FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

You realize you're old when your kid asks you sex questions, and you actually stop to wonder where he heard the term. You know, with a whole internet at their fingertips?

Get with the program, Dad, right?

That's what Beckett does, in that forty-five minutes or so between when my wife leaves for work and when he heads for the bus stop. We've just finished the omelets Samantha whipped up at the last minute, admittedly at my request, and for which I'll let her call the shots tonight after we put our son to bed. But when he asks the question, the rest of my day kind of dissolves from there.

"Dad?" He just recently switched from "Daddy," and to be honest, I'm not sure if I like it. I don't have much of a choice; I remember doing the same around his age because it made me feel mature. And, twenty-plus years later, you look back on it all and realize you're not so much more mature as just plain older.

"Yeah?" I scrape my plate into the sink and load it into the dishwasher. He hands me his before downing the rest of his milk and adding the glass to the pre-rinse pile.

"What's pegging?"

You think you're prepared for anything your kid might ask, so you don't have to react before you think. But of all the sex questions in all the houses in all the neighborhood, he had to ask a curveball. Before I can stop myself, my paws twitch and the glass I'm rinsing falls into the sink, making a racket but not breaking. I pick it up and rinse it off, hoping he assumes it was a coincidence, but I doubt it. Beckett is especially perceptive...and, I guess, precocious.

I look at him with my most fatherly stare, neither judgmental nor ignorant. "Where'd you hear that term? On the playground at recess?" I even add a smirk, because I'm Cool Dad.

"From Mom," Beckett replies, causing my legs to nearly buckle under me. Some things you just aren't prepared to hear. My son rushes to my side, one paw on my belly and another on my ass to hold me up...or, at least, he thinks he's helping. Actually, he's just making things worse. "Are you okay?"

I start nodding, but the room's spinning fast enough to turn it into a violent shake. "I need to lie down a minute." My son takes me by the paw, leading me to the master suite in the back of the house, whose southern exposure lets in golden bars of early-morning sunlight. It'd be idyllic if I didn't feel like throwing up. Flopping onto the bed, I close my eyes and begin to massage my temples, but Beckett does me one better by scooting behind my torso and replacing my fingers with his. I don't mean to moan so loudly, but it feels that good.

"Are you getting sick?" he asks after a couple minutes.

My paws work the cinch on my robe, back and forth, as I try to figure out how to deal with this. "No, you just surprised me, is all. Why was Mom talking to you about...that?"

"She wasn't." I feel him shrug. "I overheard her talking to Mrs. Scott in the bathroom. I mean, Mom was in the bathroom and I guess she was on her phone."

"What were you doing snooping on your mother?"

"I wasn't!" he protests. "She talks so loud on the phone!" This isn't untrue, and try as I might I can't get Samantha to understand that her cell phone...with more computing power than the Apollo missions...can hear her just fine, and so can our neighbor Sophie Scott, who apparently now knows I like getting fucked in the ass. Just wonderful.

"Beckett, you weren't supposed to hear that," I attempt to scold him.

"Not my fault! I was walking down the hall and I couldn't NOT hear it!"

His fingers reverse direction, hitting the same tense spots in a new way, and I give up the indignant-father routine. The cat's out of the bag, and now I have to deal with it.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I already know what it means. I wanted to see if you knew." See what I mean about the internet at your fingertips? My kid's playing me. My ten-year-old knows what pegging is. Can I tableflip now?

"I'm not even going to ask how you know."

"I asked Rory yesterday, and he told me right away. He's thirteen." Rory is the older brother of Henry, Beckett's fifth-grade friend, and now I'm trying to tamp down the thought of the kids fooling around after school. Though...I don't know why I don't want to think about it; I was playing "doctor" with a few neighbor kids when I was ten, in between watching the original TMNT and playing GameBoy in our acid-wash jeans.

Instead of inquiring further, I simply nod. My heart's still going a mile a minute, so to calm my nerves I just come out with it: "So, what did you hear from Mom?"

"Well," Beckett starts, his fingers never pausing, "All I heard was something she was planning for Father's Day, and she said she'd give you a good pegging on Sunday."

I bring my paws up to cover my humiliated face, but my son swats them away so he can continue his ministrations. Despite what my brain says, my dick seems to like the prospect of Samantha nailing me after we put Beckett to bed Sunday evening. She knows I can't get enough of it, and she indulges me, but the one thing she can't do is breed a nice load up my tailhole like I crave. And I'm not going to troll the internet for some random bare cock, so it's kind of where we stand.

A sigh escapes me. I'm not sure if I should tell Sam about this whole thing. Certainly not before Sunday, in case she freaks out and never wants to top again because she knows our kid is well aware of what we do after lights-out. But if it would get her to quiet down on the phone...

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Does it feel good?" Is he kidding? How could he possibly think anything else? Unless Rory's told him about masochism too...

"Well, yeah, Beck. There's lots of nerve endings down there. You know how it feels when you go to the bathroom. It's sensitive. But in a good way."

"It doesn't hurt?" His paws have moved to my shoulders, and when I mention the "good" part something twitches against the small of my back. Heat blossoms in the pit of my stomach and rushes to my ears, settling on the pronounced ridge of my nose. I'm glad Beckett can't see me, though he might be able to smell the change in my scent. He's actually getting hard from this. And of course, knowing he's getting hard starts me getting hard, because hey, guys.

Come to think of it, I've never seen him hard. And now I'm curious, in a purely platonic sense. Yeah, that's it. Like I'm fooling anyone, much less myself. So I shrug as noncommittally as I can and say, "Sometimes, but you just use more lube." And then I hear the actual words coming out of my actual mouth, and my face heats up all over again.

"Oh. Okay."

"Satisfied?"

"I guess."

"Don't tell your mother we had this discussion. It's bad enough that you already know."

"Duh, Dad. You want me to do your back?" His paws feel so good, and I'm so grateful to change the subject, that I nod and sit up, shrugging off my robe to leave me in my boxers. His eyes follow me as I rotate to a more comfortable angle, except he's looking down. Because, without looking myself, I can tell I'm hanging out of my boxers more than a little. And being super aware of this, my eyes go directly to his pajama pants, visibly tented. You can cut the sexual tension with a meat cleaver.

As embarrassed as I assume he must be, he climbs up my legs for better leverage once I'm flat on my stomach. His hardness nudges along my covered crack, and I moan to myself out of pure instinct. It's been so long since I've had a real dick down there, I can't help it. The bedside clock says we both have twenty minutes to get out of the house, and instead of telling Beckett to move along and get ready I find myself thinking, We're not gonna make it. I'm surprisingly okay with this.

"Does Rory know anything else?" I venture, my sheath pressed comfortably into the mattress by the weight of my son's body. He's straddling my thighs, bent over my back for leverage and kneading my traps on both sides, big problem points for me. I'm dough in his surprisingly-capable paws. The more he massages, the more I can feel his erection. I get the notion he's trying to be surreptitious and utterly failing at it. "As long as we're on the subject. You started it, after all."

Beckett continues uninterrupted, and he probably won't stop until I tell him to. I know I shouldn't be goading him on like this; it almost amounts to teasing. Teasing my son? Did I just think that?

"Kinda," he says, suddenly shy, digging into a particularly tough knot.

"Oof. Well...?" Are his hips moving?

"Promise not to tell."

"Cross my heart and hope to die." I'd add the motions, except my arms lie useless at my sides. My nose is running, just like every time I get a rubdown from Samantha. So's my cock, and I find myself unashamed.

Beckett's motions falter a bit before he takes a deep breath he thinks I can't hear. "Rory and Henry kinda mess around a little." I'm not surprised in the least. I've seen Rory around, and he practically stinks of puberty.

"Is Henry okay with it?"

"Henry started it." Okay, color me surprised. "He walked in the bathroom when Rory was...you know...and kinda did it for him. He'd seen some videos on Rory's laptop by accident."

"I'm sure it was accidental," I scoff. "How long ago was that?"

"Only a few months," Beckett says, leaning his elbow in deep on the right side. His crotch is now floating above my ass. All that cloth rubbing is probably driving him crazy. Even so, I flick my tail to one side, mostly so it won't get caught between us, but all too late I realize I've given him ideas.

Is that a bad thing? goes my brain. I can't believe we're even having this discussion.

"Have you joined in yet?"

He hesitates. "No. I'm not sure how I feel." A nice, intelligent, logical answer.

"I had a friend like that. It was fun, until he got a girlfriend in middle school. But I learned a lot."

"Cool," Beckett says, almost whispering. I'm egging him on, encouraging him, and I feel like a whore. I'm not sure what I want to happen, or if I want anything to happen at all. I can close this can of worms anytime, yet I keep banging on the can's edge so it's harder and harder to replace the lid. "What kinda stuff?"

Gulp. "Oh, probably about the same stuff you're getting from Rory and Henry. How to help your friends feel good, you know, stuff like that." I take a deep breath, feeling separated from myself. "Paw stuff. Muzzle stuff. Butt stuff."

Beckett's paws trace down my spine to the upcurve of my ass and stop, rubbing around in a pseudo-massage motion. He's a horrible faker, always has been, but the touch still feels good so I indicate approval by inaction. "Butt stuff?"

"Yeah, you know. Butt stuff." Afraid to go further, I leave the conversation there. Beckett can fill in the blanks if he wants to; if he's spent more than five minutes around Rory he knows exactly what butt stuff is.

He confirms it a moment later. "Henry, uh...said he wanted to try butt stuff with Rory, but he was scared because Rory might be too big and hurt him."

"That's very perceptive of him. It's important to go slow so you don't hurt yourself. Did he mention anything else?" I think I know where this is headed, and I find myself almost powerless to stop it.

"Yeah," Beckett says. Then, softer than I've ever heard my son speak: "He asked me...if I wanted. Kinda."

"But you said no?"

"No, I didn't say no. I just...didn't say yes. Yet." He shudders atop me, his little spike nestling itself between my cheeks, just two thin layers of cotton separating his flesh from my fur. I catch the shudder, involuntarily, no stopping it.

Rising to my elbows, I lift my ass a bit, and Beckett's weight spreads my legs, causing his to slide closed. His knees are behind my thighs, keeping them apart, magnifying the sexual implications. My tail, the traitor, begins an energetic wag, popping the snap on my boxers' tail flap. By the time I'm able to stop, it stands up straight, like a welcome mat, stiff as the cock trapped below me. Stiff as Beckett.

"I'm sure it sounded exciting," I rattle off nonchalantly, trying to defuse a bit.

"Mhm." Beckett's paws take advantage of the opening in my boxers and work over the waistband a bit before pulling back. The material slides down, exposing my ass to my son, who gasps before putting a palm on each cheek and squeezing. I moan, unapologetic and unashamed. I don't even care about the time anymore. My hole twitches, announcing its hunger, and Beckett gasps again. After a few minutes of brinkmanship I've had just about all I can take of this cockteasing.

"You know, bud, if you really wanted to get at those knots, it might be easier if--"

"Okay." Suddenly he scoots off me, hooks his fingers, and pulls off my boxers. I wince as the cloth slides against my dick, but only for a moment. I can hear him start to pant, can feel his eyes on my ass and the little bit of scrotum peeking from between my legs as I spread them again. The bed wobbles gently, and his paws are back on my ass, his knees back against my thighs, with more force this time, keeping them spread.

"There, much better. My lower back is really tight too." Drunk on desire--not necessarily for Beckett, but for the wonderful physical contact--I rest my chin on my paws and gaze, eyes unfocused, at the bedspread before me. Trembling now, he digs his thumbs into the curve of my spine, pressing the hard flesh into submission. Each press makes my cock slide against the bed and does the work of unsheathing for me.

Beckett's ruse is falling apart rapidly; he's too riled to keep it up for long. He walks his paws up my back, leaning further and further into me, and once he reaches my shoulders I realize nothing separates us anymore. The little sneak shucked his pajamas so fast I didn't even hear it. His little dick slides along my glutes, a Vienna sausage in a bratwurst bun. I find myself wondering how thick his knot is, if I could take it, and much too late I realize neither of us has the power to stop this train.

"Ohhh," I half-moan. There's no hiding why; Beckett has basically given up on the massage, his fingers rubbing in distracted circles here and there. His attention is focused downward, as is mine. Each prod, not even touching my hole yet, is a silent request. A few more minutes of this insane teasing and my knot starts to swell, painfully trapped underneath me. Rocking onto my right hip, I reach down and pull the thing off to the side, not caring that it's in full view of my son.

"Holy crap." Almost inaudible, but clear enough. The first time Beckett's seen me fully hard and half-knotted. I wonder if he's brave enough to touch it. In any case, I'm clueless as to how he's held out this long. I'm desperate.

Searching for an unmistakable go-ahead sign, I remember how I passed out last night without putting my lube back into the side table where it belongs. If I kicked it down in my sleep, it might be...there it is, on the edge of the mattress but held in place by bunched-up sheets. Snatching it up, I rotate my arm behind my back and drop the small bottle onto myself.

Beckett freezes. His cock twitches against me. His breathing quickens and becomes shallow. I chuckle to myself before realizing just how mind-blowing it must be to a ten-year-old kid whose father basically just told him he can fuck his old man. At this point, it'd probably be more awkward to stop than to do it and get on with our lives. At least, if either of us regrets it, we can say we tried instead of ruing the moment when one of us chickened out.

"Dad?"

"I love you, Beckett."

"Dad..."

Panting heavily, he takes the bottle and snaps open the cap. The next thing i feel is way too much lube running down my crack, onto my balls, and pooling on the sheets. He's never done this before, or at least never used lube like this. There's enough down there to ease a stallion into me, so it does the job. Beckett scoots forward, nudging my thighs further apart, and his little red rocket homes in on my hole. As much as I want to encourage him, and give him instructions, I let him find his own way. And he does.

He has to push only a little before the lube does its job, spreading me open painlessly for him. It's the first time in a long while without at least a little initial pain (Sam's fake dick has a big head), and I get to enjoy that blossoming sensation without tensing up. And, just like that, he's in to the knot, which feels like he could shove through my tailhole all day without either of us fatiguing.

"Huh...huh...oof." His trembling paws pull my cheeks apart. "Oh my god."

"You okay, bud?"

"Y-yeah, just...looking."

I chuckle. "I get it. Go to town. Have you ever finished. You know, yourself?"

Beckett's running his thumb under my tail where it meets my body, nearly driving me crazy. "What, the shivers? Uh huh."

"Okay, good. Well, don't hold the shivers back. Enjoy yourself. Don't worry about me, I can take it."

"I know." Oh, right. Of course he does.

He starts slow--at least, he makes a good effort of it--but after less than a minute, he gradually speeds up until his hips are slamming into me, his claws holding my ass apart to compensate for his lack of length. It's all pleasure back there, no pain, and while I try to keep quiet and enjoy the ride, the way he slams into me--the way it slides my dick along the cool, soft sheets--I can't hold it in for long. Using my elbows as a brace, I relax my hole and bear back on him.

When he ties with me the first time, it doesn't register. The swelling isn't that much bigger than his shaft, but once I realize what he's done and start clenching...he balloons to a decent size, maybe half as much bigger than a ping-pong ball.

Oh, the sounds he makes. Little soprano grunts and moans and even a growl or two for good measure. All of it in that airy, breathless best-sex-I've-ever-had category. When I loosen up, he pops out and right back in again and, having found an even better method, Beckett starts to knot-fuck me. Hard. Like, Samantha can't go this hard. Then again, her hips are twenty-something years older, and wider. Beckett is a fuzzy jackhammer.

"Yeah," I hear myself from a mile away. "God, yeah, shove it in." I can't help it, I like to encourage what works. Relaxing fully, I let him do whatever he needs to do, and after a couple blissful minutes of this abuse I find myself suddenly on the verge of a paws-free orgasm. It's such a surprise, with almost no buildup, that I can't even get a paw down there to help it along. I don't need to; Beckett tugs on my hole a couple times and the next thing I know I'm shooting my load all over the sheets to my left. My knot swells and holds everything in place, sending me to a higher plane of pleasure.

Through all this I'm dimly aware of Beckett yipping, a sound I've only heard when he stubs a toe or pricks his finger. Halfway through my climax I realize I've clamped down on his knot so hard he can't pull out, and the tie has sent him over the edge. I come back down to reality just in time to feel his claws digging into my ass while he dry-shivers himself into oblivion. It has to be more than a minute before he collapses onto my back, various parts of him twitching randomly. I keep myself clenched even after he stops throbbing inside me. I just want to stay like that a bit longer.

Eventually I can't keep it up and have to relax. Beckett's knot pops out immediately, but he fights to keep inside. Not humping, but more like maintaining the connection. Once he's gotten his breath back, I raise up on my elbows and manage to look back at him and his delirious face.

"I take it you got the shivers?"

His eyes land on mine, the rest of him still. "Best. Shivers. Ever."

"Glad to help."

"I never wanna move."

"It does that." Beckett looks at me with a preaching-to-the-choir look far beyond his decade on earth, and I never want him to grow up. Never. I never want the real world to touch him, to spoil him. I never want him to pay a utility bill or stand in line at the DMV. But I know that's all impossible, and everything's eventual. But right here, right now, it's just us and that's fine by me. "We're gonna have to get cleaned up eventually."

Beckett looks at me quizzically, then beyond me to the nightstand. "I missed my bus."

"Oh. I guess you did. And I should call in sick, since I'm already too late to go in." I clench on him a few times, actually pushing him out on the third. I feel empty, but satisfied. He sits there, on his knees, stroking my tail, just looking down at my ruined hole like he can't believe what he just did.

Then again, I can't believe what we just did.

"Please tell me we can do it again," he half-asks, half-begs, sliding his index finger into me like a bargaining chip.

"Oh, yes," I say without even thinking. Without regretting, too. "Maybe on Sunday. If I'm going to get pegged, I might need a warm-up beforehand."

"But that's like two days away," he pouts. Ah, the wonders of kid-time. It's always forever.

"We'll see," I say, my tail wagging slightly in his paw, making him giggle. Great, now he knows I'm a slut for him. Number One Dad, right? "Just don't tell your mother..."

Beckett rolls his eyes, back to his old self in record time. "Duh, Dad."

Duh Dad, indeed. Kids these days.

***

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