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Sometimes I look at Tork when he can't see me. Not like that, although when he gives me permission we do plenty of looking at each other. Mostly, I look at him when I think my mundane everyday problems are too much to bear. Because Tork's been through plenty more than most, and I look to him for perspective.

I try to give him the kind of loving his body and mind can handle without overstimulating him, which is a funny thing to say when he comes to me several times a week for some fool-around time. I mean, it's been over two years since I took him in--and adopted him--but I'm still learning how to be a parent and a caregiver all at once. And a lover, I suppose, but that's been easier than the other two by far.

Tork has been playing catch-up since before he was born. The easiest time of his life was probably in the womb, because he was born to parents who simply didn't care. Sometimes I think that apathetic parents are worse than the parents who never wanted a kid in the first place. His mom forced a C-Section because she didn't want to ruin her lady parts. Apparently a big ol' scar on her belly was a more attractive choice. I guess; feathers cover up that shit pretty good.

His diagnosis wasn't a shock as much as it was an inconvenience, according to Tork's aunt (I'll get there, be patient). Mom was put out by the knowledge that she couldn't even count on sending her kid away the second he turned eighteen, and Dad...well, if it were possible for an alcoholic to get even worse, he kept finding ways.

I suppose it goes without saying that the marriage wasn't the best, and it wasn't. Through the aunt, who went to church with a neighbor of mine, I heard stories of fighting and abuse and all that good stuff that happens when two pieces of shit decide to share their lives with one another. A match made in hell if there ever was one. I'll never have the full story because it's like playing telephone and not the most reliable, but once I moved Tork in most of it was confirmed just by the way he acted.

You're probably wondering, "When is he going to get to the good stuff?" You saw the picture, and you're feeling disappointed. Bear with me, because I feel I owe it to my boy to fill you in on how we got to where we are.

Tork's parents died in a car crash when he was nine. The official report pretty much said it all: single car into the median, hit the end of a K-rail, bifurcated the car, and that was that. They weren't speeding and they weren't drinking, so nobody could figure out how they ended up in pieces on the side of the road. I won't speculate, but the father was driving (or at least most of him was closer to the steering wheel) and I wouldn't put it past him to get a rager on and just...decide to take them both out. I don't think I ever heard one good thing about him in all the years my neighbor gossiped about them.

His aunt didn't take him in right away. That's the kind of lady she was; church every Sunday but cherry-picked her compassion. I get the feeling she didn't want to deal with the syndrome either and things would've been different had he turned out "normal." But it is what it is, no other family, and Tork went into the foster system. I've never been able to see paperwork from those nine years, but I understand he bounced around between one home and the next, back and forth more times than an Army brat moves. He somehow went through puberty, which--when you think about yours--seems like a miracle that he never got abused and never figured things out on his own.

Well, perhaps it's not that big of a miracle considering how this aunt of his (allegedly; my neighbor loves to gossip at length and those two were a favorite subject) suppressed him with evangelical strictness Jerry Falwell would balk at. She never could get Tork to understand the whole Bible thing, so mainly she brought him to church and told him to be quiet. He was already good about that, but that woman made it her personal responsibility to try to mold him into a Von Trapp if there ever was one.

Basically it boiled down to, children are seen and not heard, which Tork has never had a problem with since he spends most of his time in his own head. After the religion thing fizzled she settled on vague reasons when he broke a rule. Mostly it was variations on "good little boys don't do that" or somesuch, which your average kid would pick apart like a broccoli quiche, but Tork took it all at face value.

So, instead of being sexually repressed for...Jesus, fifteen years or more...he simply never knew about it so at least he didn't know what he was missing. I wonder how many times she had to wash his sheets after wet dreams, never telling him why his body did what it did beyond "It's just something that happens."

Of course, she home-schooled him and never exposed him to kids his own age outside of the clean-cut Sunday school class she ruled with an iron fist. I still find it amazing, if not impressive, how she was able to shield him completely because she thought he was retarded. Which he technically is, but he's not dumb.

Then came the day, a couple years ago, when all that self-righteousness formed itself into a neat little blood clot and cruise-controlled its way into her brain. I'm told Tork was there with her, folding laundry, when it happened. He called 911--one thing the old fart did right--but I guess she was gone before she hit the floor. That was about all I could get out of the police report, and I've never asked Tork to tell me what happened. I just don't think it would do him any good to bring up all that trauma again.

There was enough life insurance to put him in a group home for a couple years, one of those places that makes sure the residents don't hurt themselves and not much else. I asked Tork about this time only once--he said he didn't want to talk about it and started trembling, so that was that.

You see my challenges, here.

No family, no money, you know the drill. The church did the pay-and-pray thing, and my friend even volunteered to take Tork, but even she couldn't handle it, bless her heart. She's a good woman, but sometimes you're just not prepared for that kind of burden. I know I wasn't. But when she said Tork could use a man after all those years around women, I made the same mistake she did, automatically minimizing the amount of effort it would take to look after him.

And now see where we are. Well, you saw the picture, you can imagine. So why don't we get to it, now that I've bored you to death with backstory.

I'd make such a horrible writer, I tell you.

Okay, I lied. More backstory, but I swear it gets interesting from here on out. Promise.

One of the most difficult things about making room for Tork in my life was the near-constant reminders of his trauma, evidenced in the only way he knew how: troubling, and often uncontrolled, responses to my normal, everyday mundanity.

He wasn't helpless, don't get me wrong. He could feed and bathe himself (which, shame on me, I thought he was helpless for some reason) and the first six weeks or so I was constantly surprised at his abilities. We did a fair amount of surprising one another, like the first time I came downstairs in an A-shirt and undies while he was having some breakfast. He nearly spat Frosted Flakes across the kitchen table, and dropped the spoon covering up his eyes. That was the first indication of how bad he'd been repressed.

Looking back on it now, we both laugh.

I suppose the first time he did his own laundry, about three weeks after he moved in, should have tipped me off. I mean, I had a suspicion about his wet dreams the first week. It's kind of hard to miss those stains on a black bed, even if he tried to wipe up with a wet washcloth. I've been around and I know all those tricks. Plus, you know, the scent of scrub jay cum is different from crow cum.

I should mention that we were still getting used to each other, especially since Tork had never had a decent father figure in his life and I'm a lifetime confirmed bachelor who scored once in a while at the bar. I guess we had both been looking for something and didn't know it until we met, but too much of that kismet shit turns me off so I don't question it.

If he'd acted normal (normal for him, at least) I probably wouldn't have made a move, but he started sneaking around with his sheets. First a couple times a week, and then nearly every day. He thought he was being so sneaky, and mostly I thought it was cute...until he stopped looking at me. At all. It was the kind of behavior change you look for when you suspect abuse, but he hadn't left the house yet because he didn't know the neighborhood and I was doing all I could to ease his transition.

I have to admit we were both flying blind, if you excuse the expression.

First he would look away. Then he would avoid me altogether, scrambling so I wouldn't find out he was running the wash almost every day. I tried to leave it alone, since he was almost thirty and I figured he could take care of things. But when he started purposefully avoiding me all the time, I got worried. I knew his history, and some things he wouldn't talk about, but I had to bring the meeting to order.

Tork loves my tofu lasagna. Tomatoes give him reflux but since I add sugar to my sauce he doesn't react to it, and he likes going to sleep knowing he won't wake up half a dozen times to take a couple Tums. But that night he waddled up to the table and didn't say a word the entire meal. I can't tell you how painful it was watching him eat, slumped over in his chair, beak almost touching his plate. He kept shifting, reaching down to adjust himself when he thought I couldn't see. He would whimper, and each one was like an arrow to my heart. Even then, early on, he'd worked his way under my feathers in a good way.

And if he had a medical issue, my responsibility as his guardian superseded his feelings and fears. That was all I needed.

Washing dishes seems to calm him down, so I waited until we were clearing the table. When I came up behind him at the sink and put my hands on his shoulders, he yelped and dropped the plate. It shattered in the sink. He looked at it in horror and tried to turn to run away, but my position behind him prevented him from even turning around fully. With nowhere to go, he had no choice but to face me.

The look of helpless desperation in his eyes, brimming with tears, nearly broke my heart. So I did the only thing I could think of. I got my arms as far around him as his belly allowed and just hugged him to me. He twitched, and I thought he was trying to get away, so I pulled him closer. I felt hardness againt my thigh in the same moment Tork gasped, but I knew I would and I didn't care. He needed to know I didn't care...or that I did, but not in a negative way.

You see how confusing this could be to a kid like him? I call him a kid, but it's really no justice. He showed me how much he isn't a kid, so that's not really fair.

"Sorry!" he blubbered into my shoulder. "Sorry, sorry sorry..."

"Don't be, son," I murmured, stroking through the soft feathers of his back. I believe that was the first time I called him "son," not knowing how we would grow over the next weeks. But he needed the words.

"I didn't mean to."

"Of course you didn't. I'm not mad. See?" I pulled away some, showing him my smiling beak. His red eyes were bleary but drying. "We'll worry about the plate later. But I think we need to talk."

"Oh, no."

I wiped his eyes with my thumbs, clearly more than a fatherly gesture. I told you, the boy stole my heart. "Oh, yes. And for the last time, you're not in trouble."

He muttered a half-hearted, "Okay," and I let him lead the way up to his bedroom. I figured, since it offered some measure of familiarity and privacy, I stood the best chance of getting him to open up.

I will admit I gave his rump more than a passing glance on that trip down the hallway, and yes, I did feel guilty at the time.

Tork stood by his bed while I closed the door. He was twiddling his fingers under his belly like he does when he can't figure out what else to do, probably stuck in that mental purgatory between trouble and punishment. Beckoning him to sit down, I sat next to him. Since being close to people makes him feel safe, I figured the proximity would be best for this kind of talk. I noticed the sizable lump in his shorts about the same time I noticed the cloud of heady musk emanating from him. He hadn't yet showered that day...and the spot at the peak of his tent wasn't a trick of the light.

I put my arm around him. He twitched but relaxed. "First off, I'm telling you right now you're not in trouble."

"Okay."

"For anything."

"O...okay..." He still wouldn't look at me, but I decided not to press it. One thing at a time.

So I dived right in. "I noticed you've been washing your sheets a lot lately." I felt like Ward Cleaver in some kind of Fifties self-abuse PSA. Tork's feathers bristled around my talons but I kept my hand where it lay. "And before you apologize again, you still haven't done anything wrong."

"Okay," he muttered, hands in his lap, fidgeting right next to the tented material. If it were possible for a four-hundred-some-pound scrub jay to look small, he pulled it off. "I'm--" He caught himself and cleared his throat.

"Yes, you are. Would you mind filling me in on what's going on?" Now he did look at me, with a mix of fear and eagerness, if that's possible. Lowering his head, he seemed to regard his hidden erection, albeit neutrally.

After several tries, after which he paused to think, he continued slowly. "When I go to sleep, it happens. And when I wake up it's all over everywhere. But it's not like pee. Aunt Irma told me so." Tork almost seemed proud of that fact. He rocked a little and a smile pricked the corners of his beak.

"No, it's not. She was right." I pulled him a little closer when his smile faded, and I could see the gears turning in his head. Probably remembering his aunt and God-knows-what happened in her house. Anger threatened to surge up in me but I kept it in check, for him. "But did she tell you what it was?"

Tork shook his head. "It's bad, she said. But she knew I couldn't stop it so she put the plastic on my bed." He turned to look at me with glistening honesty. "Once she got mad and got me diapers, but...the sticky dried and it hurt coming off." I processed his words and winced when I understood his meaning. My heart almost broke right then. Clearly his aunt had royally fucked him up in the time she'd cared for him, if she could be called caring at all.

"Well, son," I said, still getting used to the word, "just because your aunt thought it was bad, doesn't mean it really is. Did she say it was natural?"

"No, just bad, but I couldn't help it."

"But Tork..." You can, I wanted to tell him, but I knew I had to proceed carefully. At that point I wasn't sure how much change to lay on him, fearing it might be overload. "So, you would go to bed, and if you woke up like that she would do your laundry and that's it?"

"Uh huh. Every time she would remind me that that was the best way, and...I wasn't to do it myself. I don't know what that meant though. One time I was like this," he said, indicating his erection, "and I thought maybe that was doing it, like I leaked in my sleep. When I showed her she got real mad. That wasn't a good day. I don't want to talk about it."

I couldn't help holding him tighter. In that moment, if that bitch were to come back to life, I'd kill her until she was dead. I didn't even know if Tork had the capacity to process trauma as trauma, or make it into something less cumbersome. I know better now, but I was in the dark. I decided to stay on the safe side.

At least he didn't seem embarrassed talking about his junk with me. "And you've never...made it leak when you're awake?"

He gave me a look that said Oh come on, Dad. "Well, yeah. But not. Not the same. Sometimes it gets wet, but I know it's not pee so I don't touch it." About this time I had a pretty clear picture of what his aunt had put him through, and for how long. How had he not learned about this before, even purely by accident? Her moral hold on him had to have been extreme.

It was then that I decided to fix what she broke, and believe me when I tell you I had no ulterior motive. This boy was long overdue, and not even for the obvious reasons. Health and happiness, first. Saving me money on laundry, maybe second. Pleasure, well, Tork could take that and run with it.

"You touch it only to pee."

"And wash, but just for a second."

I mulled over several sentences to myself before choosing carefully. "Well, bear with me here...but what if I told you that not only can you make it leak by yourself, when you want to, but that it's good for you?"

God, I sounded like a pervert. Just give me a white van and some candy, Jesus Christ.

Tork's expression didn't change, but he took on a thoughtful look. Resting his hands on his thighs, he regarded his erection with something approaching zen-like concentration. "I kinda thought she didn't mean it sometimes. She didn't like me asking why." I realized I'd probably been treating him with too-soft kid gloves, but can you blame me? I didn't get to see him grow up, go through puberty, any of that. Talk about being thrust into a situation.

"She had a lot of weird ideas about stuff, didn't she?"

"Yeah. I don't want to talk about it."

"I don't blame you."

"What?" He was looking at me like I'd sprouted a second head.

"I said I don't blame you. I wouldn't want to talk about it either. I'm not going to yank it outta you."

He smiled. Such a gentle, innocent, slightly weary smile. "Thanks. Nobody ever said that before."

"You got it, bud." Some nice, thick ice had finally melted between us. We were finally bonding. "Now, you wanna know how you can save us both some laundry?"

His blush said it all. So cute. Yeah, I chubbed up slightly, not gonna lie. Not over him, really, but over the warm fuzzy contentedness I hadn't felt in a very long time. "So, you ever heard of masturbation?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Jerking off? Jacking off? Pawing off?"

Brightening, he nodded. "Yeah, sometimes. Aunt Irma said that's what weak people do, but not me because I'm strong," he said without a hint of sadness or irony. "But you said it's okay. But I'm not weak."

"No, you're not. And it doesn't make you weak either. I'd never tell you to do anything bad for you. You're gonna have to trust me on that. You don't have any reason to, but it'd be nice if you did."

"I kinda have to. I live here." Tork logic isn't always the best logic.

"Well, you don't have to do anything, but it's nice to know you trust me. So, do you want me to explain it? This is pretty touchy, so I need your permission."

Tork giggled, his big belly jouncing around. "Nobody ever asked me that before. Yeah, I guess so."

I scooted back a little so I could use both hands as a demonstration. "Okay, then. It's simple. What do you call that thing between your legs?"

"What, my wiener?" he asked, grabbing it lightly. Chastely. Platonically.

"Okay, yeah, that. It's a penis, but I call it a dick or a cock. Wiener might be okay if you were younger."

"Okay. My dick?"

"Sure. Sometimes it gets hard by itself, right?" He nodded. "And sometimes you can make it that way on purpose."

"That was I wasn't supposed to do," he informed me in the cutest flawed syntax. "But now it's okay."

"It's always been okay, but...yeah, exactly." I didn't want to belabor what might become mind-blowing for him later on. "Essentially, what you do is, you grab hold of it with whatever hand, and you stroke it." I demonstrated that universal motion over my own shorts which, admittedly, had begun to show signs of life. I doubt he noticed it, though. His hand wandered ineffectually over his bulge, mimicking me, but it was clear he wasn't getting it. I started to understand why my father had left a sexual-education book on my pillow one day and never mentioned it again.

"Like this?" he asked. His cock flexed a couple times, making him wince. "I don't know."

"Do you hurt? I mean, down there?" I nodded my beak you-know-where.

Tork swallowed with an audible click. "Sometimes. When it's bad."

"How about now?"

"Kinda." His hand was still making the motion.

"Well...Tork..." How could I put this? How could I ask him to, without feeling manipulative? It seemed to be the only way to proceed. I felt I needed him to learn this, for his own good, and then he could jerk off til cum ran out his ear-holes. "You might be more comfortable if it were out in the open. Only if you wanted to. I'm not going to make you--"

"Okay." And damned if he didn't stand up, shove everything to his knees and sit back down before I could finish my sentence. Sighing through his nose, he announced, "Doesn't hurt so much now. Is it okay to touch?" His matter-of-factness disarmed me into speechlessness. So did the massive tool between his legs.

And then I saw his balls.

His hand hovered just over one of the fattest dicks I've ever seen on a guy his size. Once freed from his shorts, it bobbed with his heartbeat and a nice dollop of precum burbled out and ran down the shaft. I was mesmerized, following it all the way to the truncated, down-like feathers at the base...and that's when I looked lower. They were huge, no way around it. I recalled reading up on Fragile X before taking him in, and for some reason it never occurred to me that he'd have that particular side effect, but why would I have assumed otherwise? It wasn't like I spent an afternoon speculating on my future "stepson's" ball size.

"Is it okay?" he asked again, interrupting my ogling. He appeared not to have noticed.

"Uh, yeah. Just do what I showed you." I cleared my throat as he grasped himself and gasped a little. "Still hurts. Am I doing it wrong?"

I watched him for a few seconds. "Not really," I offered clinically. "It doesn't happen right away. You have to keep it up for a while." Tork nodded and kept grabbing at himself, the both of us watching with more than a passing interest. He would get up a good rhythm for a bit but he never seemed to get anywhere. Then he would change his grip to something much less effective, looking down with minor curiosity. At least the pain seemed to have gone away. I idly wondered how much better he'd feel when he went a whole week without having to change his sheets.

Without knowing it, my hand crept under the elastic of my shorts and by the time I realized where it was, I had a good grip on myself. Tork seemed to be distracted by this, so I pulled back out and cleared my desert-dry throat again.

"Sorry about that. Sometimes when you watch, you can't help doing it yourself. Technically I'm not even supposed to be watching you, but you need to learn." Then I shrugged, a blush burning my throat and temples.

"It's okay," he said. "If it's supposed to be good now, you shouldn't not do it." I'm sure that made some kind of sense to him, but he didn't know all the factors at play here and he didn't need to know. I felt a measure of relief knowing he was going to get his own soon. "I don't think it's working."

"Hmm. Well, sitting up isn't the most conducive position to getting off."

"Huh?" In getting more comfortable I'd thrown my simple vocabulary right in the trash.

"You might wanna lay down flat. It's more relaxing."

"Will you lay down too? Til I'm done? Cuz I dunno if it's working." He sounded matter-of-fact but I could see a particularly desperate look in his eyes. I wondered if he even knew what he was feeling, other than some weird instinct.

"Sure, buddy. Don't want you to hurt yourself." This sounded like the bald-faced lie of someome who wants to see the money shot more than he's interested in being a mentor. I hated myself in that moment, and it was then that I also promised myself I'd never ask him to do anything. He'd have to be the instigator. I was skirting the line, but I didn't have to be reckless about it.

I stood and rounded the bed while he hopped up and scooted toward the headboard. He looked at me weird when I had one knee on the mattress. "What?"

"Doesn't yours hurt too?" He indicated my tackle, and it took me a moment to translate his logic. His hurt when it got hard, and since I was very clearly hard, mine must hurt as well.

"No, it doesn't hurt. I...I take care of mine pretty often so it doesn't do that."

"Oh. Okay. Kinda silly to mess up your shorts when you don't have to." I got where he was headed, and I envied his ability to connect the biggest dots without making up a bunch of smaller ones from the baggage he carried around in his head, like I do. I could learn a thing or two from him. He definitely didn't deserve being treated like a kid anymore, or at least not one virgin to the world at large.

Hooking a couple of fingers under the waistband, I hesitated. "So, are you saying I should take these off? I'm not going to presume or anything."

He shrugged. "Feels silly bein' naked alone."

I couldn't argue with that without lying through my teeth, so before I could second-guess myself I shucked everything down south to the floor. I got that one knee back up before I threw to the wind whatever caution I had left and pulled off my tank top. Clearly amenable to this decision, Tork smiled and didn't stop stroking when I lay down next to him on my left hip, my cock sitting lazily on my thigh. The bed rocked, and one of the picture frames on the headboard fell onto its front. I noted with not a little irony that it was the picture of his dear Auntie Irma, the one he'd insisted on putting up despite all the shit she'd put him through. I still didn't like looking at it, but Tork would make his own decisions in time.

Even so, I left it face-down.

Not gonna lie...while he spent about ten minutes indulging himself while letting me watch, I fondled myself to a full throbbing hardon that leaked profusely onto my feathers. I don't recall the last time I felt like I had a steel rod in between my legs. At my age it takes a bit to get me up, and even then it's nothing special when it's strokable. But I'll be goddamned if I didn't feel younger next to him.

And it wasn't for lack of lube, either. He was making enough pre to slicken himself up nicely, but even after almost ten minutes he didn't look any closer. It almost pained me to watch him because I wanted him to ask for help without me suggesting as much. But when he groaned and flailed his wrist about, I had to say something.

"Your arm getting tired?"

"Uh huh. Is it supposed to be this hard?" His cock stood up proud and red, quivering with life and blood. I started to wonder if he actually couldn't get off, and that I mistook his earlier explanations for being prohibited from touching himself instead.

"It can be. I wish I had a better answer."

"Well, you do it then."

I made some sort of choked squawk, completely un-dad-like. "What did you say?"

"You're good at it. You said you do it lots, so you know how. You drive me places because I don't know how, so..." He ended with another one of those innocent shrugs that made me feel like I was a clueless adult who'd done too much growing up to keep life simple.

Staring at his piece...and those wonderful balls...my beak seemed like a miniature Sahara. I had just gotten his permission, that last bastion of clarity I needed to do what I'd really wanted to do since we'd started. And now I was scared to death. Having watched him, I'd gleaned an idea of what might work, but he'd never asked. I found myself looking forward to the challenge of getting him off, and the added satisfaction of probably witnessing his first-ever waking orgasm, and an overdue one at that.

Tork rested his arm at his side while I scooted up close to him. Cuddled, was more like it...we were leaning on each other's shoulders. "You don't think this is the least bit weird?" I asked him, as a way of letting him know he could stop me at any moment. He looked at me like I was the weird one. "Okay, then. Here we go."

Reaching across his belly, I ruffled the baby-blue feathers around his navel, making his abs (they're in there somewhere) tense up. His whole package jumped. I couldn't let him see the awe on my face. He was beautiful, and he still is, all rolls and curves and gentle size. But my job wasn't to swoon over him, although I was falling hard even as I tried to act paternal. Maybe that's what got us into this wonderful mess in the first place, but it's what I did. And as I crossed over his fupa and surrounded his shaft with my trembling fingers he sucked in a breath. I encircled him.

"Aaah!" he cried, pumping his legs and shoving the whole of him through my fist.

"You okay?" I asked.

Panting, he managed, "Y-y-yeah. It never f-felt like that when I d-d-did it."

"It feels different when someone else does it for you. Usually better."

Tork looked over at me with the dumbest grin. No shit, Sherlock. He was blushing something fierce, and I could tell he wouldn't ask me to stop for anything. And I smiled back, by God, and that's when I knew we were going to be okay. The tension that'd filled the house for three weeks--not the sheets, not anything specific--had started to lift, and it had taken my hand on my boy's dick (and I was beginning to think of him as my boy by then) to do it. When life gives you lemons and all that.

"Here," I said, getting right up close so I could lay my arm across his belly. My other arm slid behind him, and he did the same while I patted his shoulder. "More comfortable. Less to think about." I milked out some more pre and slicked up my fingers before going back to work. He cried out again, his toes curling and uncurling on the bed, threatening to tear talon-holes in the mattress. It was cute and unnerving at the same time. I began a gentle stroke just under his glans, making him hyperventilate.

"Oh jeez! Muh, uh, that's...erfffffff...I don't even know!" Pointedly avoiding any and all expletives, Tork watched with what appeared to be abject terror as I worked him over. I watched his face in wonderment, blown away that he was feeling all this pleasure for the first time. I knew what it would take to make him blow, and I was torn: get him off quick and easy, or prolong his pleasure?

I added a couple more fingers to my grip and he nearly crawled out of his skin. "What's it feel like, Tork?" We both watched as another mini-river of clear stickiness drooled over my fingers. His leaking was nothing short of amazing.

"I don't know!" he exclaimed breathlessly, his free hand on his chest over his heart. "It feels like I wanna pee! But not! Is it supposed to?"

"Kind of," I said. "That means you're getting close. See how my grip isn't too tight, and you don't need to flog it to get the best feelings?"

"Uh-huh," he whimpered, kicking at the covers.

"The question now is, do you want me to finish you off, or do you want to keep feeling good for a while longer?"

He took a minute to mull this over while I kept stroking him, bumping his cockhead and then nudging his feathery sheath, and back up again. Little beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and his musk was becoming overpowering. Hell, I hadn't even touched myself in going on ten minutes and I was still half-hard.

Licking his beak, he gathered his words. "You said you do this a lot?" His eyes hung on my every word.

"Well, when I need to. Twice a day, on average."

"Holy crow...how can...how can you...?"

"You get used to it," I said simply. "The first time is always special, though. I'm glad you trust me, Tork."

"I have to," he replied, his voice breaking. "You're my dad."

"Oh, God, you're killing me..." What I would've given to grab my cock and take ten or twenty seconds to blow my load all over his legs, wherever it wanted to go. He had no fucking idea what he was doing to me.

"I can't stand it. I gotta pee."

"You want me to finish?"

"I guess so...but I need to use the bathroom please..."

"You don't have to, Tork. You trust me, right?"

He nodded and said those wonderful words again. "You're my dad."

I sped up on him and we moaned in unison.

"No matter what you feel, you just let it happen, okay?" He answered by way of some high-pitched whimpering. "If you feel like peeing, you just pee. It's not gonna be, but for the love of God you keep your eyes open."

"Ohhhhh..." He was now gripping the side of his head like he had a migraine, several fingers over one eye while the other whirled around in its socket like that of an old-time picture of a rabid dog from medieval times. But it would always come back to my hand jerking him off, because I told him to. If I said it was important, it was the most important thing in the world to him.

"I've got you." I put a little talon into his shoulder to remind him he was safe. His hips started to hunch of their own accord, and I could tell this was scaring him more than a little. "Let it happen." His moaning grew louder, and then strangled. When he sounded legitimately strained, I decided it was time and sped up, pounding against the underside of his corona, my pinky out like a proper gentleman. Aside from him, the only sound was my racing heart and the soft schlk schlk of my hand on his cock, working him up to the point of no return.

"Please, it's too much...pee...ohhhhhh nooooo go faster! Faster!" Tork heaved in massive gulps of air as I went for broke, glued to his twitching and flared organ.

"There you go. Shoot that load. Don't care where it goes. Just fuckin' cum, son." Right then, saying that word just felt right, and I'm not sorry. I'll never be sorry for that.

"Hnnnnghhhh! Huh! Huh! Goddddddddddfuck godfuck GODFUCK!" This was the first time I'd heard either of those words out of his mouth, much less combined. The last "godfuck" turned into a wailing scream that sent spittle flying down even as the cum started flying up. Right before he started shooting he sank a couple talons into my back, which actually felt pretty good considering how worked up I was. His beak opened wider as he let out a series of...well...wails, I guess, that comes pretty close. We were a captive audience of two to the show he was about to put on.

The first shot merely dribbled out over my thumb, but it was a shot. White and creamy and tapioca thick. Tork pulsed and swelled. The second shot cleared my thumb and hit near his navel. The third hit him square in the forehead, his screams not diminishing in the least. Then it was all over the place, in quick succession. His entire lower body was a mess of involuntary motion, and in the space of ten seconds everything from his head to his balls was just decimated with cum. As soon as he'd started pulsating I'd counted, and the final count was thirty-three, a good half of those wet shots. Making sure to keep my hand steady, I kept him riding that high as long as I could, and although he looked terrified out of his wits, I knew it was good for him.

I could not believe the amount of cum that boy could produce.

For almost a minute after, I held him in front and in back while the last of the spasms racked his body. His left arm finally fell to the bed, and with a great heaving sigh, Tork collapsed. Seeing him there with his tongue hanging out the side of his beak, I knew I had to take care of myself and get it out of my system. I grabbed my own cock, jerked it hard in a trice, and leaned into the scrub jay. I actually leaned into his armpit, letting the heady funk in there fuel my already-edgy nerves. I don't believe he saw me, but I can't be sure because my eyes were closed the whole time. All I had to do was live in the reality of the moment and I swear to God...twenty seconds later I added my load to his, all over his leg and balls. I was much quieter, though.

And then we lay in each other's embrace, in blissful silence, catching our respective breaths, not quite believing what we just did. That was the first time we just sat and existed with each other, no pretenses and no tension. I think that's just as important a memory as how much cum Tork shot all over.

Ironically enough, he spoke first. "Are you okay?"

I grabbed a handful of belly feathers and smiled. "Yeah, I'm okay. But are you?"

When he didn't answer right away, I admit I grew a little concerned. But I needn't have been. "I'm sorry I clawed your back. I couldn't help it."

"I know you couldn't," I chuckled. "From the sound of it, you couldn't help anything."

"I..." he started, then his throat caught. "I didn't even know...it was so much...why would Aunt Irma care if I did that or not?" That rage began to boil again but I tamped it down.

"People have always argued whether it was good or bad. Let's not do that now. Just know that it's not bad, and don't ever let anyone tell you it's different. Or if they do, you don't have to believe them."

"Okay. I don't. Believe them, I mean. I don't think God cares. I think God likes clean sheets more."

I chuckled and finally looked up at him. "There is that line about cleanliness being next to godliness." He smiled back, that big boy, bigger than me in all respects. He tilted his beak and we clacked, rubbing a little. How I wanted to kiss him right then.

"I'm glad it wasn't pee," he added, apropos of nothing. "That woulda been weird."

That kid has no concept of what's weird and what's not. Then again, different strokes, so...

I had no idea I'd fallen asleep until his snoring woke me up. This was before we got him a CPAP, so it was lumberjack quality. After some wrangling I was able to get out from under him and off the bed. I watched him, there, sawing logs with my load and his drying in his feathers. I didn't have the heart to wake him up. He'd been through enough. If he had questions, we could talk about it over breakfast. You know, like normal fathers and sons. But I had a feeling he'd be all right.

I had a feeling we'd both be all right. And, as I'm sure you know by now, we are.

Before I closed his door I did two more things: I mouthed a silent "thank you" to Tork's sleeping form, for trusting me, for allowing me to open his world, for allowing him into my heart. And another "thank you" in the direction of the ceiling, to whatever's in charge of this universe, even if it's nothing. It doesn't matter what brought us together, not nearly as much as the fact that we are. I never thought I'd be a good parent until I had a four-hundred-something-pound scrub jay dropped into my lap.

Hey, and no diapers to change, right? That's worth another silent "thank you" right there.

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