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Foundations, Chapter 7

By Kenneth Beltan

Blake, Quentin, and Nieve are all copyrighted and are owned by Nievelion. I have had permission to use them for this story. All other characters are mine.

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7

When the Parishes and Urquharts had finalized their yuletide arrangements, they all parted ways, including father and son, the two tiger shopping for gifts for each other. They had agreed to meet up at home later in the evening. Quentin sorely hoped that he would be able to beat his son home so he could have a wank or three or five. He felt tight inside and had the worst case of blue balls he could ever remember. He had only skipped masturbating for one morning out of sheer forgetfulness and would never have guessed what harm it would do to him. He was grateful for the bags to hold in front of him while browsing a bookstore and a video game shop for a few titles he knew his son wanted, and he was especially appreciative of them on the subway. While strap-hanging, he allowed his cock to finally harden as much as it wanted to -- and it was so hard it hurt. Quentin was tired of holding it back, and he hoped that just letting it stiffen for a while would take the edge off a bit. Having taken a local train back to Brooklyn, he was mostly flaccid by the time he stared walking home from the station. Muddy prints from Blake's boots were fresh on the walkway and on the stairs leading upstairs, dashing Quentin's hopes for some time alone. Trying not to let his tail droop and get soiled, he plodded up the stairs and to his door. When he reached into his pocket for his key, he realized that he was hard again. Sighing, he let his head rest against the door with a bump. He knew he would need some more time to cool off, but before he could turn away, he could hear his son's heavy tread coming down the hall. Moments later, the sound of the deadbolt being thrown open could be heard, and Quentin just had time to let a bag swing in front of him as the door opened. His son stood once more only in his bulging briefs. "Welcome home, Dad," Blake said brightly, taking the bags from his father but not looking in them out of respect for the surprises in them. "I'll put these in your study." "Hello, Blake. Thank you," the weary father answered, bending down to nuzzle his progeny. As Blake carried out his task, Quentin quickly undid his coat and then sat down on the stool by the door to take off his own boots. He entered their home and hung his coat on the hook before making a beeline for the bathroom. It was the one refuge he could think of where he would be safe from his son -- he had suppress a laugh at the thought while also wondering if he should be crying instead. Quentin needed to pee anyway, and he could also brush his teeth to buy himself extra time. He had a bit of his lunch stuck that had been driving him crazy for hours and that he had been unsuccessful at dislodging with his tongue. He grumbled ruefully that only now was he being cleaver, his initiative being due to hiding an erection like a guilty teenager. It should have been Blake doing this, he fumed. Life was so complicated sometimes. He shut the door behind him and locked it, heaving a sigh of relief. He was safe. Looked down at his trousers, he saw that the front was quite wet with pre. "Shit." He undid his belt and soon had his trousers off so now only his briefs remained, also quite wet. He removed them as well and then began on the rest of his clothes. A shower would be a good way to solve a lot of of his problems at the moment, even if he had already taken one the night before. "I'll take one if I damn well like," he muttered to himself. In fact, a quick shower was the natural prelude to a long, hot bath. That might do him an even greater good. His iron tigerhood twitched in anticipation, and the Amur grinned down as he took it in his paws and finally gave it a long, luxurious rub. He looked up and watched himself in the mirror, enjoying the sight of his own beautiful, perfect body. His fur was at its richest in its winter coat, and he was still quite impressively built and toned. Best of all was his fat, huge cock sticking out from his strong, manly hips. He cupped his balls while he slowly worked himself over, licking his chops in anticipation of some autofellatio. This was going to be sweet... The doorbell rang. The mood had been shattered like a lightbulb suddenly overheating and exploding, and he only barely managed to suppress an almighty roar of rage and frustration. His paws were balled in great, intimidating fists, his jaw was clenched tight, his fur standing angrily on end, and he was trying with all his might to not punch a hole in the plaster wall. Who the fucking hell could be at the door at a time like this? he wanted to shout. He heard Blake dash past the bathroom door only to dash back a few seconds later and stop. "Hey, Dad, the pizzas are here." "Pizza?" the adult Amur wondered aloud. "Yeah, I thought I'd take the liberty of getting us some easy supper so you wouldn't have to cook," Blake explained. His father could hear the sound of him pulling a shirt over his head along with the crackle of static electricity. "You looked a little...out of it today. Hurry up in there so you won't have to have cold pizza or reheat it. I timed it pretty well, didn't I?" He did not wait for his father's answer as he happily scurried with his money to the door. Quentin now felt like crying again. It was such a lovely, considerate gesture on Blake's part. Quentin had in fact been considering something like this tonight as well. It just made him feel so annoyed and deflated all at the same time. In fact, he could finally feel his cock starting to flag and descend. He sighed unhappily as he watched himself droop. No man really liked to watch such a thing happen to himself, and while he had wanted to loose his erection, he had not intended to happen in this way. Life was so very unfair, especially tonight. He lightly banged his head against the wall in frustration, groaning under his breath. The Amur quickly collected himself and his clothes and made a dash to his bedroom. He tossed everything but his trousers into the hamper and then quickly yanked his belt, keys and wallet out, set them on his dresser, and finally added the damp-fronted slacks to the pile of laundry waiting to be washed. He turned back to his dresser to fish out some fresh undergarments when his son appeared at the door, his face immediately brightening more than it already had been at the sight of his father's now flaccid but no less impressive member. "Food's here, Dad. I even have a fire going, and the room's already warmed up," Blake boasted proudly. Quentin turned and smiled at his son, who was now taking his shirt and sweatpants off. He shook his head. "You aren't opposed to clothing in principal, are you?" he wondered. "Hmm." Blake thought for a moment. "Yes, with a few exceptions." "Oh, and what are they?" He turned around to give his son a better view, his fist on his hips, his briefs dangling in a clasped fist. He was surprised to suddenly feel so bold after all the fighting of the day. "Fat people and women." Quentin laughed while trying to look reproachful. "I can understand your first objection, but Woman makes up half of humanity. I hardly think that's fair, and besides, there are a lot of very attractive women out there," he purred gently. He was only thinking of the men, though, and the field day his son would have with a bunch of naked men all around him who wanted to show off. The horniness suddenly raged back to life in him, and blood began to rush to his cock. He had to get something on fast and clear his mind again. This was going to be a long night. "Woman you can have," Blake said with a dismissive wave. "Half of humanity's enough for me." He then padded away to toss his unwanted garments in his bedroom, leaving his father laughing heartily. Quentin quickly slipped his briefs on and also put on the bottom portion of his nightwear. It would afford him a bit of extra insurance against further stiffening as long as it was not too much. He left his torso bared, though. A part of him still wanted to continue the experiment, scared as he was to proceed. He stopped and stood thinking for a moment, looking down at his lap. On a whim, he quickly stripped his clothes off, put his underwear back in his drawer, and then pulled his soft, loose lounging trousers back up so that his heavy cock had complete freedom within. It was more comfortable, and it would make more of an impression as he sat. He hoped that Blake would notice, even while realizing how much easier an erection would be noticed without briefs to hold his member against his body. He wanted to take the risk, and the possibilities excited him, urging him on. He padded out of his room just as Blake came back down the hall, still only in his over-stretched briefs. Shaking his head again, Quentin put a heavy paw on Blake's shoulder and led him down to their living room. "Come on, my boy. Let's eat. I'm hungry as hell," grumbled good-naturedly. He knew Blake liked it when he spoke in a gruffer voice, and the lashing of Blake's tail was all the evidence he needed to confirm that it had worked. They sat together in front of their warm fire and ate, conversing about Sherlock Holmes. Blake had been reading several Holmes mysteries lately, and he was doing a rare thing in asking his father for clarification of the methods of logic that Holmes would have used. Blake had since been eschewing interest in anything that smelled too academic, something which saddened and worried Quentin greatly. While he hoped that Blake might like to follow in his footsteps, he certainly did not expect him to. What he had not counted on was his rejection of erudition on the grounds of manliness. He had been watching as his son had slowly descended into a machismo that relied purely on brawn and action. Blake was going to be a powerfully built and enormous tiger as an adult, but Quentin worried that he would neglect the mental development that his beloved mother had and always cultivated. Jennifer had been a quiet intellectual; knowledge and careful debate had never been beneath her. As tough as she was, and as fierce as was the iron façade she could cultivate, she had said that her brains were always in the lead. She had never wanted to die even if she had accepted the risks of her chosen vocation, and she knew that using her head was the most likely way that she would be able to help herself as well as others. She religiously read Sun Tzu's The Art of War, claiming that it sharpened her wits and made her a better cop. Her well-worn copy had been passed on to her son, who had not understood much of it when he first read it not long after her death. It was a prized possession of his now, as it had been so important to Jennifer, but he had not bothered to reread it in many years. It was now just sentimental keepsake of hers that sat on his bookshelf, never being touched. Quentin knew that Blake had a sharp mind, as did Jennifer, and so did all of his teachers. In fact, for all of his dislike of academics, Blake usually maintained A's in school (admittedly, it was now largely force of habit from his parents' strict expectations, knowing full well that he was capable of meeting them, not to mention his natural feline desire to be perfect in all things that he did). Blake's father feared that his son would one day realize how futile and empty such a life as the one he was pursuing could be. He wanted to spare his son such sadness as he had already known so much, but he also knew that it might be a lesson that he would have to learn the hard way. He reflected on his own mistakes and hoped to God that such a juncture would not have to be reached by them again before coming back together as father and son. Quentin watched as Blake got up to get them more drink from the kitchen, admiring his shapely rump as it disappeared out of sight. He wondered how many more years he would get to see it and then thought about his son moving out eventually, which always caused a sudden feeling of his soul dropping out of his stomach. Quentin did not want to live in an empty nest and wanted Blake to remain. Of course, that was an impossible request, as he well knew. Part of him was proud and delighted to see Blake growing up, but another part of him wished that it would not happen at all. He missed the tiny kitten that used to chase his tail. He missed the young boy who was warm and inquisitive, who had a sharp sense of humor, who always looked forward to seeing both his father and mother after school, and who was not so concerned with fitting into such a narrow definition of manhood. Quentin increasingly felt that he was failing as Blake's example of manhood. It sometimes made him wonder if he was not manly enough. How could even a semblance of intellect and refinement completely cancel out a great, powerful body like his or Nieve's in the eyes of the young Amur? What had inspired such narrowness, what continued to feed it, and how could Quentin break the cycle? Should he try to break it? The massive Amur shook his head to ride himself of his doubts. This was not the time or place to start questioning himself. In spite of Blake's confidence, Quentin was older and wiser and knew better. He still had much to teach his son, but Blake would have to be willing to learn in order for any knowledge to be disseminated and absorbed. He had to be a rock in the young tiger's life, even if his son either did not realize it or care. Children often thought themselves stronger than they were, and eventually they came back to their source of strength. The thing was, Blake was a source of strength for Quentin, too, which complicated matters. They had relied on each other over the years. All the same, Quentin knew that as a rock, he himself was larger, denser and stronger. He also had other supports besides Blake, not to mention experience and wisdom, and he had to rely on those as well as on his own considerable self-confidence. As worrisome as these thoughts were, they were still insufficient to keep Quentin's pent-up thoughts of lust from reasserting their place in his mind. Merely sitting across from his handsome, street-wise and impudent son was a feast for the eyes and senses. Blake's scent was uncommonly strong for someone so young, and his body was certainly now substantial enough that Quentin did not doubt that he was ready for a real man to show him the finer points of being a man. Oh, how he wished that he could be that man. If Blake wanted a so-called "real man," then all he needed to do was simply behold his father gloriously naked, very erect, his overpowering musk becoming the very air their lungs craved for continued vitality and life. If only Blake could hear his father's lustful purrs, his predatory growls, and his dominating roars, he would surely realize that none of the young lunkheads that he seemed to fancy held as much raw masculinity in their forgettable bodies as Quentin held in the tip of his tail. He wanted to put the love bite on Blake, pick him up and then set him right back down on his throbbing cock and fuck the hell out of the young tiger until he was a sweaty, panting, cum-drenched mess begging for a break because his father was more man than he could handle. Only then would Quentin stop and begin to lovingly lick his son's ears, soothe him, and make him purr like he did when he was a kitten. It would be merely a break, though, before they would move on from the introduction to lesson one of his new curriculum. There would be readings from some of Quentin's best collection of erotic literature on technique, the Kamasutra for positions, lessons in wooing and romance and sweet words, oral examinations, tests of endurance, and rounds that could be short or long, depending on the skills needing to be tested. Blake would no more be able to resist his father's lessons than he could resist breathing. Once more, he would delight in pleasing his father, wanting to be close to him whenever possible, and he would look up to him as the bull among men. Then there was that gorgeous body the young man possessed. Quentin would run his paws over every inch of it slowly, smelling it, rubbing it, kneading it. He would admire the straining erection that was the pride of the Parrish lineage. With his great tongue, he would wet the entire throbbing member that was hot as a freshly cooked sausage and much tastier, and then he would envelope it in his maw, savoring every square centimeter of skin, eventually pulling load after heavy load from those tempting orbs that weighed the young Amur's briefs down so heavily, spraying their payload as he had on his closet wall that one day that brought all of this to a head. The explosion of flavor would compliment the molotov cocktail of musk that would invade his nose and stimulate every last olfactory nerve ending. It would be so wonderful that Quentin himself would begin blasting off without evening touching himself. He would roar around his son's cock in his mouth as he pumped out wave after wave, the streams of it all shooting up over his chest, one after another. He whole body would shake and tense with the effort... Quentin suddenly awoke from the force of his orgasm which was still going hard. He looked down in his lap as his cock shot another long stream through his lounging trousers and onto his chest. It was too much, though, and his eyes immediately screwed shut as he gritted his teeth and continued to ride out his climax. It was long, it was hard, and it was the most phenomenal wet dream he had ever had in his life. It left him panting hard in his chair, his head back, his body momentarily spent and grateful for the respite. He suddenly looked up and around, not finding his son about, and quickly sprang out of his chair to make a mad dash for the bathroom. He suddenly stopped, looking at the leftover pizza. He picked up a slice, rubbed it into his fur and clothes, cursed loudly, and quickly resumed his previously planned course. He did not encounter Blake in the hall as made his way to the bathroom. Before he shut the door, he called out for his son. "Blake?" "Yeah, Dad?" The answer had come from Blake's bedroom. "I spilled pizza on myself, so I'm just going to shower now. I fell asleep in the other room." "You roared over that?" came Blake's amused reply. Quentin blushed crimson, his paw raised with his claws out menacingly as if he wanted to strangle the young well. Quickly he shut the door and locked it behind him, not daring to respond. He well knew that Blake did not believe him, but he was too frightened to do anything else. He looked down and found his cock had lost none of his hardness and was in fact dripping once more, ready for another round. Surrendering to it, he shed his clothes, turned on the vent, and finally the hot water. When it was adjusted to his liking, he stepped in and immediately proceeded to masturbate three heavy loads onto the tiles of the shower wall. Only then did he feel satiated enough to simply shower like normal. Then as he had planned earlier in the evening, he decided to finish off with a long soak. He shook himself off in the shower and then padded out to begin running his bath. He lit some candles as the tub filled, added some scented oil and bath salts, and stuffed his very soiled garments into the bathroom hamper. He unlocked the bathroom door and called once more to his son. Hearing his father calling him, Blake came down the hall from the living room, still in his briefs that looked fuller than normal. "Yes, Dad?" "I'm going to take a bath, my son," Quentin answered, appearing completely naked and impressive before his son, making sure he was standing straight and tall to best show off his powerful figure. Even his voice was a bit lower and husky from his lust, the scent of which was certainly coming off of him. It was about time that Blake got to see what a man was like when he was in need. "Would you please fetch me a tankard of cider with some honey. I would like to enjoy a nice drink while I bathe. Oh, and bring me that Classical Guitar Adagios CD." Blake was visibly impressed, his father's simple manliness seeming to be naturally assertive. He nodded, swallowing. "Sure, Dad. Be right back." Then he left to carry out his father's wishes. Grinning, Quentin turned back into the dim bathroom and slowly stepped into the large, deep tub that was about half full. It would not be long before it was just right. The hot water felt so good on his body, and the oils and salts he had selected were masculine and musky scents that would compliment his own and make him more irresistible. Yes, perhaps what he needed to do was play Blake's game, only he would play it like a man and show his son how it was supposed to be done. Perhaps this would be a way to reach his son more effectively than he had been able to in years. It was unorthodox to be sure, but sometimes unusual approaches were necessary to bear fruit. Besides, Blake was young and obviously inexperienced, and he needed proper instruction if he was going to realize the finest qualities of manhood. As Blake's father, it was Quentin sacred duty to impart these lessons, he thought to himself with a very smug grin and a rumbling purr. Blake came into the dimly lit bathroom then, carrying his father's drink and the music. He stopped a few feet from the tub, simply gazing at the older Amur. He wondered what he was grinning about and why he looked so pleased with himself. It was not a side he often saw in his modest, humble father. It confounded him a bit, as he had no idea how to react to it, yet he was very turned on by it. "Well, son, don't stand there. Your papa's thirsty, and he has had a long day. That's a good lad," Quentin rumbled, some of his working class accent coming back into his speech. Blood was flowing into Blake's cock, and he could not stop it. He knew that he was about to pop a full boner in front of his father if he did not get in and out quickly. He kicked himself inside for once again loosing his nerve. He padded over quickly and set the tankard down on the wide edge of the tub. Keeping his cool, he turned to the small Bose stereo and put the CD in. He turned back to his father and then paused, looking down into the tub at the man's half hard cock sticking up out of the water. It was quickly rising. At least four or five or six inches were visible, and the mushroom had was intimidatingly fat. Quentin's grin widened as he watched the bulge in Blake's briefs grow and tent. "Yes, Blake," he finally said, startling his son and making his balls fall out the side of his underwear. "Even your ol' man gets 'em. You get more potent as you get older. It's time your father had someone to share his bed, I think. It's been too long. Since you already know about all that and since you said you don't mind, I think I'll invite Charles over tomorrow night after Midnight Mass." He leaned back and put his powerful, trunk-like arms behind his head. He sighed huskily with pleasure as the hot water began undoing some of the knots in his considerable muscles. He closed his eyes restfully, and with his silence, he was giving his son permission to take his leave. Blake was panting quietly, and his cock was fully hard in his briefs, pulling them out and away from his body. He was dripping now, and he needed to whack off in the worst way. If he thought his father was going crazy with lust before, he now realized that he was in no way even in the same league of manhood as his father was. With just a shift in his vocal range, a few accent alterations, and only a pawful of short sentences, his father had turned the tables in this whole seduction as causally as if he were idly batting away a stray moth while he read one of his books. The whole exchange could be read as one powerful flirt, yet it was so tactfully and carefully delivered that it barely seemed to resemble any of the painfully overt overtures Blake had been making for the last fortnight. He could not remember a time when he had felt more in awe of his father. He turned and started walking to the door. Halfway across the bathroom, his father's voice sounded once more. "Son?" Blake did not dare turn around. He felt so close to shooting at the moment that he was afraid to face his father once more. "Yes," he answered, trying to sound collected and casual. "Turn off the water, please. I have enough." It was an expert display of the feline arts. The request was simple and yet obviously gentle command that Quentin knew his son could not help but obey. Blake felt a kind of power from his father coming over him, that quiet authoritativeness he had always had and that had always commanded Blake's respect and obedience, pulling him back towards the tub. As he padded back over, his ears splayed slightly in embarrassment in spite of his efforts, he could not tear his gaze away from his father's. His paw found on its own the knob and turned it off, soon leaving them in silence save for the soft music. If Quentin's efforts were any work, he did not show it. The gaze was just steady, easy, and irresistible. Blake suddenly realized it was the predator's stare. Adrenaline immediately began coursing through his blood, his heart rate increased, and his breathing quickened. His shaft was harder than ever. Quentin was not looking down at it, but it would have been impossible for him to not see it. The older Amur held his son that way for a long while before nodding gently and breaking the gaze, freeing his son's feet which quickly took him out of the bathroom and to the sanctuary of his bedroom. Before Blake could close the door, he heard his father's deep, hearty laughter coming from the bathroom. It was all it took as he shut the door, grabbed his cock through his briefs, and began gushing like a hose. He cried out, the orgasm hard and almost uncomfortable. The mess he made was substantial, and he had to sink onto his rump as he gasped for air after his exertions.