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.

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Take six horny dudes out on the road. Turn them loose and watch what happens. Road Trip Vol. 4 is more than just a journey down to Big Sur. It’s a sexual tsunami on the California coast where unabashed and unrelenting cocksucking, ass munching and fucking climax with torrential splashes of cum.

http://freakshare.net/files/kbfb6f1x/JackTheStripper_GToons.rar.html

PART TWO

I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I’d been waiting for this for about half an hour. My breathing stopped. What now? I wondered. Is this when he beats the shit out of me for being a fag? But man, I’m not a fag. It just happened. The sound of his heavy walk ceased just outside the door. My blood coursed through my veins. There was no knock, but I could hear his breathing. He walked down the hallway to his room. The door closed. I rolled onto my side. I could feel the wet spots on my shirt from where I’d cum.

Dad was gone the next morning when I woke up. He was always gone. I made it seem unusual, given the circumstances the night before, but it wasn’t uncommon at all. I walked into the living room and looked at the scene of my sex crime: the sofa, the kitchen, his bottle of beer still sitting there. His bare chest, the flexing biceps, his mouth — the images flashed through my mind. I grabbed my bags and headed to school.

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PART ONE

Marry your high school sweetheart, join the military, see the world as one of The Few, The Proud. Have a kid, move every 6 months. Being a military brat stunk.

I was conceived in Ohio, born in Germany, and raised on every point of the globe. Dad was always being shipped somewhere else. As soon as we had adjusted to our latest surroundings, it was time to pack and relocate. The strain wore on Mom and me more than anyone. I had few friends — what was the point in making them? For her, it was the same. Mom and I turned to one another for friendship.

We were living in Osaka, Japan when I came home from school one day to see Dad sitting in the kitchen. Several of the neighbors and some military personnel were with him. I walked into the kitchen, and the conversation stilled. Dad looked up, becoming aware of my presence. He turned his head to look at me, his face somewhat ashen, eyes red.

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