A fictitious embellishment based on actual events. All characters are over 18.
“Dad, I’d like to take you up on your offer.”
That was the simple note I left by the coffee pot. My dad wakes early, so I knew he’d see it before my mom even stirred.
Summer vacation allowed me to sleep in. The house was quiet when I rose. I staggered into the kitchen for some water.
“I got your note,” I heard my dad’s voice behind me. He walked into the kitchen, nude. Dad preferred to be naked at home, and usually was regardless the time of year or weather or who was home. As we were at our vacation house in the middle of summer, there was little inspiration for my dad to put on clothes. He carried a stack of magazines under his arm. I felt the blood drain from my face and ice shoot through my veins as he set them on the counter: a selection of Penthouse magazines from the mid-1970s, which he offered me the day before. I was about to scoop them up and scurry to my room when my dad said, “Your mom’s gone into town to go shopping and get her hair done. You’re welcome to enjoy those out here.” He paused. “And feel free to make yourself comfortable.”
‘Make yourself comfortable’ was my dad’s code for, I was free to get naked myself. My mother had body issues and wasn’t particularly comfortable with her own body; as a by-product, she wasn’t particularly comfortable with my traipsing around the house nude, especially after I hit puberty. My libertine father, who was already in his sixties and showing the signs of his generation’s way of living, felt no body shame. Growing up on a farm and in an era when boys showered together after gym class in high school, or swam naked together in the single-sex pools at the health clubs, saw no reason why men shouldn’t be naked in each other’s presence. I would usually go around naked when my mom was out. As my dad was a homebody, it was common that we would go around naked together, since I rarely had the house all to myself. As I grew up seeing him nude, being naked, even around him, just seemed natural; our being naked together wasn’t odd or uncomfortable at all. On my dad’s invitation I returned to my room, shed the shirt and shorts I slept in, and returned nude to the dining area. My cock featured the residual effects of my morning erection.
The house’s open floor plan featured a kitchen and spacious common area in one room, with sliding doors and large louvered windows, which allowed abundant sunlight to pour in and gentle summer breezes to waft through. The common area was big enough to hold a round dining table along with a small sofa and coffee table.
My body felt electric as I moved through the house naked, the warm summer air swirling around me, the humidity clinging to me. I found I was alone again in the kitchen. I collected the magazines from the counter and, taking a seat on the couch, set them on the low coffee table. Being naked I could feel the subtle textures of the cushion on my bare thighs and ass. My heart skipped a beat when my scrotum, slung and draped from the heat, grazed the fabric, the sparse hairs dotting my sac conducted sparks from the sofa through my groin. Sitting with my knees parted, I leaned in and devoured the magazines – the letters, the stories, and most definitely the photos. Being mid-’70s editions, the models were natural with unenhanced breasts and pubic hair, trimmed, at best, to reside within the cuts of bathing suits of the time; in most cases, they formed their natural triangles.
My teenaged cock reacted, swelling and thickening quickly as my heart injected blood into my shaft. I was steely hard in no time. The glans at the tip flared and the shaft bobbed with my pulse. Radiant in husky shades of reds and purples, my cock jutted proudly from my groin, the thick blue vein that runs along the left side bulging prominently. I felt invigorated sitting naked and hard on the couch, enjoying my dad’s porn magazines. Though I was alone, I opted not to touch myself; I was, after all, in a common room of the house with my dad around somewhere. To me, touching resimli seks hikayeleri my cock would cross an improper boundary. In truth, I was enjoying the freedom of being naked and unapologetically hard in the sunny common room.
I was about a third of the way through the stack when my dad returned to the kitchen for more coffee. Instinctually, I flipped the current copy closed and slammed my legs together to cover my distended state, trying to appear cool and composed and I looked his way.
“Don’t close them up on my account,” he said reassuringly. “And you don’t have to cover yourself up either,” he continued, acknowledging that I had uncomfortably pinched my legs together to conceal what might have been politely called my ‘bits.’
“Uh, OK,” I replied, uneasily.
“Don’t be embarrassed if you have an erection. That’s natural. The naked female body should have that effect. You are erect, yes?”
“Dad!” I called out, dumbfounded.
My dad dismissed my propriety. My posture eased. I relaxed my legs, and the bloated head of my cock peeked above, which I’m sure my dad could see.
“Also, if you’re going to masturbate, please don’t do it on the sofa or near the rug.”
“Dad!!” I protested incredulously, my eyes widening. I was shocked that he’d suggest such a thing and mortified at the thought that he thinks I jerk off (though, goodness knows, he was 18 years old once, too). Nonetheless I was disquietingly exhilarated that he was offering a path to indulge there and then. My cock endorsed my primal desires by surging and vibrating perceptibly in my groin.
He held up his right hand to stop me. “Semen, and even the clear Cowper’s fluids, can stain, and I wouldn’t want your mother finding inexplicable blotches on the cushions or the rug.”
Audaciously I asked, “Should I go back to my room?” My thighs widened.
“No, if you’re comfortable here, please carry on. Just be mindful of where you choose to ejaculate,” he cautioned. I don’t know if it was his upbringing, his education, or a desire for me to be refined, but he always preferred the proper terms for everything, and this case was no exception: “erect,” “semen,” “masturbate,” “ejaculate.” Still, there was something about this setting – my father and I both fully nude, and me rapturously horny and hard, looking at sexually posed women in magazines that my father had just given me – that took these terms that evoked hushed giggles and frequent eye-rolls in biology class and made them ferociously erotic.
With a caring, knowing grin and nod, he turned and left. I opened up the issue and frantically flipped back to the last page I was at: a woman in a loose shawl and head scarf, reclined on a bed, her right knee raised, allowing the photographer to capture her deep pecan skin, the cascade of her breasts, her full bush and her parted pussy. My cock, which waned a bit during my conversation with my dad, returned to be fiercely hard in response to the woman gracing the spread.
I flipped through more issues. My dad’s comments echoed in the back of my head. My eyes devoured more luscious naked women. My cock ached, crying to be touched. I felt a bead of precum roll slowly down the underside of my shaft; its savory crawl slowed further when it reached my scrotum, where it cooled. My sac churned and tightened. Suddenly I snapped to. ‘Oh shit!’ I thought to myself. I curled my back and strove to look under my cock. ‘Did I get precum on the cushions?!?’ No deposits, luckily. ‘Still,’ I thought to myself, ‘I better move.’
Not wanting to transport all the material back to my room, I quickly scanned. The dining table would be perfect! Sitting directly on the stone flooring and with chairs that had padded vinyl seats, any expelled fluids could be easily sopped up. Careful not to lose my page, I picked up the two stacks of magazines, with the current issue straddling the two, and relocated to the kitchen table, my cock protruding proudly, painfully in front of me as I walked. A drop of precum splashed on my left thigh. My heart quicken when I realized, as I sat, that the table had a glass top, allowing me to see my erection pulsing and bobbing just beneath the collection of beautiful naked women spread before me.
Though precum flowed copiously along the underside, I resisted touching my cock. As I neared the end of the stack, my horniness coursed in my body like a turbulent sea. My cock screamed; I felt a pleasantly uncomfortable bloat deep within my groin. As I looked at the last photo spread, my exacerbated erection chattered suddenly, quickly, then stopped; a gentle tingle ran along my beleaguered shaft, and molten, pent-up semen broke through and poured from the tip of my purple cock and pooled, unanticipated, opaline and wasted, on the seat below.
I closed the last issue. I needed to cum desperately. My being clawed at me from within for release. My dad’s permission came to the fore of my mind. Feeling somewhat naughty, I looked sheepishly over my shoulder to see if my dad was around. Seeing I was again alone, my right hand slid down my side and over my thigh. Delicately the tip of my index finger glided along the underside of my cock, moving freely in the glaze of precum. My left hand sorted the magazines as I sought my new-found favorites that I had earmarked in my mind. Furiously I flipped through one issue; ‘that’s the one I’m looking for.’ My finger continued to tease my cock. I moved onto another issue; ‘that’s the story I liked.’ My cock
quivered under my touch.
Sensing my orgasm beginning to build deep within my loins, I feverishly hunted for the photos that I knew would set me off: the woman in the head scarf on the bed. I found the issue and pushed the rest to the other side of the table; I wanted to ensure the magazine would sit flat and stay open. Losing the page would shatter the fantasy spinning up in my mind. I found her; I savored her. I reverted to the grip I had been using to make myself cum since I started masturbating at the dawn of puberty: I reversed my right-hand and circled my fingers around my super-heated stony penis as I pressed down on the base of my shaft with my thumb. My eyes widened as I stared at this woman’s body, her breasts, her nipples, the smooth contours of her belly, her grassy mound, her parted pussy.
Suddenly I froze and my body was shattered by adrenaline. I felt a warm hand on my left shoulder. I didn’t hear my dad return to the kitchen.
Despite what he said, I was certain I was busted, as I was certain he could see my hand wrapped around my cock under the glass table.
“How’s it going?” He asked.
“Good!” I answered brightly.
“Which one are you looking at?” My dad leaned in over me, his hand still on my shoulder. I looked up at him as he peered down through his bifocals. “Mmm,” he intoned, almost nostalgically. “Very nice,” he almost cooed. It was surreal: my dad and I looking at the same naked woman, her legs splayed to show us her intimate femininity, his hand on my shoulder, my hand on my cock. He moved his hand from my shoulder and with an unsteady finger traced the outline of the model’s pussy lips in the air.
“Look at how her labia part and protrude,” he admired. “She may have actually been aroused during the shoot. You can usually tell which models are aroused and which are not.”
“Really? How?” I asked, trying to play cool, my hand still nervously gripping my cock, which, despite the awkwardness and the new territory I was entering with my dad, refused to deflate.
“A woman’s lips will swell, thicken, get redder and wet. You can usually tell what’s natural arousal and what’s been retouched afterwards by the photographer. But you can see by the way her lips are that she’s aroused, or at least comfortable posing erotically,” my dad informed. I looked over at my dad, but instead of looking up, my eyes were drawn to his groin. He wore a deep brown tan all over, an effect of being about to sunbathe without a suit. As not uncommon for a man his age at that time, his round belly blossomed. Beneath, his flaccid cock hung, arcing over his relaxed testicles from wispy curls of raven pubic hair he wore on his mound.
“Apropos of which,” he continued, opening with one of his favorite phrases, “you might want to change it up,” his unsteady finger now pointing through the glass table to the activity I had obviously started.
I played dumb. “What do you mean?”
“I think you’ll find,” he suggested with care and an air of experience, “that if you gently caress, it will yield a better result.”
“Uh…OK,” I said, slowly releasing my cock.
“And it works better when you have a lubricant of some kind.”
“OK,” I replied, looking up at my dad. My index finger absent-mindedly sliding through the precum and dispelled semen slurry along my shaft.
My cock responded, its steely hardness straining, its ache imploring. I’m sure my look became far-away. My dad again patted me on the shoulder. I looked as his cock as he turned to leave. I returned my eyes to the woman on the page. I feasted on her. My fingertips slid along my cock, from the base to the hyper-sensitize ridge along the bloated head. I leaned forward, intensifying my focus. My left hand glided along my thigh to my groin. There, my fingers rolled my balls, dreary from the heat, and cupped them in my palm.
I was lost in the sensations when a bottle appeared on the table. I jumped, startled. It was suntan oil.
“I think you’ll find this doesn’t become less slippery with friction. It also has a warming quality that’s pretty enjoyable.”
With my dad still by the table I opened the bottle and poured a good amount of the essence into my hand. A rich, tropical scent drifted up; it blended well with my arousal and the musky florals of my spilled semen. Careful not to drip, I adjusted myself in my seat so that my erection hovered parallel over the seat. I brought my cupped hand under my tumid cock and determinedly wrapped my hand around. The oil felt exquisite as my hand slid effortless, deliciously along my length. I wrapped my hand around the swollen, spongy head of my cock. My body bucked and jolted to my ministrations. I stared at the beautiful woman on the page. I wonder what her pussy feels like. I wonder if this it what it feels like to slide my cock into a lover’s wet vagina, to feel her warmth, her touch, her body. I slid my hand down along the length of my shaft. I could feel my orgasm begin to roil deep inside. I moved my hand slowly, delicately, along my shaft. I curled my index finger around the ridge of my corona and twisted back and forth. My cock quivered, my body rocked from the sensation. I could feel the coil tightening deep inside my loins. My orgasm was imminent.
I gulped on last view of the woman on the page. Seared into my mind’s eye, I sat back. I caressed my cock that pointed skyward. I ran my left hand over my chest, across my pelvis and along my thigh; my fingers clawed my skin. I tensed my ass to thrust my cock through my grip, mimicking fucking. My breath shallowed. I was about to rupture. The spring within shattered. Lightning emanating from the base of my cock shot through my body. My cock bucked in my grip. I felt the first blast of cum propel through my cock. I peeked to see it splatter on the underside of the glass table. My cock unleashed another rope. The warm seed landed on my abdomen near my navel. The rest of my load, put forth by a decaying sequence of spasms, oozed scaldingly over my fingers and shaft. My stroking slowed to a tender grasp. I struggled to catch my breath. As my body relaxed from the release, I looked up to see my dad sitting on the sofa on the other side of the room, looking at one of the
magazines from the table. I was mortified again. I’m sure I blanched. My cock shrank in my hand, thoroughly basted in oil and the secretions of my sexuality. My body tremored occasionally, uncontrollably, in orgasmic aftershocks.
He closed the magazine and set it on the table as he rose. He approached, his cock apparently unmoved by the erotic material he was viewing or the sexual energy in the room, with a towel in hand. I looked up sheepishly as he carefully put the towel on the table.
“Make sure you get it all,” he said. And with a knowing, comforting pat on the shoulder, he sauntered out.