The Blind Son
The Blind Son
© 2011 TheOrigamist
Disclaimer: This story features characters with humanoid penises. I know, I know, sheathes are sometimes more fun, but it gets hard writing about that, man! I'm choosing to focus on a more realistic and, in my opinion, slightly hotter version of the ding-dong.
** And there's something about sex in here too. Hot, ottery, cubby sex.**
** This is a family story, so you're going to have to read about characters and backgrounds and the like before they fuck! Mwa ha ha!**
They say love is blind. It was a strange conversation, but after Immanuel was born, my wife and I almost changed his name to "Love". I thought it would be clever, but Ellen convinced me it would be just a tad mean.
That small, chocolate ball of fur didn't open his eyes until the second day, and when he did, he stared straight into the brightness of the lightbulb in front of him. One paw reached out, his mouth opening in a silent plea, the intense shine not affecting his vision. How could it, when there isn't any? He still uses that trick, I have heard, to swindle his classmates out of lunch money by betting them he can stare into the sun for the longest period of time. The same ball of light reflected from his bright, shining yellow eyes. It was not gold, and it was not amber. It was the purest yellow, that of sunflower petals, of the juiciest lemon.
As he grasped, my wife, Ellen, remained somber. She held the little otter close to her open breast, and turned his whole body towards her. He squeaked at the shift in direction, and reached out to press his paw into the firm, leaking vessel. Ellen slowly moved him forwards, guiding his tiny mouth towards her nipple. He closed around it and sucked greedily, his eyes still wide open. As he drank he cycled his legs, moving about in the shroud the doctor had given to hold him in.
It was not until a few weeks later than Immanuel was confirmed as completely blind. Ellen was never conventional, and she took it upon herself to buy a doll of sorts, one of the old-fashioned ones with the unmoving eyes and the wire-rod tail, short bristly fur. She placed it inside one of the neighboring cribs, occupied by a slightly older squirrelkit, white furred and bright eyed. He turned his head towards the doll and made a small gurgle, reaching out towards it. The gurgle turned into a small cry when my wife pulled it away and placed in back near Immanuel.
He simply stared at the space, looking up and around, his head cocking to the noises and not paying attention to the doll in the least. I covered my mouth and turned aside, feeling my stomach sink down to its pits as Ellen cooed, "Mommy's here, child. Mommy's here for her Immanuel." She made it a rule to not give him a nickname until he was able to speak completely, a little side of her traditional family that carried over. I didn't mind at all; I had come up with the name Immanuel, a touch of my historic studies and English roots. Immanuel is not a name we take literally, but we find it comforting somehow. It is a name we can repeat in solace, and in the first days, we could repeat the name and feel the hope it resonated.
Dogmatic.
The baby otter did not move towards from the image, nor did he recognize the doll had been placed. But he did turn his head to Ellen's voice, and reached straight out in the air. He flailed his little paws, mewling in concentration as he tried to locate the source of the sound. He wriggled his body in an attempt to get himself higher up, but his face scrunched up in frustration when he couldn't feel the familiar touch anywhere. A small cry built up from his throat until I put my paw down and grasped his as gently as I could. His fingers immediately clasped around mine and I breathed a sigh as he paused, as if deciphering who he was feeling.
"Daddy's here too," I whispered, and his ears twitched as I spoke. My voice nearly gave out as I trembled, gripping the side of the crib so as not to fall. My wife came over and leaned over me, her confidence giving a barrier of invulnerability. She hadn't expected this either, but she was prepared somehow. I was never that strong. I hope that I cannot say the same now, after twelve years of life after this moment, but back then I was weak. Immanuel barked in happiness as he reached up with his other paw, and one of my tears narrowly missed his head as I bent over him and wept.
What did I weep for? The world without sight is neither black, nor white, or any color because it simply does not exist. We have raised Immanuel with the association with colors and feeling, and the explanation for them was a bitch to make. Sight itself is difficult to explain. Ellen finally came up with an experiment.
When he was four, she knelt in front of him while he was playing with some sort of blocks, simple building tools. He was trying to make a tower, but he kept forgetting where it was and knocked it over several times. The blocks were multicolored, but the tower had no such patterns within and was a rainbow of rectangles. Our boy was holding an arch, running his paws along the curve, pausing when he reached the flat end pieces. He was naked, as usual - clothing was something else hard to explain. He didn't understand what other people could see about him, as he couldn't see what he had to hide.
We all became house nudists, for the most part, and Ellen found it quite enjoyable to walk about without clothes almost as much as Immanuel, and she was enjoying this mode as she sat next to him and touched his paw. He was already looking at where he knew her head was. Some people made eye contact, and he made mouth contact. "What're you doing, Immanuel?" she asked, gently slipping her fingers over his as he felt the block.
"Building a house," he replied simply, his voice chiming in the unpadded room. We have no carpet in the house, just hardwood and tile. This allows for resonance and sounds echoing, better hearing for everyone. Immanuel took a block in his left paw and began to tap out a rhythm on the wooden floor of the living room, a small habit he had developed.
I watched the pair as my wife leaned over and played with our son, still in my boxers. I was still on the edge about being completely naked, and while Ellen respected that, she still wanted me to partake. Her breasts gently bobbed as she lowered her arms to pick up a red block. "Immanuel, what is in my paw?" she asked slowly, cupping her palms together.
He began to reach forwards, but she clicked her tongue and he froze, putting his paw back down immediately. It was a training tool recommended to us by a doctor, as the blind person can both hear the clicking and feel the strong vibration of the tongue. The young otter looked confused, and put his block down. "But mommy, I don't know what's there. Is it nothing?" he asked hopefully.
She replied, "There is a block in my paw. You can feel it now." He did so, running his fingers over the texture before quickly picking up the block and, after using his fingers to inch his way over, placed the block on top of his house.
Deftly.
Ellen chose three blocks from the unused pile - a cube, a small arch, and a flat block. I watched curiously as she placed them into Immanuel's lap. "Want to play a game?" she asked. The small otter nodded slowly, still a bit wary of her little trick. "Choose any one of those blocks," she said. He felt around in his lap carefully until he chose the small arch. He had a fondness for curved shapes over the rectangular ones.
"You chose the curvy one," she said immediately after he picked it up. Immanuel froze. I sat down on the chair and furrowed my brow, wondering just what she was up to. She turned to me and gave a famous sad smile, the kind that she knew would get to me. My wife was always so energetic and precise, and whenever she was truly saddened, it was hard for me to bear.
The son fumbled around until he picked up the flat block. Just like before, my wife replied, "You chose the skinny one." Now, the pup looked somehow scared and fascinated at once, his ears back in complete confusion. Ellen picked him up as she stood, carrying him to her chest. He pressed his little paws against her chest as she spoke. "Do you remember the senses, Immanuel?"
He nodded, and prepared to recite. "There's smelling," he chirruped, and everyone gave a big whiff in, as if we all were in the middle of a giant flower. "There's hearing," he said cupping a paw behind his ear. We had to explain this action, as his hearing was better than either of ours and he had no need for any amplifier.
Smiling now, he recited, "Tasting!" Immanuel stuck out his little pink tongue, and my wife did an exaggerated raspberry, making both of us boys giggle. "And," our son finished, "there's touching!" He pressed his rotund body up against his mother as he hugged her, and she held him just as close, turning to me and making eye contact. It was always incredible in the earlier days, the realization that we made this being, this wonderful machine.
"Immanuel," she whispered, and my stomach flipped as I realized what she was going to tell him. "there's one more sense."
My smile faded. Are you fucking crazy? I mouthed, but she glared as Immanuel paused, not detaching himself as his reply was muffled by Ellen's breast. "Is it love?" That probably should have brought me back up, even a bit, but no deal.
"It's called sight," my wife said calmly. "All those things you feel, we can feel with sight. We can't really feel them like touch," she said with a stroke down the cub's back, "but we know what is ahead of us using sight." There was no answer, so Ellen continued.
Immanuel nodded, and went back down to his tower. Picking up the curved arch, he placed it on the top of the house after feeling it. "It's curvy," he said firmly, and reached out in front of him, fishing around with his paw before grabbing it again. Turning his ears towards his mother, he paused and waited for a sort of praise. My wife kissed him on the ear before standing and turning to me. She shrugged, and I replied nothing.
I don't think he understood, nor do I think he really cared; he never asked about it until years later. He does now, and the last time I asked he gave a very descriptive explanation of a psychic tentacle he imagined springing from our heads. I wish my arms could do that. Ellen said she could get off to that, and the pair of them had a laugh.
***
I should probably take a moment to explain my wife.
We grew up in the same small town, went to the same schools, and even got into the same colleges. She was the tomboy of the neighborhood, and I was the shy kid. We had our roles, and our alliance with each other. Ellen is athletic and has prowess in everything physical. She works with her hands and isn't afraid to get dirty in everything from gardening to car mechanics. Her body is curved and smoothed, but powerful enough to be intimidating.
I'm nothing like her. I have always hated athletic activity, except for the occasional job. Combined with some interesting genes, I've developed a bulky build, portly, if you will. I've never been fat by any definition, although I was made fun of earlier in my life. I went to the geeky side of life, with reading and trading card games, Final Fantasy and Dune. Ellen was the only friend I had who wasn't part of that category. At about the start of puberty, one summer I asked her why she hung out with me. She turned and grinned.
"You seem like the kind of guy who likes other guys. I like that."
Well, she was right up until a point. I consider myself bisexual, and if it wasn't for the fact that Ellen and I make love periodically, she would probably think I was completely gay. It's something about the body's frame, the shape and style that just make a guy seem sexier. Girls don't have that, and they're usually a lot bitchier. I can't stand femininity.
Our first time was only a couple of summers later. A pond runs through the nature walk in our hometown, and there's a small beach and rope swing where families and friends go down to swim, run, play, the usual.
Frolic.
We went down there holding paws. Ellen clenched mine tightly, not because she was nervous but because I was shaking so badly I could barely move. The plan had been discussed some time earlier, started by her after a conversation about awkward boners. I hadn't heard that term before, and some minutes later I found myself the prime example of the subject. She just smiled and somehow, we ended up on the shore.
I swallowed hard as I watched Ellen unbutton her jeans, sliding them down to reveal plain white panties, low cut to allow for the thick otter tail. "W-what if someone comes down?" I asked, the party in my pants reaching a painful crescendo.
"Pretend you're asleep, I'll cover for you," she laughed, and knelt down in front of me on the sand. I hastily removed my t-shirt as she began to unbutton my shorts. I leaned back as she slid them down, and blushed hard. Her grin remained the same size as she saw the length poking out of my boxers, looking up at me with a mix of amusement and understanding.
I'm not the, er, biggest guy ever.
Not to say that I have a small penis. It's average length now, and it has always been part of guys in my family to have an above-average thickness. When Ellen and I first had sex, I remember being nearly as wide around as a normal adult of the same species. Maybe it was only half as long as it is now, but it's grown out.
"You want to keep your shorts on?" she asked. I nodded, and she just bent her head down to give the first lick. I shuddered with delight.
I can't share how wonderful it was, the first time we made love. And I specifically use that phrase because we were in love. We love each other still, and it's the strangest, most wonderful feeling. We lay after in the sand, both of us now naked and soft. As her head snuggled against my chest, I laid in the sand and just thought of how wonderful it was to not only be able to love someone, but to have the same person love you back.
In high school, sex suddenly became three things, depending on who you were. For most, it was a fad - the number of girls screwed equaled your ego's dick size. Some saw it as still sacred, and good for them. They get the award for perseverance and patience. Others, like me and Ellen, saw it as an experiment. Sex was a study in itself, with branches and sub-branches like a mutant tree.
It was then that Ellen confessed she was into shota.
We were sitting outside the school on some benched donated from a previous class. I was staring at her as she twirled her headfur in her fingers, looking gravely at the ground. "This isn't some joke, right? That's just a bit...weird," I replied.
She scoffed, and shrugged. "It's not like I'm a total pedophile," she remarked. "I don't want to fuck them, but it's cool if other guys do. Because, y'know, boys like that are just cute!" She smiled at my dumbfounded expression, leaning against me playfully.
I was still gaping. Ellen sighed and leaned back up, crossing her arms across her chest. "I thought you were more open-minded than that," she growled. Kinks have always been a touchy subject for her, and I know better than to argue.
It was a crisp, cooler day, although the sun warmed us more than the season normally allowed. Most of the other students had gone home, much to my relief as a looked around hurriedly to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. She had kept her voice down when she had spoken to me, and if there's one thing about Ellen, it's that she never lowers her voice like that.
Foreboding.
I suppose I was a little wary at the time, more than I should have been. The idea of pedophilia was not the average masturbation material for me, though, and I mentally made my next statement with a grain of salt. "I..." I swallowed, and scooted closer to my girlfriend. "I'm fine with that, I guess, but don't expect it to go anywhere anytime soon."
Her arm wrapped around my waist, and she too moved up next to me. She smiled as she replied, "I understand. But you said the same thing about the ball gag."
I blushed furiously, and Ellen laughed heartily, back to her normal mindset. I gave a playful glare and said, "Once. That was once."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, fine, it was fun."
"That's the spirit," she sighed, and shivered as she clutched her coat around her. We sat together on the bench warming each other for some time, and we talked about the future, the future of us. By that time, we had grown up together and been in steady contact since we were about one year old each. Sixteen years, and in all that time, we had retained our love. Nobody could call it by any other name, and we couldn't change our lives even if we wanted to.
I proposed to Ellen on that same bench.
***
The wedding was bedlam. I had no idea that thirty or so young adults could throw such a ruckus, but we were all old enough to drink and young enough not to know better. Ellen was the only one who ended up not getting wasted that night, due to the slight doubt that she was pregnant at the time. It turned out to be a false alarm, but the party went alright for her either way. Besides, she was the one that drove us to the hotel after everything.
The reception was held after a private wedding, with only immediate family and our closest friends. I have contact with most of them still, but we've lost touch over the years, and it's hard to be open about family life right now. Back then, though, we all were inseparable, a band of goons and ferals. We partied until the rays of the sun permeated through the cheap Venetian blinds, drank until we could feel the raw power of the alcohol course through us with lightning speed, danced until we were dizzy, until we vomited in the alley, until we couldn't take any more.
Such was the night of the wedding, but I was not as out of it as the others. It is quite a feeling, being the only sane person out of a group of the mad.
The union itself was a private affair. We had no religious minister there, but we had some state official, a friend of Ellen's father, who was able to join us together. Ellen's parents are just as crazy as she was when she was younger, but in a way that gives them the grace of age as they continue in life. Her father often wears loud shirts and enjoys "Ellen with a furor that boys feel towards, say, Batman; Her mother is an art critic, and often plays the devil's advocate in her work, controversial and humorous. Both wear glasses, and own many brightly colored pairs that would make your average pop star do a double take.
They were able to be present at the time of the wedding, with matching cobalt suits and ties, bright white sunglasses to put on an edge of flair. Her mother often adjusted her tie, and stifled energetic gasps when my bride entered the room. Ellen's dress was designed by my mother, who has since passed away. Both my parents had had medical problems, my father terminated by lung cancer, with my mother suffered sickle-cell anemia. I was glad that we were able to hook up a video feed to the hospital where my mother was staying, so that she was able to see the wedding from her bed. I heard static applause from the speakers from the staff around her bed after the kiss.
I pause my writing now to pander to my wife, having come over to drape her arms over my bare chest. She scrolls up the page and grins at my recounting before leaning over the back of the chair, her naked breasts soft against my neck. "You're so sweet, Jeff," she murmurs into my ear, "but you haven't told them who you are at all."
I blink, and scroll through all the descriptions, and notice that she is, as usual, correct in her editing. As I furrow my brow to concentrate, she laughs and walks back into the living room, picking up a book along the way. I stare at her hips, the gentle wave that curves down her thighs to her perfectly arched legs. It's really distracting as I write, but the image does motivate me. Memoir is easy to write with the memories happening in the present.
My name if Jeffery David Parva. I am an American river otter. I am thirty-six years old. I am married to Ellen Susana Parva, my wife of fourteen years. We have a son of eleven years, Immanuel Corbin Parva. We live on the right side of the tracks in a moderately-sized house. Ellen has taken after her mother to become an online art critic. I tutor students in English at a local learning center. We are happy.
I pause again. We are happy.
It's simply a wonderful feeling, being a father and a husband, when I look around and see the face of my wife, see the face of my child, and know that their smiles are genuine. Their laughter comes from the heart. Their fears are founded and their doubts are realistic. We work together and we know how to be realistic. We love each other, and when I know that we love each other, when I realize that we have made each other happy, I am happy as well. I know that this is the life I have chosen. This is where we stand. We make our life amazing, every day, and we know it.
When the last bill has been paid, when the last graduate has moved out, I will know. When the last casket has been interred, when the heartbeat ceases, when we mourn for the last time, I will know. When the last kiss has been touched, velveteen lips caressing one another in a desperate dance, when every breath cries in agony that it is too young to die, I will know. I will know that I have made my family have the life they deserve. I have shown them the love that has kept them alive.
Prosperity.
***
This is not about how we live. Well, partially it is, but it's not a family memoir like that. If there has not been enough emphasis, I must reiterate: we are not a normal family.
Tonight is going to test my limits regarding that. Ellen has just gone out to pick up Corbin from his first summer camp. The week he's been gone has passed by so slowly, almost agonizingly so. A parent never realizes the true impact of their child being there all the time until they're out for a while. In the case of Immanuel, because of the condition under which he is living, it's especially difficult. Having helped him with almost everything in his life, it's jarring to just have time to ourselves.
I've been grading papers at my desk for the past few hours or so. The facility that employs me has a grading system that allows for the studio to give its own assignments to the students we tutor. The puzzles are frustratingly simple and superfluous to an educator like myself, but if it helps the kids to get better, then what say do I have in it?
One of my regulars has written an essay, eighth-grade level. She's focusing on word choice. My red pen is out, and I write marginalia and little notes placed just so. You can't intimidate students too badly, but they do need a push. I see one area, where she's written about how she felt when her great-grandfather was in the hospital. I underline the word "scared," scribbling in the corner:
Shocked? Terrified? Astounded?
It's just to get ideas flowing into her mind, not to force the words into her. It's good to note that she's finally making her sentences varied; when she first came, she abused conjunctions like a Catholic priest at Cub Scouts of America.
I prick my ears up, the first head movement I've had in a while. My cracking neck nearly overtakes the sound of the garage door opening, gravel crunching under the tires. I wince, stretching and moving my legs for the first time in a long time. I have been working in the nude, and as my groin awakens once again, I feel that my testicles have made a permanent implant in the leather chair. I stand and walk into the living room, right down the hall from where I work, watching the door that connects the garage and the breezeway.
Immanuel jumps through, looking almost exactly as he did when he left for camp. His shirt, just big enough for him, is emblazoned with the camp's logo, a single yellow stalk of grain on a jet background. His shorts, torn jeans that my wife threw together for him, are dusted with dried mud, much like his hiking boots which appear to have fun their course protecting puerile paws. His mountain-man appearance is usurped by the glasses and white cane. The cane's hilt is covered with black leather, the length of it studded with a helix of rhinestones. His sunglasses, unlike the stereotypical black glasses, have been emblazoned with the words "PARTY ROCK" - in chrome.
It's easy to tell when he first knows I have arrived. His eyebrows go up with relief at my gentle footfalls, and he turns towards me, letting his cane down by the coat rack. "Hey, dad!" he says jovially, navigating his way around the furniture he's grown know the location of.
I step forwards as he does, embracing my son. "Hey, Immy-boy," I murmur, feeling his iron grip around my midsection as my own hug holds him firmly. Leaning down, I give him a gentle kiss on top of his head, removing the glasses and putting them on top of my own head. I feel the sudden urge to get some glowsticks and skinny-jeans. The idea is rapidly dismissed.
Ellen shakes her head as she follows, her low-cut tank securing her sexual nature - promiscuous - before she has spoken a word. "Nice to see you again, Jer," she laughs, plucking the sunglasses as she strolls towards the bedroom. As she mounts the stairs, she begins to disrobe, her shirt folding up first, followed by her brassiere, the shoes already having been left by the door. Her jeans are picked up and folded at the top of the stairs as I follow my son up to his room. He's holding off from stripping, but I know it'll happen soon.
I glance towards Ellen as she comes out, back to basics once again. I smirk at her, holding up my fingers in a Star Trek symbol and licking the middle. She sticks out her tongue and stifles a giggle.
"How was camp, sport?" I pace into the bedroom across the hall, where Immanuel has began to unpack his backpack. Rumples clothes, shirts and underwear galore, start to heap up on the comforter. A flashlight clunks to the floor. A couple of Young Adult paperbacks find their way next to the pile.
It's slightly surprising that he's still wearing clothes, but it's not like it's a habit. As he has grown up, we've explained to our son the importance of modesty in certain situations, such as when answering doors and when we're expecting guests. He made many a cookie-toting Brownie blush when he was a tyke.
He finally finishes and slumps to the ground, lying on the unoccupied section of his mattress. He didn't want a bed frame, so for now, it's simply a large, soft cushion for him to sleep on. "It was awesome!" he replies, untying his shoes with expertise. "We got to go hiking up in the mountains, rafting, and I even got to try the rope swing there! Coach helped me to get up and get a grip before I went into the water."
The shoes and socks are tossed unceremoniously towards the hamper of dirty clothes, the first articles to go near it for several days. His shirt comes off next, and Immanuel sighs, looking towards his ceiling like in prayer to the heavens. His body, well-rounded like mine, is curved all around his belly and soft breast, the creamy line of fur lining his belly down into his waistline. His belly moves is and out, and I can't help but to stare and grin, the sight almost sexy to my eyes. Ellen's watching too, her paw sneaking down to my ass for a firm squeeze.
The shorts are thrown off next. The transition out of clothing is near complete. Our son sits on the bed in his underwear, oblivious to our paternal ogling. His briefs are lime green, with a pearly white trim around the waistband and the edges and the fly. His bulging little cocklet has been usurped by the removal of the shorts, and is raised up in what could be mistaken as a semi-erection. Sweat has begun to creep around the edges, turning the regular lime into a forest green.
Immanuel turns his body over and lies on his belly, his tail raised up in the air, a question mark shape, a harbinger of curiosity. My stomach turns over, made more awkward by the butterfly kiss my wife leaves on my cheek as she pads out of the room, just silent enough for the sharp little cub on the bed not to hear her.
It is too beautiful, too sordid. His legs spread, his smooth thighs parted to show off his descended scrotum, the jewels of boyhood snugly fitted into a pouch shape. As his tail rises, the strap going over his undies is raised in the back to show off his star, the pink pucker that begs attention. My mind goes five ways of denial, the request of my high school sweetheart pleading in my ears to take a stab.
But there is also my honor at stake here. I can't just let my physical desires get ahead of my mental capacity. Ellen knows, I get rough when things like that happen.
Here's to hoping. However, my heart isn't all there. The allure of discovery has been my weak spot for centuries now, the finding out of new words and ideas. My English career has succeeded so much partially because I seek to help others discover new worlds. I was thinking about life coaching, being a game walkthrough creator, all those things before I am where I stand now. Words have this power on me, and descriptions make their way into my mind like parasitic worms. Actions stay as well; and what greater action is there than showing the most intense physical pleasure of a young male?
Allure.
I know Immanuel doesn't realize I'm staring at his asshole, but it doesn't make me any less nervous. The filial attachment is unnatural to me, and yet, I feel that it is to be expected. I give myself a smirk of undeserved righteousness, recalling the ancient Greeks and traditions regarding youths at the time.
Unfortunately, this classical knowledge does not excuse the matter of my penis, who, having a mind of her own (I dub it female do to a fickle nature and a tendency to draw unwanted attention to itself), has decided to engorge with hot blood, beginning the rise from my loins to the open air. I close the door behind me hurriedly, not wanting my wife to discover the trueness of her dare and the connection between our tastes at this point in time.
Immanuel hears the door close and turns his head quickly, yet smoothly, the reflexes of one who is used to manual direction via senses other than sight. His eyes flicker with knowledgeable perception. Behind his realization, I can see the trust he has allowed himself to feel, my presence a boon rather than a bane. I take comfort in that, and I walk forwards as casually as I can.
My turgid member starts swinging as my thighs move from left to right, bobbing her head like an ancient dinosaur on the hunt. I plead for her to reconsider, the illegal implications of an erection around my son the point of my silent plea. Swelling with arousal and hurt pride, my begging is scoffed at and, as I sit on the edge of my son's mattress, her bulbous head pokes from in between my loins, an unwanted guest. But it's the nagging thought that I can control my sexual desire that bothers me. I even give her a traitorous stroke as I speak to Immanuel. "That sounds like a lot of fun, buddy. Did you make any new friends?"
Perhaps the amicable mindset of youth will throw both of us from this painfully tense situation into the casual family atmosphere once again. He turns himself over, blissfully unaware of my quandary, and replies, "I did, yeah. I met a mouse named Jeremy, who had really, really soft fur. He showed me around and told me about what everything felt like to his eyes." This concept was simple enough to fathom that we took it upon ourselves to integrate is as a part of speech. Sight is, comparably, feeling for the eyes.
My son pauses. Closing his eyes, his brow creases as he stretches his legs, undulating his hips as he nurses his muscles as best he can. I smile and run my fingers over his belly, around his navel. A smile alights on his lips, the familiar touch all but recognized as loving. "H-hey Immy, want a back rub?" I ask, letting my fingers drift dangerously close to the front of his waistband.
The tubby cub nods, and rolls over once again. As I straddle his back, the two of us crowding the mattress, I momentarily wince at my choice of mind-clearing. Small physical activity keeps my mind off of the task that my body has given to me. I begin to knead my palms into his shoulder blades, and I can feel the soft moan of his voice into the sheets. His tail gently swings back and forth between my legs, and I hope dearly that Immanuel does not accidentally feel the heat emanating from my engorged arousal. "You're rougher than usual, daddy," he groans from underneath my working fingers. "Is something wrong?"
Concern reflects from his soft, yet bright eyes. I lean over, sighing as I come to terms with myself. My reply is gentle, but as direct as I can be without giving anything serious away.
"I've been feeling that I've wanted something, Immy. I know it's something I shouldn't have, and I don't exactly know why I want it in the first place. But I can't stop wanting it. It's like...it's like a giant ice cream sundae you see at a store. You look at it, and you want to have it, even when you're not hungry. You just want to...to eat it all up...in your mouth..." The thought trails off as I approach his lower back. I don't know what's compelled me to continue that line of thought, but my paws trail lower and lower, until my fingers are edging inside of his underwear, my thumbs trailing to the gentle crevice of his bottom.
He nods, and reaches down. I try not to start when Immanuel's paws edge near mine, grasping the edges of the briefs. "Are you gonna do a full-body massage, dad?" he asks, a hint of excitement in his voice.
I perk my ears. I've never heard him use that term before. Come to think of it, we've always referred to these touches as back rubs, never massages. I ask, "A full-body massage? Where'd you hear about that, bud?"
"From camp," he replies, turning a bit. I can see a blush forming across his cheeks, and that strikes me more than any word usage he could start.
Diction.
"Jeremy and I shared a tent for a few nights when his partner left for home," the otter kit continues. "We were bored one night, and he offered to give me one. He touches me, like everywhere! It felt amazing." Immanuel rolls over again, sitting up and facing my direction, a grin plastered on his face.
I nod slowly, and I suppose I take too long to reply; Immy reaches up to feel my face, his fingers caressing the lines and the circles. "What's wrong?" he asks, his voice pealing innocence. His paws fall away as soon as I relax. His finger pulls on the edge of my mouth, raising it into a slight smile.
I scoop him up, and he inhales quickly in surprise. As I stand, hefting the chubby boy, I lean down to kiss his cheek, his surprised expression only raising how much I want him, how much I want to be inside him. I can feel a pulse of new blood flow to my genitals. Dear God, my libido hasn't been this active for some time. If I follow through, the poor cub's going to feel more than a rub.
"If you want a full body massage," I whisper, as if we were sharing a sacred secret, "I'll give you the best rub you've ever felt." His smile matches mine, and I walk towards the door, raising my left fingers to trace around his hip, gently squeezing as much as I dare.
Ellen and I have stored away an old massage table in the basement, along with several sweet oils and candles, the romantic recipe to sate any lustful hunger. I cannot bear to let it rest on an occasion such as this.
Ellen, at the moment, is working in the kitchen, flipping through the books to find a surprise for us. As soon as we come down the stairs, passing by the doorway leading into the area, she pauses and we look at each other. Immanuel has his head draped back, ears perking towards the sound. Recognizing the footsteps, he smiles, his face slung down backwards over my right arm. "Dad's gonna give me a rub, mom," he says.
I can see in her eyes that she knows, she knows that she's won the unspoken battle, and that I have given in to gentle coaxing and what she feels is primal desire. My skin crawls as she stalks over, a grin playing on the edge of her mouth as she leans down. My son scrunches up his face as she kisses the tip of his nose. "Have fun, you two," she murmurs.
I mouth my plea to her as her vision pierces me once again: This isn't my fault. But I can't tell her that to her face. She already knows that I would have turned aside if I could. Each of her curves taunts me as she turns back to the books, the mockery of the feminine form.
Immanuel notices my pausing and nudges me gently, just enough so that I can jump back to reality. He knows exactly how much pressure he needs to get the attention of people. His head tilts as I start again, leaving my spouse to her work. "You okay, dad?" he asks.
I don't believe I'm qualified to answer that question. Society would have already labeled me as a pervert in this day and age for having a mostly nudist family, and if anyone knew what I thought I was about to be doing, there would be diagnostics of my sickness, incarceration, treatment of me as insane, a faster reaction than a spread of a supervirus.
"I'm fine," I assure my son. Personally, society can go fuck itself with a cactus.
"Don't forget the oil," Ellen calls, her mocking tones ringing in my ears as the two of us head down to the basement. But it is a good idea, both for a massage and for more...sensual reasons.
I can't believe I gave in to the desire of the flesh already. The craving for a tender body was too much for me it seems. I cradle Immanuel as I move into the open basement, and his eyes look straight ahead, bright and hopeful, without fear and without knowledge of what I plan on doing. Hell, I don't even know what I plan on doing.
I step onto the padded carpeting of our stairs, and my son gives a slight jump with the descent. When we painted and redecorated the basement, we asked him what he wanted for it. He said cooling, calming colors, so now, his fingers trace along pale blue walls, and his body shivers as the summer temperature loses its strength in the chill of the underground. The judgment of my spouse fades away as we slip down there, and the immersion is complete as I shut the door at the bottom of the stairs behind us.
One window provides light for the entire open area, a couch and a medium-sized flatscreen the only major collectors of dust to be found in the room. I walk over and gently place my son on the couch as I turn towards the closet. "I'm going to get the massaging table out, hon." As I head over, I switch on the heater, a small space heater that provides enough energy to turn even the coldest basement toasty warm in a matter of minutes.
"Mkay!" He isn't even paying attention to my actions, but has instead found a new item to play with. Shivering, his nipples have become solid and perky, and he rubs them with the tip of his fingers like magical radio dials. Their sensitivity is apparent, and I watch as Immanuel bites his lip, listening for movements of my actions, making sure I'm not watching as he blushes in the dim light. I turn again, and hear a faint squeak of pleasure.
I'll try to remember that.
Recollection.
The table, as I open the door, lets out a coughing squeal of metal and old leather, the smell of oils and old memories wafting into the room. I set it up as my son listens attentively, the pegs easy to put in to one another, the wide surface folding out to become sturdy. I lay the mattress on, the stains of yellow in the white bringing back the fondness of my youthful romps, the time where I had debated becoming a physical therapist.
I chuckle, supposing that the 'physical' side of it had become a bit too prevalent. I reach up into the closet's shelf and bring out a few candles in glass jars, scented for cleansing fragrances. The old matchbox follows, and I walk around the room with them, one orange flame after the other making the room glow with dim light. "You can lie down on the table now, Immy," I call to the boy. There's still one thing I have to find.
The tubby cub stands up, the sofa groaning with desperate thanks of the moved onus. Easily, he scampers onto the table, and I watch him lay flat, legs outstretched, tail quivering in the air, underwear wrinkled with the use of a full day's wear, and then some. I grin at his puerile appearance, before I find the bottle in the top shelf, and another full bottle behind that. I smile again in thanks of the finding, then bring it over to Immanuel's face.
He scrunches up his face as I open the first bottle in front of him, the noise of an unscrewing already triggering him for either a taste test of a scent inquiry. He sniffs as I bring the bottle up to his nose, and his whiskers quiver in delight. "Is that...vanilla, daddy? It's sweet," he says.
I congratulate him with a tip of the bottle, and he sticks out his tongue obediently as I drip a droplet of the oil into his mouth. The massage liquid is perfectly suited for a kid's taste, and he appreciates the offer with relish. More oils than that will find his tongue today, and I catch my breath at the sordid thought, a bead of sweat forming on my brow.
It is the first stage, officially. I move to his back, and place a paw on the base of his tail. His spine does a wave, and my fingers instinctively slide to his ass for a small rub, before both paws go to his waistband.
"D-dad? What're you doing?" There is no pain or fear, just curious confusion. I don't think it's mentally possible for me to instill fear into my boy.
I smile, and continue my pulling. "It's part of a massage, Immy. All real massages are given naked," I explain gently, and I lick the saliva from my chops as the first sight of his full moon come into view. The cheeks are tense, but relax enough for me to see everything after I answer his doubt.
The cream of his belly that extends to his rudder takes a detour to cover his buttocks and the inside of his thighs. As I tug his skimpy briefs off, there is no mistaking the smoothness of his ass and the beautiful browns of his fur tones. His chubby frame has given his body a sleek view throughout; what would be fat is now voluptuous, a beautiful arrangement of rolling skin and soft fur. His taint is clean and makes for a line in the creamy fur, from the perfect, tiny hole below his tail to the round spot of his testicles underneath, the small ovals beautiful in the light, a glaze of sweat giving his whole body a saccharine look.
My groin sends a stabbing shot through my body, and I glance down to notice how turgid my erection has become, as bulbous and stiff as a divining rod near Niagara Falls. My foreskin is enough so that my dick remains hooded even in the event of my arousal, and I feel a primal urge run through my body as I slicken it back, precum oozing from my head as I edge towards the cub, taking a deep whiff of his undies to get me even harder. I toss them aside, open the bottle once again.
I start with the legs, and I drizzle the scented oil along both of them like a hot dog being squirted with ketchup. It looks like hot lava in the candlelight. Grasping his left foot, I knead the muscle like bread dough, feeling his body tense up and hearing his gasp of surprise. "That's a-ah! A bit rough," he moans, and I know he can feel every movement, each touch, a thousand times over than what anyone else ever could. What else does he have?
I respond by moving up his shin, pressing my thumbs into the supple flesh and fat back there. "All real massages are this rough, son," I say, and I'm surprised to hear how raspy my voice is. The roughness must surprise him, because I can feel his muscles tensing up again. I gently pull away, and reach for his rudder, pulling it close and giving it a gentle kiss. A simple reaffirmation of my love lowers his nerves once more, and I continue with the pressure.
His thighs are soft and creamy, like butter underneath my fingertips, and I lean my head close - not close enough to let him sense my hot breath, but close enough to smell his scent and desire his body. It's reached my brain, penetrated hard enough to make me lust, with the knowledge that he'll love it. "You're so tense, Immy," I murmur, "So tense and...sensitive. What's wrong?" My fingers slide near the underside of his left thigh, the oil squelching under my palms.
Immanuel is trying his damndest not to wriggle himself as he responds, his body telling my how much he loves the roughness, how much he needed this touch. "I dunno, daddy..." His voice is so soft, so meek under the circumstances, rather than the boisterous youth I have raised. "Everything's just been so much more now. I feel everything clearer, and it's been like that for a little bit now. Mommy said it was because I'm growing up, and my body wants to feel all the things my mind 's feeling, or something," the cub fumbles.
He doesn't know how right he is. My paw pauses as I'm about to rub his cheeks, and I decide to move over to the other side of the table. His reaction is one of disappointment, raised eyebrows and a hopeful grin, and I smile knowing that he wanted that rub, he wanted his rump squeezed by a big daddy. I work my way into his other shin, and his face contorts again, teeth clenching as I work out his muscles.
It's not easy to control myself, and I'm not sure I want to. I lick my lips again, continuing the conversation as moderately as I can. "What are you feeling, little buddy?" I ask, and slide my paws up to his right thigh, rolling each finger back and forth. He moves noticeably this time, and so I dig in deeper, as if squeezing out a response.
Immanuel whimpers, "I feel...weird." Every parent knows what that word means, what 'weird' truly means at this age. I reach underneath, sliding one oiled hand in between his legs, and his squeak confirms the little hunk of flesh that pokes my fingertips. "D-dad, what are you doing?" he asks, not daring to move a muscle. I gently slide my paw back, feeling his balls roll up to his body, a fearful response. The relaxation of before had caused them to hang lower, the roundness resting on the table.
My mind reels, and the body that has taken control sends a seed that hatches in the darkness, the recess of my brain, the part that I should have been able to control but cannot, will not. I chuckle and stalk over to where he rests his head, placing a thumb down to lower his eyelids over the fearful gaze. He closes them with reluctance, and I bend over to kiss his cheek. "There, there," I whisper, my whispers scraping over his fur, "Daddy just wanted to see if you were doing what big boys do."
He smiled at the playful complement, and I licked my lips, left paw on his cheek and right paw gripping my stubborn erection. The touch has left my member dripping like a leaky faucet, rivulets of precum sliding down the veins and onto the floor, not loud enough to be caught by trained ears. I slide down and begin to work on his neck, my ambidexterity allowing a nice, rough rub while positioning my hips, as his mouth is right at the level of my meat, his tilted head just right for a sensual kiss.
Alignment.
"Open your mouth, Immy," I say, and he does so obediently, expecting some of the sweet oil, possibly, or a treat I had stored away. I laugh to myself at the thought that both of those options rest in my right paw as I move it towards the open invitation.
Gripping tightly, I touch the head to his lips, and we both recoil slightly, him from the sudden masculine scent and me from the velvet stroke on my sensitive cock. He sniffs, and his eyes open again. Out of fear, or surprise or a lack of a plan, I squeeze the back of his neck, and he freezes once again, naught but a whimper coming from his throat. "Tell me...what does it taste like?" I allow him to slide his head forwards to get a better taste, and groan as he suckles the tender flesh like a child on a breast.
His mouth doesn't seem large enough to take in such a thickness, but that's for sometime later. He pulls back and swallows, and I can see his throat bob as my fluids slide to his belly. "It's salty," he says, then coughs to clear his throat. "It tastes kinda like how sweat smells, and it tastes like..." He's searching for the word, and I keep rubbing with my left paw, encouraging him to come up with the right one. He lets his eyes close again, and his breathing increases heavily. I can see him trying to hold back his thoughts, but the pressure of fingers right into his sensitive flesh can't hold him back for long. "It tastes like you," he whimpers.
"That's right," I whisper back. "Now, go on. It's not a bad taste, is it?" He shakes his head, and I move forward as he does so, smearing his mouth with the dripping member. His body gives a sudden heave, and a sob surfaces from that sweet mouth. I didn't prepare for this. I react in the only way that I can, and push myself forwards into his open mouth, choking his cries and pleas with my own thickness. He can hardly hold it, and I feel his teeth pull back in vain as he tries not to scrape along my skin. But it's in, and I'm murmuring sweet nothings to Immanuel as I wipe away his tears. He doesn't dare push his father away.
Gentle rocking motions keep my hips moving as I pump his mouth full of my precum, my thick foreskin sliding back and forth against his tongue, the musky insides filling up his olfactory senses. Each time I get close to the mouth, he takes in a quick breath from his nose, and tried to pull away again, but I only slide back towards his throat and force my dick into him, each push squeezing another dollop down his throat.
The feelings of a virginal mouth, tight around my manhood, send those dark shivers up my spine again. There is none as beautiful as my boy, and none as tender as him, no other child that could make my heavy organs arise to fuck him. He takes it well, each sensitive inch of my cock getting wet from his struggles. The pink tongue, in its attempts to push me out, only slides underneath the skin and writhes about, coating the insides with his sweet saliva. Once or twice, I venture to pull out even farther, and his lips slide against me to close his mouth again, but I squeeze and he cries out, allowing me to come back into him again.
Finally, it's too much. I don't want to have him drown in my fluid, so I pull away and let him rest, his ragged gasping and coughing sounding wet from my slime that covers his mouth and throat. I am visibly dripping and soaked with sweat from every pore, and I can see that my belly has matted the fur over Immanuel's head from where he was resting, the tears on the left side of his face leaving lines like the veins of a fallen leaf. I'm still as hard as a rock, and I almost feel ready to cum. But I know how to save myself.
The younger otter is also sweating, his round body perspiring from the heat of the basement, now higher than normal; I must have turned the space heater up too high. My mouth is dry, but whether the heat or my own excitement caused that, I'll never know. I grip the oil again, and drizzle it over his back, ignoring the statement posed to me. But he repeats his words, and my mind comes back to reality. I blink, saying, "Sorry, what did you say?"
"Daddy...don't hurt me," his voice calls, and my stomach turns at the sound of such a sweet plea. "I want to love you like this too...but don't hurt me."
"It always hurts the first time, son." My voice is so raspy that I have to cough, and I gaze at him as a child rather than as a lover for the first time. His tears are simply a fear of the unknown, and his lips drip from his sobbing and my own seminal gift still. I gently rub my hands over his heaving torso, spreading the oil around the fur of his back. He sniffles, but succumbs to silence once again, and the gravity of my actions weighs on his body and on my mind.
I am in overdrive. If I do continue, it will be of sheer lust, not of the love to which we are accustomed. As a being I don't wish to hurt anyone but as a lover I am rough while I can be. I rub some of the excess oil on my penis as I think, and I find that I've even gone a bit soft, semi-erect tissue pulsing as I squeeze it in my paw. The subsequent squelch is a sound of pleasure that I often find amusing, but now it is a siren, calling for me to make love to my son.
I bend down and kiss his trembling lips, and feel him return the kiss in full. The mouth is one of the best places for sensory teaching, hence why infants often place objects in their mouths. The sensitivity of a child such as mine is more so than most, and I kiss him again, letting him mold his lips around my familiar ones. "We've been through a family line of men, Immy," I say, and press my lips against his more forcefully. "And each one has been rough while doing this sort of thing..."
I slide my tongue out to run against his lips at this kiss, and my breathing increases with his gasping anticipation. "And each one has loved it rough. My job as your daddy..." His tongue meets mine at this kiss, and I probe deeper, feeling the leftover taste of my own drippings, which might begin again with this passion. "...is to make sure you can take it rough. And it might hurt, but I still love you no matter how you feel- " My paw slides behind his head and forced his lips sideways onto mine, a kiss that is only found in lovers, not in fathers and sons, and he knows that as he slips his tongue into my mouth and I slide mine into his, our muscles entwining, two vines of a lover's rose.
I pull out and stand up, leaving a young, rotund cub with my breath in his mouth, panting and smiling ever so cautiously at what feelings are to come. I look his sweaty body over and decide that his back can wait. "Turn over," I command, and he begins his flipping, his muscles straining from their positions as he moves himself belly-up.
The creams streak glistens in the candlelight with sweat, the male smell wafting up from both of us. The impact hasn't been this strong at all, but with the new, fresh musk it becomes apparent that no oil can cover up the testosterone-fueled stench of sex. His exposed breasts slope upwards, not as a female's but still enough to be considered breasts. Each nipple in the heat has spread out, already large but now glistening, and I lean over him, my own chest and belly pressing into his as I lick his little teats, suckling on the knobs as I squeeze his hips and belly, making my boy gasp and grasp at my back, pulling me towards his belly. I engulf the nipple at his command, slavering over the taste of young sweat and the feeling of the tender teat against my tongue.
Pulling back, I rub my paws around the mound of his stomach, letting him relax his arms and legs, the extremities dangling off the table. His calmness has settled down once again, and a near-smile has found its way to make his lips curl with pleasure, not quite a grin but still a sign of content. My gaze goes lower, and I find exactly what I'm looking for once again.
His button of a cock is semi-hard, tilted to the side of his body, the rolls of skin around the head flexing to make room for the blood coming to that region of the body, although if he's anything like me, there will still be enough skin to tug at when he's fully erect. A roll of fat encroached on his groin and, when flaccid, would nearly cover his member if he was standing up. But lying prone, his cocklet is standing proud, the tight skin of his scrotum shining in between his thighs. I place my fingers near his groin, and smile at the cuteness of his growing manhood, no longer than my thumb when he grows.
The cogs of my perverted mind run rampant as I concoct a plan for pleasuring my boy, and the first thought stems from that excess of skin. I gently reach and take that member in my paw, sliding my fingers up until the foreskin is trapped in my pointer finger, the hardening little member trapped in this sack of sensitivity. I glance back to see the plaintive pleasure on his face, his eyes shut tight and his chest rising and falling, sweat dripping from his sides.
With my other paw, I begin to massage the little member until I know he can feel the rhythm, probably the first time Immanuel has felt a sensation like this. "You ever touched yourself like this?" I ask him, and his head shakes slowly, whimpering to cover up any intelligible speech. He won't last long at this rate, and the heat of his cock is already signaling a young orgasm. Hot blood rushes to both our groins, my calmness keeping my cock from doing anything it doesn't want to do and his already making him shudder.
I keep the rubbing up, gently squeezing the glans with my fingertips and teasing the poor cub, each touch so strange and wonderful to him. Bending my head down once again, I grip the skin lightly in my teeth and twist, licking the outside edge, the cries of pleasure ringing in my ears as a sign that I'm doing this right. Whispers of "Daddy" and grunts from the cub make me want to stuff myself in his mouth again, to answer his begging for a pounding.
I draw back my head, my cheek coated with the young scent of his sweat, rubbing my fingers over the dent my face has left in Immanuel's stomach. The body under the paw gives a jiggle, almost comic in nature until I look at his face. My son is staring straight up ahead with a determination that nearly makes me lose my grip on his cock; I don't get unnerved easily, but his first orgasm makes the world stop for a moment, and his body has taken control over his mind at this point.
The flesh that I hold on to pulses in my fingers, and the head of his penis shift up and down as he pumps out his infertile seed, the skin shifting back and forth as I trap his young cum in the pocket of foreskin. The release almost leaks through my fingers, but my squeeze makes sure he can't lose one precious drop. "That's a good boy," I try to say, but even though I'm pretty sure he can understand my words, I still have to unclench my jaw. I didn't know I had been grinding my teeth, but my containment of his climax caused a growling that I could not control. His face, I am glad to notice, shifts back to the normal relaxed state of before, then the eyebrows furl and his lip quivers, terrified of mean old dad all over again.
"Please..." he says, and the whimper is something I vaguely recall being accustomed to. I am sickened as a father, but the lover in me holds me under this putrid surface and does not let go of the softening member. "You're hurting me," he says once again, and a twinge of guilt finally worms into my heart, much to the relief of the cub and of my mental side. It's starting to feel unreal, the sensation of running my hands over my son's naked body, the taste of his salty nervousness as I lick down his groin, the feel of the liquids as I release his cocklet and suck his first semen onto my tongue.
The turgidity of my arousal has waned. I shake my dick with the right paw as I pace around the panting cub, watching his tears wiped away with the back of a paw, and the head of his boyhood closing up as the skin retracts, eventually forming back into the regular shape of a boy's toy. I lean over and whisper in his ear, "Do you want me inside you? Do you want me in your ass, boy?" My raspy growl is accentuated by the rolling of my heavy chest over his, the rotund form of Immanuel being flattened by the enormous pillar of my torso.
He shakes his head violently, and I smile, worming my way down to those thighs, wide as a cornucopia ham, and twice as juicy. His whimpers turn into mewling cries, just like a kitten gives as I stalk down to his asshole, having made a full circle around his body. Licking my lips, I position myself in front of his butt and command him: "Spread your legs apart, nice and high for me."
"Daddy, no!" his voice calls to me, but I can't hear a word over the vast desert of his body. My drippings have already begun again, a release so close that I could almost cum standing. The juicy star is right in front of me as I chuckle at my own image if I came right here and now, maybe forcing myself to cover the boy in my own seed.
And as his cheeks spread, his sniffling takes the form of an idea. I can cum standing, but not without help.
Immanuel, my child, is very virginal, and more likely than not will be only caused pain if I proceed with anal intercourse. I, however, am the proud veteran of several kinky nights with Bad Dragon's menagerie of products. My palms flatten on the table, now moist from the heat of our activities, and I almost forget the lubrication that has somehow ended up on the ground below, leaking on the floor. Messes are to be made in love and war.
I place the bottle on the table, in the crook of what my boy calls his neck. It's stocky, as the rest of him, and the curvature isn't exactly profound. Rivulets are streaming down his cheeks, the opened pathways of an unknown origin. Whether sweat or tears, they roll down and add to the shimmer across his body that wet fur has with otters.
Now, I come back and thank the table for being as sturdy as it is, as my weight is enough so that the average surface would at least creak under the pressure. Having hoisted myself up, I plant my feet as stoically as an oak and scoot up until my toes are just underneath his armpits. Confusion mixes with the bleak fear that has wrinkled his face, and I shake my meat a little, spraying some pre over his neck and face gently. He blinks, and the subsequent pout if enough to make my erection rise and throb once again.
Effervescent.
With all the gentleness I am able to muster in the moment, I squeeze his bicep and lift the right arm towards myself, balanced in a squat over Immanuel. His breathing begins to regulate, finally, the bellows of his lungs creaking with the inhalations, occasionally stuttering like a skipped record and making a sound not entirely different from a straw having depleted the remnants of a glass.
His paws are just as sweaty as mine, and I curl his fingers around the warmth of my cock, murmuring at the sensitive touch, the tentative grip. Grabbing the oil, I pour without a lack of shuddering over my sensitive member. Immy tilts his head, lifting his fingers to allow the fragrance to roll below and cover each digit. I move the bottle to my left hand and continue to drip oil over his forearm, rubbing it in with my right.
The gentle pressure on my manhood is made even better by the sliding of my son's hands along it, the slippery lubrication a curious feeling. "Keep rubbing, son," I tell him. "Work it in. Don't worry; it's not going inside you."
The surprise brings a chuckle to my lips. "What are you going to do?" he asks, sniffling. Whatever occurs in this basement, it's still remarkable how well-trained the cub is to his own initiative. As long as he is learning, he'd go along with anything.
Bringing his paw away, I straighten his fingers and move them underneath me, the warmth of my taint possibly even more potent than the blood coursing into my cock. "I'm not going to do anything. You're going to...explore me," I say, and slide the longest digit to the base of my tail.
As the tip begins to press onto my anus, I feel the ages come over me, and for a moment I'm unsure if I can take a stout cub's forearm as far as I've pictured. Immanuel freezes too, although most likely for a different reason. But there's no way to turn back from here, and I drop the bottle to the ground, a satisfactory sound that makes both our ears twitch.
Gripping my kneecaps, I lower myself just enough to have the tip of his middle finger pop inside me. It's remarkable easy, after a while, to take something as large as an arm It's entirely possible that the cub recognizes this, as he wiggles around and stretches the outside of my anus before anything. Velveteen insides give way to a youthful touch, and I shudder as my flesh is swirled about by my own progeny.
Groaning, I beg for a challenge, for a stretch that burns my passion once again, leaves me wasted in the aurora of the afterglow. Bending my head, I growl a wordless command as the sexual predator inside comes to form. The same beast that forced my son's jaw open with my dick is the one that now makes him whimper and start to slide his hand into the warmth of my ass, inch by inch. The next two fingers find their way inside and twist as he explores the cave of sordid heat.
The pressure of a new stretch, organic pleasure literally moving inside me, fills me with the heat that I've not felt for quite some time, and I clench around my kneecaps at the feeling of the last two fingers ascending inside me, followed by the span of Immanuel's palm. I'm dripping profusely, and the stains are mixing and making minute puddles around the cub's collarbone. I can smell the sweat pouring off of us, the mingling of male on male. "How does it feel, boy?"
His eyes open as if he were facing a monster out of a dream, his mouth contorted into a whimpering tremble. "I'm...inside you," he murmurs. I falter when he lets out a nervous laugh, his fingers gently pressing against the inside walls of my ass. "I am inside you!" The smile that surfaced from the laughter fades back down to a half-open airway, the breath pushing in and out of his lungs, the terrified bellows of a child in a foreign situation.
As soon as his wrist worms its way into around my passage, I know I am not going to last long, with the way the contortions of his curiosity have begun their pressure against my prostate. I thank my legs for being able to squat that long as I reach for his other arm, feeling the warmth from deep inside his muscles; still, his palm is as cold as ice. That gentle chill is what wraps its way around the base of my cock before I begin to move the paw back and forth, my precum warming his fingertips as he masturbates me.
Stimulation.
He explores the shape of my cock as he does my ass, the fingers twisting around the edge of the head and even underneath the foreskin, each little wrinkle and fold throbbing with the incomparable pleasure of a virginal touch. Immanuel's stubby fingers can't even grasp the full diameter of my meat, and wonder traces each of his gasps as I speed up my pace. My thighs and calves work like pistons as I force him deeper inside me, the fat of his forearm making my anal ring stretch tight about him.
The depths of my climax surface, and I press as deep as I can on the cub inside me, feeling filled to the brim, stretched as far as I can go by his forearm. My groans fill the room and I close my eyes as I begin to orgasm; in that moment, I am also blinded, by the sheer pleasure forced into me. Immanuel ceases his strokes, but that is unnecessary - I'm already pushed enough to cum without his fingers gripping me.
The first shot spurts out across his chest, and I doubt he feels it. But the next shot is thicker and viscous, stringing across his face in heavy ropes, into his open, gasping mouth. He licks his lips and I moan as the warmth of my climax throbs all over his face and neck, string after string landing and sticking to his fur as I continue to push myself down, filled nearly up to his elbow. This only makes my shots stronger, my whole body quivering as I release my seed onto my progeny.
The electric burst of pleasure makes me growl like an animal, a feral rumble thundering in my chest. It overlays the whimpers of my son, a sound that only serves to accentuate the dominance in my heart. I never let myself go this far, but it's too much for me to hold back. I let myself slide down as the last bursts of my semen splatter on his chest. His face is strung with white, and he blinks, turning his head so I don't see his tears get the salty substance out from where I hit his eyes. A rope of seed lies across his nostrils, and he sniffs with each breath in, the scent of his own origin musky and strong to his olfactory senses.
I stand up on the table, groaning as the lewd sound of suction comes with my son's arm being pulled from my rectum, and beyond. Supporting myself on the ceiling, I squeeze my meat and watch the dregs of my pleasure drip onto his face, into his panting mouth. His arms lay on either side of him, sweat dripping down his fur in the heat, the dying candle setting his fur aglow with a crimson wash. His whole, portly body looks deflated, edible, delicious to the hungry eyes that observe them.
But I'm done. I've had my fill of my boy. Immanuel will learn how to take me in time. I step off of the table and onto terra firma, the creaking joints sighing with relief at my descent. The cub turns his head up, lower lip trembling as he tries to blurt out a question, a statement, something which I stop by pressing my lips against his, keeping my tongue in my mouth until he parts his lips. I ignore whatever will he has to gently run my tongue around his teeth, feeling resistance only when he turns his head, and then I release.
"That was...a good massage, buddy," I murmur to him. My son remains in silence, and I pat his chest, feeling the sticky fur underneath. Before I head upstairs, I bring my fingers down to tweak his nipple. His lip twitches, but still he lies, sniffling. "I love you," I say. He turns his head, muttering something I can't quite make out.
I smell like a adult cupcake shop, and I feel like I've run a marathon. My fur is bedraggled and sticking out as I slowly walk upstairs, each step making my thighs ache with the pressure I've forced into them. It's been a while since I've done an activity as strenuous as that, gone so deep inside myself. Immanuel was a good sport, really. He didn't cry out, didn't scream like a girl, and he didn't fight back. I need to remember this.
Ellen is waiting for my in the living room. Her glance is dismissive as I sit in the armchair next to hers, and I can only grin like an idiotic college student after his first party. She sighs and motions to the drink she's poured, a half-glass of red wine. Good for the heart. I take it in my fingers and I sip. "Do you know if he liked it?" she asked softly, after several minutes of me panting and swallowing the drink.
"I think so," I reply, putting my glass back down on the coaster between us. The curtains are closed, and I don't know what time it is. The outside world has no knowledge of us, and us of the outside world.
My wife only nods and leans back. Her naked body stretches out for the pleasure of my narrowed eyes, and her gaze probes me for questions that I know she will never ask me, or our child.
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