Subject: Common Law – Ch. 9 Common Law by RJ Meyers This piece of fiction is about a teenager who finds himself co-parenting his son with his father. If you are offended by themes of incest and adult/youth, do not read. If you have any questions or comments about this piece, want to know about any of my other works, or just want to reach out, please don’t hesitate to email me. If you would like to be added to a mailing list for this story (or all stories) and receive emails about any updates, let me know. A list of my works, including links and descriptions, can be found here: https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI Please also consider donating to Nifty if you fty/donate.html. Any amount helps. ~ Chapter 9 ~ “Lift.” “It’s too heavy,” I grunt through clenched teeth. The weights are bearing down on my shoulders so much that my knees are buckling. “No it’s not,” Dad encourages me, standing right behind me as I squat and try to lift the bar. “Lift it.” “I can’t!” I shout back. “Breathe,” he says calmly, “and lift. You’re stronger than you think, stud.” I’m sweating my dick off trying to lift this bar on my shoulders out of a squat. It’s two times my weight, and heavier than any range I’ve previously tried to tackle. Still, Dad won’t let me give up. I inhale deeply and focus on a random crack in the basement concrete as I try with all my fucking might — and somehow, amazingly, I manage to get to my feet. Part of me thinks I overcame just to spite Dad, but I fucking did it. “Told you you could do it,” Dad says in my ear as he helps me set the bar on the rack, relieving my shoulders as I pant. He exacts a swift, congratulatory slap to my ass, making me grunt but smile. “Whatever,” I murmur, trying to pretend like I don’t feel a rush of adrenaline. Dad has been pushing me to my limits lately. It’s all for the sake of improvement, of course — and now I have the results to show it. Since it’s winter, we don’t go for long runs much, but I’ve been bulking up as a result of weight-training sessions in our basement. Our home gym has grown over the past few months with donated equipment, including a wider range of dumbbells, a flat bench, and an ab cruncher. Now, thanks to a few of Dad’s biker buddies, we don’t have to stick to simply running on the old treadmill and conducting floor workouts. My favorite is the flat bench, though. Specifically, my favorite is watching Dad work out on the flat bench. I eye him as he lies on his back, legs spread on either side of the bench, and starts doing some lifts. The way his arm muscles bulge with each lift is almost hypnotic, and completely would be if there wasn’t so much else to look at: the short athletic shorts leaving little to the imagination, the thick thighs tensed and muscular and furred, one of his many plain white t-shirts discarded and allowing his cut torso to breathe and be ogled… That’s *my* fucking Dad. I head over and straddle his lap, sitting right on top of his crotch and causing him to grunt. “You’re distracting me,” he says mid-lift in a choked voice. “Good,” I say, sliding my hands up his chest. He sets the bar back on the rack before sighing and looking at me with a playfully disdainful look. “What do you want, boy?” “I’m just spotting you,” I tell him with a grin, lightly grinding my hips into his lap. “Nuh uh,” he warns me, reaching forward to grab my waist and keep me still. “Behave yourself.” I snort. “Telling me to behave? That’s a first.” “Wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t worn me out this morning,” he reminds me, and I chuckle softly. We had a pre-workout workout in both bedrooms, which consisted of me waking him up with a deep blowjob/rimjob combo and then (since Mason was sleeping in our bed) taking him to Mason’s room and demanding he give it to me good and proper. It was deeply erotic making some filthy love in my son’s bedroom, especially when I kept goading Dad into fucking me harder — or, better yet, when I called him “Papa” in my best little-boy voice. “Merry Christmas,” I say cheerfully, and he laughs before taking my hand — with the hand that has his birthday bracelet still wrapped around the wrist. “Dirty fuckin’ boy,” he murmurs before bringing my hand to his lips and kissing my ring finger. God, it gives me such joy to have finally gotten this ring resized. Now I can wear it proudly and regularly, a constant reminder of who I’m bound to, of the all-encompassing love that emerged from the failed relationship between my parents. “Dirty fuckin’ Daddy,” I mutter back, lightly dragging my knuckles against his lips. “How many times I gotta tell you to watch your mouth?” he asks me sternly. Damn, he really hates when I swear — at least, when it’s in a non-sexual context. Even though he doesn’t cuss that often, he still does enough for his disdain to be hypocritical. Still… “Sorry, Daddy,” I say, trying to sound innocent and playful as I trace his soul patch with a single finger. It seems to help, because his voice adopts a husky tone. “Little boys shouldn’t use those words,” he says lowly, his hands sliding up the legs of my athletic shorts. I went commando this morning, so there’s nothing underneath the mesh, nothing to block his fingers from proper exploration. “Since when do you tell little boys not to do things?” I tease. He grunts, sighing through his nose. “There are better uses for your mouth, baby,” he tells me. I chuckle. “More appropriate ones?” “Depending on how you see it, sure,” he says, grinning up at me. I love that grin of his. It’s so specific, so tenderly sensual, so… for me — and, even more expressive than usual. He’s gotten a little more animated over the long months we’ve been “together,” which is a beautiful thing, in my opinion. “You’re a bad man,” I murmur, tapping his cheek and smirking back at him. He licks his lips. “A bad daddy, huh?” “*Real* bad.” Fuck, I’m definitely getting a little hard. “I saw that look on your face when I called you Papa.” He growls a bit, his fingers gripping my thighs a little before one hand slides further up to take hold of my goods. “You callin’ me a perv, kid?” I sigh softly, my body automatically responding to his touch. “I’m callin’ you a perv, Dad.” The past four or so months have been filled with deep talks and fantasy swaps. Turns out that, when I’m horny or in that headspace, I’m just like my father: totally perverted. I guess that part of me was just buried deep and needed a bit of coaxing, but I took to it *very* quickly. The interesting thing is, though, it only really comes out in the right context, and what gets me charged the most is both knowing and hearing what turns my dad on. It’s all deeply hot to talk about family love and little boys together, even if we get specific and fantasize about our own, but once I cum, some of my reservations return. I always wonder what will happen, if it’ll happen, when it’ll happen… and how I’ll feel about it. But goddamn, nothing turns me on faster than seeing how into it my dad is. I lean over as he gropes me and whisper, “You wanna fuck my kid, don’t you?” He lets out a noise that’s a mix between a moan and a gasp right against my lips. “Wanna make sweet fuckin’ love to him, babe,” he murmurs, squeezing my cock even tighter. I’m rock solid now. Even when he’s all perved out, he’s a tender teddy bear. “Kiss him all over?” “Yeah,” he pants with a nod. “Swallow his little whimpers?” He grunts again. “God, yeah.” That’s another thing we’ve discussed: the sounds Mason makes, and the sounds he *would* make. It’d be all giggles and moans and whimpers and little sighs in that room, maybe accompanied by the slick sounds of wet, hard cocks being stroked and lips being kissed. “Make him feel *so* good with his Papa Bear,” I say, and as I nod, our lips continually graze against each other’s. “Mmm,” he hums. “My second favorite lil cub.” I grin boyishly at his words before he ropes me in for a wet kiss. For at least ten seconds, it’s all unadulterated passion, all need, all tongue and spit and lips and fire. Then, at its deepest, he pushes me away, groaning a bit. “You’re such a distraction,” he mutters, running his hand over his face. I laugh, teasing his nipples. “I’m not sorry.” “Yeah, I know,” he says bitterly, slapping my hand away from his chest before he grins as he reaches back to grab the bar. “Well, I still have a few sets to do before Mason wakes up.” “Honestly, I’m surprised he’s not up already,” I comment. Even though Dad and I get up early for workouts, it’s Christmas Day — which means Mason’s usually up at the asscrack of dawn for gifts and sweets and delicious food. Hell, I’m surprised Mason even slept. Last year he refused to go to bed the night before because the sheer anticipation was too much for him to handle. “Did you wrap the Lego set?” I wince. “Crap. I forgot.” We had to order the set of Legos we wanted online, and I kept forgetting to wrap the box in time for this morning. “Better go handle that,” Dad says, continuing with his reps as if I hadn’t interrupted him. “You just want me out of your hair,” I tease before glancing at his bald head and adding, “so to speak.” He grins at me. “You’re treading on thin ice, boy.” I just laugh. “See you upstairs, then,” I say — and he holds the bar up long enough for me to plant a soft kiss on his lips. I pull away with a smile, hopping off of him and giving him another once-over before I start to head back upstairs. First things first: change into some comfier, warmer clothes. Once I get to the bedroom, I don some lined sweatpants Dad recently bought me and one of his old thick crewnecks. Still smells like him, even. I’m about to head over to the closet to grab Mason’s Lego set, but I’m distracted by my phone lighting up. When I check it, I see I’ve gotten a few “Merry Christmas!” messages from some buddies — and, in the midst of it, a new email. It’s from my pen pal, who I only know as “Coach.” When I open it up, I smile at the message: “Hey buddy! Just checking in and wishing you a happy holiday (if you celebrate, that is… and if not, hope you have a good day anyway!) Sorry I haven’t gotten in touch in a while. The wife’s been up my ass about all the holiday nonsense, but I had to sneak in a quick email to say hello and give you an update: the little guy saw me naked. It was accidental, really, because I was just changing and he barged right in, but he saw it all. Can’t tell you what a thrill that was. Embarrassing, yeah, but it was a good thing he was more embarrassed than I was. If he stayed any longer… But anyway! No other news on my end, but wishing you and your boy a great day, buddy. -Coach” What a nice fuckin’ dude. I’m glad we’ve been in correspondence the past month or so, even if it has been irregular. I met Coach on a chat site that I decided to scope out after attempting to grapple with my feelings concerning Mason. Dad and I have gotten increasingly deep ever since we first talked about it, and the fact that it turns me on so fucking much should be an indicator of my feelings. But I think I just wanted a “second opinion” or something, some way to assuage those lingering semblances of guilt. I wanted to know that Dad and I weren’t the only dads who felt what we felt. Coach definitely wasn’t the first guy I talked to. I’d talked to plenty of other dads, but of course, there was no way to confirm that they were real — and 95% of the ones I did talk to were blatantly sexual and only focused on that aspect, which made them seem both fake and unappealing. Those aren’t the types of guys I wanted to talk to or get advice from. Coach seemed perfectly genuine, though. He’s a struggler rather than a luster, a twenty-something-year-old married dude with secret desires for his young son. The fact that he wasn’t so explicit and raunchy at first made me feel far more comfortable to talk to him. He reminded me of Dad, actually: just a guy harboring deep-rooted feelings for his now-eight-year-old son. He’s always been like that, apparently. He admitted to me that the main reason he wanted a son in the first place was to have that sort of relationship with him. He told me he threw major wood when he and his wife found out they were having a boy, and he jerked himself silly conjuring up endless fantasies of him and his son kissing and touching and exploring and loving. But when it came down to it, he was hesitant. Honestly, that’s what I love most about our acquaintanceship: we have the same reservations. During our first extensive conversation, he cursed the temptation but also mentioned how he’d hoped something would just… happen. He was so desperate to kiss his boy the way he wanted to, to fulfill the reason he made him in the first place. When I asked him why it hadn’t happened yet, he responded with, “I don’t want to force anything on the kid.” I knew exactly how he felt — just how Dad felt with me. It had to happen organically for it to feel right for either of us. Otherwise, it’d feel tainted. And even if it was, in a way, destined to be, we both knew it had to flower under the right circumstances. Ever since we first talked, Coach and I exchanged emails and have been writing each other back and forth at our leisure — not going deep like Dad and I do but touching on the subject of our sons in a romantic fashion, divulging what has happened between us (I’ve told him about my baths, the masturbation, and the kissing; he’s told me about the light play when his son was much, much younger) and swapping fantasies of courting and wooing. As a result of this companionship, I feel a little surer of my feelings, more hopeful that they don’t just come from a carnally sexual place. It’s all about love, holistic and pure. It’s erotic to hear that he accidentally flashed his boy (and most likely busted a huge load after), but it’s also touching to know how much he cares about his kid, too. I wish him a pleasant holiday too before tending to Mason’s Legos. I pull the oversized box out of the closet and quickly wrap it in leftover paper. All the gifts under the tree are for Mason, so I don’t bother labeling it. I just pick up the package and start to carry it downstairs to place it with the other presents. Just as I touch the bottom step, Mason suddenly comes bursting into the room from the kitchen, dressed in his Christmas-themed onesie and his trapper hat he virtually lives in during the winter. “Daddy!” he squeals, and I nearly drop the box when he runs into my legs to hug me. “Morning, baby,” I say with a chuckle. “I didn’t know you were up yet.” “It’s Christmas,” he says, as though that serves as a sufficient answer. I just laugh, leaning down to give him a quick peck on the lips. “Can we do presents now?” “Eager to get started, huh?” I ask, laughing as I bring his most recently-wrapped gift to the tree. “Yeah! I got gifts for you and Papa,” he says. I look at him with surprise. When the hell did he have time to get us gifts? What a sweetheart — especially if his primary goal is to give and not receive. “You did, huh?” I ask, smiling. “Well, go get your papa and bring him up here.” He jumps for joy before running towards the door to the basement, the little flaps on his hat bouncing as he skips. I just chuckle, watching him disappear before heading into the kitchen. Dad will want coffee when he comes back upstairs, so I whip up a quick batch just in time for him and Mason to return to the main level. When I enter the living room, I see that Mason’s leading Dad by the hand, an amused grin on my father’s face and a shirt on his back again. Mason drags his Papa Joel into the room and sits him on the couch — and upon noticing me, Mason quickly ushers me to my seat next to Dad. After passing the coffee to my father, I sit back and watch as Mason crawls under the Christmas tree, his little butt raised high and sticking out before he emerges with two bulging envelopes. “This one’s yours,” Mason says, handing one to me before turning to Dad. “And this one’s yours, Papa.” “Thanks, kid,” Dad says, setting his coffee to the side before focusing on his gift. It seems Mason made us each individualized cards. Mine features a Polaroid of him and me laughing at the camera. The photo itself is pasted to some card-stock paper and surrounded by adorable little patterns of flowers, hearts, stars, smiley faces, and two Hershey’s kisses taped to the corner. On the left side of the card is a hand-written letter: “MERRY CHRISTMAS DADDY!!! You’re the best Daddy I could ever ever ask for and I love you forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever.” “This is so sweet, baby,” I say, a bright smile stretched across my face. Mason stands between my legs to point at the photo. “This is my favorite picture of us,” he says. “Sure is a good one,” I comment, reaching over to pat the side of his head. He looks proud of himself seeing how happy the card makes me. “It’s a beautiful gift, Mace. Thank you. And you know somethin’?” “What?” he asks. “You’re the best little man a daddy could have.” Mason beams, giggling slightly. “You’re just saying that, Daddy.” “I’m not just sayin’ that and you know it,” I say, tapping his nose istanbul travesti playfully. “I mean it.” Mason just smiles, nuzzling into my touch before I glance over at Dad. “What about you, Papa?” I ask. “You like your card?” “Love it,” he says with a smile towards his grandson. Then he gestures towards the Hershey kisses taped to his card. “Although… I kinda wanted a real kiss.” Without missing a beat, Mason chirps “Okay!” and slides out from between my legs to climb up into Dad’s lap. Dad moves his card to the side to give the boy some room, and I watch in anticipation as they lean in close, smiling almost conspiratorially at each other. For a moment, I’m not even there. They’re in their own little world, with Papa Joel’s hands on a young, trim waist and Mason’s on a broad chest. I’m just a voyeur as Mason leans in and gives my dad the kiss he wanted. I still think fondly back on the first time Mason kissed his papa like this. It was within the week or so after my first real kiss with my son, after repeated offenses of long smooching sessions to pass idle time: in the bath, before bed, while we were cuddling on the couch… Mason’s always been a lover of good kissing, but after learning what a *real* kiss felt like, he became an insatiable machine, and our make out sessions increased with regularity. I couldn’t resist him. I fucking loved smooching on my boy, all giggles and hums and wet smacks of adult lips on his child ones. Eventually, after giving him considerable praise, he wanted to show Papa Joel what a good kisser he’d become. That was a notion that got me rock hard in an instant. Their first kiss was much like this one: slow, exploratory, and just pushing beyond the innocent. The soft smacks and tender whimpers and subtle shifting of clothing are all matching. The only difference is that Dad isn’t as… well, not flustered, but surprised. He’s more expectant this time — which makes sense considering all the family make outs we’ve had since then. He’s had practice. It’s not uncommon for any of us to throw wood during these kisses. In fact, it’s almost a guarantee. For Dad, kissing Mason so intimately and repeatedly (and, frankly, damn sweetly) gets him erect almost instantaneously. Mason takes a little longer, but he’s a family boy — and being a part of this family means sharing the effects of proper kissing. Just watching them is making *me* hard. I grope my growing bulge through my sweatpants, eyes focused on the tender way Dad both accepts and returns Mason’s deep smooches. Mason gets a particular kick out of kissing my dad because of the added dimension of the facial hair. It tickles him more, and makes him far more giggly than when he and I kiss long and special. “Save some for me, fellas,” I chime in after a couple minutes, laughing. They break apart with a giggle and a chuckle each before both turning towards me: Mason with a bright, red-faced smile, and Dad with a grin that says he’s the happiest, horniest man on the planet right now. “Fine,” Dad murmurs rather reluctantly. It’s all in good fun, though. Graciously, Dad allows Mason to hop over to my lap, and I lick my lips in preparation. “Since I got two Hershey kisses, does that mean I get double time?” I ask Mason. Mason finds that comical, and his laugh mixed with the visual of my dad’s spit having dampened his lips makes my fatherhood throb. “Nuh uh,” he says playfully. “But we’re boyfriends, aren’t we?” I tease, grinning. “Well hey,” Dad chimes in. “Why can’t he be my little boyfriend too?” Mason, enjoying the back-and-forth, sides with his papa. “Yeah, Daddy!” I just chuckle. “You wanna be boyfriends with your Papa too, huh, cutie?” He gives my dad a seemingly knowing look before nodding at me decisively. “Yep. We’re *all* boyfriends now,” he says cutely. “I guess I can share,” I murmur, pretending to be bitter before I smile. “I still want my kiss, though.” It starts off like normal: lips on lips, letting them dance with each other, a consistent and gentle push-and-pull. Then (what gives my cock a particular twitch), Mason shows me what he’s been practicing the most lately: tongue. I feel that slick little muscle tapping at my lips, asking to be granted entry, and I happily accept it. At first, he giggles, because he can’t handle the initiation of tongue-play without letting out a little laugh. He quickly gets into it, though, very slowly commencing his search for my own tongue. I retract mine for a moment just to feel him explore the inside of my mouth before touching my tongue to his — and I practically melt feeling them slide against each other so tenderly. It’s perfect. When I pull back, I take a breath and smile, feeling a consistent warmth throughout my body. Here we are, a trio of family guys: two adults rocking major hard-ons, one little guy stiff as a nail, and all three of us feeling no need to hide it. It’s natural, now. Standard. I mouth the words “I love you” to my son, and he beams at me before mouthing them back and granting me a quick, far more innocuous kiss on the lips. “A+ gift, I gotta say,” I murmur, unable to stop smiling. Mason just looks proud of himself — as he should. “Why don’t we have you open up your presents, now, kiddo?” At that notion, he bounces in my lap excitedly before sliding off. “Thanks for the card, little man,” Dad says to him. “You’re welcome, Papa,” Mason replies, giving him a tender grin. “And the kisses,” I add, chuckling softly to myself. Dad grunts in agreement. “Definitely the kisses.” Then, he leans into me as Mason debates which gift he wants to unwrap first. “That was beautiful,” he whispers to me, one hand resting on my upper-inner thigh, fingers dangerously close to my cock. “Thought you were gonna say ‘hot’,” I tease. He grins. “That goes without saying,” he murmurs. “But ‘beautiful’ is a more… fitting word.” I smile over at Dad, affectionately holding his gaze before we both lean in simultaneously to kiss. We let it linger for a while — until Mason announces that he’s chosen his first gift and needs everyone to watch. Dad and I had previously decided not to do gifts for each other (even though he bought me another photo album), so everything under the tree is for Mason — just enough gifts for him to get a variation but not be spoiled. We got him a huge encyclopedic book about turtles, a giant tin of his favorite candies (that I’ll be regulating), a couple new board games like Sorry and Monopoly, a killer art supply kit, a few more movies to add to his collection, and the large Lego set, which he’s most particularly excited about. Mason took it upon himself to express gratitude for each gift as he opened it, going so far as to give both his daddies a kiss per present. Neither of us complain about that. Then, just as Mason’s asking if he can open his Legos and build something on the coffee table, Jack suddenly bursts through the front door. Guess we lost track of time, because he’s right on time: 9AM, as usual. “Ho ho ho!” he shouts, fully decked-out in Santa gear and patting his oversized stomach. Mason screams in surprise, hopping up and running over to hug “Santa” with such exhilaration that Dad and I to laugh. Mason knows Santa Claus isn’t real, and he knows Jack is the one who visits every year, but in the spirit of the holiday, he absolutely loves playing along. “Hi, Santa!” Mason says cheerfully, trying to embrace Jack. With a chuckle, Jack shuts the door behind him and squats down slightly to hug him with one arm. “Merry Christmas, little elf! Heard you’ve been a good boy this year.” Giggling, Mason shrugs. “I think so.” “Oh ho, you think so? Well, Santa’s list doesn’t lie,” Jack says with a little wink before pulling a wrapped gift from behind his back. “Here you are.” Of course, Mason snatches the box eagerly, dropping to the floor right where he once stood so that he can open the rectangular box Jack brought for him. Dad and I look over curiously before we realize Jack’s gift is an article of clothing: a mini biker jacket. Mason gasps in surprise before turning to us, presenting the little jacket. “Look! It’s like yours!” he says. “How ’bout that,” Dad murmurs softly, and I can feel him smiling next to me as we watch Mason try it on. It fits like a charm, and Mason models it a bit, spinning around a few times and showing us his “bad boy strut.” “Looks good on you, squirt!” Jack says cheerfully as Dad and I chuckle. Mason’s positively giddy, running his hands over the leather before quickly running up to Jack to hug him. “Thanks, Jack.” “Name’s Santa, kid,” he says affectionately, patting the boy’s back before Mason runs towards me to let me see the jacket up close. Jack moseys into the living room as well, and Dad stands up to properly greet and embrace him. “Hope you didn’t spend too much on that,” I hear him say. “It was nothing,” Jack murmurs, patting my father’s back. “Well, thank you,” Dad says, smiling appreciatively at his friend. “And Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas, brother.” I hear them making conversation, but Mason’s showing me every inch of his jacket: the zippers, the hidden pockets, the cute little patch that says “BB” (an age-appropriate abbreviation for Bad Bastards). Mason looks a little crazy with the onesie *and* the trapper hat *and* the jacket, but I can see it clearly: he’ll be a little fucking stud with that jacket over the right outfit. Mostly to get those images temporarily out of my head, I turn to Jack. “You hungry, Jack?” I ask as Mason stands between my legs, continuing to study all the different pockets. “Was just about to make breakfast.” “*Starving*,” he grunts, patting his large stomach with a chuckle. “Excellent,” I say with a grin. “Hope everyone likes pancakes,” I say — and I’m met with such a collective, resounding cheer that I grin. We spend the entire day lounging, which we all deserve. Jack stays for breakfast, lunch, a quick photoshoot of the three family men in their leather jackets, a (according to Mason) mandatory viewing of “Elf,” and a few rounds of trying out the new board games before he decides to head out and visit his mother in the hospital. It’s always nice spending Christmas Day with him, though. Jack brings a loud but joyous energy matched only by Mason, so it’s always a treat to see how they feed off of each other, crack jokes, and make each other let out full-bellied laughs. Plus, since Jack knows about me and Dad, there’s no need to hide our affections. It was strange at first letting another man bear witness to our “illicit” relationship, but Jack clearly isn’t bothered by it. Hell, I don’t even think he cares what we do. He’s a good guy — a great guy, even, since he’s always offered to babysit whenever Dad and I want a romantic night out, or the house to ourselves, or a day trip to wherever we feel like going. Jack allows for those moments, and I appreciate him immensely for it. Once Jack leaves, it’s much quieter in the house, so things start winding down and Dad’s lack of energy starts to show. He’s been all over the place with his business lately, working day in and day out, so he’s nodding off throughout the evening. Mason, however, has all the energy in the world. He seems to be living the life of ease and luxury, a permanent smile planted on his face — and that’s the best thing I can see as a father. After having a small dinner (which mostly consists of desserts) and spending some time with Bowser, Mason and I decide to get the bath out of the way so that we can just kick back for the rest of the night. Mason wants to have a Christmas-themed movie marathon, anyway. Why not do it in bed, clean and ready to fall asleep? I don’t know if it’s just because it’s the holidays, but Mason is particularly playful today. As soon as we’re in the bathroom, he’s trying to tug my clothes off, laughing to himself like he had one too many glasses of champagne. First go the pants that he tugs down, and then my undies before I can even think to stop him. I just stand there bottomless for a few moments, laughing along with him. “You been drinkin’ or something?” I tease. “No,” he says, biting his lip as if to try to not laugh so much. “Then why so giggly, huh?” “I just love you,” he says, wrapping his arms around my waist, placing his chin on my torso, and looking up at me. I swear, I’m the luckiest guy on Earth. I take his hat off and stroke his hair, completely gushing for him. “Love you more, baby boy,” I say, patting his cheek. “Now get nakey for me.” Mason peels off his holiday onesie and briefs before I even get my shirt off, and I just smile as I strip bare while he gets the water running. A few minutes later, we’re both in the bath doing our normal routine: scrubbing and then playing games with the bubbles. We wash each other extra thoroughly this time considering how tactile Mason is feeling today, only breaking for smooches. No more than ten minutes into our bath, after we’ve gotten ourselves (and each other) squeaky clean, Dad walks in, dressed in some pajama pants and a thin, nearly-see-through long-sleeve. “Hey, boys,” he murmurs. “Hi Papa!” Mason chirps, smiling brightly at him. “Enjoying your bath, stinky?” he asks Mason as he heads straight for the sink to grab his toothbrush. Mason giggles. “*You’re* stinky.” “And yet, you wouldn’t leave me alone all day,” Dad says with a little grin as he squirts toothpaste onto his brush. “What’s up with that?” “Because you’re cute,” Mason says with a giggle. Dad and I both glance at Mason before looking at each other with amused grins. Cushy little boy today, he is. “You think Papa’s cute, huh?” I ask Mason. “Yeah,” he says, giddy on that Christmas spirit. “You’re cute, too, Daddy,” he adds, sliding into my lap. “Such a sweetheart,” I murmur, pecking his cheek. “I’m the cutest, though,” Mason says proudly, eliciting a collective laugh from both me and my father. “Modest, too,” Dad jokes before starting to brush his teeth. “He’s just speaking the truth,” I say with a smirk, tickling Mason’s chin. “Can’t argue with that.” Appreciating my comment, Mason presses his smiling lips against mine and kisses me repeatedly. Back and forth we go, completely tuning out the sound of Dad brushing his teeth — that is, until he rinses off and says, “Night, fellas.” I pull my lips back, glancing at Dad. “Wait, where are you going?” I ask him before he makes it to the door. “To bed,” he says as if it’s obvious. “But it’s so early.” “I’m tired, Mitch,” he sighs, smiling sleepily at me. “You don’t wanna spend more time with your boys on Christmas?” I say with a teasing pout. Mason catches on quick and does the same thing, both of us hitting Dad with puppy dog eyes. Dad groans a bit. “Don’t give me that look,” he mutters. “But we miss you,” I say in a playfully whiny-boy voice. Then, I make a suggestion that makes my heart race a little bit: “Why not join us in the bath?” Mason, who’s never bathed with his Papa before, positively leaps at that idea. “Yeah!” he says, splashing a bit. I see Dad’s lips quiver a tick, his eyebrows just barely arching. “I don’t know about that,” he mutters. “C’mon, Daddy,” I urge, smiling at him. “Might need help shaving.” He only shaves me maybe once a month when we’re both particularly in the mood for some regressive play — and I wasn’t necessarily planning on making that suggestion tonight. But if it gets Dad into the water, so be it. “Don’t you want Papa to join us, buddy?” I ask Mason. “Yeah!” Mason sings, nodding eagerly. He puts his hands on the edge of the tub, biting his lip. “Please, Papa?” Dad seems to internally debate while he stares not at us but at the tub itself. After a few moments, his eyes flicker towards mine. He doesn’t have to speak, because I see it all in his eyes: his hesitation. The tub serves as a trigger for all those guilty feelings that overcame him the last time he and I bathed together — or, at least, the last time we bathed together when I was a boy. The whole reason he stopped joining me in the bath was to avoid temptation, and here we are, his son and grandson, trying to goad him into taking the risk. He doesn’t have to feel guilty about what happened, though. Not anymore. And his feelings? I want to validate them, accept them, love them. “I trust you,” I murmur, giving him a soft look. That seems to be enough for him, because after a moment, he nods and then starts pulling his shirt off. Mason giggles quietly to himself, but I just bite my lip, watching him slowly reveal each part of his body to us: the strong core, the sturdy chest, and the muscular arms; followed by the thick thighs and hairy calves; then, with the removal of his boxer briefs, my favorite toy. Dad grabs his shaving kit before setting it by the tub and then gesturing for us to make room. Mason and I slide back enough for Dad to lower himself into the water. It’s a sizeable tub, but it’s not necessarily built for three people, so it’s a tight fit. Not that any of us mind. We like being close. Once comfortable, Dad leans in to start kissing me, but Mason stops him. “Nuh uh!” he warns. Dad glance at his grandson, surprised. “What?” kadıköy travesti “Wash first, play later!” he says, wagging his little index finger at him and looking stern. “That’s the rule!” I chuckle slightly, finding it adorable that Mason’s so attuned to our relationship. He knew exactly what kind of kiss Papa was going for. “He’s right. Sorry.” Dad grumbles a bit before sighing. “Fine,” he says, starting to scoop up suds and scrub them into his arms. Of course, that’s not what *I* have in mind. “Stop that,” I tell him, putting him on pause. “We’ll take care of you. Won’t we, Mace?” Mason smiles and nods, his eyes rapidly grazing over his papa’s body, clearly itching to get his soapy hands on it. “We could do double time, for efficiency,” I suggest. “How ’bout it, kid? You take one side, I’ll take the other?” “Okie,” he chirps before scooping up some bubbles. “I want the front.” Of course he does. I chuckle softly, figuring I’ll let him have his fun. I’ve had plenty of time with Dad’s front already. “You got it,” I murmur before hitting Dad with a smirk. His expression reads as a subtle mix of wary and excited, and I laugh as we switch positions. Once Dad is situated between me and Mason, the ritualistic washing begins. I take Dad’s shoulders while Mason handles his chest. There’s no rush, either. Slow and steady is our motto when it comes to baths, because we want to enjoy every second of it. I can feel Dad slowly relaxing more and more the longer we wash him, with me more so giving him a massage while Mason merely explores with sudsy hands. Eventually, we have Dad stand so that we can take care of the bottom half. I wash Dad’s back, ass, and legs, but I’m mostly focused on what’s happening in the front. I can feel Dad heating up, and as I stand up behind him, I glance over his shoulder to watch Mason soap up his papa’s torso, totally concentrated. Dad’s anticipation is growing. I can tell. I bet he’s wondering how thorough this wash is going to be. Then, Mason looks up at the both of us — first at Dad, then at me. I know what he’s thinking: should he bathe Papa Joel like we sometimes bathe each other? Is this part of him off-limits? When I give him a subtle, discreet nod, he smiles before placing a small, soapy hand on my father’s member and starting to wash it from base to tip, balls and all. Dad’s initial reaction is to tense up, but I continue rubbing his shoulders to keep him relaxed and let him know it’s okay. “This is what you’ve been missing,” I whisper in his ear. He just grunts in response and then inhales sharply. I know this is a big deal for him, because it’s the first time he’s being fondled by a boy. I find it so interesting that, when Mason and I bathe, it’s sure as hell intimate and has hints of natural sensuality but has never felt full-blown erotic. This situation is different, though. The dynamic between me and my father is taking the innocence of the bath scene to a whole new level. There’s a thickness in the air now. Mason doesn’t spend too much time on Papa’s cock, but just enough for blood to start rushing to it. As it stiffens, Mason’s already working on Dad’s legs, squatting down to make sure he soaps up every hairy inch he can get. The boy doesn’t even notice it until he stands back up to admire his hard work; as he stands up straight again, Dad’s manhood bops him on the top of his head. Mason flinches mostly in surprise before giggling when he realizes what it was that hit him. “Sorry, bud,” Dad says in a low voice. “‘S okay,” Mason replies, giving Dad’s cock an eyeful up close before looking up at us. I just smile at him reassuringly, almost laughing when Mason pats down his hair where Papa Joel’s cock made contact. We sit Dad back in the tub to rinse him off, keeping him sandwiched between us both. As Mason uses the cup to pour water over Dad’s body, Dad leans back to ask me a question. “This a typical bath between you two?” “For the most part, yeah,” I say, smirking slightly to myself as I wrap my arms around him. “Jesus,” he whispers under his breath, and I laugh as I plant a soft kiss on his neck. “Hey, Mace?” I ask suddenly. The little boy looks up at me, curious. “Yeah?” “Mind giving Papa a kiss for me? I can’t reach his lips.” I top off my request with a private wink, and Mason grins and giggles before nodding and starting to slide into my father’s lap. “Make it count,” I tell him, pressing my own hard-on against Dad’s back. I watch Mason kiss Dad repeatedly a few times before he lets the fifth kiss linger. There, they hold their lips together with Dad rocking his tenderly against Mason’s eager, smiling mouth — and while they lock lips, I take my father’s hands under the water and bring them to Mason’s bottom. As soon as his hands touch the boy’s smooth skin, he grunts, right into my son’s mouth. “Feel him, Daddy?” I ask in his ear, only for him to hear. “Mhm,” he hums, still kissing Mason. I can’t see under the layer of floating suds, but I *can* see Dad’s arms shifting — presumably because he’s running his hands in circles on Mason’s ass. I’m sure he’s gently squeezing and prying and stroking, exploring a boy, a real boy, only seven years of age. Suddenly, Mason lets out a little moan right against my dad’s lips, and the whole world seems to momentarily pause. Fuck. Dad wasn’t kidding. “Sexy” was certainly an appropriate word to use concerning my boy. I bite my lip as I observe the flush in Mason’s cheeks, the way his lips are slightly parted as Dad breathes against him, the way Mason’s fingers dig into his papa’s shoulders. Mason’s eyes are closed, but Dad’s are open, staring right as his grandson as he… what? What’s he doing to him under the water? My cock throbs as I realize what must be eliciting those moans. With Dad’s hands still in position, it makes sense that he’d be teasing Mason’s hole, probably stroking it in slow circles the way he probably did to me. That notion is confirmed when I notice the subtle way Mason backs up against his papa’s hand — the body’s way of asking for more. Christ. Right in front of me, Dad’s tapping little Mason in one of my favorite sources of pleasure. Maybe he’s just like me in that regard: terribly responsive. It certainly seems so considering the tender way my son is blooming right before my very eyes. A soft smile appears on his face after that little moan before he leans in to resume kissing his papa for another minute. When they finally pull back with matching smiles, I lick my lips. “Thank you, baby,” I say, stroking Mason’s cheek. He giggles a bit, looking flustered but totally pleased with himself. “You’re welcome.” “How you feeling?” I ask him, hands on my father’s sides. “Good,” he says, rosy-cheeked still but his smile hasn’t wavered for a second. “Really good.” I smile slightly. “Oh yeah? And Papa made you feel really good, huh?” I ask, with Dad grunting at my question. I kiss my dad’s cheek in response. Mason nods a few times before saying, “Mhm.” “Papa makes me feel really good too,” I whisper, but it’s mostly for Dad’s ears. I wrap my arms further around him, grabbing for his cock under the water and giving it a squeeze. Sure enough, he’s as hard as ever. “Daddy?” I murmur, biting on his earlobe as he sighs. He slowly tilts his face towards me. “Yeah, baby?” “I need a shave,” I whisper, eager to get a turn with Papa’s intimacy. Since it’s Christmas, I want my gift to my father to be hairlessness — especially now that he got a quick chance to feel his grandson. He smiles ever so slightly before kissing my lips. We hold it for a few seconds before separating with an especially wet smack. Then, Dad reaches over the side of the tub to start opening his kit. “Sit up here, Mitchy,” he says, patting the rim. Biting my lip, I hoist myself out of the water, sitting on the edge of the tub with my feet still submerged, legs spread, and cock stiff as a rod. It’s dripping with soapy water and probably precum. Hell, I’m sure thick drops of it are making ripples in the tub, and I bet if we were quiet, we could hear them. I’m aware that Mason is looking, eyeing the piece that fucked him into creation, and I let him stare while Dad gets the razors and cream ready to go. Eventually, Dad, equipped with a razor, gets between my legs and spreads them even wider. He chuckles at the sight of my hard-on. “Eager,” he murmurs, looking up at me with a grin. “Just happy,” I tell him with a smile. “Mmm. My happy boy.” He leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the lips before focusing on the task at hand. After lathering me in cream, he shaves me slowly and meticulously until I’m smooth around my shaft and balls. Then, he has me turn around and bend over so that he can get my hole. As soon as I’m in position and Dad starts applying some shaving cream, Mason giggles. “Why are you doing that?” he asks. I glance at him with a smile. “Your papa likes to keep me young all over,” I say. Dad slaps my ass in response, and I just laugh before humming as he slowly drags the razor across my skin. There’s something so intimately erotic about this that I can’t help but maintain both a smile and an erection. When he’s finished, he rinses off residual cream and then runs his fingers through my crack to see if I’m as smooth as he wants me to be. I shudder a bit when his fingers just lightly touch my hole, letting out a small whimper — and he pushes me even further by letting his hand drift down to grab my hard, dangling cock and give it a firm squeeze. “There we go,” Dad murmurs, giving me several strokes and patting my ass gently. “Now both my boys are smooth.” Flustered, I turn my head around and laugh, my face feeling warm. “Hope you’re happy,” I mutter. He grins. “I’m very happy,” he says, pulling me into his lap, wrapping one arm around my midsection and kissing me when I tilt my head back. He grasps my hard-on again, right in front of Mason, but with a much lighter grip — mostly just teasing me as we kiss. Once he’s satisfied that he’s gotten enough lip action (or enough moans out of me), he stops, smiling tenderly. “Thanks for the bath, boys, but Papa’s gonna go to bed.” “Aww,” Mason whines, pouting. “I know,” he says. “But wait ’til you get a job. Then you’ll understand.” He smiles at Mason, and once I slide off of his lap, he takes hold of the back of his grandson’s bright-blond head and plants a soft, lingering kiss on the boy’s lips. “‘Night, buddy. And Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas, Papa,” Mason says sweetly. “Love you.” “Love you too, lil cub.” When Dad turns to me, I smile. “I’ll try not to wake you up.” He laughs, leaning in. “Thanks,” he says, giving me yet another kiss. God, I’ll never get tired of all this smooching. “Love you, Mitchy.” “Love you more, Daddy,” I murmur, all smiles and glowing sensations, just a little boy totally in love with his big man. He strokes my hair with a wet hand before kissing my forehead and then standing up. Mason and I watch his muscled form, proud and erect, drip water into the tub until he steps out, dries himself off, gets redressed, and exits the bathroom. “Just you and me again,” I say, smiling at Mason. He giggles spryly, splashing me. In retaliation, I grab onto him with a grin and pull him to me so that I can tickle him without him escaping. He squeals in delight before I call it quits, telling him to keep his voice down. “Papa’s tired,” I say. “Are you gonna go to bed soon, too?” he asks me, looking up with those bright hazel eyes. I shrug. “I don’t know. How you feelin’? Still wanna watch movies?” He shrugs, mimicking me. “I just wanna cuddle,” he says, tracing my nipple with his index finger. I smile. “Oh yeah?” He nods a bit before looking up at me. “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” Technically, he’s already maxed out his sharing-the-big-bed nights this week, but since it’s Christmas… “Fine,” I murmur, and he giggles gleefully, thanking me with a quick kiss. After that, we decide we might as well just get ready for bed. In keeping with our theme of total relaxation, it’d be nice to just end the day with some good cuddling that inevitably turns into falling asleep together. Once we dry off and brush our teeth, I send Mason to his room to get dressed while I quickly lock up and then head back to my room. At first, I pull on some briefs and a simple long-sleeved shirt like Dad — but when I glance at him, already fast asleep in bed, I notice he’s removed his top. In the interest of getting additional physical contact during our cuddle session, I decide to go shirtless as well. Mason trots in shortly after, being courteously quiet. He’s back in his button-up onesie, thankfully having abandoned the hat he’s mostly refused to take off since the cold weather swooped in. “Ready?” I whisper. He nods before climbing up towards the bed, and I smirk at his eagerness before joining him. Usually, Mason and I fight over who gets the middle, but tonight, he seems to be in the giving spirit because he waits for me to occupy the space between him and my dad. Smiling, I climb into bed carefully and slide under the covers before Mason starts to cuddle up to me. With my back to my father, Mason and I get cozy together, legs intertwined, my arm around his waist, his face buried in my neck while I get my lungs filled with his sweet-smelling hair. Maybe I’m more tired than I thought, because already, I’m drifting off into sleep. However, no more than ten minutes later, Mason chirps up with a whisper. “Daddy? Are you awake?” “Yeah, baby.” He waits a few seconds before asking another question. “Can we kiss?” I laugh with a short burst of air through my nose. “You wanna kiss?” “Yeah. Special kisses.” Well, if my boy wants some kisses… “Alright,” I murmur, reaching down to lift his chin up. I press my lips against his smiling ones, and he eagerly returns the kiss with matching fervor. Once our lips are connected, I place a hand on the small of his back, stroking up and down. Barely a dozen seconds into some slow necking and I’m stiff as hell noticing how into it Mason is today. He can’t get enough — and neither can I. When he pulls back for a quick breather, he licks his lips and swallows spit before speaking. “Daddy?” God, why does that word spoken in his tone send a shudder through my cock? “Yeah, baby?” “I’m stiffy again.” I smile slightly. His hips are just far away enough for me to not be able to tell, but I guess we match. Like father, like son. “Oh yeah?” “Uh huh,” he says. Then, a second later, he takes the arm that I have around his waist, grabs my hand, and brings it right to his groin. I immediately tense up in surprise as Mason has me feel the hard nail beneath two layers of clothing. Hell, he even holds my hand there tenderly as if to prove that he wasn’t lying. From all our cuddle sessions, Mason’s never made me touch him — and it takes me a second to realize why he’s probably so audacious right now: Dad touched him. He wasn’t just washing the little guy: he was feeling him, groping him, molesting him — and Mason liked it. Plus, Mason probably didn’t miss a second of Dad gripping and stroking my cock during and after my shave. I warned Dad that we were rubbing off on him. First the kiss, and now– Mason lets out a little sigh that’s undoubtedly sensual, reminiscent of the one from the bath, and it’s all because he’s gently, almost imperceptibly grinding against my palm. Seems just a hint of friction is enough for my boy. I feel my own cock spit out a bit of precum into my briefs as Mason’s heat warms my hand. “You okay, baby?” I whisper. “Yeah,” he sighs, glancing up at me in the dim lighting. The moon is pretty full tonight, so my eyes adjust quickly to the semidarkness. I gulp. “Making yourself feel good?” “Uh huh,” he whispers. Well… he initiated it, did he not? He took my hand and touched himself with it. Isn’t this what I’ve been telling Dad that I’ve been waiting for? That first step? Briefly, I think of Coach, and all his powerful desires held back by uncertainty. He constantly asks himself questions like, “Is it okay if it happens?” and every inquiry that branches off from it. The truth is, anything we do as parents will affect our kids one way or another, regardless of whether or not it’s within a sexual context. If we keep it positive, and if I keep the ball in Mason’s court… what’s the harm? “Hey,” I whisper, and Mason peers back up at me. “You trust me?” Mason looks confused for a moment before he nods. Green light. Heart pounding, I pull my hand away from his crotch to start unbuttoning his onesie all the way down to his waist. Slowly, each button pops open to reveal the smooth, milky skin underneath. This is the Christmas present I didn’t get to open earlier. This is my gift. I move the fabric off his shoulders, and he quickly gets the hint, lifting himself up a bit so that I can completely expose his torso. I give him a few kisses before I myself have to pull back and catch my breath. “You tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” I ask as my fingers trace down the front of him, from his protruding collarbone to his forming abs. He nods again. “Okay,” he says. bakırköy travesti Then, after taking a breath, I slide my hand into his onesie, right into his briefs, cup his boyhood, and grope him with my palm. Immediately, he sighs, humming softly in pleasure, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. He’s so hard, so impossibly hard, and I feel it twitch against my hand every time I switch directions. “Like that, baby?” I murmur. He just nods, lips still parted as he sighs in pleasure. I keep my movements slow, really letting him enjoy the sensation. Quickly, though, he has more questions. “Daddy?” “Yeah?” “Why does it feel better when you touch it?” I smile slightly. “Because your body doesn’t know what to expect,” I tell him. I’m not sure if that’s necessarily “scientifically” true, but it makes sense to me. “Feels better when someone washes you rather than doing it yourself, right?” In spite of me feeling him up, he giggles. “Right.” “Same concept,” I tell him. “Just feels better to have someone else touch you.” Then, suddenly, I feel a small hand on my crotch, attempting to grip my cock through the fabric. I gasp in surprise and Mason pulls away, immediately apologizing. “Sorry,” he says. “Did I grab it too hard?” “I… No, baby,” I murmur. “Just surprised me, is all.” “Oh.” He looks down between us before glancing up at me. I smile at him to reassure him, and he smiles back before looking back down and then trying again. Slowly, I feel one, two, three, four, all five fingers timidly touching the outline of my cock before trying to gauge its thickness. I swallow back a moan, hips sliding forward ever so slightly, wanting more from him. He seems to learn best by example, because he presses his palm against my bulge and rubs me up and down the same way I’m doing to him. “Does that feel good?” he asks me. Sweet boy. Sweet fucking boy. “Real good, baby,” I whisper breathily, and he smiles proudly before I resume the back-and-forth kisses. I can’t believe my fucking son is feeling me up right now, all while we make out like middle schoolers (which, I suppose if you take the average of our ages, makes sense). Masturbating in the same room or washing each other in the bath with incidental hard-ons is one thing. This is sexual. And it feels so… right to do it with my boy, who’s so naturally tactile and sensual. This is that realization I needed, that “Aha!” moment to tell me that this is what I want, what we both want: to be close. Mason breaks the kiss to make a comment. “It’s so warm,” he says as he explores my length. I chuckle, kissing the top of his head. “Hey,” I say, licking my lips, “you wanna take our undies off?” He looks up at me, smiling bashfully. “Yeah!” “You first,” I whisper, grinning at him and laying him on his back. I take care of the onesie first, slowly sliding it off his hips and down his legs before tossing it to the floor. Then come the briefs, randomly patterned with little colored spirals. I peel them back slowly, letting myself soak in the sight of his boyhood in a totally new light, a light fueled desire, lust, and a son-loving predilection. “You’re beautiful, baby,” I whisper as I strip him bare. Even in this lighting, I can tell he’s blushing, but his smile shines brightly through his soft giggle. I kiss his teardrop-shaped belly button before pecking my way up to his lips. Then, he returns the favor. I roll onto my back and grant him access to between my legs, lifting my ass off the bed so that it’s easy for him to remove my briefs. My cock, stiff as all fuck, doesn’t even slap back against my abs. It just stays rigid and elevated, hovering over my skin, pulsing and hot and wet-tipped. Once Mason tosses my undies to the side with a satisfied grin, we shift back to our original positions — though this time, my cock, which is leaking profusely, nudges right into Mason’s stomach. He laughs, finding it funny for whatever reason. I would laugh too if I wasn’t so busy trying by best not to moan my ass off as Mason’s hand finds its way around my cock. I don’t know what it is, exactly. Is it the baby-soft hands on one of my most sensitive body parts? Is it the way his small grip can’t even fully wrap around my cock? Is it the curious, exploratory way he’s running his hand down the length? Whatever it is, it makes me feel like I’m being touched for the first time. Goddamn, Mason. I can tell he’s trying to stroke it the way I stroke myself, but I give him a little guidance by wrapping my hand around his. I keep the pace slow and steady, light but enough to get me worked up. Once I feel like Mason’s gotten the hang of it, I give him full control — though, really, my hand is just itching to return the favor for my boy. I quickly get my fingers on his boy-cock, rigid and wanting, and give it tender strokes to match. As we both sigh and softly moan, we fall into a rhythm, just making each other feel good. All of a sudden, I feel Dad shift behind me until his warm body is pressed up against my backside. I swallow thickly, pausing my touches and wondering if he’s awake or just adjusting his position in his sleep — and I get my answer when I feel his hand slide down my side, over my hip, and towards my front. His fingers find the base of my shaft, and he quickly discovers what I think he was looking for: Mason’s hand. I hear him growl in my ear and then press his hips into my ass before he slides his hand back across my hip to the other side. Thick fingers slip in between my cheeks and I let out an audible moan when a single finger finds my hole. As he rubs it in circles, he kisses my shoulder before moving to my neck, sucking tenderly but deeply. This continues for just a few seconds before Dad decides it needs to be wetter. He brings his finger up to his mouth, sucks on it, and returns it to my hole dripping with spit. I lift my leg slightly and just barely ease my hips back so that he can push in and penetrate me. The intrusion heats me up from the inside even more, amplifying the situation — and it just makes me stroke Mason a little faster. “You like that, baby?” Dad whispers in my ear, only fucking me up to the second knuckle. “Uh huh.” “Your boy and your man, taking care of you on both sides?” “Mmm, yeah,” I whine. “Lil daddy,” he murmurs. “That’s what you are. My lil stud fuckin’ daddy.” Fuck, I’m going to sweat like crazy if I get any warmer. While Mason keeps playing with my cock, he rocks his finger back and forth, in and out — but I’m craving more of it. I want his finger as far as he can get it. “Deeper,” I moan out, louder than I anticipated. That word alone seems to catch Mason’s attention. “Like this?” he asks, assuming I had been talking to him. He adjusts his stroke a bit but seems confused. “No, baby, not you,” I murmur. “Papa.” “Oh,” he says, looking up at me and blinking a few times. “What’s Papa doing?” Mason looks intrigued and curious, but I don’t know precisely what to tell him. “Um… Uh…” Dad decides to step in. “Making your daddy feel good.” “No, *I* am,” Mason comments matter-of-factly, giving my cock a firm squeeze as if to emphasize that point. Dad just chuckles. “There are multiple ways to make your daddy feel good, kiddo.” “So what are you doing?” Mason asks again. There’s a pause before Dad speaks up. “Here,” he says, removing his finger from my hole. “Gimme your hand.” My eyes go wide as I feel Dad reach forward between my legs to grab Mason’s hand. Is this really about to happen? I gulp as I feel a set of small fingers glide across my taint, being escorted to my hole — and once they make contact, my eyes nearly roll back from how hard my cock throbs. Mason’s touch clearly just has an intense effect on me. “Feel that?” Dad asks. Mason nods in front of me, giggling. “Isn’t that his butt?” “Yeah, that’s his butt,” Dad says with a chuckle. I feel Dad taking hold of a single one of Mason’s fingers before saying, “Push in.” My son laughs even harder, as if that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all night. “In his butt?” “Yeah. Right in there,” Dad says, a grin in his voice. “Don’t worry. Your daddy likes it.” Mason presses right against the ring, testing the sensation with his middle finger. I’m going to fucking explode. He doesn’t question why he should be sticking a finger up my ass. Once he heard “Your daddy likes it,” he was immediately on board. Just a few moments later, I feel Mason’s hesitant finger slowly burrow its way into me. I don’t think the boy can hear my moan over his laughter. “You’re so warm, Daddy,” he says. Somehow, I feel oddly embarrassed by the fact that my seven-year-old son is fingering my ass right now, but goddamn if I’m not hard and dripping all over him. He’s probably not even cognizant of my cock steadily leaking precum on his tummy. Mason’s not much of a multitasker, and he’s putting his all into following his Papa Joel’s instructions on what to do: rock back and forth, stretch it out, push in deep. I can’t help but grind my slick-tipped cock against Mason’s torso. He seems to think this is a fun exercise, but I’m on the verge of cumming, practically. Thankfully, Dad tells Mason he did a good job before allowing the boy to remove his finger — but I barely get a breath in when Dad grips my jaw, tilts my head back, and kisses me hard and deep. Slowly, I end up shifting onto my back in order to comfortably lock lips with my father. Not wanting to be left out, Mason climbs on top of me, torso to torso, cock to cock, and not a stitch of fabric to separate us. I groan against my dad’s lips and he smiles tenderly before pulling away to murmur, “Kiss him.” I look back at Mason and immediately rope him into some lustier kisses, big boy kisses, special kisses. We’re all lips and playful tongues, shared spit and sighs, and as my hand slides down his smooth back to rest on his bottom, Mason starts to grind. God, how my cock throbs for some good ol’ classic frottage with my son. I rock slowly with him, aware that Dad is stripping out of his underwear, probably memorizing every detail of this moment for us. As Mason hums against my lips, I feel Dad’s hot cock nudge my hip before I sense him leaning in towards my ear. “So fucking sexy,” Dad whispers, and I groan. “So fucking beautiful, you two.” He plants a soft kiss on my neck and then my shoulder. I slide my lips away from Mason’s just so I can get a little lip action with my dad — and he appeases me with a few kisses before asking me, “You know what you need to do, right, babe?” I shake my head, looking at him. He smiles. “Make him cum.” Suddenly, I’m blind to everything else. I have one sole purpose, and that’s to follow my father’s orders: make my beautiful son boygasm. I look back at Mason, at his disheveled hair and his reddened lips and his rosy cheeks and his sultry eyes. I’m looking at you, baby. Daddy’s gonna make you feel better than you’ve ever felt. I hook my arm around his waist and quickly flip us over, getting Mason on his back while I position myself between his much smaller legs. I look down at the way my cock rests into his groin and nearly cum just from the sight of us. The size difference is so incredible, so perverse, that I stare for a few moments before I actually start to grind my cock against my boy’s. Just lie back and relax, little guy. I’m gonna take care of you. I feel Dad’s approving hand on my back as I start to frot with my son, as I lean down and resume those kisses Mason loves so much. His little arms wrap around my neck to keep me close, to keep the smooches deep and tender. We move together, moan together, laugh together. It’s like we’re making the sweetest fucking love around, and I couldn’t be happier — and with Dad right beside us, watching, stroking, witnessing, encouraging? Christ, I’m gonna cum like a motherfucker… a fatherfucker… a sonfucker. Thankfully, Mason gets there first. He lets out a particularly unique whimper, which makes me pull my lips back to see that he’s looking up at me with a worried expression on his face. “I think I gotta pee,” he murmurs. I just smile and shake my head. “This is different, baby,” I say, pecking his lips. “But–” “Trust me.” Magic words, it seems like, because he instantly relaxes. Good boy. I stop grinding in order to focus on my son, slipping a hand between us and stroking his little nail for all its worth, concentrating on his pleasure, isolating it with my touch. His hips move in tandem with my fingers, and his moans get a tick louder with each one. “That’s it, baby,” I whisper, kissing his cheek. “You’re doing so good. You’re gonna love this.” Next to me, I can hear Dad stroking his cock even faster, but still, I keep my sights on my boy, watching the way his eyebrows raise higher and higher, the way his small nostrils flare. His moans are amplified now, elongated, until finally, he arches his back and goes completely still. For a few moments, all that moves is his cock. It twitches once, twice, three times before the rest of his body trembles. He lets out whiny whimpers, doing his best to choke them back as I ride him through his (what I assume to be) very first climax. I stare down in awe, eyeing the way his body flexes through his dry cum, the way he grips at the sheets in desperation, the way his bottom lip quivers uncontrollably — and I smile. I smile so fucking widely. This is my real Christmas gift to you, baby. When he finally relaxes, he looks positively dazed, slowly opening his eyes to see both his daddy and his papa smiling at him. I watch as a grin forms on Mason’s lips. Whereas mine would be a tired one, his remains energetic. “Whoa,” he says — and both Dad and I burst out laughing. “Liked that?” Dad asks. “Yeah,” he says before giggling. “What’d it feel like, buddy?” I ask. “Can you describe it?” He bites his lip, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “Um… Kinda like… I exploded, but in a nice way.” Dad snorts a bit, and I grin before Mason changes his answer. “Or like a million tickles all over,” Mason adds, nodding, liking that definition better. “Sounds about right,” I murmur. “How’d you do that, Daddy?” Mason asks. “I felt it all over.” “With lots of love and care,” I say, leaning down to give him a kiss on the lips — soft and sweet. Still giggling, he glances down between us. “You can feel that too?” I lick my lips. “Yeah. And Papa.” “Wow,” he says with an awe-struck voice. “Cool.” “Very cool, huh?” Dad says, smirking at me. Mason nods — but his expression says that he’s ready to be studious. “Can you teach me?” Dad and I glance at each other, and before I get a word in, he speaks up. “How ’bout you do me a favor, buddy,” he says, catching Mason’s attention, “and show me what you were doing to your daddy before I woke up.” Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. For a moment, it feels like I’m having an out of body experience, watching myself be maneuvered onto my back between my father and my son, observing the littlest one cuddle up to me and stick his tongue out in concentration, witnessing the tender way my dad uses his arm as a pillow for me. I don’t snap back to reality until I feel Mason’s curious hand wrap around my cock yet again. It honestly feels like a long, drawn out orgasm. While he strokes himself, Dad whispers in my ear about how my seven-year-old son is working my cock, how my own flesh and blood is going to make me cum, how he *wants* to make me cum. I just moan steadily, full-body tensed, spilling so much precum that Mason’s hand just glides up and down my shaft with little to no resistance. It’s the touching, and the whispers, and the giggles. It’s the familial body heat surrounding me. It’s the feeling of Dad’s cock spitting pre on my hip because I know he’s as turned on as he’s ever been. It’s the praise my father is giving Mason on my behalf that’s bringing me right to the edge. There’s a glazed look in Mason’s eyes, a particular smile, the one I probably get when I know I’m doing a good job making my daddy feel good. There’s a certain sense of pride emanating from Mason, a specific type of arousal that only we, as sons, understand. My boy. My boy and my man, both focused on me right now. God, I feel wonderful, filthy, loved, aroused, fucking ready. I tell Mason I love him, and when I do, he smiles so beautifully that it sends me right over the edge. I grunt loudly, bucking my hips a few times before I finally start to cum — and I cum fucking hard. The first shot fires up my torso with the velocity of a bullet, splattering against my neck as the next few ropes spray across my chest. In surprise, Mason lets go of my cock, giggling slightly and watching his daddy shoot out all that cream. I feel delirious during this orgasm, almost dizzy, overworked and completely exhausted, and I nearly miss Dad spraying his own load across my hip. It’s thick and hot against my skin, a sensation that only makes me feel sleepier. It takes me a while to gather my bearings and catch my breath, and when I do, it’s quiet in the room. Dad’s inhaling deeply and exhaling with a low rumble, and Mason isn’t making a peep — that is, until I turn towards him. He’s biting his lip hard, clearly hiding a smile, and when we make eye contact, a giggle escapes him. That’s all it takes to break any residual tension. One giggle follows another, and then the three of us do what feels natural and right in the moment: we laugh. – End of Chapter 9 –