My Father's Hands

I almost came just looking at it, and I hadn't even touched myself. My fingers found their own way back; they curled around the hot, thick shaft. I could barely close my fist around it. A rigid column of flesh in my hand, throbbing with life and pent-up vitality. I could feel his life's essence pumping against my palm, baking against my skin. Glorious.

And then my hand was moving, slowly, up and down. Loving him, stroking him. Helping him. A low moan came from his throat—my hand froze for a second, my heart frantic behind my ribs. My eyes flew to his face and I jumped—his eyes were open. Blazing discs in the morning light, burning into me. His face was hard, focused, strained.

And his voice was like distant thunder. "Don't stop..."

Something exploded in my heart. A wall crashing down. Love. Ecstasy. My hand continued its lazy movement on his shaft, and I stared into my father's eyes.

And he watched me, looked into me, as I masturbated him. I loved him the way I loved my own dick—slowly, passionately. Soon my strokes got faster. He helped me by moving his hips gently, fucking my hand. His breathing sped up, fanned over my face. Hot and humid. We both began to sweat profusely—his body was a slick, vibrating machine against me. My hand became a blur on his cock. Dad began to moan, deep and long, and his eyes broke away from mine. He turned his head and buried his mouth against my neck and ear. Suddenly, he froze—tense—his arms crushed me to his chest, held on to me as he shook, as his orgasm overwhelmed him. Thick and white, his sperm shot out and showered my hand and his stomach. The seed that created me, that was coursing through my own heated testicles at that moment, was hot and wet on my skin. And in that moment I felt closer to Dad than I ever had. The wall had come down. Everything would be okay.

To be continued...