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This is my second story for Nifty, so I look forward to comments, feed back, fan mail and constructive criticism. If this story gets you off, tell me that. Tell me your darkest fantasies and maybe I'll work them into a story. (Don't hold back. Nothing freaks me out.)

[__________BAD DAD__________]

Email (Bad Dad): domdadtop@gmail.com

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Marine Dad & Jock Son

by

Bad Dad

Prologue

Hey Guys:

I hope you enjoy this story. Thanks for checking it out.

Just wanted you to know that it takes a while to build. Don't worry – the sex is the hottest I've ever had in my life, and the hottest I know how to write.

But, for me, this story is as much about how my Pops and I got to where we are now, than it is about what happened when we first went for it, man to man. That means I got to tell you about us, first – about him and about me – about what pulled us apart and then what brought us back together.

So, what I'm saying is – if you've got patience, there's gonna be a payoff. And, more chapters are coming, with even more payoff. But, if you're looking for dick-sucking and ass-fucking in the first three paragraphs, you should move on.

It's like going to the gym, studs.

If you're willing to put in the work, the reward is fantastic. (I know this first hand.) But, if you're not willing to do the work – even the most basic stuff – then you'll never get to that incredible result.

Thanks for reading, dudes (and ladies, too, if you're a lady that gets off on hot gay sex).

I hope you enjoy the story.

J.S. (Jock Son)

Chapter One

When I told dad that I was gay, he didn't take it too well. I mean – he's not an asshole or anything. He didn't kick me out of the house, and he's not like one of those religious freaks either.

But, he was a Marine. Hell – I guess you could say he's still a Marine, even though he's retired from the Corps.

"Once a Marine, always a Marine."

That's what he says.

I just don't think it was in his head that his first and only son would be a fag. And, I mean, I'm not much of a fag, really. I'm more like him: big and jocky.

I just use that word because he used it lot when I was growing up – so I know that's what was probably going through his head when I came out. That his son was a fag.

"Fag" is a weird word. One the one hand, I pretty much hate it, because so many assholes use it to denigrate dudes like me, especially dudes who aren't as strong and tough as me.

On the other hand, I like calling myself fag, because I am a fag. And, I like being a fag, because guys turn me on. Men, too. (Well, men, mostly. You know – real men.) I guess you could say I own being a fag, and I own the word, too.

Like I said: "fag" is a weird word.

But, back to my Pops. It kind of pissed me off the way he reacted, because otherwise I was everything he wanted me to be, everything he'd pushed me to be. Not because I was trying to get his approval or anything like that – but, because, deep down he's a good guy. He's the kind of guy that makes you want to be your best. Tough, but fair. A natural leader – knowing when to push you hard, knowing when to back off, and always there if you needed him.

I think that's why he did so well in the Marines. He commanded respect, not by being an asshole, but by being . . . him.

So, when I told him I was gay – cuz, the asshole, he'd always taught me to tell the fucking truth – it pissed me off that he couldn't handle it. Got distant. Even kind of shitty sometimes.

And, yeah – it fucking hurt.

Aw hell. I guess I did want his approval. That's why I'd kicked ass in sports. That's why I'd done good in school – not great, but better than any of the other jocks I hung out with. Top ten percent in my class.

So, when I didn't get his approval for my "lifestyle", as he liked to call it, it pissed me off.

I coulda gone either way, I guess – coulda just said "Fuck it" and become a stoner or something, gotten in trouble and shit. But, that seemed like the loser's way out – would only confirm his fucked up view of me being a fag. (Sorry. Of me being gay.)



Instead, in my last year of high school I pushed myself – hard. Being at home sucked, given how distant he was, so I spent a lot of time at the gym, packing on muscle, and as much time as I could at the library, workin' hard to get my grade point up so I could get to college on my own terms, and not have to ask that fucker for any help.

See? I was pretty pissed.

But, I got that football scholarship, with a work-study job, which meant I could pay my own way – well, nearly, cuz mom helped me with some spending money, but other than that, I did it on my own.



Mom and dad had split about ten years ago. I stayed with dad, mom got my sister, and mostly it was cool. They weren't mean or crazy or anything to each other – just basically decided that they didn't like each other as much as when they were young, so decided to break it off, before they got really mean or cruel or unhappy. It seemed smart to me.

But, I was psyched to split from Dad when the time came, because of how weird he'd gotten. I think my leaving hit him pretty hard, because he seemed to get really fucked up about it a few days prior to my heading out. He asked me if I wanted to have a party at the house with the guys on the team, but by then it was too late – and I shrugged it off.



The morning I left, I just packed up the car – which I'd bought with my own money, after saving for a couple of years – and headed out the door.



He was standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at his feet.

My dad's a big guy – like, really pretty big. But, he looked kinda small to me that day. I didn't have him in size, but as I said, I'd been workin hard, so I was thick and cut.

I was thinking of something nice to say, but he still had me pretty pissed off, so I just stuck out my hand and said, "So – see ya."

He took my hand, holding it strong. He wasn't gonna let it go.

"Look, kid – I – uh . . . "





I cut him off.

"Pops – I gotta split. It's a three hour drive, and I got to sign in, find my room and then report to practice in the afternoon."



We stood there, looking at each other. I could swear he was about to lose it, but Pops was always a little hard to read.

Then he reaches back with his other hand and pulls out this thick envelope from his back pocket.

"Here's some cash, kid, for your first year."

"I don't need your money, Pops. I got this."

The old man wasn't hard to read when he was mad, though. His face got all red and his hand gripped mine harder, but I didn't let go: of his gaze or his grip. I wasn't gonna back down from the asshole now. If anything, it made me stand up stronger.

Eventually, his face softened, he let go of my hand, and said, "Alright – get outta here. Kick some ass, son."



I tossed my bag in the trunk and headed out. He just stood there, but I didn't look back.

* * * * *

I think the distance helped – both of us. School was tough, and practice was tougher than anything I did in high school. But, I started as tight end, which was pretty cool, and pushed myself harder than I ever had.



Just to be clear, it's not like I was gonna go pro or anything. I'm a big guy, about 195 all in. But, this was a state school and it wasn't like any of us was going to be recruited for the NFL or anything. That didn't mean we didn't give it our all, though. We did. And, it showed.

Dad started calling pretty regularly. I could tell he was trying, even though he didn't seem to be able to shoot the shit like we'd done before I came out. The guys on the team were cool with me being `that way', mostly because I didn't take any shit, and didn't come on to them in the locker room, or anything like that. (Fuck – not that I didn't think about it – there was some meat on the team, and muscle, but I kept that shit under wraps, cuz I didn't want to cause any problems. Not that I didn't catch a few of them looking funny at me every once in a while. But, I was a freshman. I knew my place, kept my head down, worked like a motherfucker and pulled my weight – more than my weight.)

Dad started inviting himself up for the home games, and it was good to know he was in the stands. Hell, thousands of fans in the stadium and I could hear his voice screaming and shouting.

The few times we went out for brews with the team after the game, he hung with the guys and they loved his loud, drunk ass.

Like I said, my dad was a natural leader – the guys flocked to him, the cheerleaders flirted with him, and I'm sure as shit he scored some pussy every once in a while when he visited.

It still wasn't normal for us – the guys caught the vibe, and they'd ask what was up with me and The Boss (that's what they called him), but I just shrugged it off and they backed off. I guess they figured it was our shit to deal with, not theirs, but they loved the old man when he showed up.

When we won – which was pretty often – he'd buy a round for everyone. He'd hang with the coaches, too, which kind of made me nervous, especially when I'd see him corner one of the staff and have these long conversations in the back of the bar. I knew they were talking about me – but I figured it was none of my business.



He was my dad, after all. That's what dad's are supposed to do – talk to the coaches about their kids.



Before classes came to an end after the first year, Pops would call me and ask about my plans for the summer, telling me he could get me a job at one of his buddy's construction sites or something.



I was non-committal, `cuz, I was trying to make my own plans – was still playing that `gonna be a man on my own terms' game.

Eventually, I hooked a job working as an assistant with the summer athletic program. I got free room and board, decent pay, access to the gym, and figured I could get ahead on my classes for next year – since the first year kind of kicked my ass academically, given the amount of time I had to dedicate to the team.

When I called dad and told him I was stayin' on campus for the summer, I could tell he was bummed out – a little pissed even. But, like I said – he was a good man and I knew he couldn't fault me for making my own way – taking care of my business, as he would say.

He didn't like it, but he respected it.



At the end of the conversation, when things were just kind of hanging there, he said, "I'm proud of you, kid. You're taking care of your shit. That's . . . that's a good thing."



"Thanks, Pops."



Then, unexpectedly he said, "I'm gonna miss the hell out of ya, though."

I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what to say.



"Alright," he said. "I gotta go. Keep in touch and work your ass off." Then, he hung up.

The summer sped by. I did work my ass off, had a lot of fun coaching some of the high school kids who signed up for the athletics intensives, and maintained a work-out schedule that was focused and disciplined. My core strength improved and it even felt like I was growing still – finally moving into the body I'd always dreamed of having.

The only problem was all the guys I'd fucked around with that first year had split for the summer, and the campus was pretty much dead. So, my sex life sucked. I took to hanging out at some of the parks, and in a basement tea-room that got a little action, but for the most part there wasn't much going on. Beating off was getting boring, and by the end of the summer, my balls were aching on a pretty constant basis.



And, no, there wasn't much online action, either – mostly queens that didn't flip my switch. Some of the older dudes were okay, but none of them were the kind of guys I wanted to fuck around with. You know – guys. Like, men, who didn't give a shit how they smelled, and just wanted to get sweaty and dirty for extended sessions of dick-sucking and ass-fucking.

Blue collar guys. Like my dad.

Yeah – I'm a freak that way. Don't take it the wrong way. I'd been jonesing on my dad pretty much all my life, even when I was just a kid, and didn't know a thing about sex. But, once I figured out I was gay, and especially after I starting shooting loads, he was in my fantasies a lot. It's not like I tried anything with him, or fagged out when we hit the gym on the base. Eventually, though, when me and a buddy started trading blow jobs, I began focusing on other guys. And, when dad got all fucked up after I came out of the closet, that pretty much killed my fantasies about him for good.

Still, his type is the kind of guy that really flips my switch: older, hairy, a few days of stubble, big and thick – even a little gut that starts to show with a guy who has a few years on him.

Cuz, most of the guys I fucked around with at school – well, some were on the swim team or just normal gay guys that have a thing for jocks. I can pretty much tell what's going on with them. I see it in their eyes. I'm the Jock-Stud Ideal that they fantasized about in high school, and could never get. So, when they're down on their knees, slobbing on my cock, they're living out this intense fantasy and I'm happy to play the part. Who doesn't like having their muscles worshipped or their pits licked – or having a guy beg you to fuck him like a bitch?



It's hot – turns me on. But, I don't get to be a bottom-boy for a big hot daddy-type, hardly ever, and the more you don't get something, the more you crave it, especially if that's the thing you want most of all.

By summer's end, I was going stir-crazy. I hadn't been fucked in over a year, it seemed like my balls were churning constantly, and I'd worked my ass off at the gym, but didn't have anyone to appreciate it. Plus, I'd been working extra hours at the job, and hitting the books, so things were definitely coming to a head. I needed a break, but was too proud to go home, and too broke to take a trip anywhere.



The thought of hanging out on campus between the end of the summer programs and the beginning of the semester pretty much drove me crazy.

So, when dad called out of the blue, a few days before the job ended, and invited me up to the family cottage, I jumped at the chance.

I think he caught my eagerness on the phone, and I could sure as hell hear his when I said yes. Plus, I could tell he was trying - and that made me feel good.



Real good.

I missed him – really bad by this point – and I was getting pretty messed up by how fucked up things had gotten between us. I figured this may be a chance to figure some shit out or – worst case scenario - just flat out tell him that this crap sucked and he better deal with the fact that I was into guys, and get the fuck over it.

And, the family cottage . . . well, it's a pretty special place.

He owned it with his two brothers – it had been left to him by their dad, and had been in the family for years. Dad got the most use of it, since he lived closest, but they rotated usage, and rented it out for vacations when it was empty. It was pretty spectacular. Up in the mountains, remote, on a pristine lake with just a few other cabins. The surrounding area was state land, so it wasn't crowded. I'd spent the best summer vacations of my life at the place, and loved it.



After dad had gotten out of the Corp, he'd spent a whole summer up there, doing a top-to-bottom renovation. I'd helped him out, and it was the best memory I had from my childhood. He and mom we're getting ready to split, and I think the time alone, with me, helped him figure that shit out. In turn, it was the summer I realized I needed to come clean about my sexual orientation, because being in close quarters with him for three months pretty much confirmed that it was dudes that pushed my buttons.



I didn't come out to him then – but I came out to myself, if you know what I mean.

That summer was also the summer when the place became my own – when I realized that one day me and my sister and the cousins would take over, carrying on the tradition. We worked on every part of that cottage, from the guts to the finishes, and it made me proud every time I came back that it was me – and dad – who had turned it into a showcase.

He was up there already working on some shit, and I agreed I would hit the road Friday night, arriving late. I was stoked. I needed a break and needed to see the old man. It hurt, the crap between us, and I was tired of it hurting. I was apprehensive about how things might play out, but mostly I just wanted it to be over, so we could get back to where we needed to be.

After helping the summer kids get the fuck off campus, I loaded up the car and headed out – later than I wanted, but exhilarated to be on my way. I texted Pops that I was gonna be late, and not to wait up.

But, he did. Of course. So like him.

The lights were on when I pulled up around 1:00 a.m. I stumbled into the cabin, and there he was, sittin' at the table, sipping a beer.

"Hey Pops – I told ya not to wait up."

"Not possible, kid – not how I operate."

I smiled at him. This is the dude I loved so much – the guy who couldn't sleep until he was sure his kid had arrived safe.

"Good to be here," I said.

"Good to see you," he replied. He gave me the once over. "Shit, kid – you been putting in some real time at the gym."

I blushed. Didn't really know what to say. "Yeah – uh . . . pretty much all I been doing this summer – you know, other than workin'."

"Put your old man to shame." He grabbed his gut, patting it. (And, to be clear, it wasn't much of a gut – just a little extra weight, and I thought it looked good on him. Real good. Solid. Like a man should look.)

Before I even knew what I was saying, it came out. "Fuck dad – you still got it. You look good – real good."

Now it was his turn to blush. The moment hung between us. "Fuck," I thought. "Fucking fag – so damn horned up, I put my foot in it." I figured I had crossed the line, and was freaking out that I'd screwed up our chance to put our shit to rest.

But, then he did something unexpected. He got up from the table and crossed the room, quickly – motherfucker still had that athletic base, could move when he needed to. Before I knew it, he'd grabbed me, pulled me into him hard, held me tight.

"I missed you, kid. Been missing you bad. Good to see you."



I grabbed him back, buying my head under his chin. Thought I was gonna lose it right there. I breathed hard, to gain control, and when I did his pungent scent hit my lizard brain, electrifying my body, swelling my groin, boiling my nuts.



I just held him tight. My muscles clutching him, communicating that I wasn't gonna let go until I was ready. He stood steady and took it.

"I missed you too, Pops," I hoarsed out of my throat. "Real bad."



We stood like that for a while. Seemed like a long while. Finally I had to release, because I was about to have a real problem in my pants. My cock was like a stallion, waiting to charge out of the gates, and I needed to get control.

This was not about sex for me – ever. (Well, not most of the time.) It was about love. About the hurt I'd been feeling, and the anger, and the fact that I needed to be loved by him again, unconditionally, the way he'd love me when I was growing up. The way he'd always loved me, until the wall had sprung up between us.

Shit if I didn't see water in the old man's eyes, in the dim light of the kitchen. I thought about hiding my own, but couldn't do it. I needed him to know how much I loved him. So, I just looked at him as I wiped the tears from my eyes.

It was a moment. Pretty sure I'm never gonna forget it.

Then, typical him, he said, "You want a beer, or you want to unpack?"



"I want both," I said. "But, then I'm gonna crash – I'm fucking beat, and I'm pretty sure you got a few things for me to do, starting early."



"Aw hell no, kid. I'll let you sleep in. How's 7:00 sound? I'll even give you fifteen minutes for breakfast." He saw my surprise, and then he burst out laughing. The old man was back, and it was good.

I mean - I still felt a little something was being held in, but the wound was healing, that's for sure.



I unpacked quickly, and slammed back a beer, giving him a basic update of the summer. He just listened, looking at me – appraising my . . . growth. Not just my body, but myself. The coaching I'd done, the kids I'd helped, school, studies, all that shit. The love life was off limits, but everything else poured out.

Then he cut me off.



"That's it, kid. You're going to bed. We got ten days up here –"

"I thought it was just a week?" I asked.





"Naw – we had a cancellation, so I'm taking the extra time." He paused. "I mean, if you need to get back . . . but, you can hang out, if you want. Love to have you."

"I – uh – I'll see. I have to check the schedule."



"Anyway – got some shit to do tomorrow, couple of projects."



"As always."

"You can chill, kid. You been working your ass off. Looks like you need the break."



"I'll be there. Maybe sleep in a bit."



"Lazy fuck."

My anger flashed – the wound was still sore – but then he busted out laughing again. He turned, headed to his bedroom. "Good night, kid. Get some sleep." I could hear him laughing as he unleashed a long stream of piss in the downstairs bathroom.

I headed up stairs, stripped down, and hit the bed. My cock was still chubbing a bit, but I figured I had more than enough time to get some private moments out in the woods. I'd brought the lube and poppers – couple of buttplugs – and planned some long sweaty sessions in my favorite hiding spots out back. Thinking of that – and the old man, and this place – I fell off the cliff, to sleep, long and hard.

* * * * *

The next morning I woke in a fog. It was bright out. I turned to look at the old alarm clock – 9:30.

Fuck.

I'm sure the old man had been up for hours. He had a thing about `rise and shine' – he never shook it off from the Corps. I was surprised that he hadn't pulled me out of bed, but maybe he was serious about letting me get some rest.

I pulled on a fresh pair of tightie-whities, pushing my piss-hard cock to the side. I figured, what the fuck. If we were gonna get back to normal, that meant hanging out in next to nothing, like we used to do in the early days, after he and mom had split.

I stumbled out on the massive deck and took in the view of the pristine lake. God, I loved this place.

I hadn't seen him sitting off to the side.



"Lazy ass," he said. Scared the shit outta me.

There he was, glugging a bottle of water, covered with sweat. Shirt off, holding it in his hands. Work boots. Low-slung jeans all filled out. God he looked good.

He'd obviously been working out in the woods, and had come back to take a break.

I thought maybe he was in one of his moods, but then I caught the smirk, and the quick wink.

"Fuck you, old man," I said, and then took off down the hill, running high speed, pumping my legs, showing the speed I'd been working on all summer. I hit the dock and propelled myself into the lake, letting out a whoop that must have reverberated against the hills that rose from all sides.

It was cold – really cold – but felt so damn good. I swam back to the dock and hauled myself up. Then, whipped out the dick – which had fortunately shrunk in cold-shock – and pissed long and hard into the lake. I could feel dad's eyes on me, but it's not like I was gonna get in trouble. We used to piss in the lake all the time – it was kind of our thing. If shit was gonna get back to normal, that meant doing the things we used to do, before he got all weirded out.

I trotted back up the hell, sucking in the fresh air. Other than the nearly constant ache in my balls, I was feeling pretty good. I was glad he'd invited me – was glad to be here.

I strode up to the deck, still dripping wet.

"So – we got some work to do, I hear."

He just looked at me – like he wasn't listening.

"What, Pops?"

"Damn, kid. You really have put on some muscle."



I finally copped to my near nudity, kind of embarrassed.

"Yeah – you know, not much to do all summer after work. I been putting in a lot of time at the gym."

He whistled, low. It wasn't sexual in any way – at least that wasn't the vibe. Hell, it turned me on, but I knew it was more of an acknowledgement of progress. I felt his eyes raking me, up and down.

I felt good. Happy. Playful. I thought I'd push the envelope.

"Like what you see, Pops?" I hit a pose, flexing my forearms, splaying out the delts. Then I crunched, arms in front of me, biceps bulging, abs ripping down my stomach – pushed the pecs out hard as I could.

But, in his eyes I recognized that more was going on. I remembered his comment last night, and coupled with his strange look right now, I began to realize that he really believed he was slipping – that somehow he'd lost it. Never mind that the fucker was such a stud, but guys of a certain age get shit in their heads, you know? Mid-life crisis and crap.



I think he believed he was no longer a match for my young body, and I could see it bothered him.

I stopped the posing,

"We both know you could still kick my ass, Pops."



"Do we? Not so sure any more."



"Hell – you ain't gonna let a fag take you down, are ya?"

I don't know what had gotten into me. Maybe it was the mountain air, the cold water, the good sleep - or just this overwhelming desire to make things right with him. Easy.

For a moment he hesitated, but then he busted a gut.

"I don't know, Junior. I've met a few tough fags in my day. Crazy motherfuckers – "

He strode past me, and slapped my butt, hard.

"You gonna get your shit together, or lie around on your ass all day?"



He headed into the kitchen, busting out some eggs and bacon. I was starved, and headed up to change clothes. And, yeah, I was intrigued. Pops had never told me any stories about meeting `a few tough fags'. I wondered what that meant.

Over breakfast, I asked him what the plan was.

"Big ass elm down out back – got taken out in the last storm. Crushed part of the fence, too. Need to break it down, haul the crap to the brush pile, set the logs out for drying and – if we got time – see what we can do with the fence."



"Easy. I got this, Pops. You're so outta shape, you can just supervise."



I winked, quickly, and flashed him a smile.

"You're getting awfully mouthy, for a teenager."



"Nearly twenty, Pops. All growed up and `bout to be a man."



"Uh huh – we'll see about that. Maybe I should take you down a notch."



I cleared away the plates. It was getting late – for us – and I wanted to get out and get some woods on.

"I don't know, dad. I hear tell some fags are real crazy motherfuckers –

He rose, glugging the rest of his coffee.

"And, where the hell did all this shit-ass-fucking language come from, dickwad? I taught you better than that."

I snapped to, like he'd taught me.

"Sir, yes, sir, you taught me better than that, sir. I apologize for my shit-ass-fucking language, sir! I'll clean it the mother-fuck up!"



It was back to our old routine. Felt good. Not completely normal – I could tell we were both feeling each other out. But, I also knew that we were making an effort to figure out where we were now - that neither one of us wanted to stay stuck where we'd been for the last couple of years.

Dad packed some sandwiches he'd made. I threw in some fruit and filled a couple of water bottles. It was hot. The woods would be cool, but we were gonna work up a good sweat, easy. We tossed the chainsaws and gear in the back of the tractor, and he hopped on, starting it up. I jogged along side, getting the blood pumping.



It was back in the day.

The place had about eight acres out back, nearly all woods, with some clearings. Dad had worked most of his life keeping it clean. There were paths and hiding places. I'd spent the best days of my life back there with him, hauling brush, keeping it clear. Me and the cousins would play for hours – cowboys and Indians or Capture the Flag. When we got older, we'd head out back, while the adults drank beers on the deck – smoking a joint, which sometime lead to grab ass, which sometime lead to a little more. Circle jerks by a fire, and a little more with my cousin Eddy, who liked to push things as far as he could. I was always game for that. It's where I figured out what I liked about guys: sweat, smells, spit, cum & cock.



I started to bone up in my work-shorts, and pushed that image aside. Suddenly dad stopped. I looked up.

The tree was huge – a big stump protruding out of the ground, right at the back-edge of the property.

"Shit," I said. We just stood there, looking at it. "I remember this one – big fucker."



"Yeah – she's been here as long as I can remember." He stood up. It was a bit somber, looking at the majesty of the tree, felled. I broke the spell.

"Damn Pops – what is that, a hundred years or something."



Quick as a whip he hauled off and slapped me upside the head. Just hard enough to make me stumble a bit, just gentle enough to show me he was playing.

"Respect your elders, dickhead. Let's get to work."



We fired up the chainsaws and then, it was all work. We hit our stride quickly. The old rhythms kicked in easily. We cut out the branches, piling them on the flat-bed that was attached to the tractor. When it was full, he'd head off to the brush pile, and I'd keep cutting. Pretty soon, sweat was pouring. The shirts stayed on, though, because of the brush and saws, and pretty soon we were soaking wet. We worked like that for hours, knowing the natural time to break – when all the branches had been cleared and hauled.

Three hours later we sat on the big old tree, wolfing down the sandwiches, gulping water. We were dirty, covered in saw-dust, beginning to emit a nice strong funk. I wondered if dad was hurting with the labor, but he didn't show it. If anything, he seemed energized – like he needed this exercise - like he needed someone to work with, to push him, get the old groove back.

After we finished the sandwiches, we just sat for a while, enjoying the peace. It was the high-heat of the day, mid-afternoon. We were on the western edge of the time zone, so we still had hours of light. It was a still day – usually there was a westerly blowing pretty constantly, but this late in the summer, there were lots of days like this. The last, powerful, sweltering days of summer. Even the birds seem to be resting in the August heat.



"I love this place," I said.

"I love this place, too, kid. Always have."

"Always will," I replied.

There was a pause and I knew we were about to back to work.

"Thanks for inviting me, dad. I needed this."



He looked at me and I held his gaze. He remained silent – as he sometimes did – but his eyes spoke volumes.

"Back to work," he said, again, with that smile of his, that always got me.

We gassed up the chainsaws and began breaking down the monster.

* * * * *

We worked the rest of the afternoon, pushing ourselves hard. I kept an eye on the old man, but he wouldn't be stopped. When I could, I made sure that I was the guy to lift the biggest logs, building the stack that we'd leave to dry for a year or so, before splitting it to add to our winter wood-pile. It was great exercise – my core had never been stronger, and I reveled in the ability to lift these huge chunks of wood. My veins were popping, my chest was puffed out, my ass and legs burned, but damn it felt good to just get lost in hard, sweaty labor.

When we got to the section of the tree that had crushed the fence, we both stopped, turning off the chainsaws. Dad's chest was pumping, and I could see his body hair matted with sweat. The funk that steamed off him got me a little dizzy. His pants kept riding down, and I saw more and more of his hairy crack. Fuck, I wanted to bury my face in there, smell his musk, lick the wet sweat from the trench, explore his most private place.

I shook my head – trying to clear those images from my horned brain.

"Well, shit," he said. "Gonna have to call a crew in to fix this."



I looked at the smaller logs that we hadn't broken down yet.

"Naw, Pops. I got this. Can fix it up fine enough for the winter at least."



I turned, and jumped on the tractor.

"Where the hell you going?" he asked.



"Tools – be right back." I fired up the tractor, then stuck it in neutral, jumping back off. "Also – gotta get water. We need to stay hydrated."

"I'm fine – burning off this extra weight."



"First of all, I keep telling you, Pops, the weight looks good. Real good."

I could give a fuck anymore what he thought. I was pumped with testosterone, my muscles were flexed, the smells off our body had put me in some kind of musky nirvana, and I wanted him to feel better about himself. Fucker was a stud. Had me all wound up. Wanted him to know that some guys – ladies too – would give just about anything to get with a hunk like him.

"So, cut that shit out. You got miles on just about any dude your age, and you need to know it."



He just stood there, looking kind of stupid, like he didn't really know what to say or how to take the compliment.



I reached into the cooler and pulled out two apples, one for him and one for me.



"And, do me a favor," I said, tossing one to him. "Eat this – we need to keep up our energy, and I don't want you keeling over in the back woods, cuz you're trying to pull some kind of Jane Fonda workout diet."

"Yes, mommy," he said.

I pulled away. But, as I looked back, he was chowing on the fruit, doing what I told him.

On the way back the tractor's rumble hit my hole and nuts. I could have pulled it out right there, dug in my ass and whipped one off – but I didn't want him wondering where I went to, and I needed my energy to pull off this one last chore.



Still, the nuts were pulsing. No matter what, I was gonna have a good time tonight – clean out the hole, work it with a plug, and shoot a huge load thinking of dad's sweaty ass and what I knew was his big, daddy dick. (Yeah, okay – I'd scoped it out in the showers, more than few times. Other times, too. What kid doesn't look at his dad's dick?)

I tossed a bunch of tools on the flatbed, filled the water bottles and was back in a flash. He was chain-sawing again, but I gave him the water, standing firm, expecting him to drink. Fucker was a little put off by my new assertiveness, but I didn't care. I spent the summer reading up on fitness, and knew my shit. Man needed water and he was gonna drink some on my watch.



He did, draining nearly half of the gallon jug.



Then, I directed him away from the space, and he finished off the rest of the big trunk.

I sawed off several mid-sized branches – the strong and straight ones, honing the edges to a point with the chain saw. I needed three, and had them done in no time. Then I cut out what was left of the shattered posts, preserving as much of the fencing as I could. Next it was the postholes – digging out the poles slammed into the ground by the trunk, making way for the new posts I'd just fashioned. It was tough work, and digging in the dirt got me covered in grime. I was loving it – kind of getting obsessed about showing the old man what I could do to help around the place.



With a sledge I drove those fuckers down, deeper than the holes I'd dug, to make sure they had a firm footing, burying them up so they stood strong. Then, using tools I'd pulled from the workshop, I restrung the fence as best as I could, with what remained of the fence. It was patchwork – not a pro job by any means – but enough of a base to build on. With a run to the hardware store I could get the wires and fencing I needed to cover the gaping holes, and it would hold through winter, at least. We could do a proper repair next year.



As I nailed the fencing to the posts, twisting the wires to tighten the hold, I didn't even notice that dad's saw had stopped running. Pretty soon the quiet crept into my consciousness and I pulled myself from concentration, looking around. Dad sat atop the pile of logs we'd stacked, legs spread, holding the water bottle, looking at me. I caught his appraisal. I wondered how long he'd been studying me as I worked to do a job that – let's face it – I wanted him to be proud of.

I felt self-conscious. I was covered in dirt and saw dust, shirt and shorts soaked, hairy legs smeared with sweat. But, I could tell – I fucking knew – that I passed muster.



Fuck if my chest didn't swell.

I stepped back, surveying the work. It was a fix, nothing more, but it was solid.

He jumped off the post and strode over. It was inspection, and I knew it, so I stood at parade, like he'd taught me. He took a good hard look, testing the repairs and the holds. Then, he kicked a couple of the posts. They didn't give. At all.

He turned, towering over me. I mean – he didn't tower but he had pretty decent height on me – always would. But, I felt like a little kid again, waiting to hear his words of approval. I was looking at my boots now. There was a dynamic, and I'd given in to it. He said nothing, so I looked up at him. He'd taken his shirt off – my eyes wandered up his big chest, my mouth watering at the thought of sucking his pecs, getting lost in the forest of his chest hair. Then, I met his eyes. They were deep grey pools, revealing nothing but pride.

He reached up and tussled my head. I caught the intense whiff of his sweaty pit.

"Nice work, kid. Really nice."

"Thanks, dad," I choked out.

"Let's get a swim and kick back with some beers. I'm fucking thirsty."



"Yes, Sir," I enthused.



He threw his arm around my neck, which turned into a glancing hug. Then, we walked back to the tractor, picking up tools up along the way.

It was early evening. The job was done.



* * * * *

Down by the dock, dad started pulling out his dick, ready to let loose. I wanted to see it, but I was worried I would bone – so on impulse, I just reached out and pushed him into the water.

"You mother –" and under he went, fully clothed. He came up, choking.

"You little fucking bitch."



I dove in, and he came after me, grabbing my legs, pulling me down. We wrestled in the water, dunking each other, playfully.

And, then, it wasn't playful. He pulled my neck into a headlock, but I slipped away, yanking him down. Then, I was on his back as he stood to get his purchase. I had him now, and my muscles were straining against his.

For a second I thought of loosening my grip, giving him a chance, then all those Sunday morning football practice sessions – Pop Warner league – flashed in my memory, him yelling at us, telling us to `grind your opponent into the dirt.'



"Fuck it, Pops," I thought.

I wanted to show him what I was about now – show him that just because I was gay, it didn't mean I wasn't a tough sonofabitch. I held on, gripping him, using everything I had to assert myself on the big man.

Motherfucker held on, but I had him, and he knew it. He struggled back, but he couldn't break free. My muscles were too young, too worked out. My bulk – which wasn't close to his - had been honed to its peak.

I felt him hold, and then slowly he relaxed, giving in. I'd won.

I loosened the grip, and then his elbow jammed into my stomach. He'd done hand-to-hand combat in the Corps, and I'd let my guard down, too early. The surprise of the hit, coupled with the loss of air from the gut-punch, startled me.

"Motherfucker hit me," I thought, but realized, yet again, that he'd used just enough strength to put me off center, but not enough to actually hurt me.

Old man still had skills.



In an instant, he was on me, scissoring his big legs around my thighs, immobilizing them, pulling one hand behind my back, shoving it up to just near-dangerous levels and not a millimeter more. The other arm wrapped around my throat, constricting the blood flow to my brain, tightening my esophagus. I could breathe, but I was gasping, and the shock of the hit, his strength and the reduced oxygen, had me immobilized. I struggled once, and he tightened everything, like a python. His entire body strained against mine, enveloping me, dominating me. We held there, his body grinding into mine. I could feel his bulge against my tight ass, could feel him pushing his pelvis into my butt. And, fuck, it was stiff. Not rock hard, but close enough. The eroticism surged, weakening me further. It felt so good to be held by him like that, so rough, so fucking dangerous. We were pushing the limits of our encounter – just this side of violence, and just this side of porn. I tried one last time to get release, but my heart wasn't into it. I didn't want to get free. It was just an excuse to push my ass into his crotch and feel as much of his manhood as I may ever get to feel in this position.

And, he let it happen.

He let me grind into his cock, now full hard, even though wet clothing was layered between our contact.

I was getting dizzy, weakening.

"I give."



"What?" he growled into my ear.

"I give, sir."



"I can't hear you, boy." He tightened again. I didn't think it was possible. It was like he was smothering me with this overwhelming brutishness – so fucking virile and so fucking male. The light was shifting. It was getting dark around the edges.

"I give, daddy."

He held a split second more, pushing to the outer edge of safety and sanity, and pushing his crotch into my ass, unmistakably. My body let loose – all the strain went out of my muscles. I melted into him, surrendering.

And, his grip relaxed. He eased off me, but slowly, maintaining complete control as he dialed down his strength.

I gasped for air, standing in the waist-high water. He tried to hide his exertion, but I knew he'd taken it to the limit, too. A minute passed. Then another.

It took me a while to regain my breathe and my equilibrium. I splashed water on my face, still bent over, and he waded toward the shore, standing knee deep.

Then he turned, facing me, pulled open his pants and hauled out his cock. It was no longer hard, but it wasn't soft either, just real heavy, curving down with heft. He wrapped his big fist around it and I eyed the thing, not caring if he saw me looking. He let loose a huge stream of piss, finishing the job that I'd interrupted, and making a show of it, too.

"Guess the old man still has it," he grunted, letting out his stream.

I pulled up and waded out.

"Guess he does," I said, while looking at the huge piece of meat he displayed, marking the cool water where he'd imposed his will.

* * * * *

I stripped off heading up the hill, my body pulsing, my mind racing. Dad would use the lake to rinse off, but I needed a shower to clear my head.



So many thoughts, as I stood under the hot stream, nearly scalding. I soaped up, feeling my crotch, digging in my hole. I thought about beating off, but I wanted to keep this incredible man-vibe going, and I needed sperm in my nuts to do that – to play at this level.

I didn't know what was going on, but I wasn't gonna hold back. Even without the danger in the lake, it had been an incredible day, dad and I finding our old dance, retesting our relationship, getting back to some kind of normal. But, the sexual vibe had ratcheted, too, and the near fight had somehow bonded us, while at the same time, setting back the proper roles. He'd put me in my place and damned if that's not just what I wanted and needed.

On a whim (or a wish) I pulled out the travel bulb from my kit, lubed up my hole and cleaned out. It was just a fantasy that I'd get his cock up there, but with the roles now set, it seemed completely natural that I be ready. If anything was gonna happen, we both knew who would be doing what to whom. I had a duty. Dad had taught me that. Duty to serve. To prepare. To be ready. To know what part you played. To play that part well – the best that you could.

So, I got ready. After all, a kid could dream couldn't he?





It was the end of the day, but the light was fading slowly. I threw on some tight jeans that highlighted every asset, but stayed shirtless. It was still hot.

I went to the kitchen to pull out a couple of beers, and then headed out to the deck.

I expected dad to be there.



But, I didn't expect him to be nude.

He was kicking back – and he was already working on a beer, with a cold one next to my chair, waiting.



"I got some beers."



"Good," he said, chugging the remains of his. He belched, and it reverberated in the hills. "I'm thirsty."



I handed him the new brew, and pulled on my own, chugging the whole thing, standing next to him. I echoed his belch, louder, more forcefully.

Then I sat, and nursed the next one.

There was quiet, but I couldn't let go of the fact that the old man was sitting there, buck-ass naked. Still, I tried to let it be, enjoying the silence, adapting to this next new reality.

The setting sun beat down on us. I began to sweat. I couldn't tell how much of the glean on his body was from the lake, and how much was caused by the late evening fireball, dipping slowly behind the hills, across the lake. It was magnificent. All of it. His older, thick, hairy naked frame, my worked out body, pumped from the day's work, the pristine setting, the booze, the heat.

The buzz of the first beer hit me. My body was tired and hungry, and I'd used up the fuel from earlier in the day. We chugged again, belching simultaneously.

He stood and strode to the kitchen. I looked back, checking out his beefy ass. Fuck, he was hot.

He returned with four more beers, a bottle of whiskey and a couple of shot glasses. He poured the shots, gave one to me.



"Good work today." Then we nailed the shots together.

"You too."



He sat, picking up another beer.

I went there. Had to. Couldn't help myself.

"So, Pops, you a nudist now?"



"Yeah, about that – "

He took a long draw on his beer. "I figured since you got no secrets, I may as well not worry about mine. Gotten to the point – up here at least – that clothes just bother me. `Specially on a night like this. Like to let it hang out. Lately, when I'm up here and the weather's like this – clothes have pretty much become a pain in my ass."

"Cool," I whispered.

"You got a problem with it?" he asked directly. It wasn't a challenge, just a question. (Well . . . it was a bit of a challenge, I think.)

"Naw – it's . . . Naw. I'm cool."



"Feel free, if you want to. We got nothing to hide."



I wanted to – damn I wanted to – but I was throwing wood already and barely able to hide it. I couldn't imagine sitting there all hard and dripping, pretending that nothing was going on.

"Understood."



We sat. His look was distant. Relaxed. He wasn't looking at me so I could take him in. His cock hung over the chair, hooded. His bull balls were resting above, on the edge of the chair – in repose. So fucking masculine. So much of everything I desired.

He spoke. "About that . . . "

"About what?"





"About no secrets . . . I got something to say."



I waited.

It wasn't like he was having difficulty – more that he was taking his time. He poured another couple of shots. We slammed them back. I was buzzed – the perfect buzz. Just loose enough not to care – to have no inhibitions – but not fucked up so I couldn't be in the moment.

"I've been an asshole. A real fucking asshole –"

"Pops – "

"Shut up," he said forcefully, but with quiet strength. "Let me speak."





I shut up.



"I didn't – it wasn't – you being who you are – being gay – it just was never on my radar screen." He paused, still distant, choosing his words, I think.

"When you become a dad, you think of all the good things that can happen, and you're scared shitless of all the bad things that can happen, but you never think of everything that can happen. And, where I'm from – the life I've led – in the Corps, and before, and after – it just wasn't in the cards for me that you'd be gay. Never crossed my mind. Not once. And, you were so – fuck, kid, you were such a man. A good man – and athletic, and smart, and everything. You were everything I dreamed you'd be. My kid. My son. My friend. Football, baseball – hard work, up here and in school and at practice. Going to the gym with you on the base – all the guys giving me props on my perfect fucking son. So . . . it just wasn't in my imagination that you were a cocksucker – "

I kind of flinched, and he caught it.

"Sorry, kid, that's the Corps coming out – but you gotta understand, that's what we called guys like you."



He paused.

"Sorry," he whispered. This was hard for him.



"I get it." And, I did.

"What I'm trying to say is it surprised me. Hit me like a ton of bricks. I had images of guys like you and you weren't that image – but there you were, telling me and it – it just didn't fucking compute."

He kept going. It was kind of like he'd rehearsed this, but had forgotten his lines the minute he started talking, so stuff was just spilling out.



"And, the stupid thing is all my life I've known guys like you. Hell, in the Corps the queers were always the toughest fuckers – mean as shit - brutal sometimes. So it's not like I didn't know that there are all kinds of gay guys. Sissies and queens and tough motherfuckers and some of the best damn soldiers I ever met. But – it just never . . . I don't know. I just fucked up."



"Dad –"



"Shut up, dammit. I'm trying to say I'm sorry, kid. I fucked up. And, it's not like I didn't have people up in my face about it, either. Shit, your mom went ballistic on me – hardly spoke to me the last six months she was so pissed. I hooked up with buddies from the Corps and hell – half of them have queer kids of their own, or queer nephews, and they were like, `Sarge – time's have changed. You got to let it go.' And the others, the guys from the platoon – hell, they got up in my face, saying shit like `at least he had the balls to tell you – you taught the punk to tell the truth, so don't get all bent out of shape when he follows orders, Sarge.'"

I was crying. Not balling but I felt tears coming and I let them fall, run down my face and onto my bare chest.

"And, I started going to the games and shit kid, you were standing out. So focused, so tough. And, the teammates, telling me about you – how brave you were to come out at the first team meeting, how you took no shit about it, how much they admired you for being so straight about it. And the coaches. Fuck – one of those assholes basically told me he was queer, and that I better get used to it, and if he had to pick the one kid on the team that was his son, hands down it would be you. Asshole nearly threatened to beat my ass if I didn't shape up – said I didn't know how good I had it with you; that I was gonna lose you; that I better get my head straight before it was too late, cuz a kid like you – who'd spent all of his life doing everything he could to meet the expectations of a hard-driving asshole like me – well, a kid like you was only gonna wait so long before he said `fuck it' and walked away. And, why wouldn't you? You are everything kid – everything – I wanted you to be, expected you to be, taught you to be. Everything. And, I turned my back . . . probably when you needed me most."



There was silence. He had told me to shut up, so I kept quiet. I wiped the tears from my face, and took another long pull on my beer.

"I'm so proud of you, and fuck, I'm sorry I hurt you. I've hated being distant from you – feeling your anger – which was deserved - but I still hated it."

"And, then that one coach said something that made it all click. He said, `Your problem isn't just that you don't want your son to be gay – you're problem is you can't handle the fact that he likes being gay. He likes who he is, and he's proud of who he is – and you taught him to be that way, and now you can't handle it, but what you really can't handle is that some gay dudes – they like being that way.'"

"He said, `You're problem is that he likes sucking dick – it makes him happy – and as long as you don't want him to suck dick, what you're really telling him is that you don't want him to be happy, and that is fucked up. That is completely fucked up.' That's what he said. Then he walked away."

I pictured the conversation, the look on my Pop's face, the coach getting up in it, (I was pretty sure I knew who it was and he was a tough fucker, like my dad), and then the coach stalking off, fuming, stepping away before he cold-cocked my own father, right in the bar.



We just sat there for a while.

Then, my dad said, "And you know what? That mother-fucker was right."



This time he just swigged straight from the whiskey bottle. Pops must have been buzzed, but I guess he needed it, to say what he needed to say.

"So, what I'm trying to say – what I need to say – is that I want you to be happy, kid. That's all I've ever wanted. And, if being gay makes you happy, then I want you to be gay, cuz I want you to be happy. If you like sucking cock, then I want you to suck cock. Hell – I want you to be the best goddamn cocksucker you can be, kid, and I don't care if that sounds weird, but that's what I want. I want you to be the best fag you can be and the best cocksucker you can be, and more than that, I expect nothing less."

I didn't have anything to say, so I didn't say anything. But, I reached for the bottle , he handed it to me, and I took a swig. I needed it, too. Wanted to be in this moment with him.

Eventually, I said, "Wow."



"Yeah, wow," he replied. And we sat. It was just the edge of darkness. The moon was coming up. The light was magical - mystical. Time passed, but it didn't seem to. It was like this moment we were in had made the universe stand still. I kind of got lost in it, and then I heard his voice, and it shook me out.

"So – you like sucking cock, huh?"



"Yes, Sir, I do."



"Good." He paused. He held out his hand, and I passed the bottle back.

"You good at it?" he asked, taking a swig.



"Yeah. I am. I think. I mean – yeah. I am. I love cock, dad."



"Nice. Good for you."



"It turns me on. That – and other stuff."



"Your uncle used to suck my cock – I mean, we were kids, but he liked it. Fuck, I loved it. Never felt anything that good – course at that age, never felt anything but my hand. Still . . . " He trailed off, getting kind of distant.

But, I could tell where he was . . . he was getting his cock sucked, back in the day, by his brother. I shivered, trying to figure out which one it might be.

He read my mind.

"Uncle Bill."



Huh. Bachelor Bill. Never got married. I always wondered, but he was the quiet type. Couldn't believe I hadn't pieced that together.

"And, of course, in the Corps, some of the fags – hey, do you hate the word `fag'? Or, `queer'? Is that offensive of something, cuz I'm trying to figure this shit out?" He was getting a little drunk, but it was good drunk – friendly drunk.

"No – I don't mind. I get it. I – uh, kind of like it. I am a fag – I like being queer. It's . . hard to explain."



"Yeah. I bet." Another pause. "Anyway – in the Corps –"

"But, dad –" I interrupted him. He'd opened the door, and so I had to say what I had to say, since he'd asked. (Like he used to tell me: "If someone asks you a question, give `em a straight answer. Don't beat around the bush. It may get you in trouble sometimes, but in the long run, it'll serve you well.")



"It's just - like, when you spit it out – like when you're watching a game on TV, or when you used to coach and called us fags and stuff – or the other team. That's when I don't like it. Didn't like it."

That kind of stopped him. But, I kept going.