“Hi, mom,” said Timmy, the eight year old. He was masturbating. He must have been masturbating on his walk home. “I forgot you were home today.”
“Oh!” I jumped. Timmy had woken me suddenly. He came over to me and I put my arms around him and kissed him, open mouthed, and felt his tongue lick mine. I felt his little cock. It was excited and beginning to stiffen. Oh, Mom, that feels good.
“That feels better than DIY, doesn’t it,” I said to him as I explored the burgeoning cock.
“Hi, mom. Is Dad in?” Greg, my ten year old, chirped, interrupting us with an explosion of noise and mud. He was hot and sweaty and wreathed in smiles, with his hair sticking up in total disorder, like tangled brunet pampas grass hanging before those deep inviting brown eyes.
“Your dad will be back around six, as usual,” I said, “is it anything urgent?”
“Not what you’d call urgent, just important.”
“How did you get on?” I asked.
“Thrashed Frankland three nil,” said Greg, exhilarated.

“Mom!” Timmy had needs too. He was getting a dull ache in his balls because I’d let myself take my hands off his cock. I returned to stimulating his swelling cock and balls. How does this feel? Ooh, mmm.

The picture of me thrashing a team of cute ten year old boys from Frankland School, shorts down to the ankles, small white balls in smooth taut scrota, stayed with me for an instant: all those B Spots at the back of the scrota begging to be teased, backsides bared, waiting to be spanked. Greg was still wearing his football kit from the match that afternoon: white tee shirt with blue stripes numbered 2 on the back, and elasticated white shorts, covered with mud and stretched over the curves of his buttocks. Long straight legs covered with mud, socks that were once white with blue stripes to match the tee, but now coated with a layer of mud, and white studded leather football boots which were coated with even more mud. A long trail of mud led across the carpet from the front door of the house. Under his white shorts I could make out low-rise black Emerson underpants, designed with a wide crotch for little boys with big hard balls. Greg’s cock was limp and the underpants held it lightly in check.
“He told me yesterday that I look sexy in football kit. So if he wants me, I’m wearing his favourite outfit. Just for him.”
“Who? Dad? He said that?”
“Yes,” said Greg.
I looked Greg’s sweet body up and down. “He’s exactly right, of course, you look a sex god. Are you horny or something?” I asked, an unnecessary question for my two. “Phone him up if it’s anything I can’t handle.”

Mom! Rub me. That dull, burning ache in the balls was returning. Rub my cock, Mom, I have blue balls. I returned to assuaging Timmy’s needs.

“Hi, dad.” Greg managed to get hold of his dad on his office phone, laying down a trail of mud and football stud marks over to the phone in the corner of the room. “It’s Greg,” and more quietly, “Is anyone in the office with you?”

I couldn’t hear the reply but it didn’t sound like “No.”

“Three other people?” Greg was speaking softly and seductively in a cougar voice. “Maybe you can’t talk to me intimately but I can talk to you. I just thought you might like to know I’m wearing my football kit. The one you said was sexy. Does the thought of me hot and damp and wearing muddy football kit turn you on, dad?”

This time I caught the phrases “in a meeting” and “a few minutes” in Peter’s reply.

“My penis is erecting,” said Greg, mischievously, “like a snake uncurling, straightening, becoming as hard as a steel post, raising a bump nearly four inches long in my black cotton and lycra underpants. I’d really love you to slip my shorts and underpants down and then take the penis in your mouth and just suck it gently.”

Greg paused, looking at me, and I mouthed “Go on.”

“I’d love to push my penis deep into your mouth and feel your tongue licking it, and your lips circling it, from base to tip. You know how strong my urges are. Mom hasn’t given me a hand job since eight o’clock this morning. I really need sex with you. If you sucked and licked my penis, you might bring me to orgasm, Dad. Just imagine me having a full strength orgasm in my dirty, sweaty, clinging football outfit. Mud everywhere. My tee shirt is soaked with my sweat.”

Again, Dad said something to Greg, but I couldn’t hear it. I imagined Peter having a stand-up meeting in his boss’s office, with colleagues present, red faced, hoping desperately that nobody else could hear his son’s small talk, or see Peter’s cock rising and growing. Someone would surely notice Peter’s swelling cock before long.

“I’m wearing the full outfit, dad, the A team shirt is clinging to my sweaty hairless chest, the shorts are stretched tight around my bottom, my legs and boots need to be licked clean by my gorgeous, highly sexed father. Are you thinking about me and masturbating under your desk? My cock is about half way erect, dad. I’m 3½″, dad, remember you took it out and measured it last week? If only you were here you could take hold of it and make it swell up to full size.” Greg paused and thought, then added, “Am I making your cock excited? ’Cause you can always say there’s an emergency at home. I will be lying in bed for you. I won’t bathe or shower until you get here.” He lowered his voice further. “All you have to do is pull my shorts down and you can fuck, fuck, fuck my ass.”

There was a pause as Dad and Dad’s cock decided to accept Greg’s suggestion. “I’ll be waiting for you, Dad. Don’t take too long coming home.” Again came that mischievous pause, and Greg licked his lips and added, “I need to piss, Daddy. If I don’t go to the toilet I shall just piss in my pants and all over the floor. Can you come home before the pressure in my bladder becomes unbearable?”

Dad gave some sort of answer and Greg said, “Don’t take more than twenty minutes, dad, because I am absolutely bursting to piss.”

Greg hung up and I said, “That was naughty, darling.”
“Yes,” said Greg. “Do you think he will spank me?”
“Probably,” I said, “Put the cane on the bed beside you and he’ll remember how much you deserve sore buttocks. Is Dad going to come home early?”
“Yes,” said Greg, “I doubt he’ll take long.”
“So, Greg,” I asked, “are you going to have a bath?”
“No,” said Greg, shaking his head. “I want to be Dad’s fantasy for once.”
“In that case, can you take your football boots off and carry them into your bedroom? Put them back on when you lie down. Drink some mineral water, why don’t you,” I said, “I know it raises the pressure in your bladder.”
“Dad loves that,” said Greg, “he thinks diapers are for outdoors.”
“I know,” I said, “I’ve pissed over him many times and he never tires of it.”

Greg took off the muddy boots for which Peter had an intense fetish and carried them to the boys’ bedroom. He wandered off to the fridge so as to make himself more desperate to wee than he already was, while I found our two-foot school cane and propped it against the wall by the kids’ bed. “Because you’re such a naughty boy,” I told Greg.

Greg lay face down on the double bed that he shares with Timmy. His delicate feet — I couldn’t resist running my fingers over the soles of his feet and making him jump and curl his toes — were clad in white socks with blue stripes. I helped Greg put his football boots back on. They were white size six Pumas with metal studs on the sole and long laces which took a while to pull tight and tie in a bow. There were clods of mud everywhere, on the floor, the bed, the socks, the boots, and clinging to Greg himself.

I heard a key in the lock. I knew Peter would be desperate to ass-fuck Greg because I hadn’t let him fuck me for three weeks.

“We’re up here,” I said, “Bring Timmy.”
“I can’t see him.” Peter’s reassuring voice came up the stairs.
“Try the biscuits cupboard.”

I heard Timmy run from the kitchen to the hall. “Hello, Dad!” and a kiss. Peter knew that I wasn’t watching, so I was pretty sure Peter’s right hand would be resting on Timmy’s little cock for a few seconds, just to get him ‘interested’ in a hand release.

“Come up here, Peter,” I called downstairs. “I don’t know what got into Greg but he needs you.”
“I know what’s going to get into me in the next couple of minutes,” said Greg, “have you got KY?”
“In the drawer, where it always is.”

Peter and Timmy came into the bedroom. “Hello, Greg,” said Dad cheerfully, “you’re having bladder problems, I heard.”
“Oh, Dad, if you could just warm my cock with the palm of your hand, that would make my bursting bladder hurt less. Oh, help, Dad, the pain in my bladder is awful — I shall piss myself!”

Peter, who had only just put his briefcase down in the hallway and was still wearing what his company called ‘full business attire’ slid his left hand between Greg’s thighs and held Greg’s young cock in the palm of his hand.

“Oh, dad, thank you!” Greg released a flood of hot urine into his black underpants. The mineral water had done a good job: Greg could not have contained his urine for more than another minute or two. The hot gilt jet drenched the crotch of the shorts, then soaked into the backside and streamed onto his legs and onto the boys’ mattress. I’m pissing, I’m urinating, I’m releasing a hot flood, and the pain in my bladder is lessening. Peter moved his hand in small circles, obviously loving the feeling of hot piss running over it. The golden river seemed to run for a full minute at least. Greg was controlling his urine to make his piss last longer. When eventually the flow dried up after several short pauses and fresh leaks, Greg was fragrant with urine and his shorts, socks, legs, boots, the mattress and the bedroom carpet were all soaked.

“Oh, dad, thank you,” he said again, “I was in such pain. My bladder was at breaking point. You can do anything, anything you want to me—”
“Well, for a start, you’re a naughty boy.” Peter picked up the cane and smacked Greg’s buttocks twice with it, hard, leaving red lines that I could see through the wet shorts. Ouch! OWWW! Christ, Dad! That hurt.
“Good,” said Peter, “I should still be in my meeting. What am I going to do with you?”
Greg knew perfectly well what Peter wanted to do with him. “You could fuck me up the bum.”
“I am going to fuck you up the bum,” Peter said, “hard.”
“Don’t I get a kiss first?” asked Greg.

Greg licked his cherubic, deep red lips twice. Peter kissed Greg on his open mouth. Greg took hold of Peter’s cock. It was hard, straight and ready for use.

Peter, aroused well beyond self-control, was pulling Greg’s sodden shorts down to his son’s knees, followed by the black underpants. The bottom few inches of the blue and white tee were soaked and clinging around Greg’s waist. Peter applied a finger loaded with KY to the warm cleft between Greg’s bare buttocks, and then unzipped his pants and released his cock. He was a small man, 5″, and he lay awkwardly on top of Greg, slipping the five inches into Greg’s backside with a little more force than necessary. Greg’s face showed mild pain rising from his buttocks, Oh, Dad… Ow! Not so hard! but Dad was desperate and using force. Oooh, Dad, I need a really good fucking right up the butt from your rigid cock.
”Good,” said Peter, “you’re about to get one.”

Timmy came over to me. Mom, my cock is hard and my balls hurt. We sat on the bed near Greg’s head and I fondled Timmy’s balls through his grey school pants and the white underpants beneath. I pulled the waistband of the pants forwards and took a quick look at the underpants. They were Fluro Transport Briefs, intended for slightly younger children, decorated with cartoon cars, lorries and buses. For some reason they made Timmy’s cock and balls sexier simply by covering them. The outlines of the sexual parts were clearly on show when I pulled the briefs tight. Holding the balls carefully in one hand — Timmy liked me to hold his balls tightly — I lay the other hand on his cock, tickling and teasing it.

”Do you need to piss?” I asked Timmy.
“Yes,” he said, “but not quite yet.”
“When you want to piss, just spray it all over my hands, darling.”
“Sure, Mom.” Timmy was used to the odd demands I made on his cock and balls.

I carried on fingering Timmy’s cock, making him more erect.

Peter put his arm around Greg’s hips and replaced his hand on the three-inch cock, caressing it, squeezing it wildly, pressing on the foreskin in an effort to make it hard. Oh! OH! Yes! Greg responded with a full, straight hard-on. Dad’s buttocks began to rise and fall rhythmically, pressing his cock into Greg’s backside, withdrawing, and forcing the cock back between Greg’s cheeks again.

“Your Dad’s about to come,” I told Timmy, and a second later Peter pressed his cock as far into Greg’s backside as it would go, released his hot sticky milk as Greg yelped and tried to raise his hips to dodge the pain of the injection, and Peter went limp on more senses than one. “Oh, my God,” Peter said, “that was marvellous.”

Timmy’s cock was now full length inside his transport briefs. I unzipped the school pants to take a slightly firmer hold on it, and I felt along its length.

“I think Timmy needs his cock sucked,” I said to Peter.

Peter was obviously tired out by the intense climax which fucking Greg in his full football outfit had given him, but he came over to us and watched closely as I slid Timmy’s pants and underpants down.

Sometimes Peter had no idea what the kids wanted him to do, but this time he felt exactly their urge. He knelt so that Timmy, sitting on the bed, had his cock in front of Peter’s mouth, and Peter took Timmy’s cock in his mouth, pushing his lips against the young pubic bone until Timmy’s cock was all the way into his Dad’s throat and Dad was licking and sucking gently but furiously, giving Timmy a full erection the size and hardness of a toddler’s baseball bat. Timmy threw his head back. Oh, Dad, that feels so good. And then Timmy’s expression changed slightly, Dad! You’re making me release it, I can’t hold on, and he relaxed the sphinctre muscle, contracted his bladder, squirted his load of piss down the urethra, past the developing prostate, along the penis and through the aperture at tip, hot and fresh into his father’s throat. Dad’s penis went limp and poured its own puddle onto the boys’ mattress. Greater love has no man than this, I thought, that he drink his son’s hot piss.

Peter drank it greedily. After Timmy had finished pissing, Peter couldn’t take his mouth away from the moist cock. “Try to piss a bit more,” he said through a mouth full of limp boy cock, and he was rewarded with three little squirts.

“Do you want to give me a bath?” asked Greg, standing in his tee and boots with his shorts and underpants around his knees. “You can fondle my cock while you’re lathering me.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” said Dad, kissing Greg on the mouth and taking his hand to go to the bathroom.