You want to feel my meat, cunt? Ride it, yeah! It was amazing to hear, for the first time, a man really let himself go. He moved with increasing urgency on the bed, arching his back, changing position slighly, manoeuvering his legs and ass muscles to intensify his sensations and breating hard. His left hand began tease lightly at his tight balls. One finger sneaked down and pressed into the space between his balls and his hairy ass. He seemed to like this, because he stopped teasing his cock for a while and grabbed his ass cheeks with both hands and pulled them apart. He pumped his legs and then jammed his spread ass cheeks firmly down on the bed. He wriggled around a bit.. Then he seemed to enter a new phase. After returning to stroking his cock for a few moments, he looked over and down and picked up the bottle. It was the cooking oil we used each night. He sat up a bit so his head and shoulders were slightly higher than his trunk, and moved his legs apart. I was treated to the sight of his throbbing erect prick standing fully upright between his thighs. He poured a small amount of oil into his right hand, moved his fingers to evenly distribute it, and after pulling his ass cheeks apart again with his left hand, he set to work. As long as I live, whenever I hear the slick sounds of fingers on a lubed cock, and the breathy cries and grunts of pleasure a man makes as he brings himself to climax, one part of me will always be at that fishing shack. He didn't take long because he soon came, with moans and whimpers, even more profusely than in the shower. He gave a big, satisfied sigh. As soon as he moved to begin to clean himself up, I thought it was time I made myself scarce. But I tell you what: more than just genes run in a family: I think I picked up my basic masturbating style from my Dad - although of course he doesn't know it. Rodman.