A Father-In-Law

When I married his daughter, he was only thirty-seven, I was twenty-one, she, his daughter, was twenty, but just barely, her birthday had happened the day before. He had gotten his girlfriend, and future wife, my mother-in-law, when they were both in college, pregnant. As with most college students, when they were away from home and left to their own carnal devices, (and freedom), sex, comes into the picture, into the narrative. It was what brought his daughter and me together, too. There was a noticeable baby-bump under that shiny white wedding gown, that day. However, this story is not about his daughter and me, this story is about MY father-in-law and me.

It was an anxious day. We carried on like there was no reason for the hastily thrown together nuptials but the due date for the baby was fast approaching and we needed an anniversary date that fell before the expected delivery date, as Christians of upstanding morals, we have to keep the facade of a high-moral family intact, or so I have been told.

Getting ready for the walk down the aisle, preparations were made and classrooms in the church were assigned, as changing rooms. My best man was running late, so it left my future father-in-law and me, in the same room, to change into our black and white penguin suits.

“You nervous?”

I was hastily pulling, my sweat-stained tee shirt over my head. I am standing amid this cluttered Sunday school classroom, bare-chested, in shorts, with sneakers on and nothing else.

“Uhhh, no sir,” I mutter, nervously, “Just ready to get this monkey-show over with.”

He, my father-in-law, is unbuttoning his shirt, one-by-one, his belt, unfastened and pants, opened, revealing the white band of his FTL underwear, clearly able to be seen by me. He does not duck to hide is almost nakedness. His chest is matted-up with a dense carpet of dirty blonde hair, as the last button is undone, with swirls of his hairy forest disappearing under the eaves of the elastic band of his cheap underwear. He reminds me of the fabled surfers of California’s bygone days. However, this is not California, far from it. It is the deep backwoods of country South Georgia.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says, “You are in the same position I was, when I married Eve’s mother, a little over twenty years ago.

“Yes, sir,” I say as I turn away from him, my back to his front as I prepare to drop my shorts and slip on my black tuxedo slacks.

I knew this, Eve had told me of her parent’s story. It was knowledge freely shared around the dinner table.

Mr. Porter kicks off his shoes and lowers his opened khaki pants.  As I look into the mirror in front of me. All I see his underwear and the swirls of hair that cover the man’s body in the reflection, which I am looking in. Once he is down to his white cotton skivvies, he stands there and does not move. I see him scan my backside, unlike him, my ass is round and full and clearly accentuated by the sheer fabric of the thin material of my shorts.

“Have a seat, Ryan,” he says to me as he sits in one of the chairs in the classroom in his briefs.

I turn, quickly, but turn back away, at his words, as I drop my shorts. Unlike him, I am not wearing any underwear. I have not worn them since the early days of my high school years.

I keep my back turned as I feel the cool breeze of the air conditioner sweep over my nakedness and my ass.

“Did you hear me, Ryan, have a seat, we need to talk, quickly, before you walk down the aisle to wed my only daughter,” he says with a fierce strength in his voice.

I hesitate, but he is a man like me, so I do.

I am naked as I pull a seat up and sit directly in front of him.

Mr. Porter’s legs are spread. I mimic my father-in-law and assume the same position.

I feel his eyes roll up and down me, in my nudity, as I sit before him. My legs are spread, too, like him. He can clearly see all of me. My cock dangles, in its softness between my outstretched legs. My hand darts to my manhood, as does his, which is resting on the bulge created by cotton-hammock that covers his cock as we fondle ourselves, as most men do, when placed in similar situations.

Are we each are establishing our Alpha-male status, our dominance in this little play, this impromptu confrontation? I do not know, I just know that my actions were automatic, as I assume his are too.

“Do you love my daughter, Ryan?” Mr. Porter asks me.

“Yes, sir, I do, Mr. Porter,” I say, “I love Eve, very much.”

I feel my cock twitch at the mention of his daughter and my future wife. I feel the cum ease from my balls.

At this point, I see him squeeze the long cylinder-like mounded mass that fills the man’s underwear. He does not hide what he does.

“Are you going to take care of her?” Mr. Porter asks me.

“Yes, sir, I am,” I say.

“I trust you, Ryan,” Mr. Porter tells me, “I trust you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

It is then I see a round pearl-like drop appear on the white fabric of Mr. Porter’s underwear, right where his piss-hole hits the soft fibers of the bleached cotton underwear.

“I never realized you were quite so muscular, Ryan,” Mr. Porter says, “You must have played ball back in your high school days.”

“Nah, sir, “I say, “I was a skinny lanky kid back in my high school days but my first year of college, I bulked up and started working out in earnest. It did wonders for me.”

“That it did. That it did, “he tells me, “Call me, Paul, instead of Mr. Porter, Ryan, please.”

“Okay, Paul,” I say, reluctantly.

“You ain’t wearin’ any tight-whitey’s, boy?” Paul asks as we both stand, “Since when?”

My hands fall to my side, and my cock unfurls between my legs.

Paul stares at me.

“Nah, I quit wearing ‘em back in high school, “I explain, “I felt cramped in ‘em.”

“I know what you mean,” he says, “but I have never ‘gone commando’ a single day in my life,” Paul explains.

“There is nothing like it, Paul, you oughta give it a try,” I explain, “You’ll never wear underwear again.”

I see him look me over for the umpteenth time. I also notice that his cock has steadily grown and now peaks out from under the waistband of his Fruit-Of-The-Looms. I see his red knob peek out and the wet drop of glistening cum on the shiny bulb of his cockhead.

“How do you handle those unexpected, uhhhh, problems?”

I look at Paul Porter and smile like a canary in a cat’s mouth.

“I take matters in hand when necessary, Paul,” I explain, “You do know what I mean, doncha?”

He nods his head and smiles at me. He knows what I mean.

Not to let an opportunity pass by, I let my right-hand glide up and down the length of my cock in front of my, soon to be, father-in-law. He does not look away as he roughly squeezes his cocked bulge in his white cotton briefs. As he squeezes, more droplets of his deeply deposited man-milk seeps from his visible cockhead.

“What the hell?” Paul says as he drops his briefs and stands in front of me, in all his 37-year-old glory.

I look him over.

“Better?” I say with a smile on my face, “Is it better?”

As he stands in front of me, his cock expels more seed juice from the pee-hole on his cock-crown. He smears this cream with an agile finger over his cockhead. It glistens brightly as the overhead light catches the wet juice in its glow.

“Seems like you have a problem, sir,” I say, with a bated enthusiasm in my voice, “You best take care of it.”

“Where?”

“Here,” I proclaim, “Bust your nut, sir. Do it right now.”

Like some cruel joke, a banging of fists starts pounding on the closed door to the Sunday school classroom. It is his wife, and my soon to be mother-in-law at the door.

“Are you boys ‘bout ready? Ryan, your best man is here and is ready to go. Y’all need to get a move on. It is about time, sweetie.”

“Thank you, m’am,” I shout out as I gently glide my hand up and down my slowly growing shaft.

Paul walks to the closed door but does not open it. His wife would be alarmed at his nakedness and mine too, I assume. As he walks, his juice is flung freely about in the short walk from his spot to the door.

“Be out in a minute honey,” he shouts, “Okay?”

He looks at me. Then heads back to where he had stood, picking up his discarded underwear, reluctantly slipping them over his rapidly shrinking cock, as annoyance is clearly visible on his face.

“Maybe, another day,” Paul says, in a loud sigh, “This is just between us, Ryan, okay? Just between you and me, son.”

“Of course, Mr. Porter, “I say, with calm reassurance in my voice, “It does not go beyond this room.”

He does not correct me when I address him in the way not using his first name.

We hastily dress. I got married on that hot summer South Georgia day, which was nearly four years and two kids, ago. Nothing has been said since, but I have not forgotten what I saw of my naked father-in-law that day.

***

The day was a Sunday, a day when Eve and I would travel a mere five miles, up the road, in the late afternoon and have supper at her parents’ house. I knew not to fight about going over to the in-laws. I do like my father-in-law, we had much in common, I found out, as the years melted away, we became fast friends, quite easily. Perhaps it grew from our shared nude experience in that Sunday school classroom.

My father had died when I was in Junior High and my mom had never remarried, so I longed for a father figure in my life. I welcomed his advice regarding married life, work, and just friendship. He is more friend than a father-in-law.

My first-born, a girl named Annie, scampers about in the living room where Paul and I sit. Her little wobbly body, full of unbridled energy, falls on her unsteady feet, plopping like a ragdoll on the carpet. In the kitchen, we can hear mother and daughter busy fixin’ the nights supper. My son, a two-year-old naps in Eve’s old bedroom.

“I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout going down to the Gulf and doin’ some deep sea fishin’, you game?” Paul asks me as I sit in a lounge usually reserved for my mother-in-law.

“Sure. Sure.”

“We gonna need to start workin’ on wooing the women-folk to the idea,” Paul explains.

“I know,” I say happily.

My ma-in-law walks into the den where we sit, the television hums in the background, “What you two plotting?”

Paul stands.

“We maybe goin’ to go down to the Gulf, if you ladies will give us permission to do so,” Paul snickers.

My dear sweet mother-in-law laughs, before she comments.

“Of course, you two can go,” she says, “It will give me an Eve some mother-daughter time.”

She looks at him. She will do it and did. The asking was just a formality, an open ploy in their nearly twenty-five-year-old marriage.

Over dinner, we hash out the details and the next Friday, that day is set to be for another one of our adventures.

***

So, Friday has arrived, and we are making our way, south, to the Gulf, the truck windows are down, and the summer night breeze is blowing through, cooling us.

Paul is behind the steering wheel and I am in the passenger seat.

I scoot away from the seat and bring my tee shirt over my head, and then replace my ball cap back on the top of my head, as the fierce summer wind whips through the cab.

I see Paul gaze over at me, seeing his eyes roam over my chest.

My right-hand glides to my crotch, neatly tucked under my balls, as my legs are spread wide to accommodate my manliness.

“That feels better,” I say as the wind ships across the dark black hairs that cover my chest.

I see Paul look over at me. He has done that many times in the years we have known each other.

I fondle my balls, feeling the fullness that fills them. It has been days since I have had a chance to empty them of their fertile seed. My toying with it causes my cock to react. At my gestures, my cock begins to harden.

Paul’s eyes this change in my former flaccid stance.

“You still freeballin’?” he asks.

“I am,” I answer, “You ever done it?”

He does not answer me. I think back to the day when I married Eve. On that day, something was about to happen that day but the interruption by my mother-in-law stopped it. What might have happened then, I do not know.

We drive south on the interstate, very few words are spoken between us.

I am relaxed. The absence of my whiny two children and the stress of my mundane job, many miles away, help bring me to a more restful place.

Paul is much older now, nearly forty or perhaps forty-one, I am not sure, I cannot seem to remember his birthday to be sure of it. I am twenty-five, more muscular than I was when I married his daughter, those years ago. I began working out more as an excuse to get out the house and the sound of my hollering children. It is not that I do not love my children but my two seem to be overly energetic and loud, but I long for bouts of silence and quiet, when I can get them.

“What ya thinkin’ ‘bout, Ryan?” my father-in-law asks.

“The quiet,” I say, “Just enjoyin’ the quiet.”

“I know what ya mean, “he says, “…but one day you will miss the sounds of your children. I do.”

“You do?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, “That’s why I like bein’ a grandparent, they can love me, and I can get my fill, but they get too loud they can go back home.”

He laughs when he finishes.

“I need to make a stop. I gotta piss like a racehorse,” Paul says as he exits at the rest stop, north of Tampa.

“Me, too.”

We pull in. The lot is almost empty of any vehicles, except for two semi trucks parked in their area.

Paul bolts from the pick-up the moment we park. I guess he really did hafta go.

I walk up the sidewalk, feeling the waning sun duck behind the horizon but the Florida heat and humidity is still unbearable.

I walk into the Men’s restroom. Paul is pissing at a urinal farthest from the door.

The sound of his piss hitting the enamel bowl is competing with sounds of moans and groans from one of the stalls.

I walk up, drop the front of my shorts, and piss beside him.

“You hear that?” Paul asks as he attempts to whisper.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Sounds like someone is fucking,” he whispers on, amidst the roars from one of the stalls.

“Yeah, it does, “I say, as I finish up, shaking the last drops of yellow dew from my cock.

Paul watches me as I shake off those last drops, giving myself a few strokes, just because I can.

“You think it is those two truck drivers?” he asks.

“You never know,” I say, “You never know.”

As Paul talks, he fails to realize that he has ceased with his pissing, his hand is locked firmly ‘round his cock as the squeals echoes in the concrete block bunker of the restroom.

“You finished?” I ask him.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he mutters as he slowly tucks his cock back into his jeans.

“We best get a move on,” I say, “How far to the hotel?”

As we exit, from the restroom, the moans are still loud from the stalls.

My shorts are tented. I cannot hide it, nor do I want to.

Paul needs to loosen up. His Conservative Christian ‘moral’ upbringing has wound the man so tight that the sound of fucking unnerves him.

We make it back to the truck.

He unbuttons his shirt and stands when I slide back in on the passenger side.

“You gettin’ hot, Paul?” I ask as I close the door.

“Yeah,” he answers, “You want me to drive?”

“You want to?’

“Sure.”

I opened the door while Paul walks to my side. We pass each other in front of the truck. I notice right away that his cock is making a noticeable bulge in the front of his jeans.

We both get back in.

By this time, Paul has removed his shirt and has it lying on the seat next to him. Like me, he is bare-chested. Nothing has changed in his body since the many years ago, he is covered in his sandy blonde fur, although he has trimmed it. I did not expect that.

“Where to?” I ask.

“Head to I-275,” he says, “Our hotel room is there.”

“You aw-right?” I ask, as I notice his fidgeting and discomfort as he seats opposite me.

He does not answer.

“Is it the fucking?” I ask, “Is that what is bothering you?”

Again, he does not answer me, but both of his hands are firmly planted in front of his crotch, signals that someone is in arrears.

My cock is semi-hard in my loose shorts, but I am not hiding it. I am not ashamed.

“Paul? Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“When was the last time you and Marie had sex?” I ask.

“It has been a while,” he answered.

“When was the last time you jacked off?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I say, “when was the last time you stroked a load off?”

He does not say anything, he hems and haws, debating on answering me as we head south on I-75.

“It has been years,” he finally answers.

“I thought so.”

“When was the last time, you did, Ryan?” he asks me as I feel his eyes glare at me.

“Actually, a few days ago, at the gym, in the showers, after a workout,” I tell him.

“Nobody walked in?”

“No,” I answer, “If they had, so be it.”

“You are jokin’, right?”

“Nope.”

“Paul, do you need to jack-off?” I ask him as calmly and as nonthreatening as I can.

He nods his head at me.

“Well, go ahead and do it, then, “I say, “Do it now? What?”

“You heard me, “I say, “Do it.”

“It will not bother you?” he says with some alarm in his voice as I see him unzip his jeans.

“No,” I reassure him, “What happens between us, is between us.”

Paul finishes unzipping his jeans, and then he unsnaps them. He is going to fish out his cock and finally show me what he only teased me with on the day I married his daughter. I had seen him that June day he was semi-hard that day, as I am right now, but he had not been able to stroke his cock that day, despite how much he wanted to, maybe today he would let me see him bust a nut.

He slides down his jeans and the FTL underwear down that I know he wears, at the same time. They are bunched at his feet, covering the work boots that he wears each day of his life.

The man is nearly naked in my sight as we barrel down the interstate. The sun had set as we make our way further south.

“Paul,” I say, “You are in fine shape. I must admit.”

His cock is massive, much bigger than I expected.

It curves at a slight bent before it comes to a full blossom at his cut crown of a blaring red cockhead.

He looks at me as he spits on his fingers and rubs it on his cock. His cock points skyward, after the bend, a mass of hairy pubes covers the base of his manhood. This man is as natural as man of his age would be, unlike the younger ones like me who man-scape on a timely basis.

“Can I say, I am impressed?” I say, “How big a monster that is?”

He does not answer me. He is too wrapped up in his ecstasy.

I weasel my cock out of the leg of my shorts, letting a finger tease the head of my cock, smearing my own cum-juice on my engorged cockhead, matching my father-in-law’s. Paul notices my play and squeezes tighter on his cock.

Paul pushes back on the seat as he pumps harder on his tool.

He is near explosion, his body is flushed, he is nearing climax. I must stifle him before he bursts.

“Slow down, Paul, slow down,” I plead, I beg, “Enjoy it. Enjoy it. Take your hand off your cock.”

He glares at me.

“What? What?” he says with a hurried expression on his face.

“Relax. Relax,” I explain, “Stroke it gently, like I am doing. Enjoy those feelings.”

“That’s not how I was taught to jack-off, Ryan,” he explains.

“There is no one to catch you, “I say, “It is just me and you…and the cars and trucks going by.”

He slows down, as he does, his cock swells more, getting redder and redder from the added infusion of blood. His breathing slows as a steady stream of his clear juices seep from his pee-hole.

“Smear that juice, Paul,” I say, “Use it.”

He does and brings that same fingertip to his lips, tasting his natural sauce.

Paul is not a smoker, nor a drinker, I can imagine the purity of his cream. He says he has not touched himself in a while, I believe he lied.

Paul is a deacon in the church we attend. I have never joined because I know what a heathen I am, in the bedroom and out of the bedroom. Eve knows how much I love to fuck, she does too, but her momma and daddy do not know that about their ‘Sweet Little Eve.’ Eve does not know about my other passions and special desires, I have, my father-in-law has been a secret obsession of mine since that wedding day in the Sunday school classroom.

Paul has a little festering of hair, where his cock connects to the pubic bone. I shave my cock, so I do not have one, but he does, and the sight of this portion, swelled up and sweaty with his spittle and perspiration, has me amped up.

“How’s this?” Paul asks me as he slides his hand up and down his shaft.

“That’s good,” I tell him, “Take it slow and easy, let that cum build up in your balls.”

He listens to me, a man twice my age, on how to jack his cock.

We approach I-275.

I turn to the right and make the exit off the interstate, onto the new one.

He does not let up with his stroking. His face is beet red; his cock shares a similar shade as blood fills the tiny vessels of his engorged manhood.

A loud horn blows as a semi passes us. Apparently, he can see inside the truck. I honk the horn of our pick-up in response to Paul’s admirer.

“Keep jackin’ your cock, Paul,” I tell him, “He wishes he was doin’ the same, he maybe doin’ the same.”

I smear the juices being pumped from the depths of my balls onto my cut cockhead. Whatever I do, Paul is always looking at me. The more I touch myself, the harder he pounds on his cock.

“I can’t hold anymore, “Paul shouts, “AHHHHH, FFFUUUUUUCKKKKK! AHHHHH, FFFUUUUUUCKKKKK! AHHHHH, FFFUUUUUUCKKKKK!”

“Let it go, man! Let it go!” I shout as the white man-milk explodes out of Paul’s pee-hole.

He sprays his seed onto the dashboard of the truck.

He sweats as the life-giving fluid empties his balls.

He breathes hard as his blood pressure rises at the release of his white milky spunk.

“Whoa, Paul,” I say, “way to go, man, way to go.”

Paul smiles at my praise.

He slides back up in the seat from where he had slid down during his masturbatory exertions.

“Hey! Hey! Get off on this exit,” Paul says once he realizes where we are.

I do as he says as he gets back into his jeans, wiping his face with his sweaty hand.

The interior of the truck smells of ‘man,’ cum drips from the dash onto the floor.

I tuck my cock back into my shorts as we are stopped at a stop light at the end of the exit ramp.

“Where too?”

“Turn right,” Paul, says, “I have something to show you.”

“You’ve already shown me, quite a bit,” I say.

“There’s more.”

“Okay. Okay,” I say.

***

“Where we goin?” I ask him, “This doesn’t look like a place to go fishing?”

“It isn’t. Do you really wanna go fishin’, Ryan?” he asks me.

“You want the truth, Paul?” I say.

“Yeah, I do,” Paul, says, “Yeah, I do.”

“Not really,” I say, “I just wanted to get outta town.”

“Me, too.”

“I have something else in mind,” Paul says, “You game?”

“Paul, honestly, I am up for anything.”

“Anything?” Paul asks.

“Yes, anything.”

“When I’ve been out on the road, with work, I found a place here, in St. Pete,” Paul says, “You up for seein’ what I have in mind.”

“Sure. Sure, “I say, “How we goin’ to handle the fish problem?”

“That’s easily solved, “Paul says, “We can find something at a fish market, down here.”

“Okay,” I say, “I never knew you could be so sneaky.”

“I am.”

“What would the church think?” I say.

“What happens this weekend is between us, and us only, there is no need for what we do to be brought back to Georgia, “he says.

I am surprised but I say nothing. I am just going to let happen, happen.

“Lead on, Sir, “I say, “where to?”

“Maybe I should drive?” Paul says.

We pull into a parking lot of a fast food joint and exchange seats.

Both of us are still shirtless, as the night has set itself upon us in St. Pete.

“Let’s get this weekend started,” Paul says.

“Yep, at least until we have to leave, tomorrow,” I say.

***

We drive a bit before we turn in a complex.

“Paradise Palms Resort? What’s that?” I say as we pull up to the call box.

A wall surrounds the compound, what I can see is a multi-colored building just over the dull gray wall at the entrance.

“What is this place, Paul?”

“Do you trust me, Ryan?” he asks, “of course, I do, you are my father-in-law, after all?”

Paul picks up the phone in the call box and speaks.

“This is Deak Porter, I have a reservation for two.”

I cannot hear what he is told from the other end of the phone, but the gate begins rolling back as he finishes the conversation.

Again, I ask.

“What is this place?”

“Ryan, this is a resort I have been visiting for years,” Paul explains.

“What?” I say, in mock alarm.

“You heard me,” he says.

“You have a secret life?” I ask, again, my shock is exaggerated.

He does not answer me as the truck glides through the opening gate.

Once we are through, the gate closes behind us.

I look around. With my head turned away from him and cannot be seen, I smile.

“What is this place?” I ask.

I look around, in the center of the complex, I see a pool, a very large pool. It is then I know what this place is.

“It’s an all-male resort,” Paul tells me, a note of excitement and joy in his voice.

“All-male?” I ask, “all-male!”

I repeat it, to continue my ‘supposed’ alarm at our destination.

“Yes,” he says, “C’mon, we have to go to the office and register you.”

We drive around, the pool, I see them, basking in the glow of overhead streetlamps.

The overhead parking lot lights and the many lights on the outline of the pool, illuminate the men around the pool.

There are men, naked…there are many, many naked men.

If you haven’t figured it out, yet, we are at a nudist gay resort. Yeah, yeah, I know what type of place it was. I am playing dumb. Why? Because he is MY father-in-law, that is why, so it is safer for me to feign ignorance than to come off, as ‘I know.’ Anyway, I will continue. Don’t think I am that gullible of a person, I must let him present what he wants to present to me…I must play his game. You know I do. I know I do.

“Register?” I ask.

“Yeah, “he says, “You have to be on record to be here.”

I will not bore you with all the details of Paul and me getting our room. I will skip ahead to when we are walking to our room.

“You been coming here much, Paul?” I ask.

His answer I am anxious to hear. I want to hear.

He stops and looks at me, as the door clicks open from the electronic key placed over the mechanism.

“Years,” he says, “I was here the weekend before you and Eve were married.”

“Oh,” I say, as to keep us this façade of surprise.

Of course, he does not know what I was doing the night before I married his daughter, but that is a story for another time, just know I was NOT at a bachelor party. I was at a party, a most wondrous party.

Our room is on the first floor. The parking lot is packed with all flavors of cars and trucks. It is a busy weekend at the Paradise Palms Resort.

As we go through the opened unlocked door, we are instantly hit with a burst of cool air, I feel my nipples harden, as I am still shirtless on this hot summer’s night. I also feel a familiar twitch in my shorts. My hand darts to my stiffening cock, giving myself a delicate fondle in response to my awakening.

“Let me help you with that,” Paul says as he grabs either side of my shorts and yanks them down, while he squats. He takes my cock into his mouth.

“Oh!” I gasp as I watch him pivot on my cock, as my length disappears deep down his throat.

Did I mention that the door to our room is open and there are naked men milling about in full-unabashed splendor in front of their rooms. They are walking back and forth to the pool.

“Swallow that hot man’s cock, Deak?” a voice from the doorway sways my attention away from my father-in-law, who is feasting on my cock.

Paul mumbles, at the mention of a name I have only recently learned that he responds too.

--To be continued in A Son-In-Law