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"description_bbcode_parsed": "It’s almost time for The Thing, and this time you’re fully hard before his show is even over.
You can’t recall exactly how you got to this point, but you know it happened gradually. It certainly wasn’t accidental.
One part of you wants to figure a way out of this situation. A few other parts of you have a bone to pick with that assessment of things.
You can hear the television downstairs; he likes it loud. So that’s what you do when Mom is gone, break a few rules and keep a few secrets. Oh, the secrets you’ve been keeping.
Also, thank God for little towns. If it weren’t for your wife’s Bridge Club, you and the kid wouldn’t have a moment’s peace in the house. And by peace you mean snuggle time.
Marion *is* quite the Bridge player, in all fairness. But her love of playing dummy is an irony not lost on you in the least.
You hear the closing credits come to an end, and a new episode starts up right after; weekday afternoons are back-to-back rescue pups. Toby is usually riled up enough after a single episode (what is it about that Zuma?) that he’ll wait long enough to catch a glimpse of his hero sliding down into that rad-looking vehicle, before bounding up the stairs.
The song announces the name, and your son’s voice quickly follows: “Arf! Buoy!” The pup’s trademark accessory. Then the living room goes silent, replaced by pounding paws up the stairs and into his room. Swinging your legs off the edge of the bed, you stand and stretch your boxers-clad frame. Nothing can hide your arousal, nor would you. It’s what Toby’s after. Well, not the *primary* target, but something to play with during target practice.
It’s one of those looooong stretches, one of the ones that makes your ears ring. That’s why you don’t hear your son until there’s a double-tug on the leg of your shorts. Looking down, you meet his baby-blue eyes, but your gaze strays downward.
“C’mon Daddy, let’s dive in,” he says, pointing to the four-inch problem between his legs. Toby loves to play with himself during the show--it’s how this whole business started, after all--and he must have bounded upstairs with it fully out of the fly, knot and all.
“Looks like it was a good episode today.”
“They saved the day!”
“They always save the day.”
“They’re supposed to!” Toby’s been watching since he was six; he knows how hokey the writing is, but there’s something about Zuma that sets him off. You can relate, after all. Back when you were his age, either Angry Beaver would make you tingle in his own special way, and again when onscreen together.
Toby’s infatuation is loads better, though. That costume collar you bought him for Halloween has come in handy on more than one occasion. In fact, it’s about to come in handy right now.
“Where do you want me?”
“Daddy,” he frowns, “you’re not playing right. You gotta do it in order.”
“Oh right, sorry.” You kneel next to your son, smiling, knowing what’s next and getting off on it a lot harder than you expected. You’ve tried to make sense of it one way or another, but all it comes down to is that feeling unparalleled excitement when that cheap piece of plastic and nylon goes around your neck and clicks shut, you have to do what he says.
That’s not a rule, either. That’s how you behaved the first time he collared you. It was automatic. He started the game that you turned into kink.
“Hold on,” says your son (who will tell you he’s eight years old even though he still has three weeks to go), bending to push your boxers down to your knees. The boy palms your erection, drawing two fingers together at the tip and licking off the collection. “Yum.”
The way he says it indicates he has no idea how sexy it looks to anyone past adolescence.
“I’m gonna make a lot today,” you warn him. “I can feel it.”
“Yay! Good. I really want it in my butt, but I ‘membered what you said.”
“Right, this isn’t porn.”
“Uh huh. But THIS is!” The boy stands again, bending his little pupperoni in the direction of your lips, which you’re currently licking. “Time to do...ya know...The Thing.”
You like The Thing. You LOVE The Thing. You love ALL the Things. Even the Small Things. Maybe even especially the Small Things.
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Art is MoroniLeon",
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