The first time I felt like I might be developing feelings for another man was the night when we'd gone out for a meal, and Marcus - my son's friend from university - made a joke that it was like I was Guy's boyfriend.
We'd all laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion - after all, Guy and I are both divorced men, both outwardly straight for all intents and purposes - but I felt the twinge of a new and unfamiliar emotion - an odd combination of pride and excitement, perhaps - which made me wonder if, maybe, I would like there to be some truth in the observation.
Marcus had no doubt made the comment because of the way Guy and I were teasing each other over dinner. I'd thought we were simply expressing the sort of typical, blokeish banter that men often indulge in to the amusement of others. But perhaps there was more to it than that: perhaps we had an over-familiarity with one another that betrayed a more meaningful connection between us; perhaps, right there in front of my son and his friend, we were making it obvious that there was a much deeper intimacy between us beneath the playful sparring we were enjoying together.
Or more likely it was just because Guy, much to my embarrassment, would occasionally call me "Big Boy" and throw a salacious glance at my crotch beneath the table.
Marcus had, thankfully, been oblivious to the reaction his playful "boyfriend" comment had elicited in me. We'd continued chatting and joking together over the meal but I'd been careful to keep whatever embryonic affections I might be feeling for Guy more discreetly to myself.
In other respects, Marcus had turned out to be a delightfully charming young man: a humorous but at times thoughtful friend for my son and a welcome guest to have in my home. He was both confident and well-spoken, and exuded an easy-going manner that made him almost impossible not to like. Apart from anything else, he was very pleasant to look at, being tall - similar in height to my son, Jake, as it happened - and athletic, with lovely mop of curly blond hair and a handsome smile that might melt even my ex-wife's frigid heart.
He'd arrived the day earlier after a dreadful train journey which had involved delays and cancellations at almost every stop. He'd disappeared off to bed just after ten, leaving Jake and me to chat together for an hour so downstairs.
"He seems like a nice lad," I'd said to Jake, although I'd hardly had chance to talk to Marcus as he'd been so tired by the time he pitched up.
"He is a nice lad," Jake had agreed, sprawled across the armchair opposite, sipping from a can of beer rather than the coke he'd been more accustomed to before he'd left for university.
"How does your... er... girlfriend, Ellie, feel about Marcus coming to stay?" I'd asked, deliberately emphasising the word 'girlfriend' but maintaining an expression which was as innocent as I could muster.
Jake had chuckled and thrown me a knowing grin, understanding full well the concealed meaning behind my question.
"She's fine with it," he'd said. "Why wouldn't she be?"
I'd shrugged, but we both knew what the score was. The two lads, after all, were sharing Jake's cramped, single bed; the two of them were, by my son's own admission, "slightly more than just good mates".
Nothing much else had happened that first night: Jake had gone up to bed and presumably snuggled up alongside his friend, but Marcus had no doubt been too tired for anything further to have developed between them.
If things had gone on after lights-out in Jake's room, I would undoubtedly have been aware of it, as both our bedroom doors had been left slightly ajar. My son had suggested some time ago that we should both leave our bedrooms open at night, on the excuse that he'd been awoken by our cat scratching at one or other of our doors. He had really made the suggestion, I'm sure, because he wanted to get a better look at what I got up to with Guy, Bradley or any of my other male friends when I had them to stay over. But now that the shoe was on the other foot, and it was he who had a male companion joining him in his bed, I'd been pleased to notice after brushing my teeth that he was following the same rule that he himself had requested and had left his own bedroom door ajar.
We'd all got up early the following morning to drive over to Buxton to visit a Neolithic stone circle which Marcus had wanted to see while he was in our area. He was studying archaeology at the university and had spent a considerable time taking measurements of the way the stones were positioned. Jake and I, meanwhile, sat and drank endless cups of tea in the nearby cafe, having grown bored of trying to think up things to say about the large, grey boulders after about three minutes.
Then, after spending the afternoon shopping in Sheffield, we'd picked up Guy from his house and had driven out to the Harvester in Braunstone where I'd had the foresight to book a table for the four of us.
And that's where the joke had been made that had prompted such an unexpected reaction in me.
I knew Marcus didn't have even the slightest inkling that there was more to my friendship with Guy than one might expect from a couple of ostensibly straight mates in their early forties. After all, if he had, he was far too polite to have made such an obviously controversial remark.
In any case, Jake had told me while we'd been alone in the cafe at the stone circle that he hadn't told Marcus about the sexual versatility I'd been embracing for the past year or so.
"Why would I have even mentioned it?" he'd said when I'd asked him about it point-blank.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I just thought with you guys being... you know... rather versatile yourselves."
"He just knows you've got a... er... girlfriend," Jake grinned, placing his own sarcastic emphasis on the same word that I had the previous evening.
"Okay... but what if I invite a bloke to stay over with me while he's visiting?" I'd asked. "And what if... you know... things happen between the two of us after lights-out?"
"Then, I guess, he'll realise quite quickly that I'm not the only one in the family who's heteroflexible."
I'd chuckled at that: was that what the two of them were calling it?
Now, after we'd got home from the restaurant and I was lying alone in bed, I pondered again on Marcus' joke, not so much interested in what prompted it but rather my curious emotional reaction towards it.
It was one thing to play the field with other men from time to time, but did I really want to think of myself as being another bloke's 'boyfriend'?
Just the thought of the question made shivers course down my spine, startling me and making me wonder again whether my attachment to Guy - a purely physical and sexual arrangement, or so I had previously thought - was in reality nurturing something more significant.
Was it possible that somewhere, deep my subconscious, I might actually want to be Guy's boyfriend?
Again, that strange ripple of nervous excitement at the mere posing of the question.
I remembered how funny Jake had found Marcus' comment - Guy had too, of course - and how he and his friend had laughed too loudly and for too long at the suggestion that I might be in a loving and committed relationship with another man.
Which was ironic, really, given that it was the two of them right now who were in the throes of passion in the room next door to mine.
I could hear quite distinctly sounds of sex from Jake's bedroom: now that Marcus had recovered from his train journey, the two of them seemed to be making up for lost time with gusto. Both of our bedroom doors were open, as per Jake's suggestion (although 'insistence' might be a more a more apt description), allowing the rhythmic noises from my son and his athletic friend to permeate through to me with surprising clarity.
And these weren't the sounds of two lads having a quiet wank together before turning over to sleep back-to-back. The two of them were quite clearly enjoying something altogether more involved: I could hear panting and grunting; the sounds of flesh against flesh.
Not that I wanted to listen in on what the two of them were getting up to, of course. But the open door policy made any attempt for me to try and ignore their private sounds of male intimacy near impossible.
I was fairly sure, from the slapping noises I could hear them making against each other and the beating of the headboard on the wall which separated our rooms, that the two of them were indulging in a fairly heavy-duty bout of anal sex. I was surprised that they had wasted no time in getting down to the nitty-gritty together: there was to be no tender foreplay or the appreciation of a nice, cosy snuggle from Jake - he'd gone in straight for the grand slam, irrespective of his old dad having to listen to him in the room next door.
Once I'd realised the extent of the sex I was listening to, it felt odd to hear my son - my little Jakey who I'd brought up single-handedly from being a kid - so brazenly enjoying homosexual intercourse with a friend as I lay in my bed in the room next door. I was listening to him engaging in buggery: an act which I had by now enjoyed countless times myself but which seemed a little precocious for my teenage son.
I wasn't in any way disgusted by what he was doing - after all, I was an ardent fan of the pleasures to be had from such intimate male company myself. It just felt strange to hear my son - a boy who had once seemed so innocent and had been wary of anything which might be perceived as 'gay' - enjoying what sounded like quite a heated and passionate sexual encounter with a member of his own gender.
Perhaps I would have felt similarly disquieted if I'd heard him enjoying the company of his girlfriend Ellie so noisily in the room next to mine: I don't know.
I took a couple of sniffs of the air as their rhythm grew steadily faster and their noises more intense. Yes, they were definitely enjoying a butt-fuck together - even though faint, I could easily recognise the distinctly anal whiff of a cock drilling in and out of another male's backside. I was more than familiar with that unique scent and its murky origins, having paused to appreciate it on many, many occasions during my own similarly odorous encounters.
I felt my own manhood stirring among the folds of my pyjamas, perhaps keen to experience for itself the activity its owner could smell. I gently kneaded it through the fabric: there was nothing similar on offer for it tonight, unfortunately.
I took another sniff, this time more deeply and allowed myself to savour the pungent, musky whiff that was wafting into my room from along the corridor. I had to smile to myself: it was as clear as day! My son might as well have announced to me at bedtime that he and his friend were going to end their evening with an impassioned bout of boy-on-boy buggery for all the subtlety he was employing.
I wondered if other dads whose sons had brought their university friends home for the holidays would recognise from that smell what the two young men were up to together; or whether, like me, one had to be a fellow enthusiast to appreciate why such a distinctive bouquet would accompany late-night rhythms from the shared bedroom.
I lay back, listening as the sounds the two of them were making together became steadily faster, squeezing my hardening organ as it responded to the proximity of the activity it had enjoyed so many times itself.
I was wishing, now, that I'd invited Guy back from the restaurant with us to stay over with me. At least then I would have been able to join in with the fun my son was clearly having and to have contributed my own panting and gasping sounds to those that he was making. We could have competed with one another, as father and son, as to whose exertions could produce the most vigorous tempo, and tried to outdo each other with the intensity of the crude, anal odour that was wafting from our rooms.
However, this being only the second night of Marcus staying with us, I'd taken, perhaps, an overly cautious approach and hadn't wanted to make him feel uncomfortable by brandishing my sexual dexterity too flagrantly. Working against the demands of my sex drive, therefore, I'd suggested to Guy that we part company after our meal instead of him coming back to my place as was more usual when we'd spent an evening together.
So now I was lying here, bored and alone, while my son was making no bones about the fact that he did not share my sense of polite restraint. It seemed that the friend he had brought to stay with him was being treated almost like a trophy: their sexual energetics being broadcast to the whole quiet house; a way, perhaps, for Jake, to let me know - as if such a message were needed - that he, like me, could very physically enjoy the company of some of the other males in his acquaintance.
As it was becoming obvious that sleep was going to be impossible while the two of them were so boisterously enjoying the end of their evening, I got out of bed and padded quietly over to my open bedroom door to crane an ear around it and better listen to the noises of their clearly purposeful coupling.
My cock was half-erect and making my pyjama leg rise upwards from my thigh. Was I really enjoying the sounds of my son revelling so unashamedly in his moment of homosexual passion with his friend? Was I really growing aroused by the intensifying odour being produced by the illicit union between cock and arse?
I'd never deliberately listened in on the sounds of Jake masturbating from along the hallway, a gentle percussion which had followed bedtime - as one might expect with a teenaged son - on many, many occasions. I would never have pried on him when he was enjoying such private ministrations in his room and had always tried to ignore the tell-tale complaints from his long-suffering mattress. But now, as I suspected I was the intended recipient of Jake's overt display of virility, it didn't seem so wrong for me to purposefully eavesdrop on his sexual escapades.
I decided, after standing at my bedroom door for a minute or so and trying to interpret the rhythmic, pounding sounds from my son's room, that Marcus was probably the one who was in the receiving position. For one thing, Jake's breathing sounded more laboured and he was more vocal in his appreciation of what his friend was allowing him to do, but I also felt that Marcus' contributions had a muffled quality about them, as if his face was directed downwards into a pillow.
I was listening to my nineteen-year-old son ending his evening by butt-fucking another young lad! While that knowledge still made me feel a little peculiar, it didn't affect me as much as I thought it would.
Then I heard Jake whisper, distinctly, through the rhythm of all the other sounds that were spilling from the room, "God! Your arse is so fucking tight, mate!"
Yes, my son was buggering his university friend. Of that I was quite sure.
For some reason I now felt more surprise at the thought of gently-refined Marcus - the sort of wholesome boy-next-door type you'd love your daughter to bring home - bending over to have another lad fuck him up the bum. It was this charismatic and rather dapper young man that I could smell, betraying to the whole upper floor of the house, it seemed, that it was being eagerly penetrated by my son.
Marcus would be horrified, I was sure, if he knew that such a frank and unambiguous anal fug was betraying his sexual indiscretions so explicitly. He was such a courteous young man, and yet here he was filling half the house he was a guest in with the crude evidence that his backside was being remorselessly stoked by his friend's large erection.
Unlike Jake, who was clearly out to engage my attention and would regard whatever smells they were producing as an additional means in achieving that, Marcus would probably be unaware of how pervasive such indelicate odours can be. The poor lad would no doubt blush a deep crimson if he realised that the particular variant of sex he thought he was so discreetly enjoying was being so unequivocally publicised to all in the vicinity by its cloyingly pungent trademark.
And, yet, here I was standing in my bedroom door sniffing eagerly at it with my prick at half-mast while I craned my neck to hear more clearly what they were doing.
For shame, Mr Furlong, for shame!
I reminded myself that Jake had been in my position countless times over the past year or so: listening to my sexual exploits while in the adjoining room and probably having a few appreciative sniffs of his own once the open door policy had been introduced.
Just last week, after he'd returned home from university, I'd had my friend Bradley over for an evening of football and pizza and Jake had had to listen to us ending the night in similar high spirits to those he was expressing right now with Marcus.
On that occasion, while my cock was driving in and out of Bradley's enticingly hairy arse as he bent on my bed on all fours to receive me, I had become aware of a figure moving around in the darkened doorway of my bedroom.
"I know you're there, Jake," I'd called out, maintaining my pounding rhythm on my young friend's rump regardless of my son's sneaky voyeurism.
At first he'd tried to shrink back into the shadows, as if he hadn't just been watching his father anally pleasuring another man, but I'd called out again, "Come on, there's no use pretending, Jake."
Then he'd appeared in the door of my bedroom, grinning at us and appearing cheerfully unconcerned that the loose grey shorts he was wearing for bed were being prominently lifted upwards by the thickened rod of his flagrant hard-on.
"I was just... er... heading downstairs for a drink," he lied, as I noticed a wet patch on the material of his shorts up near the pocket; a large dark circle at the tip of his hugely excited organ. It was obvious that he'd been rubbing himself as he'd watched us having sex: his precum must have been seeping from his erection as he'd massaged the swollen shaft of it through his shorts.
I was damned if I was going to let my son's unwelcome appearance spoil the enjoyment I was having with Bradley. Still holding onto his hips and without missing a beat as my crotch slapped back and forth against his arse, I said, "Of course you were, Jake," who grinned back at us broadly.
I kept up my exertions, wondering what my son would do next, and he just kept smirking at the two of us, the patch of wetness on his shorts growing steadily larger. He seemed especially interested in seeing Bradley as he bent forwards to be fucked, and my friend chuckled back at him with obvious amusement at having an unexpected audience. Jake even peered forwards so he could better see the size of Bradley's erection bobbing stiffly beneath his stomach as I maintained my constant rhythm in and out of his butt-cheeks.
"So, Jake, if there's nothing else," I said, feeling a touch self-conscious to have my son standing in front of me, gawping over as I buggered this younger man's arse. "I'd appreciate a bit of privacy, please."
He laughed to himself and licked his lips slowly: he was making it quite evident that he liked the look of Bradley's large cock.
I wanted to get up and see him out of the room but I was determined that he wasn't going to put me off: why should I stop what I was doing just because my son wanted to ogle us?
Eventually - after Jake and Bradley had grinned at each other a good deal more; Jake leering pointedly over at Bradley's bobbing hard-on and Bradley making it abundantly clear that he liked the look of Jake's inside his shorts - Jake said, "Can I offer either of you anything?"
"Offer us anything?" I asked with a pointed scowl.
"Yeah, to drink, I mean," Jake clarified, grinning again at Bradley while he rubbed up and down the thickened shaft which was lifting the front of his shorts. The gesture was flamboyantly masturbatory and Bradley chuckled at its unmistakeable intent.
"I mean, I don't want to interrupt you guys," Jake went on with continued amusement, "but it seems, dad, while you're doing what you're doing, Bradley here might be getting a bit thirsty."
Bradley laughed more loudly and thrust him bum more forcefully against the hammering of my cock, as if in excitement at what he was being offered.
Jake grabbed the front of his shorts and directed his cock forwards and outwards inside the material, making it abundantly clear - as if clarification was necessary - that he was rampantly excited and hoping to join in with us. The large helmet-shaped head of my son's erection was thrust upwards against the grey material, looking surprisingly similar in size and shape to that of my own.
"I wouldn't say no to having a slurp on something," Bradley confessed, before adding, "that is, if your dad's okay with it."
Jake was already yanking his cock out through his fly before I cut in, curtly, "Your dad's definitely not okay with it, Jake! Put it away!"
"Aw, come on dad!" Jake called out petulantly, holding the about half of what looked like a very large and impressive erection through the button fly of his shorts. His tone reminded me of when he was a little kid and was refused chocolate bars at the supermarket checkout. "He's only going to have a suck, and it's not like I'm disturbing what you're doing!"
He directed the large, wet head of his cock towards Bradley's face who licked his lips hungrily before turning to peer up at me over his shoulder. "What's the harm?" he asked.
I finally stopped my rhythm in and out of his cheeks: Jake had won - he had managed to interrupt my enjoyment.
"It'll just be a quick blowjob," Bradley persisted, as Jake yanked another few inches of his erection out through his fly. It looked enormous - far bigger than I might have expected - though I knew from experience that Bradley would have little difficulty in taking it into his mouth.
"Not necessarily quick," Jake cut in with a grin. "And not necessarily just a blowjob," he added mischievously, turning slightly and yanking his shorts down at the back enough to let Bradley know that the hairy crack of his arse was also available for his tongue to work on.
That only served to make Bradley even more insistent.
"Oh, come on, Rob!" he said, apparently unfazed by the fact we were having this discussion with my cock lodged halfway up his bum. "What harm can there be in me having a quick lick of... er... one or two things? It's not like you and him are going to do anything with each other!"
"That's not the point," I argued, feeling annoyed that Jake had put me in this position. "I don't want to be having sex while watching you orally pleasure my son, thank you very much!"
"I'm in the room, guys," Jake reminded us but I was in no mood for his frivolity.
"Put your dick away, Jake, and leave us to it!" I snapped, my voice making it clear this was not up for debate. "I'm not messing about - we don't want drinks and we don't want your cheap innuendos. Just go back to bed, please."
Jake stuffed his erection back into his shorts, muttering to himself like we were back at the supermarket till.
"You always do this," he complained, and stomped out of the room with an irritated snort. Having never been in the situation of being interrupted by him while I was in the middle of shafting another man's butt, I wasn't sure quite what he meant.
He clattered along the hallway and stormed back into his room. I expected his bedroom door to slam shut just like it had so many times in the past, but when it didn't I realised he was hoping his fun wasn't quite over yet.
"I'm sorry, mate," I said to Bradley a few minutes later, as we lay back against the headboard of the bed with our cocks looking as floppy as if we'd climaxed. "I know you were up for it, but I just couldn't - he's my son!"
"I know that, Rob, but you're always saying you'd like a threesome with me and my brother. Having Jake come in with us would be no different from that."
He was right on one point - I did often suggest that we got together for a session with his brother Garth. The guy supposedly had a cock that was long and flexible enough to work it into his own arsehole. I was even more fascinated to see how the two brothers would express their affection towards one another and was hoping something could be arranged for the three of us relatively soon.
"With Jake it would seem different," I said, struggling to think of why that was so. "I've brought him up from being a baby. When you two guys were joking around about you rimming him, you've got to remember that I used to wipe that bum when Jake was in nappies. It'd feel totally wrong for me to have him join in with our sex."
Bradley nodded. "Okay, I guess I never really thought of that way. So I accept that a threesome is out of the question. But let's say Jake and I were to get it together on our own. Would you object to that?"
"I don't know," I said, thinking the idea through. "I suppose not. As long as you were... you know... careful with him. He's only nineteen."
"He's a big boy, mate," Bradley laughed, "I think he can look after himself."
"I'm not so sure about that," I hit back. "He's just a kid, really."
It had taken us quite a while to get back into each other and resume our sex - ironically, given the supposed cause of the interruption, we'd needed a refill on our drinks to get things back on track - but once we were back into the rhythm, a secondary thumping sound from the open door along the hallway let us both know that our exertions were being enjoyed elsewhere.
Now that I was standing behind my bedroom door listening to other people's noises of sex, largely in the position Jake had found himself in a week earlier, I found myself tempted, just as he had been, to take a walk along the corridor to observe first-hand the activity which was keeping me awake.
I eased myself out through the door, taking care not to allow the hinges to creak even though I was aware that Jake was probably expecting me to follow in his footsteps and appear in the shadows of his bedroom door.
What would I say if I was seen by the two of them? I couldn't claim, as Jake had, to be en route to getting a drink from the kitchen - his bedroom was at the back of the house and in the opposite direction from the stairs. I couldn't even say I'd been popping to the toilet as that was closer to my room than it was to Jake's. I'd just have to use the trusted excuse of hearing noises and being worried that we had intruders at the rear. In some respects that was true.
I crept out into the hallway, the sounds that Jake and Marcus were making becoming clearer and louder. Jake's bedside lamp was on and a wedge of its light spilled out onto the carpet in front of his room. This was going to be more interesting than I'd hoped: I'd assumed they would be having sex in darkness and that I would see only the indistinct outlines of their bodies writhing and contorting on the bed in the faint glow from Jake's computer monitor. It seemed, though, I was in for a more explicit performance, as Jake's bed was directly opposite the door of his room and I would be able to see what they were doing in near full illumination.
I edged cautiously along the corridor between our rooms, the rhythmic sounds from Jake's bedroom becoming more distinct. The bed was creaking tortuously and the two of them were panting and gasping together.
I smiled at the sound of them. Many other men would have been mortified to have heard their son enjoying a moment of passion with one of his male friends, but I was by now feeling mostly flattered that Jake was - quite deliberately, I was sure - allowing me to witness such an intimate act. And the parts of me that weren't feeling flattered were, I have to admit, becoming increasingly turned-on. My pyjama bottoms were by now tenting upwards quite obscenely with my gathering excitement.
As I slowly inched my way down the hallway, the smell of their sex grew progressively stronger. It was a wonderfully rich aroma - laced with sweat and testosterone, but buzzing with much heavier essences straight from the hole that was being so noisily plundered. It was even more intoxicating than the scent I enjoyed when I was with a man myself: the youthful vigour of these two fit lads was enriching the far stronger smell of their sex with its own acrid kick.
It reminded me of the times I'd sniffed the back of a man's underpants after he had worn them for a whole day: earthy and pungent; bitter and effluvious. I assumed the back of Marcus' underwear packed the same acerbic punch when he pulled them off each evening: how interesting it would be to borrow a couple of discarded pairs from his rucksack and find out what secrets such a well-mannered young man was concealing in the back of his trousers.
As I paused to appreciate the gathering anal musk in the air, Jake seemed to crank up the action of his hips against his friend's buttocks and the noise from his room grew a good few decibels louder. He was desperate to be heard, of that I was sure, and he was making it as irrefutably clear as he could that the back bedroom of the house was playing host to some serious male-to-male bonding.
The smell from their activities grew, in turn, significantly stronger: whatever Jake was doing to his friend was releasing an especially piquant redolence for their solitary audience to enjoy. Perhaps his cock had started drilling even more deeply up into Marcus' bowels; or perhaps the two of them were now dripping with sweat, adding a fresh dose of male pheromones to the already potent mix that was assailing my nostrils.
I inhaled deeply, savouring the deliciously carnal bite of the air in the hallway. Surely by now, even the naive dad I had imagined while I'd been lying in my bed would be able to identify the source of the odour that was wafting from his son's room. I chuckled at the thought: what a surprise that might be for him!
I pressed on along the corridor, lowering each foot down onto the carpet as silently as I could, musing on how lucky Jake was to have found a like-minded friend as energetic as Marcus. He had a freshness about him, or so I'd thought while I'd watched him smiling politely at Guy's bawdy humour during our meal earlier that evening, which had made me suspect he'd be as horny as a buck rabbit once you got him in the mood. And it seemed that my son was more than capable of doing just that.
I had to admit, though, that even though he was my son and I was all too aware of his many shortcomings, Jake was very attractive young lad too. He had an especially masculine face - quite angular and already with a tendency to show stubble if he didn't shave daily - and his mother's dark brown eyes which expressed very vividly the emotions he would otherwise prefer to conceal. His body was more lithe than his friend's but I'd noticed on many occasions that he had a nice, firm backside which was pleasantly rounded and not entirely dissimilar from my own.
The two of them would make a stunning male couple, I speculated, as I edged along the corridor. Seeing them in flagrante was going to present a most enjoyable sight, and I homed in on the open doorway while adjusting the front of my pyjama bottoms to accommodate what must be the least wholesome aspect of my fatherly interest in my son.
Their noises continued, seeming to growing even faster and more forceful, as my toes first breached the shaft of light shining out of Jake's bedroom. Was their homosexual coupling getting still livelier, or was I just hearing their activities more clearly as I neared the doorway?
I had a sudden misgiving about proceeding further and found myself hesitating at the threshold of the illuminated doorway. My son was right there in front of me, enjoying what should be a private sexual moment with his friend, and here I was about to spy on him doing it. Was this acceptable behaviour for a middle-aged father?
Before I had time to address my unease, the sounds from Jake's room abruptly stopped. Fearing they'd heard me, I froze still outside of the doorway, hardly daring to breathe in case I revealed what I had been about to do. I wasn't too bothered about Jake knowing I was there - he, after all, had done exactly the same thing to me on many, many occasions before I'd caught him last week - but I didn't want Marcus, who was a guest in my house after all, getting the impression that I habitually sneaked around perving on what my son was getting up to in the middle of the night.
As I stood statue still in the corridor, the arch of my foot starting to cramp up from the tensed position I was holding myself in, I heard noises of the two of them repositioning themselves on the bed, mattress springs creaking as knees were pressed down into them, and then my son asked his friend in a low voice if he was okay.
"Yeah, you were just hurting a bit," Marcus replied and I heard a rasping farting noise which I realised was coming from a tube of something wet being squirted.
As whatever it was - lube, I assume - was applied to various patches of male anatomy, I heard Marcus whisper, "Are you sure this is okay, Jake? My dad would have a fit if we did this at my place."
"Don't worry," my son chuckled, "my dad is definitely no angel!"
I couldn't help but smile to myself. He was right there.
"Has he heard you having sex before?" Marcus asked quietly.
"Not like this," Jake admitted. "He saw me having a wank when we were sharing a room a few years ago, but he hasn't heard me doing stuff with someone else."
"Won't he be freaked out?" Marcus persisted. In spite of the joke Marcus had made about me acting like Guy's boyfriend, Jake hadn't been lying when he'd told me that his friend didn't know about the new-found diversity of my sexual interests.
I heard Jake laugh to himself. "Believe me, mate, he doesn't blush very easily these days."
I smiled again. Like father like son, I thought.
"But won't he think you're gay? My dad would keel over if he knew I was doing this."
"My old man knows the score, mate," Jake snorted impatiently. "Now come on, shove your arse back towards me and open your legs wider. I'm getting blue balls back here!"
"Oh, Jake, what a sensual lover you make," I thought to myself. "You're a modern-day Casanova."
There was a wet slurp as my son reoccupied the hole he'd vacated, and then the creaking of the bed started up again and the headboard resumed its beating against the wall.
Feeling relieved that I was free to move again, the sounds of my progress being masked by the rhythmic cacophony that was ensuing from my son's mattress and the two bodies on it, I allowed myself to relax and stretched my tensed-up foot against carpet beneath me. The joints inside it clicked and sounded unfeasibly loud.
I returned to the question that had occurred to me before their brief interruption: was it wrong of me to be observing my son and his young friend while they were enjoying what should be a private act together? Did the fact this was a homosexual rather than heterosexual coupling make it more or less wrong that I might be about to spy on them? On the one hand, I might take the view that what they were doing was the sexual equivalent of a pair of lads messing around together and therefore perfectly reasonable for me to glance in on with an almost amused detachment. On the other, it could be argued that the fact they were both young men made it even more inappropriate for me to watch them experiencing pleasure together: such a profound moment of intimacy was supposed to be conducted in secret and I had no place to be peering in on them like some old, salivating anorak-wearer.
Perhaps, I mused, if I were to see what they were actually doing, I would in a better position to formulate an option.
Yes, that was a very sensible approach to take.
I crept forwards along the last foot or so of the corridor until I was level with Jake's door and, staying back in the shadows of the hallway as much as I could, peered around the open doorway, squinting to allow my eyes to become accustomed to the relative brightness of the bedside lamp.
As soon as I saw them, it felt indecently wrong for me to be spying on them. They were both naked - that might sound obvious, but for some reason I'd expected their sex to be so casual that they'd be doing it in their t-shirts with their underwear hitched down - and, in spite of the open door and my suspicion that Jake was deliberately putting on a show, it suddenly seemed like I really was not intended to be looking at this. Here was my son, upright on his knees, making love to another boy who was on all fours in front of him: how utterly contemptible must I be for peeping on the two of them like some squalid pervert?
I almost pulled away in disgust at myself, but there was something about Jake - something about his face - that made me hesitate. I stared at him for several seconds, wondering what was keeping me from shuffling back to bed, when I realised what it was that was out of place.
As he stared ahead of Marcus' bent body, as he looked forwards at the posters of indie bands above the headboard of his bed, his expression didn't fit with what he was doing. He wasn't gasping in pleasure or grunting with enjoyment: he was broadly smirking and his eyes were full of mischief.
He knew his dad was watching him and he was delighting in the fact.
I had come to his doorway and taken up the position he had always intended for me.
He didn't turn to face me, nor give any discernible sign of acknowledgement. But he knew full well I was there and was in no need of confirmation.
"Ah, this feels so good, mate," my son called out as his friend grunted his agreement. He continued thrusting his hips back and forth as the long, thick shaft of his cock drove in and out of Marcus' outstretched buttocks, all the time staring ahead of himself with that deliberate smirk on his devious face.
He wanted me to see him enjoying a late night butt-fuck with his mate from university: that much was abundantly clear.
And, for all I was feeling suckered into doing what had been expected of me, I had to admit they looked spectacular together: Marcus bending forward with his fair, curly hair flopping onto the pillow, giving himself so spiritedly to my son who was kneeling upright behind him.
My son's friend looked magnificent naked: his body was beautifully sculpted and swathed with taut, naturally well-built muscles which bulged as he tensed and flexed against Jake's relentless thrusts. This was a handsome, strapping lad bent over on all fours on Jake's bed and, while my son was undeniably something of a looker himself, he should count himself very fortunate to have such an attractive friend who seemed so grateful to receive his attentions.
Such musings were interrupted by the realisation Jake wasn't wearing a condom: he and his friend obviously trusted each other completely, the way Guy and I now did and the way I was trying to persuade Bradley we should.
"How's my big cock feel screwing your arse, mate?" Jake asked, his voice slightly louder than it needed to be, suggesting the question had been posed primarily for my benefit.
Was this why he had wanted me to see him like this? To prove to me that he was a big boy now and more than capable of using adult language?
"Amazing," Marcus gasped in a more muted whisper.
My son's manhood did indeed look very large, hammering in and out from between his friend's round bum-cheeks. It had all the girth of my own and, from what I could see each time he pulled back to withdraw it, matched very closely my length. Seeing it from the side, however, made it obvious that Jake's cock had a much more conspicuous upward curve to it than mine did, a fact he exploited with the technique he was employing. His arching, sweeping motion used the full curvature of his shaft to repeatedly skewer the orifice in front of him, giving his plump cock-head a smooth, circular trajectory with every powerful thrust.
"Shoot your load up inside me, Jake," Marcus called out, breathlessly. "Go for it, mate!"
Jake looked like he was about to comply with his friend's request, and I must say I would have been very pleased to have seen him depositing his semen in a series of grunting spasms deep up inside the rump he was being so enthusiastically offered, but it seemed he had rather different ideas.
After a few further - and to my eyes, overly brash - lunges, he pulled out of Marcus and paused for a moment with his cock arching upwards at the threshold of what it had just so brusquely enjoyed.
He sniffed the air and took a moment to savour the sordid bouquet of the hole he had just plundered, before declaring: "Your butt smells so hot, dude!"
Again I wondered if this was an attempt by Jake to prove to me that the son I'd brought up had become a man. After all, this was very much the sort of thing I would enjoy doing in his position and he may well have picked up the habit from watching me over countless nights.
"It doesn't smell as hot as it did in that tent, mate," Marcus reminded him and the two of them giggled. This must be a reference to when they had camped out a couple of nights at a music festival in October.
Oh, to have had a sniff of that hot fug after the two of them had been at it! The front of my pyjama bottoms took a sudden lurch upwards at the mere idea of them stinking out Jake's two-man tent with their lewd exertions. I seemed to remember Jake had taken his girlfriend and mate of hers along on that trip, complete with their own, more extravagant sleeping arrangements. I wondered what dear, sweet Ellie had made of the indecorous smell in the boys' cramped tent first thing in the morning; that unique combination of bum and cum.
Jake shuffled down the bed, away from Marcus' bent body, and announced that he had something else in mind which his friend, he was sure, would greatly enjoy.
Putting his hands back on his friend's hips and making just the slightest and almost imperceptible glance in my direction, he pressed his face towards the splayed buttocks in front of him, reaching forwards to rim the splayed and gaping arsehole his cock had just vacated.
A post-fuck rim: "You lucky sod, Jake", I thought again. It had taken me ages to discover that the most rewarding rim-jobs were the ones administered to a freshly-ploughed hole, but it seemed Jake had made such a fortuitous discovery relatively soon after taking up the same hobby.
Again, I strongly suspected what he was doing was on account of the audience he knew he had. He was well aware that I regard rimming as being the most rewarding and sophisticated of the activities I indulge in with my own gender, and he was trying to prove to me that he was himself a connoisseur of such an elegant art-form.
Perhaps he was right, I mused: perhaps my little boy really was 'all growed up'.
He pressed his face to Marcus' rump and extended his tongue forwards to where he must be able to see the other boy's swollen hole was dilated outwards. For a second time, he couldn't help but smirk: he was aware I was standing watching him, no doubt suspecting - quite rightly - that I had a growing hard-on, and he was revelling in the performance he was giving me.
But then, when he actually pushed forwards and went in for the bullseye, I found myself feeling shocked and appalled to see what Jake was doing.
It wasn't the sight of my son with his mouth on another lad's bum that was so offending me: it was the fact he was administering the most inept rim-job I'd ever seen in the flesh. He was flicking his tongue back and forth against Marcus' hole like they do for dramatic effect in porn films; dabbing at it with the tip like he was afraid to actually taste what was being presented to him; wiggling his tongue up and down as if intentionally making a silly face.
"You're doing it all wrong, son," I was almost compelled to call out. I wanted to march in and take over from him, to show him how such a delicate act should really be performed by one man on another. But obviously I didn't interrupt their moment together and risk upsetting Marcus who seemed oblivious to my presence, and held back in the doorway, exasperated by the mess Jake was making of what should have been an intensely erotic and sensual moment of intimacy.
I remembered he'd walked in on me rimming another man in our lounge quite a few months earlier. While at the time I'd been annoyed with him for quite deliberately interrupting us, now I was more annoyed that he hadn't learned anything from what he'd seen me doing.
"You don't lap at it like a fucking saucer of milk," I was thinking, with growing frustration. "You should be caressing his entrance with your tongue, not teasing it like that; you should be massaging his passage and making him gasp with excitement, not just fannying around like it's a lollipop."
Marcus, however, seemed to be enjoying what my son was doing to his bum. He raised himself upwards and prized his buttocks apart with both hands to give his friend better access, smiling over his shoulder at Jake as his cock poked upwards in its unabated arousal.
It seemed that my son's lover was easy to please.
I noticed, then, that Marcus' erection had its own captivating beauty, arching so gracefully upwards from between his rounded, muscular thighs. The head of it was a handsome shiny purple - almost metallic in its lustre - and the size of its shaft was slightly larger than average, making it very pleasingly proportioned with respect to the rest of his athletic, toned body.
Jake emerged from between his buttocks and grinned back upwards at him.
"You like having a Furlong tongue lapping at your arse?" he asked before spitting out a stray anal hair that must have been tickling his tongue.
"You know I do," Marcus chuckled, apparently excited to have another boy licking his backside, regardless of the inelegance of the technique which had been employed.
Jake looked up at his friend and grinned naughtily. "And I bet you'd like a Furlong mouth sucking your cock at the same time my tongue was rimming your arse!"
("Call that rimming?" I couldn't help but think. "You really have no idea, Jake.")
Marcus chuckled hesitantly, confused about the point Jake was trying to make. "If only that were possible," he suggested with his voice betraying his obvious uncertainty.
Jake leaned in to take another few clumsy licks of Marcus' delicious-looking bum and then grinned up at him again. "You'd love it though, wouldn't you? Having a Furlong mouth slobbering away on your horny cock and another rimming your cute arse! You'd love that!"
Marcus smiled at Jake but, just like me, didn't see where this was headed. "I guess I would," he offered with an uneasy shrug.
"You'd be well up for it wouldn't you?" Jake asked salaciously.
"You know I would," Marcus chuckled with obvious puzzlement before Jake turned towards the doorway and called out:
"You might as well come in, dad! I know you're out there!"
I hesitated for a moment, caught off-guard by Jake's abrupt invitation. In spite of what he'd said about the two Furlong tongues, I really had not expected him to ask me to join in the pair of them in the middle of what they were doing.
I held back for a moment, my mind reeling about what I should do, before Jake called out again, "Come on, dad! I can see the stripes on your pyjamas!"
There was no point pretending I wasn't here: as I'd surmised all along, he had fully expected me to do what he himself had obviously done so many times before and position myself voyeuristically outside his bedroom door.
"Okay," I said, pushing my way into my son's bedroom. "You win. Now what were you saying about there being two Furlong mouths?"
To be concluded