Redwoods
"Lookit! There, do you see it?"
"No, I can't!"
"Right there! Right in front of us!"
I strain to see out the windshield, following my father's pointing finger into the dark woods all around us. At first, all I can see are trees, trees and more trees. But as my eyes adjust, the lumbering shape rolling across the road just ahead of us turns into a black bear, a small one, racing for the opposite shoulder and the safety of the woods there. It doesn't look much like me, or Dad, but then again, we're the brown kind.
"Holy God," I mutter, sounding much older than my thirteen years. "That's so cool!" I watch until the animal disappears from view, on with its life as we'll get on with ours. Just then I remember that my camera, the disposable, is sitting on the dash right in front of me, wedged up against the glass. It's way too late now. It was the first feral bear I ever saw in real life, but it probably won't be the last. I sigh and sit back, adjusting the belt over my belly and return to enjoying the scenery.
For some reason, I always pictured California as this vast desert, with rolling sands and brush and cacti with Los Angeles in the middle. Don't ask me why; geography is one of my best subjects at school and I really should know better, but when you're a child of the media as much as, if not more than, the real world, you can't help but form opinions based on what you see on the television.
Coming from Nebraska, instead of taking Interstate 80 the whole way over (which I hear is mostly a boring drive), we veered north into South Dakota and used I-90 all the way over to Seattle. Montana was a blur because of the unlimited speed, and Dad pushed it too. The big van (brand-spanking new; this was its maiden voyage) got up and went, but petered out around 90 because the computer cut in. This thing had everything! All leather, lots of wood and tons of cupholders, rear seat radio, a TV and VCR, and a rear bench that folded down into a bed. Dad bought it just before Memorial Day, picking me up from our neighborhood pool and surprising me something fierce. I, of course, agreed wholeheartedly to the trip, being as we didn't spend much time together anyway. I knew Mom didn't have the bladder for it, and my five-year-old sister was, well, five. But mostly I was excited because I'd never been out west and Dad wanted to take me to all the cool places he'd already been to and wanted to show me.
Dad, like most fathers I think, has a hard time showing love and emotion. Always quick to criticize and never satisfied, you know? I'm one of those kids who spends most of their childhoods trying to please Father only to realize later on that there is no way they could...but they're better for the trying. He doesn't tell me he loves me very often, but I know he does. He has a good job, and he tries to make up for it with extravagant birthdays and Christmases. That kind of happiness is short-lived, though, and out of all the gifts I received I still have maybe one or two. Â
But this vacation is different. Yes, it's the same kind of "I love you, see?" splurge, but it involves actually spending time with the guy. In the same vehicle for hours upon hours. Maybe talking about stuff too. That's cool.
"Maybe I shoulda hit 'em, so we could take him home and put him up above the fireplace," Dad says. I know he's kidding; all the same, that kind of humor would get us killed around my mother.
"Oh yeah, Mom would love that," I reply as we break through a stand of trees into a bright, sun-drenched meadow. I grab my sunglasses from the visor and shield myself. Â
"I don't know, it might be worth it to see the look on her face." He's quiet for a moment before he chuckles deeply within his gut, which stretches almost all the way to the steering wheel, little patches of fur poking out. I can't help but smile.
We rumble down the road, going a little slower than the speed limit. In Oregon we left the interstate and drove across to US-1, the Pacific Coast Highway. It was just too beautiful to speed through on our way to San Francisco. We won't make it there today anyway, so what's the point? Â
Things got even slower when we detoured through Redwoods National Park, the one with the tallest trees in the world. And I mean tallest! We were driving between these giant trunks, and when we finally got out to take a look I almost fell over, the canopy was so high. I'm used to water towers being the tallest things in my neighborhood, and those look like they're always so close to falling on you. That's what these trees were like. Once Dad reminded me of my camera, I was shooting away at everything I could find.
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The van didn't come with a CD player, so Dad had a changer installed in the back where I usually like to sit. He'd also bought a bunch of CDs to try out in it, including the Time Life collection of Sixties hits by the original artists. Ever since I was a little kid I've loved those songs, and I wouldn't have it any other way. We listen to Oldies, singing along as California slips by under our wheels. Â
After about an hour things settle down to a comfortable silence, save for the music, which was turned way down. I read a little, peeking up every now and again from my book to see if the scenery changed at all. Dad will usually point out interesting things along the road, but even he's quiet. I can't help the yawn that creeps up from my diaphragm and opens my mouth wide. Â
"You can take a nap in the back if you want," says Dad, one of his meaty arms patting me on the thigh. "We won't be getting to the campsite for at least another hour." I agree that it's a good idea (while yawning yet again), not considering how insanely dangerous the thing I'm about to do actually is. I wait until we have a good distance of straight road, unhook and recline the seat as far as it will go. With a little help from Dad, I tumble head over heels and land on my tail behind the first row. Here there are two captain's chairs, identical to the ones up front, with the bench behind. Â
I settle into the luxurious leather cushions, overstuffed with those little buttons that like to collect dirt and pocket garbage. Scenery rushes past the window in an ever-changing pattern of sun to shade and back again, and I scoot over to the right to watch it all go by. I like moments like these; it's a time between sleeping and activity, a time of just being neutral and quiet and passive on purpose while the world does all the work. Well, and Dad does the driving. Â
Often when I stop moving for any length of time, my system will settle down and I'll start to doze. It's during these times that I will have the most vivid and licentious daydreams, as most thirteen-year-olds are wont to do. I am no exception, and the bench swallows me in as I bask in the sunlight and think about those nasty generic things that young boys think of. Nothing specific at this point in my life--anything and everything gets me horny, it seems--just people and what they looked like naked, pleasuring myself in my bedroom, and walking around hard in public. At least that's what I remember.
Of course, I am aware, on some level, of the sound and motion of the van, the soft music from the twelve speakers scattered around me, and Dad clearing his throat at length. Suffice it to say I wake up (come to, maybe?) when we hit a rather deep hole in a bend, and while stretching realize how hard I am. The feeling is indulgently naughty, pressing my sheath against the tight denim jeans I'm wearing. I know right away that this erection will not go down on its own. Â
I look up into the rearview mirror. Dad is concentrated on the road, as he should be, but I feel the same combination: guilt and also a delicious pervasive arousal, being inappropriate in a place like this, a place so intimate. It does nothing but make me harder and hornier. I can see its incriminating bulge just barely between my thighs, under my belly. Admittedly, I am a miniature version of my dad. We're both chowhounds...and it shows. Blessed with sturdy frames, we've both built respectable bulk, the only difference being the way we carry our weight. Dad's got the belly, like I said, but I have a little bit of that plus the thighs-and-ass combination. It's better on my back, but clothes have always been hard to fit. Â
The darn thing keeps flexing, every time sending small twinges of pleasure through my crotch. I look back at Dad, a furtive, guilty glance. Keep daring him to take his eyes off the road and look at me so I won't be tempted to continue undoing my fly and reaching in to fondle myself. The point of no return is extremely low for me, and once I'm out in the open and the sun hits the side of my shaft, I know there is no way I can avoid taking this to its obvious conclusion. Â
I'll have to jack off in the car with Dad less than ten feet away from me. And I think that's hot as fuck.
I know it...I know, deep down in my rational mind, that there is no way he can see me if I'm close enough to the window. Not unless he can bend his vision around the chair in front of me. My father is an enigmatic guy, and I speculate on his reaction to finding me out. I doubt he would yell at me directly, and spoil the rest of the trip for both of us. A few years ago I discovered how to manipulate my body, and became addicted for a while to the point of not being able to stop once caught. I would flop around on the bed, fully clothed, rubbing my little erection through two layers of fabric. Dad called it "pinging," and to this day I still don't know why. He took a "not with your door open" kind of approach, but that doesn't stop him from not knocking once in a while. But he won't put a lock on the door, no way.
Being the chunky cub I am, my thigh sticks out a little into Dad's field of vision. I look around and pull over a pillow from the other side of the bench, which folds electronically all the way down into a comfortable queen-width bed on which we sleep. I asked about camping for real, but Dad figured it was a lot less trouble (and cheaper, probably) to forgo roughing it for shacking up in the car. It's a compromise that has worked thus far, though six days in I'm just now getting used to his snoring. Â
The pillow is more than sufficient to hide all I need to hide, and so--very surreptitiously--I undo myself all the way and scoot my pants and undies halfway down my legs, keeping them close enough to pull up but allowing my bits full range of motion. I don't get to do this sort of thing often, and being exposed in a public place (relatively) has become a kind of turn-on since I discovered what a turn-on was. One year of Boy Scouting taught me a lot about the social dynamics of pubescent boys, and the thrill of having something in common with my friends, even just showering together, brought my physicality into a new light.
I'm not big by any standards, not yet. In my reclined position, I can look down the length of my belly, just below my apron to my newly-fuzzy mound of a crotch. Where other kids have a flat expanse of fur, I'm puffier and more triangular, bordered by my stomach and thighs. I still have about two inches of cock hidden behind combined baby fat and sheath. Fully hard, I'd say about four inches, slightly narrow with a slight curve up and to the left. I like it. At this point in my life, that's all that matters.
But as I sit, open-legged in front of the window, I stroke with a long, gentle motion, using a light touch so as not to let the contact get sweaty and increase the friction. I can see my reflection in the window as trees gave way to open spaces, a darker version of myself, raunchily revealing his nudity without shame. If we weren't on a two-lane road, I might have second thoughts. Â
And I let my mind wander, as young boys ought to. Sometimes I think the only three things I retain from my childhood are a love for classic cartoons, my falsetto, and an immense imagination. If my brain clammed up like those of most of the people with whom I interact everyday, I think I might have gone insane long ago. I still like, at random moments, to wonder what I would do with ten million dollars, or something ridiculous like that. Makes me feel good, envisioning all the things I want done, done in a flash. But imagination is good for much, much more than thinking rich. It's also about making fantasy out of warnings.
One of the first things I did after joining the Scouts was go to the National Jamboree on the east coast. I realize now that it wasn't the best thing for a Tenderfoot scout to do, having not even completed his first year. But Father, in all his wisdom, insisted, and I wasn't about to skip out on a trip across the country without either parent. Â
During orientation, we were sat in a room with a television up front, on one of those three-tiered rolling racks. It was a video about predators, the Scoutmaster said, but not the kind like wolves and eagles. He cued it up and I watched, enthralled, for the next half hour, as I struggled to hide the strongest, most painfully eager boner I had ever popped. It was geared toward boys and girls, so there were four scenes, two for each gender. The girls I didn't really pay attention to, for whatever reason, but when I was watching what was supposed to be a "bad touch" story, I paid more attention to what they didn't show than the message they were trying to send.
A boy invites his friend for a sleepover. Friend agrees, comes over and drops his bags in the basement. Boy's older brother is there, with a camera and tripod for some inexplicable but obvious reason. Bad dialogue ensues, then older brother suggests they wrestle. Everyone gets undressed to the undies. Friend is hesitant, so while boys wrestle, older brother comes over (after having turned the camera on) and undresses friend, to much resistance. Scene ends with a pile of clothes as it grows bigger with first a T-shirt...then shorts...then briefs. Â
I almost lost it. What were they trying to say, that I wouldn't enjoy wrestling like that?
So, back to the present. All of that is going through my head, plus some other choice, if cliché, fantasies. I go next door to help a neighbor clean out his attic, and I'm the chubby kid so I get extra hot and sweaty, so all my clothes have to go in the wash for whatever reason. The species of the guy doesn't matter, as long as he's older and (most of the time) mammalian. I'm in the shower, already kind of nervous-hard from being in an older guy's house naked, when I hear his voice:
"You doing okay in there, sport?"
"Yeah, mister. Thanks for letting me clean up!"
"No prob. Hey, I'm gonna need to jump in for a second. My water bill's pretty high, so I need to conserve when I can."
"Um, okay..." And I turn to the wall as I hear the curtain pull back, to give him room...except he sidles up real close, so close that I can feel his thigh against my side. I try not to look at him, because I'm embarrassed, but he poses the question about washing my back. I nod, watching the wall, and his pawsâ€"big, strong man pawsâ€"start at my neck, kneading and massaging and I'm not nervous anymore at all. His fingers work my muscles nice and slow, so slow in fact that I don't notice them getting lower until they're just above my tail and rump. Then they move fast, into my crack, spreading the cheeks, probing inside my hole...and he leans over me, and I can feel his cock pressed against my spine...
The rest of my fantasy becomes a slideshow of reacharounds, penetration and various other dirty interactions no teenage boy should have with a middle-age man. It doesn't matter, though, because by the time I've worked up to the juicy parts I'm already edging, just waiting to go over. I look to the front of the van to check to see if Dad's looking at me or the road. He's not paying attention, so I tense up and let loose. I try not to make any obvious moves as the cum shoots straight up, comes straight down and puddles over my paw and into my crotch. It's a good amount, the first one today, and the relief is powerful enough to remind me that vacation time is a time of sparse masturbation because of nosy parents. If my mother and sister were on this trip, I might have gone crazy by now. Â
As I look out the window, slowly sliding down from the orgasmic heavens, I experience this feeling of loss. Sure, the climax was awesome, but I just remembered that this trip is my dad's way of showing his love for me. He may be driving me places and paying for stuff, but he's the kind to sit in the van and read the paper while I go skiing for the day, or shuffle through the souvenir shop while I try to get his attention about a neat poster I saw in the corner.
I'm sure you can relate. Â
For being a barely-teenager, I'm pretty perceptive; one of the first things I stored in the van before we left was a cum towel in one of those convenient map pockets next to the window. It's a scrap from an old towel, one with a hot-air balloon pattern that changes colors when you use the other side. From the end of the Eighties. Ugly as sin. But it soaks up spooge pretty good. Clean goes the crotch, and thankfully I didn't get any on my shirt. I have a feeling that Dad would know; I may be young, but I figure everything I'm doing naughty my dad did too at my age. Maybe more, I don't know.
I think about asking how long until we get to our stop for the night, but I really don't want to bother Dad and his driving. He's got a Platters disc in the player and he's kind of zoned out, so I reach across to the other side of the bench and grab my best friend, Rand McNally. I don't see why so many people complain about maps; they're really easy to read if you know what you're doing. Look up the state you're in, watch the signs for the highway and exit number, and read the little mileage markers. Some people think that's impossible.
I know we're on the Pacific Coast Highway, California-1, going south. Dad said we'd be stopping at a campground near Point Arena, and we just passed through Rockport. About two hours left to go. The yawn escaping my mouth seems like too much of a coincidence to ignore, and I lean back against the bench to rest my eyes...
...and wake up to Dad calling my name.
"Hey, you need a bathroom break?"Â I look out the window; the sky's gone a little darker and the shadows are long. Â
"How close are we?"
"About thirty minutes. Can you hold on till then?" My dad can hold his bladder as long as he needs to on long car trips, and I've inherited that. Mom can go maybe ninety minutes on hers. Another reason I'm suddenly thankful she's not with us. It would take forever!
"I can hold it," I reply, and Dad nods as he steers us down the road. Where we were surrounded by pine trees before, now it's a little more open with a few fields and even some houses here and there. The light has turned warmer, more orange, and I hope we get to the campground before sunset so I can watch it disappear into the Pacific Ocean for the first time in my life. For now, though, I pull my new copy of MAD magazine from my backpack on the floor and entertain myself with mindless humor.
We pull into the gate twenty-five minutes later and Dad pays the park fee; I can barely contain both my excitement and my bladder as we find out which site is ours. The road leading down to the open field is winding and steep and not even paved, and the bouncing doesn't do me any favors. My paw is plastered between my legs, doing that two-fingered ministroke that boys think will help but really doesn't at all. Our campsite, to my joy, is located almost right in the middle of the field, pretty close to where the beach sand becomes loose grass. I'm going to fall asleep to the ocean tonight! I think, followed by the thought Am I going to be able to? Maybe it'll at least drown out Dad's snoring.
As soon as Dad puts the shift lever into Park, I'm out the door and looking for the nearest latrine or whatever they have out here. I spy a small wooden structure at the edge of the field, where the grass meets the trees and, behind them, the steep face of a cliff. And suddenly the sound of the ocean fills my ears with its constant but gentle roar. I wet myself a little. Not the best memory of my first meeting with the Pacific, but it's kind of funny. The ocean can wait; I run, clamp-legged, across the field and dive into the latrine. Â
All it is, is a crude construction of wood and steel, with PVC pipes leading up and down for ventilation and what they think is plumbing. The urinal is just a piece of curved metal with a drain hole at the bottom. It couldn't have come at a better time; I've got myself unzipped and relieving in no time, leaning against the wall with my eyes closed as I let go. The ocean becomes louder as my stream weakens, suffusing everything with its soothing speech. I can enjoy it now. Â
Dad is making his own way to the latrine as I exit, and he smiles when he sees my relieved expression.
"Better now?"
"Oh, yeah!"
"Now what're you gonna do?" I know what Dad's going to do, judging by the copy of USA Today he has in his left paw. He'll be a good twenty minutes, the way he does things. Â
"I'm going to see the ocean," I say as we pass each other, after which I strike off at a perpendicular angle. Â
"Don't die," he calls over his shoulder. That's my dad, The Most Concerned Parent Ever. He knows I can take care of myself. Most of the time. Â
For now, though, the beach is calling my name. It's only a hundred yards away, hidden by a few small dunes of sand and tall grasses. I can feel the breeze coming off the waves already, cool and refreshing and smelling not at all like back home. It's wet, but not humid. It's sweet, but not buggy. It's like the smell of nothing, or the smell of the absence of smell. You know what I mean.
By the time I get to the dunes, my shoes are sinking into the sand almost up to the top, so I kick them off and shove my socks inside. The sand retains the heat from the sun, and feels therapeutic after a cramped day in the car. After forty feet or so, the dunes turn more solid, at the high tide line. Now it gets cooler...almost cold. When the waves tickle my feet, I bend to pull my jeans up around my knees, and busy myself chasing the water out, only to run back like a fool when the waves come back. From time to time, I'll just look out at the horizon, wondering to myself how there could be so much water in the world. Home isn't on my mind, and school isn't even close to being on the radar. It's just me and the ocean.
I turn around to look for Dad, but I can't see anything over the dunes. The cliffs have taken on a warmer hue with the waning light, the kind of thing you would see on a postcard. I am suddenly taken with the pure beauty of it all, and I do wish I could share it with him. But he would want me to have fun in any case. So I stand there and watch the sun approach the water, growing redder and larger until it starts to flatten out. I pretend the ocean is extinguishing it. I've never seen the sun set over water, until now. Â
I'm so caught up in watching the sun that I fail to notice where I've planted my feet...that is, until a wave crashes hard right under me and dissolves the hard surface on which I'd been standing into a swirling, mushy mess. My feet sink to the ankles before I think to step out and away, and I end up falling over backwards into waist-deep water. Holy God, it's freezing cold! I thought this was supposed to be summertime! Scrambling for purchase, I get back up to find myself soaked from my belly down, and covered in sand. At least I got to see the sunset. Â
When I top the dunes going back (carrying my shoes, because I'm not ruining them with sand), I see Dad sitting in his blue camp chair, still reading the newspaper. I swear, what adults see in those boring things I'll never know.
He looks up when I'm about a hundred feet or so from him, and asks, "You have fun?" Even from this distance, even in the failing light, I can see his expression change. He knows something's up. "What happened to your jeans?"
"Wave hit me," I reply, a little breathless. "It knocked me down. The sand just melted under my feet!" I drop my shoes and socks by the chair and proceed to wipe the sand off. Â
"Bet it was cold, huh?" I nod. "Well, just change into your sweats or something. I'll put those on top of the van so the sun can dry them before we head out tomorrow. Just remember to shake 'em out good." Â
"Okay." I open the side door and throw the latch for the half-door on the other side. You know, the one that makes it easier to get in and out? I sit on the floor between the seats and proceed to...find out that I can't get my pants off. The brand-new jeans, the ones with the fading on the knees that Dad bought at Wal-Mart on our way out of town at the very beginning of this trip. The denim I bunched up to keep the water away, is now shrunken and stiff. I pry at it and tug as hard as I can, but they won't budge. Â
I'm going to have to ask Dad to help! This is so embarrassing!
"Dad?.."
A rustling of papers. "Yeah?"
"I can't get 'em off. They're too wet and they shrank. I need some help." I can almost imagine him sighing as I hear him folding the paper in half, and then pushing himself out of the chair with a not inconsiderable grunt. A moment later he's standing in front of me, looking at me like I was bothering him. Â
"What's going to happen when I'm not there, and your pants are soaked? You can't just ask for help." I know he's trying to make me independent, but it's not getting my pants off. Â
"I'll deal with it if it happens. I can't push the legs down from here." And, with a look of determination a father can't help when he's bending to help his son along the way of life, my father hooks his fingers into the right leg and pulls. I'm surprised he can fit them in there between the material and my calf. It hurts like I imagine a pair of handcuffs would hurt; it bites into my skin and scrapes sand every which way into my fur. Dad buckles down and plants his feet, and pulls harder. My claws clutch at the seat cushions, but they're leather...not very conducive for grip. Â
"Jesus, how did you get 'em so far up?"
"I don't know, I just did!" Dad shakes his head and pulls some more. Sweat is starting to form at the corners of his brow, pricking through wrinkles and his widow's-peak. He pulls so hard he starts to raise my butt off the floor of the van. God, it hurts! I just know I'm going to have welts there for a few days. Â
"Come on!" Dad growls through gritted teeth. He starts to use a back-and-forth motion, like you would if your car was stuck in the snow. I can feel the jeans loosening little by little, and on one final, hard tug, the whole thing comes down, and Dad lands on his butt on the grass. I can't help but giggle at him as I watch from between my legs. "Don't laugh," he says, "you have one leg to go." He stands and comes back at me with renewed vigor, pulling so hard I have to grip the seat with all my might. God, it's like they shrank two sizes in the ocean! They're binding around the calf, and what's worse, around my cock! Â
"Owowow, careful!" I shout, but Dad doesn't go any easier. Two pulls later and they come loose with a wet schlucking sound, sending him onto his butt again. It's still funny watching my old, chubby bear of a father fall on his ass, but this time I have to sound concerned. I mean, he just freed me from the Wet Jeans of Doom. But first, I cover up my hardon and close my legs before asking, "You all right?"
Dad stands up and brushes dirt from his pants, then shakes what sand he can out of mine. "Yeah, I'm fine. You won't be able to wear these again until I can get to a laundromat. I'm not getting sand all over this van. You gonna change to some dry underwear, or do you like your ass cold and wet?" I most certainly do not like a cold, wet ass, but there's no way I'm going to get naked in front of him and let him see my boner. No fricking way.
"You gotta turn around."
"Fine, just do it quick. It's getting cold out here. I don't want to have to run the heater and waste gas before we go to bed. Hurry up," he says, and turns around. Immediately, I start fishing around in the gigantic suitcase for a dry pair of briefs to replace the soaked ones I have on. I find a pair of maroon ones, rolled up nice and neat, and a moment later I'm naked from the waist down, just two feet from my dad. For a moment I pause, noting the oddly-aroused feeling I get from being so exposed. My little four-incher points at Dad. He has no idea. I grin. I feel powerful. But I get into my dry pair quickly anyway, switching my T-shirt for the way-too-big shirt I wear to bed at home. It comes down to my knees. I wear it every Christmas morning to open presents.Â
"Okay, done," I say, and Dad turns back. And immediately rolls his eyes.
"You ever going to get rid of that thing?" he asks. He's made it abundantly clear that he thinks the nightshirt-and-undies combo is juvenile. Speaking of Christmas, it was just a few days ago that I was in this same getup, dumping out my stocking to find a trimming kit and a pack of boxers instead of peanut M&M's and ribbon candy. I scowled and asked if he was trying to tell me something. He just told me to smile for the ever-present camcorder and move on. Â
I smile a too-wide smile that tells Dad I can see his game and I won't play it. "Nope, I'm good!" He just rolls his eyes and tells me to get in the van. Once I make my way back to the bench, after having used a beach towel to wipe my grassy feet, I grab a magazine from its place in one of the second-row seats and flip through while Dad gets himself ready. Just as soon as I get interested in the article I'm reading (or course), the bench folds down under me. I have to pull my legs out of the way because once it's fully lowered, it reaches from the rear doors all the way against the second-row seats. It's plenty big for the both of us, cushy, and leather. Great for cool nights.
I continue to read, yawning, while Dad rustles around putting stuff away. First the rear doors close, then the driver's door, followed by the rocking of the van as he climbs in the side and locks us in. Once he turns off the overhead light, we're both bathed in darkness. There's a sliver of moon in my window, but it doesn't give any respectable light. I shove the magazine away; I know better than to try and read after bedtime, especially with you-know-who next to me.
"Scoot over, there," says Dad, and I roll against the window to let him onto the bed. "One blanket or two?"
"One's fine." I get smothered by one of our Vellux blankets, probably the purple one I stole from the downstairs linen closet because it's so soft against me. Keeps me warmer, too. Â
"Well, I'll take two," he says, and grabs from the pile on the seat in front of him. I tend to toss a lot at night, so if I have my own blanket I won't disturb him. Like anybody could wake him up anyway; he sleeps like a log and sounds like a freight train! It's amazing I get any sleep at all. The trick is to pass out before he does. I stare out my window, which looks onto the beach (far away, but I can pretend), gently swaying as Dad adjusts himself under the blankets, finally settling on his left side away from me. "See you in the morning."
"Night."Â And, imagining the sound of the Pacific through the window, I manage to beat my father into Slumberland.
***
You know how you sometimes wake up, but you're not really that awake, like all bleary-eyed? Like you could fall back to sleep with no problem? That's usually how I wake up. I'm used to it. But I'm not used to my eyes flying open, and being awake like I was just injected with concentrated Folgers. It kind of freaks me out. Still dark outside, but that's all I can tell. I've tossed onto my other side, still covered in the blanket.
Dad isn't snoring. That really freaks me out. That must be the reason I woke up. Once I'm knocked out, he can snore as loud as he wants, and I'm used to it. For whatever sense it makes, it was too silent to sleep. Â
_What if he's dead? _ My heart leaps into my chest and I swallow dryly. I can't see a thing; the moon isn't even out and what stars there are don't shine too bright anyway. Once, I had a horrible nightmare, one of those that scares you so bad you wake up and you can't remember what it was but you're too afraid to move because whatever it was might still be there? It's almost like a paralysis but you can feel your whole body, tense like piano wire, glued in position.
I swallow, and it sounds like the loudest, ear-shatteringest thing in the world. My temples ache with the beat of my heart. Two, three breaths per second, none of them enough to fill my lungs. But all that falls away, like a heavy quilt lifted off me, once I see his chest move. Well, the silhouette of his chest and muzzle, but I know the difference between it and the shade over the window on his side. He's alive, and that's the only thing I can think of at the moment. Â
_You freaked out over nothing again, you baby. When're you going to get over that? _ Probably not too soon; I've barely gotten used to middle school, and the prospect of what's beyond that boggles my mind so much I don't dare think about it. For once, in a very long while, I'm comforted by his presence next to me. With Dad, there are few times that you know everything's going to be all right. Not that he doesn't come through, but all the same, he doesn't exactly project a figure of confidence to his family. Especially me.
Very carefully, I bring my left arm underneath my head to bolster my pillow into a more friendly position for my neck. I like the flat ones, but I have to have a pile of them or my arm to make it comfortable. Thankfully, the rest of my body is already in that position so I don't have to squeak over the leather while changing position. Dad might sound like a heavy sleeper, but he's woken up to even some of my slightest movements. I settle down and close my eyes again, sleep drawing the lids together.
But it's not right. Five minutes in, it's not the same. There's no snoring, no apnea (thanks, Mom, for being a dictionary) and no slight tossing and turning. Just...absolute silence. It's unnerving, and I realize with much chagrin that I have nothing to concentrate on, nothing to lull me to sleep...as if snoring could lull anybody into anything, ever.
What do I do, wake him up to tell him to go to sleep, and do it more noisily this time? He wouldn't understand that. But if I can't sleep, and I'm no good tomorrow, I'm going to get bitchy and we'll be at each other's throats all day! I open my eyes, but I'm staring into the shadow that is the general area of Dad's right shoulder. It's all a blackish blur. It's the blackest black, where you can't even tell the difference between when your eyes are open or closed. There isn't even a moon out anymore, just some stars shining. It's a pretty dark night when you can see by the stars.
It's only when I'm completely still that I notice the blanket moving for the first time. Hardly at all, like a ghost was blowing on it or something. Dad had opened the windows up front a little, but breezes don't blow in even spurts. I can feel it on my right arm, the material pulling away and falling back ever so slightly, making a tiny breeze of its own. The movement is slow and purposeful. He's not breathing like that. He's moving something. Â
I've been on enough Boy Scout campouts to know what that is. Â
I'm a very, very quiet person. I'm stealthy, even. I can come up behind people and scare the living daylights out of them, but it's not all me. A lot of it has to do with people being oblivious to their surroundings and not paying attention to anything that's not directly in front of them. But even after lights out, when everybody's supposed to be asleep, I can sit there (if I'm not tired) and listen to the other cubs as they rub one last one out before bed. Some don't even realize how loud they are, but most keep it fairly quiet. Doesn't stop me from listening to them, and stroking along in silence.
But this is my frickin' dad! All the same, I can't deny what it is any more than I can deny who's behind it. Up and down, up and down goes the sheet, about once a second. My father is masturbating right next to me.
And I'm instantly hard.
It's painful. I mean, like-a-rock painful, if-I-don't-get-my-undies-down-i'll-bruise painful. The van seems a hundred times more stifling now. I could reach out and touch it if I had the guts, but my heart is beating so hard it's a wonder the covers aren't poofing out like in the cartoons. But that's silly, and I know it's silly, but it doesn't keep me from being the most scared and the most aroused I can ever remember being. Â
I have to be extra careful now. Normally, when I paw off I become more attuned to my surroundings. Comes from listening for interruptions from parents, teachers or friends. There've been a few times where I've failed, but nothing big has come of it yet. I have no idea how sensitive my dad can be to those things, especially while he's "occupied." Can't take any chances. I want to see him. I want to watch him do it, watch him finish. This is the rarest of rare moments in what has otherwise been an non-intimate childhood. Â
Moving at less than a snail's pace, it seems, I run my fingers down my thigh and rest my palm over my groin, grimacing as I try to squelch the gasp I didn't expect. Dad's paw never falters, never slows. Is he feeling the same thing that I feel? The thought makes me squeeze myself through my briefs, and for that second I swear I hear the slightest of moans from him. Â
_I have to get out of these clothes. _
If I don't, I'll go crazy, I think. My brow mats with a new sheen of sweat, and I haven't even moved yet. My fingers slip below the elastic waistband that cuts a little into my belly, and I pull my paw away from my body. At last, my cock is free to grow to its full length unhindered. It sticks out at a perpendicular angle, throbbing as I can feel it filling with blood. Closing my eyes doesn't make the world any darker, but I do it anyway. I tuck my balls over the waistband and suddenly I'm free.
Man, I wish I could pull them off all the way! But I'm scared, scared big time, though I don't know why. My dad is masturbating right beside me, and what if he knew I was watching? How do you punish your kid for watching you do something you're supposed to do in private anyway? It occurs to me that if I wanted to, I could hold this over his head forever. In today's world, I could threaten to call Child Protective Services and have him thrown in jail for lewd acts with a minor. But I won't, because this is too damn cool. Â
Instead, I grasp myself and open my eyes again, stroking in time to Dad's silhouette. I can only see shadows, but if that's all I get to see then I'll have to be satisfied. My left arm is starting to ache from holding my head up, but I consciously ignore it. I can't move. Only the three fingers of my right paw and that wrist make short twisting motions, manipulating my glans. Â
I don't know how long this goes on, but after a time I begin to go into a kind of trance. My eyes become heavy and eventually close, but it's the kind of hyper-aware state that prevents you from falling asleep outright. My paw still moves, Dad's fist still pumps away, and I am lost in our combined breathing: his soft but labored, mine all but silent. I feel grown-up for the first time in my life. Â
Something's wrong, though. My eyes snap open and immediately focus on the shadows across from me. The shadows that are no longer moving. I get two more jerks off before my mind tells my paw to stop and hold my breath. Dad is still, not even breathing, paused in mid-stroke. Suddenly my primary focus is turned to damage control, in case this goes downhill, but when I try to move to pull my briefs back up my wrist hits the sleeping bag, which rustles. Dad's fingers leave his member, floating just off its surface. Â
There is no way I can get out of this. If I cover up, he'll know I was awake. If I don't, well, that's pretty much its own answer. The sweat that was on my forehead now drips down into my eyes, making me blink it away like a tear. My breath is as shallow as I can make it, my chest heaving quickly and lightly.
Click.
We're suddenly bathed in a soft amber glow. The van is equipped with running lights along the ceiling, what I refer to as "airplane lights" because they resemble the emergency lights that illuminate along the floor to the exits. My heart leaps around my chest, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. At the same time, I can't avert my eyes. He's looking at me.
Dad's fingers are still on the light switch, and he doesn't move them away. He doesn't really do anything except stare at me. His head is turned slightly, and I can see small droplets of exertion on his forehead. Other than that, his face is expressionless, save for those intense eyes and thin lips. In my peripheral vision, I can see the ghost of his cock, and I want to look so bad but I don't dare. It occurs to me that this might be a defining moment in my lifeâ€"either the start or the end of somethingâ€"so I wait for him to make the first move.
He licks his lips like he's getting ready to speak, but no words come. His eyes seem to vibrate, their small pupils dancing in pools of blue just like mine. Then they move lower, slowly, until there is no question what they're looking at. I'm still focused on his face, trying to decipher his expression. It is aggravatingly neutral, albeit stricken. He's not angry or embarrassed, and there is relief in that at least. He stays glued to that one spot of me he's never seen before, not in the way it is now. What's he thinking of his son's erection? I wish I could get inside his head. Â
One droplet of sweat breaks free of his forehead and trickles down the side of his hairline, breaking up at the edge of his sideburn before dripping into his ear. This seems to stir his thoughts, and his paw grips his shaft once again and gives it a long, luxurious stroke. Â
I have to look, and when I do, it's not as big as I always thought. Not a disappointment, but when you look at your dad you have this mental image of someone who is larger than you in every way, and when you hit puberty there's one way you think everyone's bigger than you. But he's just a little bigger than average, and it looks a lot like mine, which is totally cool. And he's watching me as he slowly begins to jerk off again. Not smiling, not grimacing, just calmly rubbing himself. Â
I can't help but do the same. It's like something passed between us in that thirty seconds or so, and damned if I know what it was. He could have done a lot of things. He could have yelled at me. He could have reached over and grabbed me, which might have scared the living shit out of me. He could have quietly put himself away and turned over to sleep, and that might have killed me from the feeling of unspoken rejection. But he told me it was okay without saying a word, and when I resume working myself over his face relaxes as if I'd given him an answer he was seeking.
With the lights on, I can finally see how similar we are in our thoughts. He, too, has his briefs down below his junk, pushing his balls up into the base of his sheath. But he uses most of his fist in a light grip, stroking over the head and bunching up fur under the corona. The tip of it glistens with precum, something I've not yet been able to do. He thumbs it and spreads it around the head. For the first time I can smell his musk, the natural scent of ball-sweat combined with Safeguard soap. Just like me, except I use body wash and one of those pouf things. Â
Dad lets out a shuddering sigh and speeds up, now looking a lot more relaxed than he was just a minute ago. At that moment I know we're feeling the same thing: the need for release is much stronger than any embarrassment or sudden moral judgment. The time for that excuse passed the second he decided to jack off next to his son. But by keeping myself exposed and mimicking his actions, I've given the OK for him to indulge himself, in whatever way he deems fit. And I'm not going to argue with the way he's doing it, not one bit.
I have to move my paw away as I feel my balls do a dance up into my groin. It's like I went from nothing to off the scale in a matter of seconds. My muzzle goes slack as I pant hard from the close call. Seeing this makes Dad moan quietly in the back of his throat, catch himself and swallow the rest down. A moment of transparent weakness that sets my arm to trembling as I resume a tentative motion, in case I'm still sensitive. Â
The sound of rustling flesh gives way to a gentle wet smacking as Dad's pads become wet and slide easily over his cock. With my eyes so intent, I can see the steady stream of pre from his slit to his paw, the string that lengthens and shortens as he strokes. He swallows again, clears his throat and then makes no move to quell his quickening breathing. Â
My balls jump, but this time I make no move to counter them. I don't know if Dad is edging or on his way, but I have a feeling he won't mind if I finish first. I can't help it. It's the doing of one of those Forbidden Things that makes it so hot. Fathers and sons shouldn't see each other naked, for whatever reason. Is it a modesty issue, or is there such a problem with filial curiosity that society feels the need to chastise away from such practices? It's one thing to see your dad naked, and another entirely to watch him masturbate. And another thing, on a whole other level, to have him let you watch him...and to watch you back as you do the same.
He wants me to. I can see it in his eyes. He wants to see his son cross the edge, to lose himself in the pleasure every man knows well. It's times like this, as I pass that barrier and whimper at him, that I wish I knew what he's thinking.
I hear him gasp as my speeds up to a genuine jerking, with just two fingers, slamming the underside of my cockhead. My mouth opens and admits only a squeak; my hips thrust forward in a lewd manner unbefitting a thirteen-year-old, but I don't think Dad minds. I also don't think he minds when my first spurt launches over the space between us and splatters against the side of his thigh, followed by an equally powerful second shot. I watch it drip and pool on the seat, joining the next three volleys on the beige leather, some of sinking out of sight into crevices that will be impossible to clean. Â
Our eyes meet as my climax subsides and my paw comes to a stop. My whole body spasms, and I feel weak and vulnerable under his gaze, like I'm helpless against the forces of a simple orgasm. The look on Dad's face says the same thing, though it's much different and out of character to see it on the face of a fifty-year-old male. But in that moment, I can tell how alike we are, as if the point of sexual release is some kind of universal equalizer. I grin a grin that I know looks goofy, and Dad moans himself past the point of no return.
I know it's happening, but somehow I can't bring myself to believe it. Do all boys dream of this? I know most people wouldn't want to catch their parents having sex, but what about catching Dad beating his meat? Wouldn't they want to know their fathers do it too, that there isn't this big rift between them? I do feel closer, but part of that might just be afterglow. But there's nothing small about sharing a moment like this.
That moment begins when Dad's paw gives an erratic tug and he grunts way back in his throat, and the first spurt isn't a spurt at all but a thick dribble down his fist. The second clears his belly button, and the rest pools at the edge of his belly, dripping back down into his pubic fur. His whole paw is sticky and shining, a death grip on his cock, and when he collapses back onto the seat a strand of cum flies onto my leg. Awesome.
He works the head for a few more seconds, breathing hard with his eyes closed. I feel almost giddy inside, having been privy to what has to be a rare experience in anyone's childhood. My Dad lies there, his lower half all matted up and filling the van with the scent of semen, and I watch him, my fingers manipulating my own erection that won't go away. It feels like one of us should say something, but I can't think of anything that wouldn't spoil the moment, so I just keep quiet.
I've just about settled into my afterglow when he sits up, taking the blankets with him. He peels off his underwear and throws them onto the seat in front of the bench. Then he reaches underneath the bench and fishes around for a bit before bringing out a cloth diaper (one of the ones I used to wear, actually, which is now a car towel) and cleaning himself up with it. He does this with the calm demeanor of a normal person doing a normal act, and the novelty of what we just did starts to wear off. He still hasn't said word one about it. I begin to think he's having regrets. Â
The diaper is tossed in my direction, hitting my belly. It's moderately wet, and a minor thrill goes through me as I realize I'm touching his cum. It's easier to just strip and throw my undies in with his, and I do so, aware that he is watching me...more like an observation than anything else. After I'm done, I give it back to him, and he just tosses it back onto the floor where he picked it up.
Having both returned to at least a semi-sheathed state, we pull the blankets up to our chests and soon things are back to their normal sense of slight estrangement. Dad yawns and twiddles his thumbs on the blanket, deep in thought. Once again, I want to say something but can't think of the right words. I mean, what could I possibly say that wouldn't sound contrived or cliché?
At last, he sighs and clicks the lights off, sending the van into darkness with the exception of the pale light of the moon filtering in where it's easy to shine. I can feel the tangible uneasiness, but I don't want it. This isn't the right way to end a night like this! At the very least, I don't want him to feel ashamed. Even if we never do anything like this again, I want him to know the whole thing was cool, and that I'm okay with it, not scarred for life. But, more than anything, I want a repeat.
He's still on his back, rubbing his eyes and looking like he's having second thoughts, so before he can turn onto his side I take a huge risk by throwing my arm over his chest and pulling myself to him, nakedness and all (below the waist). I bring my leg over his, bending it up towards my chest until I feel the soft heat of his balls. Yeah, it's bold, but it's supposed to be that way. And oh, does that feel good!
Dad jerks, as I expect him to, so I bury my face in the side of his neck, nuzzling there before settling my body half on top of him. His right arm goes to push my leg back down, but by the time his paw rests on my thigh he's lost his resolve. I don't know what I'm trying to communicate, but it's working. Instead of pushing me away, those not-so-soft fingers gradually relax until they're resting just below my rump, in between my thighs. Just sitting there, yes, but that's the point.
For minutes I listen to his heart beating through to my temple, soaking up his warmth, and being closer to him than I have ever been. At length his paw falls away, but I'm too tired to care, as I am finally able to let his soft snoring lull me to sleep.
6/10-8/9/09