Watching Porn Together...ish
The worst thing about going to college locally is, you live with your parents to save money.
The best thing about going to college locally is, you live with your parents to save money.
I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm no failure-to-launch slouch, and Mom and Dad are anything but helicopters. Even before I graduated high school, I approached them with my summer plans: with college already set up and three months to either blow or prepare, I offered to pay rent now that I'd turned eighteen. They were so overjoyed with my initiative that they halved my figures and we called it good.
Freshman year I worked at a restaurant with a healthy bar crowd. It always escaped me why people would gather at a food establishment to watch sports, but hey, they seemed to enjoy it. And the tips were generous. That year I never worked past ten, because the restaurant closed before the bar. But halfway through the summer before my sophomore year they promoted me to barback, the guy who does everything but mix the drinks, since I'm nineteen. Now I was working until two in the morning, with sidework pushing my home ETA to three most nights. I joked to myself that I was getting paid to "barback," one letter away from a much more enjoyable pastime.
The money was spectacular, but waking up the 'rents not so much. The simple solution was to have me skip the front door and come in through the basement, since my bedroom was down there anyway. I never woke them up after that, and all was well with the world that summer. But one slow Wednesday night, it happened.
A very big It. At least, bigger than I'd expected it to be.
Maybe it had something to do with the time of year, or the lack of games on that particular night, but right from the start I knew it would be a bore. I wasn't wrong, and I busied myself with stupid chores in between loads of glasses and cleaning nozzles. Even so, at a quarter to eleven my bartender told me to pack it up and head home. I can't exactly say I was disappointed; earlier to bed meant a few extra hours the next morning to practice laps in our pool. Otter on a swim-team scholarship, who knew? Apparently my 400 meter freestyle had caght some scout's attention my senior year.
You wouldn't be able to tell I'm gay, really. All of us on the swim team have roughly the same body, and we all wear those skimpy Speedos, so I kind of blend in. I even do a good job keeping out of the dating conversation; it's none of their business and doesn't affect my swimming, so I shrug it off. I must be the only one at school who's there to learn.
Thinking back on it, there were quite a few lucky factors that added up to this thing with my dad, and I didn't know until I thought about it for a few days after. He was cleaning the garage so both cars were outside and I had to park in the street. My house key had fallen off my keychain so I opened the basement door without my usual jangle. He wasn't down there when I got home.
If he were, I'd have had to walk right past him to get to my room. But I made a beeline to the end of the hallway and closed the door behind me. Hell, I thought they were both asleep, so why would I announce my presence? Instead I stripped off to my bikini briefs, opened my phone, and swiped and tapped my way to some especially nice porn.
I wouldn't say I have daddy issues (at least, not before this night), but I do appreciate a man of some maturity. The glasses, the scruff, the salt-and-whatever-color fur in places, and the bellies. Maybe chalk it up to the novelty of something I'd likely never have. Looking down a solid shelf of abs is nice, but cuddling up to a big fuzzy pillow with a dick attached is nicer. At least, to me. Everything Dad was and is, come to think of it, but I had this wall up when it came to him. Too close for comfort, maybe, or I was blind to it. Until, though. Until.
The premise was hokey, I remember that. Something about a plumber, consisting of a half-dozen contrived lines before the action began. But I wasn't in the mood for Masterpiece Theatre, and three minutes or so of watching the fat fuzzy plumber lay some pipe had me shooting just fine.
I didn't mean to conk out, but if you're a guy you know that can happen sometimes after a real good wank. It wasn't even one o'clock, but you know how it goes: you jerk it, and then your bladder decides to act up. And since I didn't have an attached bathroom, I had to venture out.
If I hadn't heard the TV through my bedroom door, I might've just burst into the hallway and scared Dad into ending what he was doing. But--another little piece of serendipity--I was still kind of attuned to pornographic moans and groans, so I put my ear to the door instead.
It's the kind of situation you read about a million times, horribly written, tropey and uncreative. But when I realized what it was...and that this was happening to me...I chubbed up in my briefs pretty quickly. It's a good thing I swim so much, because my heart would've had a hard time keeping up otherwise.
The door opened silently, thank you Dad for keeping the hinges oiled, and I crept out into the hall that led to the basement den/rumpus room. It consisted of a television, some video games, whatever the oldest couch was at the time, and assorted shelves holding everything from books to tax records. I couldn't see him from all the way back there, so I did what any curious son would do: I headed toward the light.
At least one of the actors was female, and she was being quite vocal about being fucked, as per usual. Fully hard and tiptoeing, I marveled at how brazen Dad was being with the volume up so loud. Not enough to wake the house, but louder than it needed to be. It was then I realized he probably didn't know I was home, that the timing had been just right, and he wasn't expecting me for at least another hour. To this day I still can't figure out why he thought of taking such a chance, but I guess when you gotta go you gotta go. And I'm not going to look a gift otter in the sheath.
Approaching the end of the hall, I could finally see the action on the big screen. I had prepared myself for full-frontal nudity and lots of penetration, but what I got was some careful cropping and tasteful sideboob with the odd fullboob: my dear ol' dad was watching fucking Cinemax.
Of all the porn on all the sites on all the Internet, he was getting off to scraps. And he was, too: I'd know that barely-perceptible rocking motion anywhere. I've been to special theaters where it's not specifically allowed, but the ushers don't exactly enforce the rules. Sometimes they watch, sometimes they join. It all depends on the flick and its audience.
Now, I stayed at the edge of the hallway for a long time, watching the TV and the top of Dad's head moving an inch or so side to side. Pretty soon I stuck my paw down my briefs and started squeezing myself, giving up after a couple minutes and just hauling out the thing. I surprised myself by how hard I was just a couple hours after the last time. But hey, I guess I'm a voyeur at heart.
Suffice it to say I was much less interested in the porn on the screen than the porn in the chair. This was Dad's favorite armchair, almost as old as me with all the right wear in all the right places. We had another newer, armchair upstairs, but this was where Dad retreated when he wanted the familiar cosseting upholstery. He's a furniture salesman, probably one of the most boring jobs on the planet, but Dad's a boring guy so it's a good fit. At least, I had thought he was a boring guy, until I watched him beat his meat that night.
Well, that's kind of unfair. At home he's not boring, and he wasn't while I was growing up, either. I never wanted for nice childhood things, and the stuff he couldn't get right away he saved up for, as long as I behaved. But, as I got to all fours and crawled over to the back of that chair, I wondered why that partition in my head had suddenly fallen like the Berlin Wall circa 1989. Maybe it was because I had never thought about it as a possibility...not that my dad jerked off, but that I'd fall onto an opportunity like this. I mean, you don't just do this every day. And perhaps it was the fleeting nature of it, not to mention the precariousness, that drove me to take chances I otherwise never would have taken. It might have been the only time, and I wanted to make it count.
The porn chick got louder, and I took the opportunity to scamper the rest of the way to the recliner, almost bumping it in the process and sending my heart packing. Raising up into a kneel, I pressed my paw to the back of the chair and left it there for a couple minutes, feeling my father's steady pace. He wasn't panting, he wasn't speaking. But, like most things in his life, he was methodical and paced. Every once in awhile I'd hear a small wet sound, and I couldn't tell if it was his muzzle or his dick (turned out to be the latter) but I imagined him spreading his pre around and down his shaft, maybe adding to it with some spit. I didn't know anything about his habits, so my mind was free to wander.
I never even thought about Mom somehow walking in and catching us both. At that point I didn't really give a shit. I had my undies down below my cock and eventually I got to stroking in time with Dad. The first edge took less than a minute, and after that I had to almost stop or I risked blowing too soon. I wanted to see how far I'd get. I wanted to stand up.
Using the TV to mask any noise I might make, I got my knees under me...planted one foot and then the other...and, during a particularly noisy part, stood up as slowly as I dared. Immediately I checked anything and everything for a possible reflection, but since I couldn't see his face in any picture frames or screens he couldn't see me. I was far enough away from the chair not to disturb it, but I had no idea how my scent would travel in that room. That's how horny I was. He could turn around and I would be there, grinning and fucking my fist. Stupidly risky, but worth it.
How do you adequately describe seeing your dad's erection for the first time, especially when he's using it as nature intended? I guess that's a silly question. I think most people would be disgusted, quite a few indifferent, and a couple curious. I was one of the ones who immediately thought about sucking it.
As if I hadn't surprised myself enough that evening.
Below his slicked-back half-pompadour (Mom always told him he looked like a stereotypical salesman, but Dad swore by it) his glasses perched atop his nose. Usually he only wore them to read, but I guess he wanted hi-def sideboob that night. I didn't dare move anywhere close to his peripheral vision, and I didn't have to either: I had a perfect view of everything from the chest on down. He'd taken off his pants and underwear and kicked them off, apparently without getting out of the chair. They lay at his feet in a puddle. He still wore his work clothes, even this late at night. Pink shirt, purple tie, and one of his I-don't-know-how-many argyle sweater-vests that always matched whatever combination he chose for the day. And below that...nothing.
To say married life treated him kindly in the belly department would be putting it mildly. It was the kind of belly you'd find on your grandpa at Thanksgiving, the one all the kids like to hug because it's big and soft and fuzzy and warm. I kept thinking about how it would feel forcing my tail over my back while he had his way with me. It wasn't hard to imagine, since I was looking right at his cock.
I had no idea he was so hung. You wouldn't think it from looking at his pants, or his swimsuit. I guess the belly obscured his sheath somewhat when he wasn't using it, but despite how thick his thighs and gut were he still packed between seven and eight inches, and they were thick for an otter. I'd say he's eleven-tenths of me, and I have a hard time keeping my sheath in my Speedo during swim meets even when I'm completely soft.
His attention was focused squarely on the softcore. Emboldened, I leaned over just enough to watch him move his fingers along the underside from sheath to tip, lightly feathering himself. It was mesmeric; he just sat there playing with it, not in any particular hurry to finish. I don't know how long the sex scene on the TV would last, but it couldn't be that long being as I walked in on it already going. I did notice his pads and the webbing between his fingers was pretty slick by then, so he was a leaker, much more so than me.
I didn't dare touch the chair, or move, for fear I would disturb too much air and set him off. It hadn't been ten minutes since I left my bedroom. so he still thought I was at work. So we stayed like that, father and son, pawing off together. Mostly.
Realistically, it was probably five minutes we were like that, but the entire time I was right on the cusp. Just...how do you even describe watching your dad splayed out and fondling himself, other than using plain old words? I think it's one of those things that needs to be experienced to get the full effect, like a Gazelle concert or the aurora borealis. I was just waiting for the right moment, for any kind of cue, and I almost missed it.
The porn forgotten, I focused completely on Dad. I wondered how he'd react if I just walked around the chair, got on my knees and went down on him. Or snuck back to my room, lubed up, came back and straddled him. I didn't think he'd yell, but he wouldn't start pummeling me either. Boy, did I ever want to take that chance, but I'd done too much already and I wasn't reckless, just horny as fuck.
He cleared his throat and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Shifted slightly, and gripped himself so suddenly and so tightly it looked painful. And he just flogged it. I mean fur to crown, skin folding up and back, full-on fappage. Bits of pre began to fly out to his thighs, and he tossed his head back. It took me completely by surprise, and that's what ended it for me. His face a study in concentration, his eyes were shut so tightly they almost disappeared under his brows. If he opened them he would've been staring directly into my face looking down on him. I lost control of my own paw, and as my eyes darted from his face to his cock I painted the back of his favorite armchair with my cum.
I heard it, like flinging paint onto a canvas, soft but solid. Four of them in rapid succession, powpowpowpow, and as soon as I started to taper off he let fly. His paw shoved down and stayed there, giving me a perfect picture of his dick swelling and shooting six--believe me, I counted, and I'll never forget--thick streamers almost directly up. They landed on his fingers and dripped off like donut glaze, getting in his pubic fur and probably wetting his balls some. And the noises he made...quiet but gruff, like slightly winded buffalo, and nothing I'd ever heard my entire life. They were secret noises, for only him and my mother, and now they were mine.
About the time he opened his mouth and gave a little sigh, I finally remembered how close I was to being caught, just like Dad would be if he chose to look up. I don't recall getting back down and scampering back to my room, but suddenly I was in my bed with the light off, sticky and trembling, staring into space wondering what the hell just happened. I wasn't able to fall asleep until after three, long after I'd heard Dad turn off the TV and lights and climbing the stairs, but when I did conk out I slept hard.
The next morning, the first thing I did after emptying my bladder was go down the hall to the chair, crawling around it, looking and sniffing for any sign of Dad's load. Not even the cushion where his big ol' naked rump had sat smelled like cum. He'd done a bang-up job either cleaning or preventing transfer. My load, however, remained where I had left it plastered on the back.
I've tried several times since to recreate the circumstances of that one night, but business has picked up at the restaurant and I'm not going to turn down some extra bread in my paycheck if I can help it. And I left my cum where it landed; every time I walk past that chair I grin like an idiot, and sometimes I grin at Dad for absolutely no reason at all. He gives me weird looks, and when it looks like he's about to ask me something, I just give him a hug with my arms around his belly as far as I can get them.
"What's that for?" he'll ask.
I'll just shrug and keep grinning, saying, "I just love you, is all. And thanks."
I'm sure he'll never know what I'm thanking him for, but I think he understands. Being a father is mostly a thankless job, so he'll take whatever he can get.
*** Story and characters by whyteyote Art by jonas