As it turned out, my worries about having my 37 year old son (recently divorced) stay with me for a few weeks proved groundless, particularly after he fucked me that first night. He’d first fucked me when we went caravanning together all those years ago, he was 21 and I was 47. After some initial embarrassment we’d both come to the conclusion that we’d enjoyed it and might as well keep on, which we did.
Since then he’d been around the world and back again (ashrams, kibbutz’s, communes, etc.) and had ended up living in Sydney for the past few years. Opportunities to catch up had been few and far between, with family relations well and truly strained since his mother had gone off with another man, as had I.
He also married, disastrously, and had now fled back to Melbourne, uncertain as to what his next step would be, apart from landing on the doorstep of my small flat with a well-filled rucksack and that adorable lopsided smile on his handsome hairy face. He was, truth to tell, a sight for sore eyes and just what my own battered morale was sorely in need of.
None of the family seemed to be very good at holding down relationships, and my own with Jim had recently imploded when we’d discovered that we were fucking the same masseur; a mix-up in appointments leading to this messy realisation.
Jim had taken the opportunity to call the whole thing off, and both he and I realised that it was a merciful coup-de-grace for an arrangement that had run its course; no hard feelings, etc., etc. He went off with the masseur (bastard!) and I retreated to my small apartment in Collingwood, licking the minor wounds I‘d incurred and wondering where my next massage would come from.
Which is when Tom happily appeared at my door, scruffy and unpredictable as always, and immensely welcome. After my initial surprise I practically fell upon him, hugging him as if there was no tomorrow before dragging him into the flat and hugging him some more. His arms around me felt tight and as he pushed his face into my neck I realised we were both crying. It really had been too long.
Pulling ourselves together we caught up on each other’s news as I clattered about in the kitchen, knowing that the long train trip from Sydney would have left him in his usual ravenous state; it remained a mystery as to where his tall lanky body stored all the food he could put away. Sitting down to a hearty meal with him that evening felt just about as good as it gets.
As did climbing into bed with him later on. We were no strangers to intimacy, and as my flat had only one bed and a couch too small to sleep on, this was just as well. I’d climbed into bed first, keeping on my singlet and boxer shorts as some minor concession to modesty; it had been a couple of years after all.
I watched as he twisted himself into knots in the tiny adjoining bathroom, shucking off his clothes and letting them lie where they fell. He had never known shyness and as he stood there naked he seemed entirely at home. He was as beautiful as I remembered, the additional years having added a sense of solidity to his lithe frame, his smooth dark body hair as lush as I remembered, just like his dad’s.
Standing over the toilet bowl he let go a torrent of piss, positioning himself just so, knowing how much I’d always enjoyed watching him take a leak. I could feel myself getting hard at the show, the way he pissed trough his foreskin rather than pulling it back as I’d tried to teach him as a child, to no avail. The raucous sound of his stream hitting the water filled the space between us, making me harder still.
I knew that he was exhausted after his long day and simply needed to fall into bed and sleep. He’d talked of taking a shower but I liked his smell (so like my own) and I knew that any delay would only increase his tiredness.
Expecting him to fall onto the bed beside me I was surprised when he looked at me quizzically before pulling my singlet off and tugging my shorts down, bemused by my reticence. My stiff prick pressed against his stomach as he lay down on top of me, his limp cock heavy and piss-wet resting on my thigh. The feel of him made me weep again. He looked at me and told me it was alright, everything was alright. I kissed him softly and cried a bit more as I watched him slowly drift off to sleep, my arms tight around him.
When I awoke it was still dark outside and we’d shifted automatically in our sleep back to our well worn habits, his arms now around me, his body spooned against my back, his hard cock pressed against my bum. Just like old times.
He must have felt me stir as he kissed the back of my neck and pushed his cock harder against my arse, whispering in my ear if it was okay. I shifted slightly against him, allowing his stiff shaft to slide between my butt cheeks and press against my tight hole. Answer enough.
He entered me as he always had in the past, slowly and gently, coaxing the ring of my arsehole open with his leaking knob. He almost never used lubricant, having an almost industrial supply of precum on hand whenever the need arose. I grunted softly as I felt his familiar shaft push past my sphincter and embed itself in my passage, the tangle of his chaotic pubes soft against my buttocks.
He had always been a gentle lover and his tenderness seemed to have become even more pronounced with the years. He moved almost imperceptibly inside me, no thrusting and pumping, just an endless sense of stimulation and warmth deep within, his breathing against my neck quickening, telling me that he was slowly building to orgasm.
I was on that same path as well. His hand had wrapped around my cock while it was still limp and I gasped now as I realised how hard I had become in his embrace. He’d remembered his old trick of working his finger inside my hood and massaging the taut frenulum cord just below the piss-slit, and as he began to release deep inside me my own body jerked with an unexpectedly powerful orgasm.
I spasmed almost violently in his arms as I ejaculated wads of spunk into his hand and over my chest and stomach. All the while his own rhythm remained slow and intense as I felt the flow of his semen release in a series of controlled small orgasms, a marvellous trick he’d learnt in India, or so he’d told me. I knew that he could continue ejaculating like this for up to twenty minutes or so, barely moving his shaft while he maintained himself at a level of continuous ecstasy. I wanted it to go on forever and pressed myself gently back against him, making sure that his cock didn’t accidentally slip out before he was utterly spent.
I don’t know how much time passed before he finally shuddered and moaned and I felt that one strong thrust deep within, bringing with it the final ejaculation of his thick warm sprog. He moaned “Oh Dad” into my neck as his body stiffened and then relaxed, suddenly drained of all tension.
I held his arms tight around me and smiled when I realised that he’d fallen asleep, his cock softening in my butt, threatening to slide out at the merest movement. We remained absolutely still and I fell asleep as well, wrapped in his arms as if our roles were reversed and he was the one protecting me from the perils of the dark.
