The Mountie's GrandfatherbyCoxswain©
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Canadian national police service, is unique in the world since it's a national, federal, provincial and municipal policing body -- all the police organisations rolled into one. And we're proud of it. Canada skipped the violence of the American pioneer experience as Canadians spread out onto the western plains because the Mounties were the advance guard, establishing friendly relations with the Indian tribes and maintaining peace as the settlers arrived.
Back in the 1960s, my family was a literal dynasty in the RCMP. My grandfather, my father, and I married young enough that our sons were old enough to join the force before Grandfather's retirement -- four of us in the RCMP at once! The news programmes and press services went cookie. We received honours, testimonials, appeared on RCMP recruiting posters, and so forth. But we felt like Paris Hilton -- famous for dick.
We made a good picture, though. Four men over 180cm (6 feet) tall, each weighing more than 90kg (200 lbs.) dressed in the famous scarlet tunics with the leather belt & chest-strap and the navy blue riding breeches with the yellow stripe down the legs. Grandfather was an Assistant Commissioner, my father a sergeant major. I was a sergeant, and my son was a corporal.
After the paparazzi frenzy, thankfully life settled down. But up in the "Frozen North," as the Yanks call it (actually a Canadian term invented to keep Tubby in his Hawaiian shirt down south of the 49th Parallel), my personal life had became more complicated. For one, my wife ran off with an American tourist who convinced her he was a big Hollywood producer. Never heard of him? Me, neither. It's hard not to gloat.
With my wife gone, I turned more completely to a hobby, a secret life as one of the "Brokeback Mounties." My sexual interest in men actually began with the RCMP, back in the basic training.
In spite of a father and grandfather in the force, I had to take my place among thousands of applicants hoping to put on the cherry-red uniform that year, but my dad gave me some pointers. The RCMP has a handful of strange requirements: Dad taught me to use a typewriter because it's an RCMP rule -- typing 18 words per minute. Would the burglars would get away if I could only manage 17?
But I made it to Depot, for 120 years the RCMP training academy in Regina, Saskatchewan. I was in a 30-man troop where the average age was 27, the average weight was 88.64kg (195 lbs.), the average height 186cm (6'2"), and (from my own estimates) the average dick length was at least 22cm (9 inches).
Maybe I led a sheltered life; all I know is that before basic training, I had never seen so many naked men at once. In the training barracks showers, surrounded by naked males, slowly, imperceptibly -- okay, not "imperceptibly." I certainly perceived those muscular, hairy, big-dicked bodies around me -- I grew to appreciate the beauty of the male body. And, God, every man-jack of them packed enough to stretch-out a jockstrap. No wonder jockstraps sell so well in Canada, eh -- the Mounties stretch them out useless after a single wearing!
"Appreciation of beauty of the male body" to me meant a frenzied wank-session in the washroom stall after every shower. Doesn't seem to make sense, eh. Getting yourself all sweaty right after a shower.
My "appreciation of the male body" grew stronger (and more frequent) until I made the inevitable personal connection -- don't know exactly how it happened, wasn't a matter of arching eyebrows, winks, or nudge-nudge -- but somehow Corporal Bite (one of the Depot staff) and I knew.
Met him in the showers. Interesting situation -- the hot-water pipes were leaking in the staff barracks, so while they were fixed, the staff showered with us. One particular guy (didn't know he was a corporal until later -- hard to tell the rank of a naked man) was big, muscular, hairy-chested, and masculine. He stood 198cm (6'6") and I guess a good 113kg (251 lbs).
Big, broad shoulders. Reminded me of the buffalo on the RCMP insignia. Also covered with dark chest hair. He had a wedge-shaped torso that narrowed down to a slender waist . . . focusing the spotlight on a pecker that had my eyes bugging out. God! For starters, the thing was at least 15cm (6") still soft, a big, fat hose filigreed in ruby and horny-blue veins, ending in a graceful shroud at the tip that almost covered a deep-red cockhead -- but not quite. The dark eye of his piss-hole looked out at me.
Its owner caught me looking back. His last name was Bite, not an unusual surname in that part of the country. He had an interesting "turning out" story, though. Poor guy. Whenever he had the duty in Québec (where his name pronounced "Beet" is slang French meaning "cock"), he got so many come-ons from Montreal gays, it was only a matter of time before he decided a blowjob might be adequate compensation to the State for improper parking or a broken taillight.
By the time I met him, he had "gotten his man" a number of times closer to home -- in RCMP barracks. He thought of himself as the "Mountie Liberator" -- one by one teaching acquiescent troopers how the absence of women in a lonely northern post needn't put the damper on an evening and the fascinating things a man's arsehole can do.
He bragged a little: if the Mounties in a certain city happened to walk a little gingerly as they went about their duties, it was because their arseholes still hadn't quite shrunk back to normal after a night with Bite.
To cut a long story short (not something that could be said of Bite's cock), after a time of invitation, curiosity, seduction, and foreplay, I found myself up against the wall as Bite performed a strip search including a cavity-search using a most fascinating search technique and -- Ooomph! -- his own cavity-probe.
Bite knew what he was doing. Soon he had me past the pain part, and into the imprisonment of his cockhead in the noose of my rectum. And once his prong broke in, it released me into the wonderful parole of man-sex, coasting along with his big sidearm as it stretched my bumhole out into a new Great Northern Passage.
And I walked gingerly around the building the next day. A couple of the others looked at me with sly grins. They knew. A night with Bite.
By the time I graduated from the training academy and became a constable, I had a few tread-marks on my cock and up my arse, and I had to keep it a huge secret -- if not from the RCMP, at least from my family, particularly my grandfather, who would have me ceremonially executed for such a dishonour to the family.
I succeeded well enough: my RCMP career progressed nicely, I woke up many happy mornings in sweat and cum-soaked sheets, lying against a hairy body that belched and reached down to scratch himself. My family was none the wiser.
One year my father, my son, and I flew in to the ancestral home in Saskatoon from the cities we were assigned to. We had decided to make my grandfather's birthday a family reunion. Since I was alone, I stashed my things in one of the upstairs bedrooms in Grandfather's house -- my father and son with their wives took rooms in a hotel.
The day of the party, we all wore our uniforms. We cut quite a jaunty figure, the four of us. Most of the guests were other Mounties, who also wore their uniforms, so the party was a mass of bright red uniforms and yellow-striped pants, the street outside crowded with white RCMP squad cars with their rainbow lightning stripes and the Mountie crest.
The whiskey flowed, thanks, in a way, to our Yank friends. The huge Canadian whiskey industry, in particular Seagram's, owed its success to American Prohibition. During those infamous dry years in US history, our Canadian whiskey literally poured down the hill into America's speakeasies After they abolished prohibition in 1933, the American Federal Alcohol Administration allocated the importation of 3,314,443 gallons of whiskey -- for medicinal purposes, eh -- and most of that came from Canada.
To this day, downtown Montrèal has many buildings, libraries, and hospitals bearing the name "Bronfman" -- the founding family of Seagram's.
The party could have become a real wowser -- we were toasting each other and kept ordering Seagram's whiskey at the bar until we couldn't say it any more -- then we asked for Hirsch. Everybody was feeling fine and would have started looking for some fun --
-- if not for my grandfather's influence. Anybody drunk enough to start dancing around with a lampshade on his head thought twice about it under the stern glare of my grandfather -- it would be like exposing yourself to the Queen, eh. Although we put away enough to start a forest fire, the party never sank below a genteel soiree attended by dignified, soft-spoken people -- who later were only barely able to stagger out to their cars.
My grandmother had passed away several years ago, so when Grandfather's housekeeper had left in the evenings, he and I were alone in the big house. That night, after the revelers had gone, I found Grandfather sitting on the covered porch with a glass of wine. I joined him, and we sat watching the sun go down over the South Saskatchewan River.
I was in a nostalgic mood. I leaned back in my chair. So many years. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police had been a good life for me. I was proud of myself and of the RCMP. It had a long and proud history in the "evolving world of policing" -- meaning keeping the Yanks from coming up and selling their illicit drugs and buying our prescriptions ones, eh.
I thought about Grandfather. I wondered if gays were around, or at least as open, in his day as they were in mine. What did he do when a gay Mountie patted his arse in the showers? Did he ever notice another officer showing a big stiffie to him while he took a piss?
Nope. Couldn't make it work. Sticking Grandfather into that fantasy was like placing Winston Churchill in a scene with John Holmes. Grandfather was my definition of Straight. So straight, in fact, that no way in hell was I going to let slip any of my own preferences. It would have torn the family apart -- at least, I would have been kicked out on my arse.
Grandfather got up, said he was turning in. I sat in the darkness for a while longer. Letting my hardon go down -- got one thinking about Grandfather with John Holmes. Finally I got up and headed for the bedroom, still a little uneven on my feet.
As I walked through the living room, I passed the antique full-length mirror. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture -- a Louis XVI tri-fold. In my own, full-length moonlight reflection from three angles, I saw the outline of my dick in the fabric of my RCMP riding breeches.
It had been a long time since I had a good wank. What the hell, I unbuckled my belt, lowered my trousers, and peeled down my jockstrap. Always gave me a little rush, that. As the blood flowed back into my cock, and after hours tightly packed in my pants, my scrotum was always very sensitive. The first wanking stroke always made my cock jump and gave me goose-bumps. I listened for sounds from the upstairs bedroom, but I didn't hear dick.
Still under the influence of Seagram's, I sat in front of the mirror, legs wide, rubbing and jacking myself to an intense orgasm, catching the semen in my hand to keep it off my uniform. At the very end, though, when the pounding of my heart slowed, I thought a heard a slight noise from the direction of the stairs.
I froze. Damn!
Nothing more. No sound. Nothing. Thanking God I hadn't spattered any on the mirror or the floor, I hurried up to my room.
The next morning, I went downstairs -- Grandfather was still asleep. I made breakfast of ham & eggs and cups of Timmie's and put it on the table, hoping the smell would wake him up. Sure enough, he came down the steps. "Coffee smells good."
We ate without a lot of chitchat. He never had a lot to say to me -- people my age were to be seen and not heard. Finally, as he finished, Grandfather pushed his plate away and looked at me. "While you're here, let's make it a good vacation for you, eh. Let's you and me go down for a little sunbathing at the beach."
What he meant by that was the large stretch of sand on the near edge of a small lake near the house. I went up to my room and changed into a shapeless pair of khaki swimming trunks. Grandfather came walking out of the house in a long, shapeless housecoat and rubber flip-flops.
We marched down to the lake's edge, and I snapped out the large beach towel for us to lie on. As I did, Grandfather shrugged open his housecoat, and it fell from his shoulders.
I gaped. He was wearing a tiny, shiny scarlet Speedo swimsuit in the RCMP color, and that was shock enough -- Damn, Grandpa is in pretty good shape for a man probably 70, he's tight and strong -- and God, is that an RCMP-issue swimsuit??
But something else: whatever he was packing between his legs strained the poor suit into a huge, sagging bag. My God! The front bulged out so far the leg-opening stretched open, and I spotted what must have been his scrotum. The waistband sagged down so far I could easily see his pubic hair. God, who knew? My Grandfather was really hung! Damn, my own Grandfather, eh!!
I had a problem. I felt my own dong snapping to Attention. I was never so thankful for a shapeless, baggy swimming suit. Grandfather helped me spread out the towel, and I could do nothing but gape at his mammoth bulge. God, what a cock he must have!
I realized that I was actually staring when I saw him looking back at me -- Damn, caught! -- but he didn't say dick, just lay back on the blanket and put his hands behind his head.
Feeling suddenly clumsy and sheepish, almost like a little boy in my suddenly oafish boxer shorts, I lay down beside him, my heart thumping with a strange excitement.
We made idle talk for a while about the lake, the weather, the fishing and so on until Grandfather said, ""Put a handful of that suntan lotion on me, won't you."
He wanted me to rub my hands over his body. Ordinarily no problem, but I gulped. Oh, God. Treading my way through a minefield here, eh.
Kneeling behind him, I poured a glob of the lotion into my hand, rubbed my hands together, then massaged his back and shoulders. Immediately I felt him relax. "Oh, yeah," he groaned.
As I continued to massage, I could feel the tension easing out of his back. As I moved down into the small of his back, closer to his arse, I realized with a jolt that I had a massive hardon! God, I was glad I was wearing boxers, but one nervous glance down told me that even that loose clothing was not hiding me -- a khaki tent showed my condition. Oh, God, what will he think when he rolls over and sees I'm hard for him?
I massaged and oiled his back and sides, moving out to massage each arm. I stopped at the tight waistband of that tiny bikini suit. Where in hell did he get that? I skipped over it, and moved down to his feet, starting again with a massage for each foot, then for each calf.
When I moved up to oiling his thighs, I was actually breathing hard. Damn, what's wrong with me? This is my grandfather!!
Then, to my horror, Grandpa spread his legs! He did it so I could kneel between them, the easier to massage his thighs, but Jesus! A huge, cloth-covered bulge stuck out from his crotch. The family jewels, eh! I know that bulge has to be his scrotum!
Trying to keep calm, trying to keep my thoughts on something else, I squatted between his legs, working first one thigh then the other. As my hands reached the top of his thighs, my mouth was dry, and I was sweating. "Don't rub so hard, eh," he growled. Yeah, in my excitement, I'm literally groping him! The pressure of the massage instantly switched to something more like a caress. My erection was throbbing, and all I wanted was to get out of there so I could yank down my shorts and give myself some relief!
More astonishment: Grandfather reached down and pulled his Speedo to below his buttocks! "Put some oil on my arse, won't you? I might do a little nude tanning, eh."
I was dumbfounded. Trying desperately to keep my hands from trembling, I touched each cheek softly, massaging the oil into it. So hot I was a little dizzy, I rubbed around and around, not really knowing what to do, but panting and sweating like I had run a kilometre.
Then he reached back and pulled his cheeks apart! "Put a little in between."
There it was. Grandpa's brown rosebud! Can't believe it! I'm staring down at Grandpa's arsehole! I dutifully let a little tanning oil trickle over it, and in a daze, I rubbed a finger gently up and down his crack, spreading out the oil, and I ran gentle circles around the hypnotic hole.
And it winked at me! My grandfather had clenched his arse muscles, and his hole tried to grasp my finger!
Before I could react or think what to say, he pulled up one leg and rolled over, arching the leg over me. He lay on his back, his Speedo pulled down to his thigh. Jee-sus Christ!! My grandfather had the biggest erection I had ever seen. Every cock I had ever admired, every Mountie who had ever mounted me -- even Bite's bite was dick -- nothing compared to what swung between my grandfather's legs!
God, it was titanic! I felt like a little boy. Struck dumb. I knelt there with my mouth hanging open.
Grandfather looked down at me. "Suck it," he commanded. "You know you want to, eh. You've been fantasizing about it since I dropped my housecoat."
I could smell it. I swear to God his scrotum exuded a pure animal scent, a lust-musk that wiped my mind clean of all thoughts -- except one. Under a power I could not resist, I bent my head, opened my jaws as wide as they would stretch, and sucked his huge organ into my mouth.
Or tried to. I was astounded. My grandfather's giant cock filled my mouth and spread my jaws but was too huge to move down my throat.
But God help me, I craved it! I bobbed my head up and down on the big organ, trying to get it deeper, and Grandpa lurched his hips at me, trying for the same. The attempted blowjob went on for several minutes until, grunting with effort, his face contorted with lust, Grandpa cummed in great, heaving jolts. Hot jizz filled my mouth, and as I swallowed it, a great warmth filled me from my belly out.
As his breathing slowed, Grandpa pulled the royal scepter out of my mouth, and I licked my lips. "Good boy," he said quietly.
I looked down at him sheepishly. "Don't know what came over me, eh . . . never done that before." No sense in letting all the cats out of the bag.
"Get your trunks down, boy; let's get a look at you."
I wanted to, but I felt the eerie notion that I had to. I couldn't refuse him. Grandfather had always been the head of the family. I pulled down my shorts, and my hard cock snapped up to slap me on the belly.
He smiled. "Yeah, you're hot for this, eh. How long have you been wanting to suck my cock?"
"Never before, I swear! It's just that I never knew . . . I never saw . . . I didn't know you were so . . . hung!" And damn, look at that! He's getting hard again! So soon! A man of his age, eh!
Sure enough, Grandfather's giant pole was swelling again, arching up into the air. I stared again. When I finally brought my glance back up to his face, his eyes bored into me. "Get over on your hands and knees." It was a command.
"Just a minute. I'm not really into this sort of thing." Appropriate protestations. Throws off suspicion. But I obeyed. Naked, I dropped to a hands & knees crouch.
I jerked as I felt his fingers swipe over the cleavage of my arse, slathering me with something wet and slimy. God, it's lube! He brought fuck-lube with him! He's been planning this since before we left the house!