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Foundations, Chapter 9

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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9

Blake awoke to the smell of meat cooking. He blinked to clear his eyes and slowly sat up, stretching and yawning wide. He took another whiff of the air and confirmed that sausage was being prepared -- breakfast sausage, which would also meant other food was nearly ready. He felt quite hungry, enough that even his morning erection was not enough to keep him in bed. Crawling out from under the covers, he noticed how cool the house was. The temperature must have dropped considerably in the night, he thought. Quickly, Blake padded to his dresser and pulled out his last pair of briefs, which meant that after this pair, he would have to just walk around naked until he and his father could stop this nonsense about not having sex together. He mades sure his penis was pointing outward to make an extra good bulge. He then slipped on his robe, leaving a point to leave it open, and walked to the kitchen before his cock could flag. "Good morning, Dad," the young Amur said, yawning again and walking past his father nonchalantly with his tent sticking out on the way to the fridge for some orange juice. Quentin smiled at the sight of his aroused son. "Morning, Blake. Nice to see you up already," he said, giving a slight emphasis to the word "up" and still keeping a bit of his gruff manner about him. If that would encourage his son, then so be it. "Now what would you fancy? We have jumbo eggs, plenty of spicy sausage, and juicy melons. There are also bananas, some firm and others soft, and all of them quite sweet. I also have oranges just waiting to be juiced." It was a very deliberate string of double-entendres, and Quentin delivered them with the innocent casualness of a father truly asking his son what he wanted for breakfast, which indeed he was also doing. The whole time, the father tiger kept his attention on the sausages so that they would not burn. Blake felt dumbstruck. It was still quite early for him to be witty, and he could not think of a licentious response. "Cheese omelet, please. You know how I like 'em. Lots of sausage, too. What's a day without that?" It was weak, but it made his father grin slightly. "Indeed. Very well, Blakeson. Would you mind tending my oranges? I'm sure you can handle them just fine, even in your current state." He tipped the finished sausages onto a small plate and set the cast iron skillet aside on an unlit burner so that he could prepare the eggs. He had already cut up the green onion, ham, mushrooms and tomato ahead of time, anticipating Blake's usual order. "Uh, yeah..." Blake felt so stupid. His father was making plenty of openings, and he was missing his chance each time. He was in no shape for complex flirting before having a meal. It was entirely unfair. In silence, he began cutting oranges in half and juicing them. His father never bought orange juice, always preferring to make it fresh for flavor and to save money. After years of having it fresh, Blake was spoiled enough by it to agree. He could rarely stand the orange juice given out in restaurants, it was so cheap and poor in flavor. As he handled the fruits, he imagined they were his father's balls, rather as how he figured the adult Amur had intended. They were indeed similar in size to his father's balls, and Blake was tempted to ask if they could make a live comparison. His cock had flagged to about half mast by now, however, and he still wanted to eat, so he would bide his time. There was still a whole day ahead of them before his father left for Midnight Mass. "Did you sleep well, Dad?" Blake asked. His father gave a satisfied rumble. "Like a kitten. I dare say you did, too." Blake nodded. "Yeah, I did. It was pretty nice. I may not look it, but I'm very refreshed, more than usual." Quentin chuckled, reaching over to give his son ears a gentle petting. "I know, son. Thank you for taking care of supper last night. Pizza was a good idea." "Sure, Dad. Glad I made ya happy." Before long, the juice and omelets were made. Quentin had also made grits and potatoes with green peppers, onions and mushrooms and cheese sprinkled liberally. He also prepared a ham steak that he divided for them to share. Blake cut up their fruits into a small fruit salad and then set the table. He dug in eagerly, momentarily forgetting all about sex and just enjoying his food, and so they carried on in silence. They read as they ate, bit by bit clearing all the dishes of every last morsel. After breakfast, Quentin announced that he had gifts to wrap and assigned Blake laundry duty. Their home needed some cleaning before they had guests, and today had to be the day to do it. It was not Blake's idea of a good time, but he could not argue with his father's logic either, not that it would have made any difference. So after cleaning up the kitchen, Blake gathered the hampers from his bedroom and his father's into the bathroom. He opened the cupboard where the washing machine and dryer were, loaded the detergent powder into the machine, and began sorting the laundry. He started with clothes for the regular cycle and took some pleasure in handling his father's undergarments again. Blake also had the cum-covered one that he drenched last night while watching his father's wet dream. It was mostly dry by now and quite stiff with the amount of their respective essences in it. His chest swelled with pride, as did his cock as he thought about last night. They had come so very close that he felt it was inevitable they soon be going at it for real. Realistically, he did not hold out much hope that he could force his father's paw by seduction. His father had been subtly (and not so subtly) reminding Blake since last night who was the big cat in the house, and while Blake really wanted to be that cat, he had to admit that it was no contest currently. It turned him on so much seeing his father like that, however, that it more than made up for it. His cock certainly seemed to think so, bobbing erect in front of him while he worked. He had not jacked off this morning, but his father was tucked away in his room wrapping presents. That would give Blake a bit of time on his own, and he was getting ideas of how to blow off some steam. Blake shut the lid to the washer and started it up. He then walked over to the bathroom hamper and carried it over. He opened it up to pull out the towels and was greeting with a heavy dose of the scent of his father's rut. Inside the basket were the clothes his father had discarded last night when he had his wet dream. The young Amur's eyes widened as he reached in and pulled them out. He saw the remnants of the pizza on them that he knew his father must have swiped over them before heading to the bathroom. What really amazed him, though, was how wet they still were. It looked more like his father had pissed himself after holding contest. There was so much cum, and the excess had since leaked to all parts of the garment where it had been crumpled up in the basket. "Man, Dad! This'd be gross if it weren't so hot!" the adolescent tiger stated as he shook his head. "This is going to need a double washing. I'm sure of it." The perfect idea then hit him, and he grinned wide as he pulled his underwear down and began to masturbate furiously. He closed his eyes as he imagined his father straddling his torso and beating off until he began to unload heavily onto his son's body and face. He also imagined his father simply standing in front of him, only in his briefs and suddenly cumming through them as he held Blake's head against his pelvis, growling and moaning with each big shot. Blake did not last long, and as he was thinking about his father just jacking off in bed and letting his seed rain wherever it would, Blake began to shoot. He quickly thrust his cock into the laundry and held the basket at an angle against him as he fired over and over again, soaking everything for a third time. He panted happily when he was done, especially when he pulled out and picked up some of the things in the basket to reveal his handiwork. This was definitely going to need a double washing. He pulled a clean washcloth out of the cabinet and cleaned off his cock. He then remembered that there had been some extra room in the washer, so Blake opened the lid, stopping the filling of the drum, and added his father's very saturated clothes to it. He also added a bit more soap and changed the dials to the longest possible cycle. After brushing his teeth for the morning and slipping his underwear back on, the young Amur went back to the living room, sat down, and picked up his book as he waited for his father to be free again. The day was still young, and there would hopefully be more opportunities to press forward before his father left for church that night. He had a momentarily unsettling thought about that. What if church made his father suddenly loose his nerve? Christmas was one of the principal holy days of the year and not something that could be shaken off and forgotten about like an ordinary church service on any given Sunday. This one could last longer, and right now they were trying to break down barriers to each other -- or, at least, that was how Blake was seeing it. He doubted that Pastor McGee would approve of any of this, even if he had no quibbles with being gay. The last thing Blake wanted was for all their progress to be wrecked. He knew there had always been a reason he hated church, Blake thought ruefully to himself. It was not only boring as hell, it was also brainwashing. His ears drooped, and he checked himself with a sigh. He knew that he was being unfairly harsh, especially to his father who was the last person to ever get brainwashed. Quentin may have taken great comfort in God and church, but he was not a Ph.D. for nothing. He never had taken the Bible very literally and warned his son against doing so, just as his mother had. Quentin was also more than aware of the long history of atrocities by the Christians, the many flaws in fundamentalist theology, and even knew how crooked a process the writing of the scriptures and their process of being compiled had indeed been. He also was not above disregarding things that patently made no sense. His father had always approached religion with a clear, critical mind. He more than most understood how important logic and reasoned criticism mattered in all aspects of life, even the spiritual. A dreamer though the father Amur was, he still filtered the world through that incredible education of his. It all baffled Blake, really. He sometimes thought that the only reason his father even liked churchy shit was because of the romantic dreamer inside him. Privately, Blake wondered if such imagination was so harmless as it was often made out to and if maybe it should be largely abandoned by adulthood so one would not be willing to kill over it. Who cared if God existed or not or which one was the right one? What did that matter in the real world? Stealing in order to feed a family or just out of greed for wealth and power made far more sense to the young tiger. The world would be a better place if people worried less about Jesus and more about feeding the hungry or punishing real criminals and not imagined ones. No one needed Jesus or Buddha to make any of that happen. Blake had been holding his book open for more than ten minutes and had not managed to read a single word as he thought about his father. He often felt so confused by the man, unable to get at the core of what made him tick. Was the man so impenetrable or was it that Blake just was not clairvoyant enough to see what was so plainly displayed? It often occurred to him that simply asking his father for answers to these questions would be an easy way to get to the bottom of it, but that had not always made things clearer for Blake. Besides, he wanted to figure things out on his own. He was good at sussing people out, or at least their motives and intentions. One's blind spot was often for themselves and for those close to them or like them. The young tiger had come to realize that over the years and was increasingly uncomfortable with it. He wondered if that was why all the great detectives avoided marriage and other romantic attachments so that they could remain clearheaded. Love and lust alike were very distracting things. His lust for his own father took up a lot of his thoughts, as had his love and affection over the years. Now he was trying to understand a man he did not even want to be like -- and toward what purpose? He was not investigating him for a crime but merely trying to resolve so many things that seemed contradictory to him. Growling to himself, he knew that part of these efforts was because of lust. If he did not lust for his father so much, would he want to get so close to him? Irritation suddenly gave way to shame and despondency. Laying his book still open on his chest, Blake asked himself why he should not want to be close to his father? He loved him, and what was wrong with that? If you could not love anyone, then you would be all alone in the world. That was not something that at all appealed to Blake. It was unnecessary, too, because Holmes had Dr. Watson, Poirot had Hastings, and even Jesus and Buddha had their followers. It was only natural that a son should have his father. As for merely lusting after him, what was wrong with that? It did not mean that Blake regarded or loved him any less; he was just appreciating him from an additional perspective. Perhaps it was also a way to get closer to a man from whom he was becoming more distant. That was a gravely depressing thought, and it brought Blake's mood down. Self-doubt and second questioning were dangerous pastimes, as was too much thinking it seemed. It produced little in the way of results while affecting very unpredictable changes of mind and feeling. If he had just come to his father with his feelings earlier, it could have been settled one way or another. On the other paw, as that part of his mind which was so damned penetratingly honest about himself reminded him, a good relationship could be wrecked by the wrong words or actions. Why the hell did saying he found his father sexually attractive have to be one of them, he demanded angrily inside his mind? There was no good answer, or even a reason why it would be damaging in the case of his father and himself. Once more, Blake felt that kittenish longing for his father, the desire to simply be held and told everything would be all right. He hated feeling that way as he was old enough to take care of himself. Blake did not see his father running home to Mummy in England every time things got hard. He had naturally cut the apron strings a long time ago, and Fate had severed Blake's own with his mother, perhaps a bit prematurely to be sure. There was nothing to be done about that, though, so Blake did not cry over it...at least not much anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut at that thought, forcing it as far down as it would go that he would not tear up. His father was not adverse to tears, yet he was a strong man; but he was also a romantic dreamer, possessed a wishy-washy tolerance all sorts of stupid stuff, and had a body any tiger would be envious to have for himself. What the hell kind of man was his father, he wondered for the millionth time. Blake sat up and tersely put his bookmark in his book, pitched on the side table, and stormed off to his bedroom. He only managed to not slam the door shut and began doing some exercises with his weights. Working out was always the best way to get rid of the tension, and if he focused on the activity, he could clear his mind of all the useless thoughts that always came unbidden.