Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Author: Grown Up Boy
Title: That's Way It Was
Summary: While cleaning out his deceased uncle's house, a man comes
across a box of photos and remembers their incestuous relationship started
when he was a little boy
Keywords: Mb

   This is an ADULTS ONLY work of fiction



   I hadn't seen him in 20 years or so, and I had mixed feelings when I
heard that he had died.  I used to love him, and at one time I believed he
loved me.  He was my first lover, and the thrill of discovering sexual
pleasure burns deep into your memory.

   My mother had asked me to help her go through his house, getting it
ready for sale.  I hadn't been back there in a long time, and as I drove
out there I had really mixed feelings: fear, confusion, sadness and
occasionally arousal as I remembered those years we lived with him.

   My mother was sad, crying as I hugged her there in the front yard.  She
didn't know the other side of him, I had never told her.  To Mom, her older
brother was a good man, who had saved her time and time again when she
needed a little money, a car fixed, or a place to stay.  To her, he was the
man who stepped in and was the only "father" her son, had ever known.  I
wasn't going to take that away from her.

   We worked on the house for a few days hauling load after load of his old
furniture and belongings to the dump.  Neither of us had been there in a
while, and we underestimated how long it would take.  On Wednesday she had
to leave; she never had much money, and couldn't take too many days off
work.  Maybe selling the house would finally allow her enough money to take
a vacation.  She needed one.

   A few hours after she left I opened a cardboard box I had found down in
the basement, stuffed behind the old disused coal furnace.  There wasn't
much light down there in the basement, just enough to tell that the box was
filled with pictures, pictures of me.  I carried the box upstairs to the
room just off the kitchen, the only room that still had a chair to sit in.
I felt kind of funny sitting in his recliner.

   He had sat in that chair hundreds of times with me, on my knees before
him.  It was always the same.  I would unzip his pants, and carefully take
out his cock and balls.  I respected his cock, it was thick and powerful
and magnificent.

   I was a mixed up kid, he had groomed me well, and I thought penises were
some sort of mystical source of a man's power.  His cock was big and
strong, so was he.  He could do anything, catch anything, fix anything.  I
had a small little penis, and I couldn't do anything that he could.  I was
lucky to have him love me, and sucking his cock was the least I could do to
pay him back.

   My mother worked four to midnight cleaning offices.  She was so happy
that Uncle Bill had helped get her that job, and she bought me a new
baseball glove with her first paycheck.  I still have that glove.  With Mom
gone, it was just Uncle Bill and I after school.

   We didn't have sex every day.  He had a few small retail businesses
around town, and he was always busy dealing with them.  On those days I
would just go out and play with friends, go to little league practice or
watch TV.

   Some days though, he was there.  When he was, he would greet me, ask me
how my day had gone, ask to see my folder of schoolwork.  He would look at
it, praise my good grades, and chastise me for my mistakes and failures. 
He would ask if I wanted a snack, and then tell me to go ahead and take off
my school clothes while he got it ready.

   I knew what to do, he didn't have to tell me, after the first few times.
I would go into my room, and take my clothes off, put the dirty clothes in
the hamper, and the return in just my white cotton briefs and socks.  I
would sit at the table while he watched me eat my milk and cookies.

   He would talk to me about school, the Red Sox, our next fishing trip, or
anything else that was on his mind.  I would talk with him sharing the
details of my day.  If you overheard us, and didn't know I was about to
suck his cock, it would have been a wholly appropriate and healthy
conversation between a man and a boy.

   When I was done with the cookies, he would make a slight nod, and tap
his crotch, and then it was time.  I would wipe the milk off my mouth with
the paper towel, stand up, push the chair in and walk over to kneel down
with him.

   He was always soft when we started, and I had to make him hard.  After a
few months, I had become quite good at it.  I liked the feeling of his cock
when it wasn't hard.  Warm and yeasty, thick and floppy, I was always
amazed by it.  I liked feeling it come alive and grow firm in my hands.

   I knew what he liked, how to look at him with big grateful eyes, how to
use two hands, how to swallow it all.  When I sucked his cock, I called him
Daddy and he called me son.  I judged myself by how much cum he gave me. 
If I got a big load, I knew I had done a good job, and apologized if only a
little came out.

   I always licked him clean afterwards, and helped him put away his cock.

   I tried my best.  I wanted to swallow his cum so that my cock would grow
big and powerful like his, just as his father had done for him.  I was so
lucky to have him there to help me, because I had never known my father,
and didn't know how else I would ever become a man.

   He would pat my head, play with the short hair on the back of my neck,
and sometimes hold me on him as he thrust up at me, humping my face and
getting his scratchy pubic hair in my nose.  I was a little scared when
that happened, sometimes I couldn't breath, but I knew how much he liked
it, and that he would be giving me a really big load.

   All this came rushing back at me as I sat in his chair in that empty
house.  I didn't know what to think, how to feel.  My cock was hard though.

   I opened up the dusty box and the pictures seemed to be chronological,
oldest on top.  There were a great many school photos, team photos,
pictures of he and I together.  On the top layer were pretty normal family
photos.  There were a few of me as a little kid, naked, or in my underwear,
but they didn't really seem out of place in a family photo collection.  As
I removed the old pictures and relived the memories, I came to a bulging
manila envelope.

   In the envelope were his special pictures.  I had never seen them, but
they were mostly of me.  In most of the pictures I was naked.  There were
many pictures of me sucking his cock, my eyes smiling up at him, and my
mouth trying to frame a smile, at least as much as a boy can smile with a
mans thick cock in it.  I remembered now that he had taken pictures.

   There I was, on the bed, on the couch, in the living room, everywhere.
The memories came flooding back.  As I dug through the stack of old
pictures, I found pictures of me as an infant and toddler, sometimes in a
diaper, sometimes naked, erect sometimes, nursing on his cock, smiling. 
This really surprised me, I thought it had all started on that beach when I
had just turned 9, and he took me on that long promised week long fishing
trip.  I didn't remember any of this.  I guess a lot of little boys were
too little to remember what happened during those years.

   The pictures seemed to have a big gap that started between the ages of
around 4 or 5, and went on until I until I was 9.  I wondered why?  I
guessed that like a lot of men, he felt comfortable using me when I was too
young to remember any of it, but got scared off as I approached the ages
where memories begin to linger, and become permanent.

   There were a few pictures of other naked boys, but I didn't recognize
any of them.

   Those years between 5 and 9, he wasn't overtly sexual with me, but there
seemed to be a lot of wrestling and changing into bathing suits together.
He always asked if I wanted to go with him to bathrooms in restaurants.  My
mom thanked him when he did that.  We would pee together in a stall, and I
would stare at his cock.  Sometimes he let me hold it while he peed. 
Sometimes he held mine, but that was as far as it went.

   What happened when I turned nine?  I don't know.  I had red hair,
freckles, and was small for my age.  From the back you couldn't tell if I
was a boy or a girl.  My little penis (only men had cocks) was almost a
cartoon of a penis, a tiny, pink, rubbery afterthought.  When it was hard,
it stuck up and touched my belly, with an almost comic sense of urgency.

   I was fascinated by penises and would peek at other boys or men whenever
I had the chance.

   I believe that by age 9 my body had started to swell, gathering
resources for the next growth spurt and my rounded, androgynous pre teen
body, still padded with a layer of baby fat was more than he could resist.

   When I think of those days, what I remember most is a feeling of being
owned, possessed; loved.  My body was his, and it never occurred to me that
he shouldn't touch it.  He was the man, and I was the boy.  That's just the
way it was.