11 comments/ 58970 views/ 22 favorites The Fishermen By: rikkitampa2014 "I've only got one thing to say," I said as I tied the little motorboat up to the dock. "As fishermen we SUCK!" My son laughed. "I'll be honest. I've never caught a fish in my life." "I have," I admitted, lifting our pointless gear out of the boat and onto the dock, before climbing out myself. "When my dad was alive, that is. He loved to fish. We would bring home boatloads. Well, coolers' full. My mom hated it. Guess I didn't inherit the fisherman's gene." My son laughed again, softly. Though much of the time, when he laughed at my sad or trite jokes, I got the feeling he was merely humoring me. Would much rather be mashing his fingers into his smart phone sending somebody a text, rather than out on a lake in a motor boat with a man nearly twice his age. "Oh well, there's steaks in the freezer," I said, as the two of us lugged the gear uphill to the little two-bedroom family cottage. "That's fine with me, dad." (DAD? My heart leapt! He'd never called me dad before! Far out! Now we were getting somewhere, I thought.) He added, "I'll take steak over fish anyday." "It'll have to be steak and some canned sides," I said, "seeing how we didn't stop at the store on the way up." "That's cool." "And beer." "Even better." My son, I was discovering, was nothing if not mild-mannered. A little too mild-mannered for my tastes. I suspected that my fiery daughter Brittany—Britt—wore the pants in their new little two-person family unit. But then again who was I to talk? My wife Karla definitely wore the pants in our family. Especially now that Britt was out of the house and no illusions had to be maintained. Such as the illusion that we still shared the bed, and I hadn't been exiled down the hall to the guest bedroom. Pussy! No wonder I couldn't catch a damn fish! "Mind if I rinse off?" my son meekly asked, after we'd reached the relative warmth of the cottage livingroom. I'd headed straight to the freezer and those aforementioned steaks, which would take a while to thaw. "No, you go ahead," I said. Adding, prophetically, "I'll be right behind you. I want to get this fire revving again and warm this place up. A few minutes later I passed him in the hall. Mop of brown hair still wet from the shower, he was wearing salt-and-pepper wool socks, grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt screen-printed with the logo of his alma mater. None of which fit his lanky body particularly well, I might add. After I showered and dressed I emerged to find him standing in front of the now-raging fireplace. "Don't stand too close," I warned, about to launch another of my tired jokes, "you'll get a sunburn." This earned a snicker, at best, as, curiously, my son rotated his body a little to the left as I passed by. It was as if he wanted to keep his backside to me. "Beer?" "Sure." Such enthusiasm! Grabbing two cans from the fridge I headed over to the fire. Where this time, in anticipation of my approach, his body rotated to the right. He didn't even look around when he blindly grabbed the beer from me. "Everything OK?" I asked, popping my can open. "Yeah." He was nervous about something. I could hear it in his voice. "You sure, son?" "Yeah," he replied, only slightly more insistently. Something was going on in front of him. What? I tried discreetly peering over a shoulder. He turned some more. I ducked behind him to the right. "What are you...?" And there it was. In all its glory. The front of his sweatpants looked like a sideways pyramid. Based on the lack of constriction, or constraint, I guessed he wasn't wearing briefs. Either that or he had the most powerful boner known to man. "Someone's happy," I joked, before taking a swig of beer. "Sorry," he said. "Why? You can't help it." "Something about the fire..." "Fire makes you horny?" "Not the fire," he said diffidently. "Coming in from the cold...the warmth, the shower, the fire..." We were back to the fire again. "Well, just don't get that big thing too close to it," I said. "Plus..." Secret out, he turned toward me a little. "Plus...it's been a few days, you know?" He still hadn't opened his can of beer. I'd nearly drained mine. "I've been with you today. Then...yesterday. Then...Britt got her period a few days before and she's been feeling shitty..." Ah to be 24 again, I thought. When a few days without sex left you with a raging, cloth-stretching hard on. "And I'm a little confused..." "I can see that," I said. "You gonna drink that beer?" "You can have it." "Thanks." Our damp hands touched. "Confused...?" "Yeah. This whole thing with this guy Trey this weekend. Brittany's friend?" "And mine," I added, before taking a swig of my son's beer. "Yeah. And I know he was at our wedding and all. But what kind of guy asks the wives of two of his friends to go spend a weekend with him at a, what is it a...?" "A beach house," I supplied. "A beach house." "And a mother and daughter at that." "Right!" his voice nearly rising to unaccustomed passion. "Is that what's making you horny?" "Hunh? No!" "Just asking..." "No! I told you why I..." My confused son stared at the side of the fire for a moment. At the poker in its brass stand, actually. "You don't suppose he's...They're...?" I swallowed more of his beer. Then I lied. "Him and Britt, no. Trey and Karla? Absolutely." "You mean he's...?" "Banging my wife? Yes. And he has been doing it for years." "You let him do this?" I shrugged, beer can empty. "Not my call. Karla and I have always had an open marriage. Well, not always..." My son looked beyond astonished. "Wow," he said. "Your family sure is a lot different than mine..." And I had a not pleasant vision of all those straight-laced Baptists at my daughter's wedding a year ago. Made me shudder. "So you don't think...?" I set the empty beer can beside the other on the mantel, and wiped my damp left hand on my jeans. "You're safe. Trey's into older women." True enough. But he was also into women period. Especially married ones. "Look," I said, deciding to put my son's at ease. Or relative ease. "Trey's got a lot of friends. One of them offered him his beach house for the week—it's the off-season after all. And Trey isn't dating anyone right now and he's lonely and he was looking for some companionship for the weekend so he invited our two wives to tag along. It's all very innocent," I added, lying yet again. "Besides, it's given the two of us this time to get to know each other better. Boys' weekend out..." My son's eyes plummeted. He hadn't flinched, however, and that was a good sign. "What are you doing?" he asked, with renewed astonishment. Of my left hand around his cock in his sweatpants I said: "We need to relieve this." "No we don't." My hand was stroking him now. "I think we already are." His skinny arms hung at his sides, limply. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "This is so gay I can't even believe it. What would...?" "Britt?" He nodded. The pleasure appeared to be getting to him, winning him over. "I think you're going to find," I said, shifting my position a little, "that Britt is pretty open-minded." "Like sleeping with this guy Trey?" "I didn't say that." A little spot of precum was already darkening the peak of his pants pyramid. "Would you mind pulling these things down?" My son glanced at me with a look approaching fright. He looked down. "My sweatpants?" I nodded. His arms still hung at his sides. "This is so wrong..." "No it's not." "Yes it is..." Still and all, I watched his slender fingers reluctantly untie the bow then, after only the slightest of pauses, pull, no, yank the pants down by the elastic waist. The waistband caught his cock in its descent, dragging it straight down before the irresistibly stiff thing sprang back up. Had this been a cartoon it would've been accompanied by a D-wong-ng-ng-ng-ng! sound effect. And there it stood, in all its flesh-and-vein, circumcised glory. The husbandly cock that penetrated my daughter's vagina three or four times a week (or less perhaps, lately), pleasuring her it was to be hoped, on the way to depositing its creamy, young-man's load. "This is so gay," he said yet again, after sucking in some air. "What? You've never gotten a hand-job before?" "Not from another guy!" "No?" I asked doubtfully. As my left hand resumed its grip, behind a head less purplish than pink (Ah, youth!), my right found his surprisingly fleshy right butt-cheek. Which I squeezed, or rather kneaded, as I resumed my stroking motion. I was proud of my son. He had a beautiful cock. Long (six and a half inches?) but not overly so; slender but not too slender; a sweet rosy head. All in all just a nice meaty handful about as hard as a thick gauge of PVC pipe. Wow! "Maybe once or twice," he latently admitted. "In college." "Did you enjoy it?" "I'd rather not talk about it." "Hold that thought," I said, stopping my motion and releasing my stiff charge. "I'll be right back." "Where are you going?" my son sounding genuinely distressed. "Don't move!" I ran to the bedroom. The nearer one. His bedroom, at least in theory. "What's that?" he asked, seconds later, taking my departing command at heart. Only his head on its swivel followed my rapid motion. His half-naked body remained rigidly facing the fire. "Britt left a few of these behind after one of her visits," I explained, resuming my position on his left side, but this time enshrouding his throbbing cock with a pair of microfiber panties. "And I've conveniently never bothered to remind her they're still here." "Those are Britt's?" he asked, watching the whole thing unfold below. "Nice, hunh? Have you ever jacked off in a pair of your wife's panties before?" "No." "Well?" I grabbed ass and cock again and resumed my pleasure-motion, and as I did so watched my son's head roll back nearly onto my shoulder, his parted lips emitting a helpless sigh. "Jesus." "Nice, hunh?" "This is better than sex." "This is sex." "No, I mean..." "Better than a vagina?" He nodded, speechless. Then: "You think Britt would go for this?" "Her father stroking her husband off in her panties?" He winced. "No! Britt giving me a handjob in her panties?" My tone turned fatherly: "You have to be careful about that. It wouldn't be very pleasurable for her, would it? More than anything, women want to be pleasured in bed, OK? Satisfied. Don't take it for granted. A lot of them suffer in silence. Then one day..." "What?" "I don't know. A Trey comes along..." "I'm...!" his lower back arching. "...and you're screwed." "I'm going to cum!" "Don't!" "I..." "Hold on, sweetie," I caught myself saying. "Not yet." "I'm..." It sounded like he cleared his throat. His back was still arched. Quickly, I maneuvered the silky panty so that the head of his cock pointed through a leghole. Then I resumed stroking him. Faster. Faster! My son let out a single cry. His first two spurts reached the raging fire, and made hissing sounds as they hit. Then he laid ribbons of thick white cum—young man's cum—on the stone base of the fireplace. Before, finally, dribbling another white clot onto the figure-eight of grey sweatpants between his ankles. I sank to my knees, the burning fireplace logs practically singing the back of my head, and took my son's wilting cock in my mouth. He pushed me away, cried out: "Stop it! That's gross!" But it was too late. I'd already tasted, and swallowed, the last salty-sweet drops of his four-day load. Delicious! While he ran, embarrassed and confused, to the bathroom, I went to the fridge and got another beer. Then I went to work cleaning up the rapidly evaporating mess we'd made in the livingroom. Two hours later I was out on the chilly patio tending to our thawed New York strips. I wondered what Trey and our wives were up to at this moment. Also cooking steaks while the sun set on the deserted beach? Were all three sexually sated by now? Had Trey, as he had done before (with me joining in, incestuously, on one famous occasion) had the two women get on their hands and knees on the edge of the beach house bed, while he took turns fucking them? Which one had he cum in? Who got the prize? Who would get the next prize in the morning? And my poor, sweet son I thought. How much he had to learn... Speak of the devil, as I gently flipped the steaks he emerged from the house bearing two beers. He'd been more or less AWOL since his fiery orgasm. We clinked cans. "Thanks. You OK?" I asked. "Yeah. I needed a nap." He grinned in the artificial light, the lake glittering in the background. "Want to see something?" "Sure." Peeling down those same grey sweatpants he revealed, just a glimpse, a band of blue lace. "Thanks for turning me on to Britt's panties. I can't believe I forgot to pack any extra briefs." "No problem," I replied, with a knowing smile. "Next thing you know you'll be a confirmed member of the Pantywaist Club." My son gulped down some beer. "Do you wear?" he asked, fanning the charcoal smoke from his eyes. "I'm a ten-year veteran," I said. And laying down my barbecue tongs I undid my belt and unzipped my jeans. My son's eyes bugged out. "Karla's?" "Used to be," I replied. "But she got tired of me wearing her stuff so she started buying me my own. Or I buy it online. Size 7. Crazy thing when you're sitting there at Christmas, or on your birthday, and your wife hands you a box and you open it and it's full of girly stuff." My naïve son swallowed more beer. "Wow! Does Brittany know?" "Brittany knows everything. We have no secrets in our family. Well, not many." "Wow," my dazzled son said again, as he stared out toward the sparkling lake. Then he looked down. "Christ, would you believe it? I'm horny again." I laid the tongs down. I got down on my knees. "Dad?" he said. I untied the cord holding his sweatpants up. I pulled them down. I kissed the stiff cock inside my daughter's panties. "You called me 'sweetie' in there," he said. "Did you mean it?" I looked up from kissing his pantied cock. "You're my baby-boy now," I said. I peeled down the thin skin of microfiber and took his beautiful stiff cock in my mouth. I swallowed it until his head touched the back of my throat, and I gagged. And he moaned. I did it again and again. One hand kneading his ass, and one fondling his still-plump balls, I sucked him until he deposited, with a cry and a jolt, a sweet oyster of cum in mouth. Which I swallowed, gratefully. I rose up. We embraced. "Oh, daddy." "Son." "Thank you for that." The stars above shone brilliantly in the night-sky. I was in heaven. Who cares if the steaks burned?