Dad stood in the shower, the water slowly cascading down his arms in tiny rivulets. With an unsteady rhythm, the drops fell to the ground, forming a small puddle that spread aimlessly across the floor.

Time seemed suspended as I looked into my father’s eyes. I waited. My body shivered inside. I felt my flesh tingle with the touch of Dad’s hand on my shoulder. “Heath,” my father said softly. He placed his hand beneath my chin, supporting it gently in his hands. “Heath?”

“Y-y-yeah?” I responded, focusing my gaze.

“Well?” he asked.

I tried to compose myself. I looked into the face just inches from my own. “Huh?”

“What are you waiting for? Man, I don’t know where your mind goes sometimes, son. You were a million miles away just now. Get back down to the kitchen, kiddo. I’m starving.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “Your finger okay?”

“Hmmm? Yeah, it’s, uh, it’s okay. Hurts a little. No big deal,” I said, a bit confused.

The lieutenant put his hand on my head and quickly rubbed it around, mussing up my hair. Okay, now beat it. I’ll be down in a little bit,” he spoke, with a smile on his lips.

Banished to the kitchen, I grabbed up the knife. With one powerful, angry thrust I drove the blade between the solid frozen slices of white meat, sending one piece skittering across the counter before thumping into the wall.

•

“I’m going for a jog, wanna come with?”

I looked over the top of the magazine I was reading. Dad was squatting near the front door tightening his shoelaces. “Nah, I’m meeting a couple of the guys to play soccer in a little bit.”

“Okay, well, I’ll see you later then. When’ll you be back?”

“‘I dunno. It won’t be too late.”

“Alright. Well, lock up.” He opened the door and stepped outside.

•

It was 11:00 when I got home from the pick-up game. I was sweaty. My shirt, shorts and legs were splattered with dried mud; the rain earlier in the week had not yet dried on the practice fields. I put my cleats and gear in a corner and took off my shoes. The television was on. Dad was asleep on the couch.

“Must’ve been a long run,” I said quietly to myself. I walked across the room to the end of the couch where he lay sprawled. His white tank top was balled on the floor, thrown over his running shoes. He wore only his black running shorts. The extended body was solid and muscular. I watched his chest lightly rise and fall with his breathing. His face was turned against the cushions, with one arm across his stomach, one over his head. Even while in this relaxed position, his muscles looked flexed. His armpit was slightly lighter colored than the rest of his skin. I noticed how his tan faded to a paler shade near the mound of hair under his arms.

I moved between the sofa and coffee table. I looked down, and saw the light from the TV behind me shine through the thin material of my soccer shorts, outlining the contour of my legs. Dark blond hairs shone against my thighs, contrasting with the caked mud. I shifted my gaze to my father. His left leg hung off the couch, the right in an angled position against the back cushions. His calves protruded from behind his shins, swelled from the night’s earlier run. They were sparsely covered with the same dark hair that covered his chest and stomach. My eyes moved upward to the immense, cut thighs. The innermost part of his legs were thick with hair that grew denser as it approached his crotch. It reappeared above the top of his shorts from the ‘V’ of his stomach and rose up to his neck, stopping at the top of his sternum. His abdomen was flat and firm, symmetrically halved by a distinct deep furrow created in the muscles. His frame was solid and linear, except just above hips where it tapered in about half an inch, creating a perfect division between his body’s upper and lower halves, before thickening again.

My thoughts flashed back to when I was younger and would go with Dad to the gym to watch him spar with other military personnel. His body looked much the same now as it did then. My cock grew warm. I reached inside my Umbros and pointed it up toward the waistband. It was more comfortable this way. I tilted my neck and looked up the opening of the Dad’s running shorts. I could see the edge of the jock, which appeared full. The edge of the scrotum jutted out of the sagging pouch. I reached out my hand and lightly touched Dad’s skin, wanting to feel the warmth of his body. I rested it lightly upon the outermost part of the thigh. There was no reaction from the body below me. With a steady movement, I slid my hand further in, following the path of curly hair that led to the thick cock I had seen displayed earlier that evening.

My heart raced as I waited for any signs of movement. I looked back and forth between his face and crotch. My hand felt the moisture of the sweaty groin. As my fingertips reached the fabric of the damp jock, I traced them over the top and rested my palm gently atop Dad’s shaft and nuts. Clear liquid seeped from the tip of my own dick and darkened the front of my soccer shorts. I lightly pressed down my hand on my father’s crotch and felt the spring of flesh. I closed my eyes as I ran my hand along the outline of the cock. Even soft, it was large. I moved my hand and cautiously worked it beneath the material. I was touching my Dad’s cock. No, a Marine’s cock. It just happened to be my father. I had my hand on another man’s dick for the first time in my life; something I’d never thought about with any seriousness until the other night as I’d watched him shoot his load in front of me.

Suddenly, he moved the hand that had been resting quietly on his chiseled stomach down to his crotch. His hand was now pressing my hand harder onto his dick. There was no time to react. My heart leapt into my throat. I inhaled deeply and bit my lip. My hand trembled slightly. I stared at the Marine’s face. He was still sound asleep.

I felt it in my moist palm as the soldier’s cock began to swell with blood. This had gone too far. There wasn’t room for a hard dick and my hand in that pouch. Very gently, I made my retreat. Slowly, I pulled my fingers from inside the opening. Just as I was nearly free of danger, I felt my skin catching and pulling the flesh of the hardening military dick. The sweat from my trapped hand had stuck to the foreskin and was now pulling it out the side opening of the jock.

“Oh shit,” I mouthed silently. One at a time, I raised my fingers, detaching the dick from my grip. Dad rubbed his hand across the front of his shorts. His dick hung exposed across his inner thigh as it continued to harden. I watched as the veins became more prominent. It was bigger now than it had been in the shower. I looked down at the straining cock; the swollen head just partially visible from its sheath. I brought my hand to my face and inhaled the intoxicating aroma. I licked my open palm, searching for any lingering remains that would allow me to know what cock tasted like, to taste another man’s sweat.

I wanted to touch it again. I wanted to wrap my fingers around that cock. I had come this far; why turn back? Watching for any signs of awakening, I reached out, trembling, and touched the engorged cock again. I deftly lifted it from its passive position and encircled it with my fingers. It pulsed in my hot hand.

I watched it swell as the blood coursed through the tip before encompassing it in my grip and squeezing. It grew harder still. I slid my hand upward and slid the foreskin to the tip of the rigid shaft. The skin moved so easily. After several consistent strokes, a drop of precum glistened on the head. I touched my thumb to the liquid. Sliding my hand entirely off the sleeping soldier’s body, I brought the drop to my mouth and flicked my tongue across it.

I could take no more. As I stared at the now fully hard, seven-plus inch dick, I loosened the drawstring on my shorts, shoved them under my swollen nuts and began to jack my own hot, pulsing cock. I imagined bending and taking the head of the Marine’s shaft in my mouth, engulfing it with my lips, running my tongue over every inch of it and swallowing it deep into my throat. My Dad resumed, on his own, where I had left off. He was gripping his own cock as he slept, squeezing the shaft, forcing the head to bulge out slightly from the foreskin. Eventually he bagan milking and pulling on his meat, his hand moving quicker, his fingers slick in the ooze of pre-jizz that slid from his cock tip.

I stood over him furiously beating off. My dick was not as long or as thick as Dad’s, but there was no denying we were cut from the same cloth. I slathered the lube that gushed from my swollen head down the sides of my meat. I pounded my fist down my thick shaft. It slid smoothly between my tightened fingers. In my mind I forced apart the soldier’s teeth and raped his mouth with my tongue. I sucked the wet lips into my own. I bit the whiskered chin. I rubbed my tender flesh across the Lieutenant’s razor-stubbled face.

“Suck my cock, motherfucker. Suck it,” I imagined myself saying. I pressed my leg against my Dad’s. I shivered as my blood surged with every beat of my heart. I thrust over the soldier lying asleep below me. With each stroke, my cock grew bigger and harder. With one final pump, I felt the hot cum surge. I bit down on the inside of my mouth as the first blast hit the air.

I managed to deflect the cumshot with my fingers and spun away from the sofa. The first spray dripped from my fingers as the remainder of my load blew onto the carpet. I forced, through gritted teeth, a controlled, pleasurable moan in the form of a stream of hot breath. It was barely audible. I looked over my shoulder in fear as I heard the sounds of shifting from behind me. “Christ!” I thought. I froze. How could I explain this? I couldn’t. The evidence was too obvious. My dick was still erect and exposed; creamy strings of jism webbed my fingers. My face felt red-hot and damp. I prayed and waited. Nothing. I pulled my shorts back up, my dick slowly deflating, and quietly walked upstairs. On the top step, I turned and looked again at my father, who had repositioned himself on the couch, but remained deep in sleep.

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