Wildwillow County

By: Little Dan
(Copyrighted 2007 by the author)
 

  The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

Which I am saddened to say can no longer be obtained! (Effective August 14th 2007)

It's been more than twenty-three years now since I moved my life to Wildwillow County. I packed everything and drove clear across the country with my two- year old boy to the place where I hoped to find salvation.

My whore wife was gone, and I was alone with my boy. My whore wife who was so like my whore mother. She who had ruined my poor father's life. They say we all marry our mothers, and I guess I proved that to be true. Except my wife was even worse, if possible. A drunk. A druggie. A slut. Hateful to me, and neglectful of the baby. It was a blessing when she disappeared into god knows where.

I swore that my son would never have to suffer what I had gone through. No woman was ever going to hurt my son. He would have a better life. So help me god.

I had read about Wildwillow County in a farming magazine. It had been established twenty years as an all male community in which no woman was welcome. The founders of Wildwillow, it seemed, were all men like me. Men who had endured unspeakable treatment at the hands of women. The county was to be a safe haven where a man could live in peace and solitude, and never again be forced to confront a Joan or a Dorothy or an Agnes.

Wildwood County was basically a farming community. All the land was owned by the County Council and was rented out to selected individuals who were of strong body to work the land, who were of good character, and who came completely free of any female entanglement. Women were not allowed past the patrolled, barbed-wire perimeter of the community.

The minute I read that article, which actually seemed to be poking fun at the county while reporting on it, I knew that this was the place where I belonged. But only after going to the library and doing further research, and pouring through back issues of the National Geographic for every bit of information I could find, did I finally write to the Council and express my interest in renting some farmland, and joining the community.

In my application I described the sad history of my childhood and my marriage, and explained that, were I accepted, I would be coming out with my two-year old male child. I hoped that they would not object to the fact that I was a father.

Finally there were telephone communications. I got to speak to Brother Tom, Brother Bryan and Brother Don on the only telephone in the community, which was in the County Courthouse. They were all very sympathetic, having been through similar experiences to my own in their former lives. And no. They would not be averse to my bringing my male child. There were other men there also who had come with male children. But they wanted to make sure that I understood that there was no little red schoolhouse in Wildwillow. I would have to school my boy at home. But that was what I wanted to do anyway. I wanted to shield him at all costs from any exposure to the distaff.

Finally I packed all my belongings into my truck and strapped my boy into the safety seat next to me. I put my foot to the gas and we were off.

"We're on our way, son," I told him. "Let's never look back."

"Gaaa!" he answered, but I knew what he meant. My little Isaac. I loved him so much.

"How about a burger, boy?" I asked, as we passed a service area.

"Gaaa!" he answered. Good, it was settled. We would stop for a burger. But also for a pee and for a change of diaper.

Three days later we arrived at the front gate of the guarded community. I showed my identification, and the guards went into the guardhouse and called the Courthouse. Finally they came out and swung wide the high wire-hinged barriers and I drove through. I had been told to follow the road to the County Courthouse. Some of the brothers would be waiting for me, and would give me papers and agreements and leases to sign.

I got to what I knew to be the center of town. The Village. I knew because the whole street was lined with shops. It was here that the merchants did their business. I passed the Wildwood County Butcher, the Wildwood County Tailor, The Wildwood County Chemist. Finally I saw a wooden three-story building with a spire and a bell tower. The sign on the front lawn said Wildwood County Courthouse. I pulled into the driveway alongside of three other trucks.

At that point the front door opened and three young men came out. They were Brother Maddox, Brother Tom, and Brother Ford. We shook hands and after unstrapping Isaac from the safety seat and picking him up in my arms, I followed them into the Courthouse and into one of the meeting rooms, where there was a large oak table surrounded by chairs.

They were renting me 100 acres of land, on which I could plant corn and beans and broccoli, and there was a farmhouse right on the property. All this had only recently become available when Brother Leonard had passed away. I signed all the agreements: that I understood that under no circumstance was a female ever to be allowed within the sacred borders of the community, and were I to violate that restriction, I would be immediately evicted and banned forevermore from communal life. I signed gladly. I also agreed never to cheat or steal or do anything that would be hurtful to another brother. I signed several other agreements, and then I signed the lease for my new farm. I couldn't wait to see it.

"Welcome, Brother Abraham," they said, and we all shook hands.

Finally I strapped Isaac back into the safety seat and climbed behind the wheel. I was to follow Brother Ford's truck for about twenty miles till we came to my own property. It was a dry dusty dirt road which wound through other properties. There was agriculture everywhere. Green shoots to the left and the right of the road. It seemed we would be five miles from Brother Don, our nearest neighbor. Brother Don, they had told me, also had a young boy. A seven-year old hellion named Dick, or Dickie as he was known in the County. I was glad that there would be another young boy nearby for Isaac to play with, even though he was significantly older.

The brothers, ever-thoughtful, had stocked the refrigerator in my new kitchen with fresh milk, and fresh-picked vegetables and even a couple of steaks. I was going to enjoy those. I would cut some meat up into tiny pieces for Isaac, and also we would eat corn and asparagus.

Brother Ford shook my hand and wished me luck. Then he left, and Isaac and I were alone in our new home.

"Well. This is it," I told him. "Home sweet home."

"Gaaa," he said.

"Gaaa," I answered. Then I grabbed him and hugged him.

"Papa," he said, and my heart damn near exploded in my chest.

From then on he began to speak in complete sentences. It was absolutely amazing. He was a little miracle. Every movement he made, every sound out of his throat thrilled and delighted me. Finally I had someone whom I could love and devote my life to.

I took great trouble with his schooling over the years. He was a very intelligent boy. Good at math and a voracious reader, but it was difficult finding texts for him to read. He had never seen a female, as far as he knew, or indeed had ever heard of such a thing. I had to edit many novels and histories before I could let him devour them. I purged all texts for any references to the existence of another gender. Certain nouns and pronouns were eliminated.

After lessons each day, we would go out and work in the fields. Together. Always together. Then we would read aloud an expurgated novel by the fireside before going up to bed. He to his bedroom and I to mine. And so the years passed. We had a good life, my boy and I. I was finally happy.

Sometimes on Saturday evening we drove to the County Courthouse and attended the square dancing. That was great fun. Most of the other men were near my age, in their late thirties and early forties, and their boys were slowly approaching manhood. Handsome lads, all, as were their fathers. "Grab your partner, skip to m'lou," sang the caller, as the banjos played and we dozy-doed. My partner was my handsome son. My Isaac. Already eighteen years old. And I was now an ancient if well-preserved forty-three. My god!
Where had the years all gone?

You are probably wondering about sex. Well, there wasn't any. I had long ago put all that out of my life. I was chaste. I was celibate. And my son knew nothing of such carnal matters. Of course, for years now, Isaac had been asking me "Where do babies come from?" And I had artfully avoided or changed the subject. There were always new young men moving into the community with small male babies, so he knew about babies and he knew that babies grew up to be boys and then to be men.

He often tossed a ball in the fields with Brother Don's son, Dickie, who was a wild one. He was always tackling Isaac, and pinning him down until he said 'uncle.' I didn't know how much Dickie knew about the forbidden gender, but I hoped he was as ignorant as my own son. I didn't want Isaac hearing certain things on street corners, not that we had any street corners out where we lived, but still.

But so far, so good. Isaac seemed to be blissfully unaware of carnality, which was how I wanted it.

But one day I got a little shock. I was finishing up in the Brocolli field and walking back to the house, and I saw Isaac and Dickie throwing a ball in the next field. And then the ball went over Isaac's head, and then Isaac was chasing the ball, and then Dickie was chasing Isaac, and he landed smack on top of him, and they were struggling and wrestling and laughing and laughing, and I was pretty close now, so I could see it very clearly. Isaac was pinned flat on the ground with Dickie lying flat on top of him, along his back, and they were wrestling and struggling and laughing, and then I saw Dickie's hips begin a telltale movement. He was lying on top of my son, and grinding himself into Isaac's bottom through all the clothes.

"Boys. Boys. What's going on?" I called, a little alarmed.

"Nothing, Papa. We were just wrestling," laughed Isaac. "We were just having a little fun."

"Well, it's getting along towards supper time, and we should be getting back to the house. I think you should say good night to Dickie, Isaac."

"Okay, Papa." And then he kind of pulled himself out from under his buddy and stood up. "Sorry, man. You heard my papa. I have to go inside for supper now."

"Okay. Yeah. Sure, man. Catch you tomorrow," said Dickie. "Night Brother Abraham," he called to me and waved.

"Night, Dickie," I waved back. He ran off in the direction of his own farm. It was a long run. He must really like Isaac a lot to travel all that distance to play ball and wrestle with him, I thought.

Over dinner as we were chatting about the events of the day, I gradually worked the feared topic into the conversation.

"What was it that you two boys were doing in the field?" I asked him.

"I told you, Papa. We were just wrestling. It's fun."

"That's all?" I asked him.

"I guess so," he said. "Something funny, though. When Dickie was on top of me I kind of felt his Wee getting all stiff and hard."

"Really?" I asked. How was I to handle this?

"Yeah," he said. "And another funny thing is my Wee started to get all stiff and hard too? Do you know why, Papa?"

"I can't say that I do," I told him. What I really meant was I couldn't say that I did.

"Something else." He looked into my eyes in the most trusting manner.

"Yes, Isaac?"

"My Wee gets like that other times."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Like at night when I'm lying in bed, I reach down and touch it and it's all stiff and hard like that, and then when I touch it, it feels so incredible. Like lightning going through me. Sometimes I kind of stroke it a little. And sometimes something else happens."

"What's that?" I asked, almost afraid to hear. I had spent so many years protecting him from the desires of the flesh. I had put it away from myself and also from him, and now he was discovering his body. How could I have ever thought that this day would never come? I was an utter fool.

"When I stroke it back and forth and up and down and it starts feeling so incredible, all of a sudden this crazy thing happens and this white thick milky stuff starts shooting out of my Wee and splashes me all over on my chest and face and hair. Isn't that crazy?"

"Yes," I said.

"And it feels so fantastic. I love it. After I do my Wee a couple of times, I feel so relaxed and wonderful, I drift right off to sleep."

"Well, sleep is good for you," I told him.

"You seem uncomfortable, Papa. Is anything wrong?"

"Not a thing," I laughed.

"Is it talking about my Wee and the milky stuff?"

"Well, maybe we shouldn't be talking about your Wee at the dinner table," I told him. If I could just make it a matter of etiquette.

"Papa?"

"Yes, son."

"Does that have anything to do with making babies?"

I almost choked on my asparagus stalk. "Why do you ask that?" I asked him.

"Cause you never want to talk about that either. I thought maybe they might be connected."

I couldn't out-and-out lie to him. I had to say something. "Well, maybe they are a little connected," I admitted.

"But how?"

"Now, now. You don't have to know everything all at once. I'll tell you another time," I said.

"Oh, Papa," he complained.

"Finish your asparagus," I ordered.

He lifted a stalk and dangled it into his upturned mouth.

"One more thing," I said.

"Yes?"

"I don't want Dickie lying on top of you with a stiff Wee like that. It isn't nice."

He didn't say anything. He gave me this funny look and raised his head to lower another asparagus tip into his mouth.

That was the end of the 'Wee' business for three days. Then came a turning point in his life, and in mine.

He had gone up to the house to shower before dinner, and I was just heading in. I heard the water splashing behind the door. It sounded great. I had been working all day. I really needed a shower also.

"You almost finished, Isaac?" I called.

"In a little while," he said. And then I did something I don't usually do. I entered the bathroom. Usually I guard his privacy as well as my own, but I entered that bathroom that day and saw my son soaping his long lanky body behind the clear shower curtain and I was struck dumb.

He was so beautiful. So beautiful. I always knew he was beautiful. He was my son. But to see him like this. The coltish naked masculinity that was my son. I loved him so much. So much. I have never been very demonstrative, god knows, but at that moment, I longed to take my son in my arms and squeeze him and hug him, and

"Come on, Papa. Come into the shower with me. You can soap my back and I can soap yours."

"No. I can wait. I'll just let you finish."

"Come on, Papa. You can soap my back."

I needed no further encouragement. I dropped my dirty garments onto the bathroom floor and stepped into the shower. I was close against my handsome naked son. I could barely catch my breath.

I took the soap from him, and he turned his back to me, and I gently began to work my sudsy hands all over his strong back and then over the two tight swelling mounds beneath them. He was so beautiful. So fucking beautiful. How had I never realized how magnificent he was before?

"That feels great, Papa. Massage my back."

I massaged his back. I massaged his buttocks. I soaped my fingers and worked between the two mounds to clean his bottom hole. He bent forward a little, as if he were enjoying the massage, and one of my soapy fingers entered the tight ring. He gasped.

"Oh, Papa," he moaned.

"Isaac," I said.

"Look. My Wee is all stiff and hard." And then he turned around so that I could see it. And when he turned he saw. "Papa. Your Wee is all stiff and hard too. Just like mine."

"Yes," I said. "I'll soap your Wee," I told him. And I began to soap his hard Wee, very gently.

"Oh, Papa. Oh, Papa."

"Yes, baby."

"Thank you, Papa."

And then I did the most unthinkable unforgivable thing I have ever done in my entire life. I just couldn't help myself. I squatted down before him and took his Wee into my mouth and began to orally caress him.

"Oh, Papa. Oh, Papa. I never knew," he cried. And he held my head in his hands and guided my mouth to and fro along his Wee.

"Oh, Papa. Oh, Papa." And then his knees started to tremble and I knew it was going to happen. "Gaaaaa," he screamed as he blasted his thick white milk into my mouth. I ingested every drop of my son's sweet cum.

We finished our shower and had dinner, but we didn't speak of what had happened between us. It was beyond words. We knew nothing would ever be the same between us, but we would take things as they came and deal with them.

I don't know who suggested it. If anybody suggested it. I don't remember a word being spoken. But somehow after we finished reading aloud we went up the stairs and Isaac did not go into his own bedroom. We both went into my bedroom. We both climbed naked into my bed. And there I gathered my beautiful son tenderly in my arms and hugged him and cradled him, as I had not been able to do since he was an infant. But this was certainly a vastly different cradling.

"Oh, Papa," he said.

"Yes," I answered.

His Wee was so hard in my hand. My Wee was so hard in his hand. The ascetic life cannot compare to the licentious life. That is for sure.

And then we began to kiss. I had my tongue in my sweet Isaac's mouth, and felt his own tongue licking it. I licked his teeth. I licked the inside of his cheeks. And then we brought our lips together and created suction. And he was moaning. And I was moaning. I was out of control. There was no way I could stop myself any longer. I had my most beloved man-child cradled in my arms and was making passionate love to him, as he was breathing, "Oh, Papa. Oh, Papa." And suddenly I had him on his belly and was over him, the way Dickie had been over him in the field that day, but there were no clothes between us now, and my hard stiff Wee was pressing into the crevice between his tight cheeks and pushing at the opening, and then into the opening, which was opening around my Wee and allowing it to penetrate ever further until it reached as far as it ever could go inside of him. We were hooked together. Father and son. Hooked together. Brother Abraham and his son, Isaac. I wanted to be hooked inside him forever.

I began a slow rhythm on top of him, which his inner musculature adjusted to and harmonized to within our orchestration.

"Oh, Papa. Oh, Papa. UNNNNNNGGGGGG," he moaned continuously all the while that I was fucking him. All the time that I was fucking my beloved boy.

I reached under him and grabbed his own stiff Wee and began to work another instrument into our sexual symphony, and at the moment when he screamed, "GAAAA!" And shot his hot syrup out onto my sheet, his ass muscles clutched on my Wee in a way I never would have believed possible and I blasted my own hot load into my own son's intestines.

We lay there for a long time. Still hooked together. Still gently kissing. And then he asked me something. "Papa. Is that how you get a baby?"

"In a way," I said.

"Am I gonna have a baby?"

I laughed. "No. Isaac. No."

"Why not?" he seemed disappointed.

"It's a little more complicated. I'll tell you some other time."

"That's what you always so. 'Some other time.' You're so difficult, Papa."

"I know, baby. I'm so difficult, but I have my reasons and I love you.'

"And I love you, Papa. More than the whole world. I love you so much."

And then we started to kiss again, and I was getting excited again, and my Wee, still inside him, was getting excited again, and we fucked another time. What incredible bliss!

I thought it would go on forever. We were so happy together for so long. But he kept asking questions about the outside world. And what was beyond the barbed wire perimeter? And why couldn't he go outside of the fence?"

"It's terrible out there," I explained. "This world is a terrible place, and there are terrible people in it. You don't want to know what's out there. That border is keeping us safe. Aren't you happy here with your Papa?"

"Of course I am, Papa. But I want to know. I want to see the world."

I knew the best way to divert his attention was to have sex. So whenever he started talking about the outside world, I would manage to get him into bed and cuddle and kiss and fuck him. I loved him so much.

Then one terrible day, he disappeared. He wasn't anywhere on the property. Had he gone over to Dickie's to play ball? Or perhaps now that he was so sophisticated, perhaps they were playing Wee? I felt a chill. I was out of my head with worry when the border jeep pulled up at ten p.m. and a guard escorted him to the front door.

"He tried to slip through the fence," the guard told me.

"Oh, no! Thank you, officer," I said, and then I looked at my son, with this pathetic hang-dog expression on his face.

"I'm sorry, Papa," he said. "I wanted to find out what was out there."

"It's late. I think we should go to bed." I thanked the guard again and closed the door. I got my son upstairs into my bed and fucked the living daylights out of him. Tonight I was not being gentle. I was angry. And he was such a fucking good fuck. My beautiful wonderful son, Isaac. "Don't you ever dare do that again," I told him.

He didn't answer me. Just when he was getting ready to spit his hot load, he yelled "GAAAA!" The same old story.

But it happened again. The unthinkable. I waited by the window for the guard to bring him back in the jeep. Ten o'clock came and went. Midnight came and went. The night came and went, and the next day and the next day and the next day, and they didn't bring him back. He was gone. He had escaped into the outside world. He would learn all the things I had tried to keep from him. And I was alone. My beautiful boy was gone. My life was over.

The next few years were a nightmare. I farmed. I ate. I slept. I felt nothing. My spirit was numb. I would never see my beloved boy again. Well. It had all been my own fault. I had raised him in an artificial atmosphere. An atmosphere which could only evaporate when blasted by the cold winds of the real world. It was my own fault. My own fault.

Then one day Brother Ford drove his truck out to my farm. It seemed that my boy had called the phone in the County Courthouse and had requested permission to come and visit me. The brothers had allowed the visit, and my Isaac would be coming to visit me at the farmhouse on Friday around noon. I'm ashamed to say that I started weeping right there in front of Brother Ford.

"I know, Brother Abraham. It's been hard for you. You've lost your boy. See what he has to say on Friday."

"Thank you, Brother Ford." And then I started weeping again. He let himself out of the house. I couldn't go to the door with him.

I thought that Friday would never come. The sun was high in the sky when from way off I saw a lone car heading down the dry dusty road toward the farmhouse. It had to be Isaac. I stood on the front porch, clutching the railing tightly. The car pulled up in front of the house, and Isaac got out. He was a grown man now. A handsome young man. More handsome now than beautiful. Oh, my beautiful Isaac.

"Hi, Pa," he said as he got out of the car and climbed the front stoop up to the porch. Now he was calling me 'Pa" instead of 'Papa.' He was all grown up now, and no longer mine to hold and to baby.

"Isaac," I responded. "Come in. Come in."

We went into the living room and sat opposite each other in two armchairs.

"You lied to me, Pa," he accused.

"I never lied to you," I said.

"It was the lie of omission. You never told me about the real world. That there were two sexes. That there were girls and women."

"I had been hurt so badly by those creatures. I never wanted you know that they even existed," I explained.

"Well, you certainly did keep it a big secret for a long time," he told me.

"And then there are your euphemisms," he added.

"What euphemism?"

"My Wee? Now really, Pa. It's a penis. It's a cock. It's a dick. And I was out there talking about my Wee. The women were laughing at me."

"Well, I like to call it a Wee," I persisted.

"Baby talk," he derided me.

"So are you happy out there in your real world?" I asked him.

"Yes," he told me. "Very happy. I'm fucking pussy, and I love it. I never even knew there was such a thing as pussy, and now I can't get enough of it."

"I see," I said, but I didn't see.

"I've met a girl, Pa. Her name is Vicki, and we're in love. We're getting married next week, if you want to come to the wedding."

"I will never leave Wildwillow County for all the rest of my living days," I stated firmly.

"Well, I know that I can't bring her here. I really wish you could meet her, though. I know you'd love her just as I do."

"I don't think so," I told him. "But as long as you're happy. That's all that really matters to me."

Then he stood up, so I stood up. He came to me and hugged me in his strong arms. I wanted desperately to kiss him, but I knew those days were long gone for us. Instead, I threw my arms around his back and held him close.

"Oh, Isaac," I said.

We visited for another hour or so. I served him lunch, and then he got in his car and drove off. When would I ever see him again?

More than another year had gone by before I got a letter from the outside world. From my son. From Isaac.

Dear Pa,

Just to let you know, I am now a proud father. Enclosed are pictures of my wife, Vicki, and pictures of our son, Jacob. Congratulations. You are a grandfather. I hope that someday soon you can meet your new grandson. I will send you pictures from time to time, so that you can see Jacob's progress. Always remember that I love you and miss you. It's just that I am married now. I have a wife, and can no longer live in Wildwillow County. I could not bring my wife there.

I'll be in touch.

Your loving son,

Isaac

I lived from letter to letter, but his messages began to get stranger and stranger.

He told me that he and Vicki had begun to fight all the time. That she was not taking proper care of her son. That she was going out to the dance bars every night and getting high.

He thought she was taking drugs.

He came home from his job early one day and found her in their bed being fucked by two other men. He was desperately unhappy. This was what I had wanted to spare him. I had tried.

Then the letters stopped. I guess he was too ashamed to write me. Perhaps he realized that I had not done such a terrible thing trying to protect him from this.

One day I came in from the corn field to find Brother Ford's truck parked in front of the house. As I approached, he got out of his truck and I invited him into the living room. We sat in two armchairs facing each other.

"Isaac called me on the Courthouse phone," he told me. "He wants to come see you, and maybe even to stay here a while if it would be okay with the brothers and okay with you."

"Really?" I asked. I could hardly believe my ears. To have my son under my own roof once more. It was a thought too wonderful for words.

"The brothers have given their permission," Brother Ford told me. "If you would like to give your permission, I will tell him to come when he calls me back on the Courthouse phone tomorrow morning."

"Tell him to come. Tell him he is always welcome in his father's home."

And then I started to weep again. Brother Ford had to let himself out the front door by himself again, while I collapsed on the living room sofa and bawled.

Almost a week went by. I didn't know when he would come. I kept scanning the horizon, watching the long dusty road. I hated to go out into the fields, because I wanted to be there when his car first came into sight. And I was.

I was on the front porch when I saw it way off, but coming toward me. My fingers tightened on the railing, and my throat went dry. I was going to see my boy again. My Isaac. The car pulled up in front of the house. Isaac got out the driver's seat door and came around. He opened the other door, and there was little Jacob, my grandson, whom I had never met before, strapped into a safety seat beside the driver.

Isaac unstrapped his little boy from the safety seat and held him tightly in his arms and he climbed the stairs up to the porch.

"Pa," he said.

"Isaac. I'm so happy you're here," I told him. "So this is my grandson. What a beautiful little boy. How old is he now?" I took the child's tiny hand in my own and held it.

"He's two now, Pa."

"I remember when you were two," I reminisced. "That was when I came to Wildwillow County with my own little boy. He looks just like you, Isaac."

"He's better looking than his papa," said Isaac. "Do you still have my old crib out in the shed, Pa?"

"Of course," I said. "I never throw anything away."

"Maybe you could help me carry it up to my old room. We'll let Jacob sleep a little now. He's had a long trip."

We went out to the shed and carried the crib up the stairs and put it beside the bed. I dug out some sheets and blankets. Isaac changed his son's diaper before putting him into the crib. I remembered how many times I had changed my own son's diapers. And now my son was changing his son's diapers. Life just goes on and on.

"It was terrible, dad," he told me. "She put me through hell. She was a drunk, a druggie, and a whore."

"Yes," I said. I had been through this before, as my father had been through this before me, and who even knows how many generations before him?

"You don't mind us staying with you a little while? Just until I get my bearings," he told me.

"Stay as long as you like," I told him. "It's wonderful having my son home again. Home where he has always belonged."

As the day and the evening wore on, he told me the tumultuous stories of his life in the outside world. He looked tired. I would have to see that he got a lot of good food and a lot of rest. He had been through a lot.

Then we went up the stairs to go to bed. Isaac filled a baby bottle with milk in the kitchen and brought it upstairs. He fed Jacob. Then he changed Jacob's diaper one more time for the night. I watched him in admiration. He was a loving caring father. Just as I had been. I knew that in years to come his son would bring him much joy, as my son had brought me much joy.
If only there didn't also have to be sorrow.

"You were right all along, Pa. I didn't listen to you."

"I'm so sorry you had to be hurt like that," I told him. "But you have your little boy."

"Yes. I have my Jacob," he said.

I went into my own room and got undressed. I climbed under the covers. Suddenly I looked up, and my handsome son was standing naked in the doorway of my room.

"Pa?" he asked.

"Yes, Isaac?" and my heart jumped in my chest a little.

"I thought maybe I'd stay in here with you tonight, if you don't mind. I'm really tired, and I don't want Jacob to keep me awake if he starts to cry."

"Of course, Isaac. Climb in," I offered and rolled the blanket down a little, shifting myself to one side of the bed. He got in beside me and pulled up the cover. I could feel the heat of his naked body, so near my own. My Wee was getting hard. Was this even appropriate at this stage?

"I remember all our nights in this bed," said Isaac. "Just thinking about it is making my Wee get hard. Is your Wee hard, Pa?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Let me see it," he said.

I pushed the covers down and we were both visible to each other.

"You have such a beautiful Wee, Pa."

"So do you," I told him. "But you know I've always loved the back of you the best."

He laughed. And then I laughed. And then we turned to face each other, and then our arms were around each other, and our lips got locked together, as our Wee's touched each other's. My beautiful boy, Isaac. I loved him so.

"Oh, Pa. Please," he said.

And I knew what he wanted. I crawled between his strong young thighs and lifted his long legs over my shoulders. I sucked on my fingers and worked the spit into his entrance. I aimed the tip of my Wee and moved forward into him, until I felt my balls pressing against the firmness of his bottom cheeks. I began a slow to-fro movement, and we took up the harmonious orchestration from where he had long ago left it. Our bodies were musical instruments that knew the tune, and we played together in a breathless rhythm. I lowered my face to his and we kissed again and again as I entered into his beautiful body.

"Oh, Papa. Oh, Papa," he cried, as the musical crescendo ripped through us simultaneously. We had ejaculated exactly together. My paternal seed was once again inside my son. "Oh, Papa," he moaned, in ecstasy. My boy was home in my bed once more, and I knew that this time it would be forever. And now when he spoke to me, I was no longer just 'Pa.' I was what I had been to him when he was little and before he went away from me. His 'Papa.'

 

Posted: 07/06/07