Title: An Untitled Memory
Author: Shadey Grey

   Story Codes: Mb(5), mast, ped, pedo, rom, preteen, Synopsis: A memory
from a grown boy that never happened.  Remembering what it was like to be
truly loved by his distant father.

   You can find more of my stories here:
/files/Authors/Shadey_Grey

   Please feel free to email me any comments, critiques, suggestions, or
thanks that you might have for this piece (shadeygrey0@gmail.com).
Prologue:

   It is funny what you remember from your childhood.  This is an
alternative, the way I wish things played out for me as a kid.  I wonder
how different I would have been had my curiosity been sated.  This is one
of my earliest memories with my father, even though the sexual part isn't
real.  It is truly amazing to rewrite a piece of my past.  To this day,
even though it was never sexual, I treasure these memories both erotically
and generally.

   It always started the same way.  The sun would be out on a Saturday, but
I wasn't out in the lawn or at the park.  Nobody could find me sitting at
the TV or on the computer.  The phone would ring, one of the few little
friends I had asking if I could come out to play.  But my mother would tell
them that I was busy.  Maybe later.

   I would notice that Dad wasn't around.  That, in and of itself, was not
unusual.  My father worked long hours and traveled quite a bit.  When he
was around, he and I didn't do much together.  He and I were both quiet
people.  He really only got involved with my sister and I if we were in
trouble, so it added up to us not spending a lot of time together; or, if
we did, not actually interacting much.

   On the days when my father had work off and was in town, he usually
spent it on the couch, switching between watching TV and playing guitar. 
If he wasn't in either one of those places, I knew where he was.  And on
those rare occasions where I didn't figure it out, my mother would pop her
head in the doorway and tell me.  "Dad is taking a bath."

   I would drop whatever I was doing.  Every minute spared is another lost.
I would scramble up the stairs practically on all fours, forgetting the
handrail.  I could barely even feel the carpet under my hands and bare
feet. Mom and Dad's bedroom was always open and meticulously cared for. 
Dad's clothes or robe weren't thrown on the bed.  There wasn't any sign of
undressing.  And he didn't just get out of bed either.  Mom had made it
hours ago.

   All you had to do to know was smell.  You could smell the bathwater, a
faint mix of lavender, buttermilk, and steam.  The scent rolled out from
under the bathroom door, which was only closed during the day when Dad was
in the tub.  It was the moment of reassurance, when I confirmed that I
would have my time with him.  Not time I had to share with Mom or my
sister, just him and me.  We got so little time as it was that every minute
counted for me.

   So I knocked on the door and asked, "Can I come in?"

   I would hear the surface of the water shift about, responding to him. 
"Yes, bud."

   When I would open the door, a wave of senses would splash over me.  The
air that came at me was humid, thick with warmth.  My nose was filled with
the relaxing smell of the dissolving bath formula.  The room was silent
save the settling of the bath water from my father making room for me.  But
most of all, it was an excitement borne of memory, of my favorite way to
spend an hour.

   My father lay slumped in the tub.  Only his face and a foot were visible
over the edge.  He looked serious, just as he always did.  Smiles rarely
graced their presence through his carefully-trimmed beard, which was only
long enough to completely cover his skin.  Dad worked for a big company, so
he had to keep neat.  He gave me a cursory look, but nothing more.

   This was how Dad relaxed after a long week at work.  He loved music and
played it all the time, but bath time was the only one where silence was
expected.  But that didn't bother me at all.  Somehow, the lack of
distraction made it better.  I wasn't much for games and excitement anyway.



   So I would close the door go over to the toilet and sit down.  First, I
would pull my white, almost-calf-high socks off and lay them down on the
tank.  My pale toes rarely saw the light of day, nor did most of me.  I was
so prone to burning that I covered up outside.  My tee-shirt came next. 
Pulling it up past my belly was easy, but I always struggled getting my
arms out and then getting it over my head.  Mom usually helped me, but
there was no expectation that Dad would get out of the tub for me.  So I
usually ended up bouncing about, aiming my head at the ground while I
pulled it the rest of the way off.

   Underneath my shirt was a rounded tummy, kept soft by baby fat, and a
perfectly circular belly button.  My little back naturally sat a little
arched, forcing my shoulder blades to poke out a bit.  Back then, my arms
were pretty skinny too.  You could see the lines on my skin making up the
edges of the tee-shirt: where the sun always shined and where it never did.
But even then, I barely managed a tan.  Very few healthy young boys had
skin as light as mine.

   The shorts my mother would buy me were very short, still in the style of
what I would later learn to be gay men from the seventies and eighties,
and, a year or two later, would be received by my peers as "daisy dukes". I
was ignorant of such things as fashion.  These shorts had little draw
strings, another thing I struggled with at this age.  Usually, I would try
for a minute, but my mom cut my nails so short I couldn't do it.  So I
would just pull hard until they stretched over my hips and butt.  A few
wiggles later, I would be free of the two-toned, polyester shorts.

   Just as with my arms, tan lines stretched across my thighs, but hardly
made a dent in my porcelain skin tone.  The only real color on my legs was
at the knee, where it turned a little red.  There wasn't a single hair on
my legs, a fact I was always amazed by.  I took quite a bit of pleasure in
rubbing my legs because they felt soft.  I lamented the day hair began
growing there.

   So there I stood in a pair of Thomas the Tank Engine underpants, with
deep blue waist band and hems across crisp white cotton.  I loved that TV
show as a little kid.  Even though I hated it when people bought me
presents like underwear and socks, I was happy that they knew which ones to
buy.

   I shucked my underwear quickly to the ground.  In some ways, getting
naked was my favorite part.  I had a secret love of taking my clothes off.
I never did anything about it, but my brain was always imagining new
scenarios to get naked in.  I never really knew why or what I would do
after I got my clothes off, but I didn't care much for the practicals.  It
didn't matter much anyway, since bath time, either under Mom's supervision
or Dad's, was the only time I could be.

   Before I dared to get in, I always did a little inspection of myself.  I
would investigate scrapes, bruises, or any other marks.  I did this because
my Dad did this to himself the few times I was there start to finish.  Of
course, my eyes would always draw down to my penis, as I didn't often get
to see it.  There was a little pink head poking out of my stomach and some
wrinkled skin all scrunched up behind it.  When it was warmer, it would not
be all hidden like that.  And my scrotum was tight underneath it, firmly
wrapped up close.  I liked to pretend that, when it was warmer, it was a
little dragon or, in conjunction with my balls, was the breasts and head of
a busty lounge singer.

   Behind me was probably my best feature, though I didn't know it back
then.  Two silky smooth mounds made up my rear.  My back has always been a
little arched, which always managed to push my butt out a bit more, making
it look fuller than most of my peers.  The only time it got center stage,
however, was when I was spanked.

   The hardest part to a bath with Dad was getting in.  He liked his bath
way hotter than Mom would give for me.  It looked so easy for him, but it
was a process for me.  I couldn't sit on the side of the bath either,
because the porcelain was too cold.

   Dad would be in the bath with his legs spread, waiting.  I started with
dipping one foot in.  The heat seized it, made it feel like it was going to
burn.  I would hold it still, so as not to make the water around it move.
If it did, it would feel too hot all over again.  As my delicate skin
adjusted, I would make it to the bottom of the tub and wait again.  It must
have taken me five minutes just to be standing in it.  Even though the
initial dip almost hurt every time, I pushed past it so I could be with
him. And all the while, my father is watching and waiting for me to settle
down.

   With one hand securely placed on either edge of the tub, I lowered my
butt closer and closer to the water's placid surface until I could feel the
heat coming off of the water.  I would pause, close my eyes, and brace
myself before sitting down.  Every nerve from my knees to my ribs would
light up.  I would suck air, suck my tummy in, and wait for my body to
adjust.  In a few more minutes, I would open my eyes and see that Dad and I
are taking a bath together.

   It was like ritual.  My father at the far end of the tub, where he could
recline.  And me between his legs, my head right next to the faucet.  I
could listen to water trickling down the overflow hole behind me.  And Dad
would lift up one giant hairy foot and turn on the hot water to boost the
temperature again.  I would help by pushing the fresh hot water his way, so
it wouldn't get all trapped behind me.

   My first activity upon joining the bath was looking at myself through
the water.  The distortions of waves made me look all different ways. 
Looking between my crossed legs, it seemed as if my penis was so close, but
it wasn't.  Sometimes, I would test it by pushing my hips up until just the
head of my dick touched the cold air above.  Then I would settle again.

   Serious splashing or horsing around was not what bath time was for.  If
I was to be there, I had to keep quiet and let Dad relax.  So, outside of
flicking water for waves and pushing waves of current around, there was
nothing for me to do.  So I would look at Dad.

   To me, he was huge.  Two big arms, even compared to other men I met,
were positioned over his stomach under the water.  His chest had a thin
cover of hair across it, spreading over the big stomach he wore.  Dad
wasn't so fat that his stomach overwhelmed his belt, but it did stick out a
bit.  Two thick legs, covered with a matte of black hair, ran down the
walls of the tub.  They were usually too long to be fully submerged,
leaving kneecaps poking out like two ocean islands.  But the prize for me
to see lay hidden deep in the depths of the tub.

   There were only two times I got to sneak a peak at my father's penis: in
the tub and when he wore a robe.  I remember well enough being fascinated
by it.  When Dad played guitar in his robe, he spread his legs.  And, at
the right angle on the floor, I could see it hanging down.  It was never
sucked into his belly like mine.  I loved to catch sight of it.

   Then there were times like these, when Dad and I were all alone in the
bath and I could freely stare at him.  Relaxed, his dick was draped across
his balls, with a cock head just as thick as the rest of him.  He wasn't
wrinkly at all.  His balls hung low every time I saw them, as if they never
scrunched up at all.  It was hairy a bit, but it was, just like his chest,
thinly spread.  If Dad had ever noticed me staring, he never said a word
about it.

   Usually, Dad tended to ignore me during baths, but there was one time
where it was different.  One time, my Dad looked at me while I swirled
water around my finger in the silence of his peaceful bath, and he broke
it.

   "Come here."

   I looked up.  My first instinct was that I was in trouble.  But I
climbed onto my knees and sneaked up closer, between his knees.  And I
waited for punishment, even though I couldn't yet imagine the crime.  So I
peered up through my big blue eyes with an innocent uncertainty.

   My father looked me over once, as if he was uncertain of himself.  Then
he reached over and took my hand into his.  He clasped my fingers and palm
between both of his big, hard hands and rubbed them as if he was warming
them up.  Then he kissed the back of my hand.  His beard tickled, but I
dared not laugh.  Taking one last look at my little hand, taken from the
same cut that his own had been, and dragged it back down under the water.

   He tugged me forward a bit more.  And my hand landed on him.  It was
limp for a second until I realized where he had placed it.  Looking down
into the murky water, three of my fingertips ever so gently graced the
crown of my Dad's soft cock.  I started to pull away, but my Dad held me
there.  "Go on.  You won't get in trouble." There was a softness to his
voice I wasn't used to.

   I heard what I needed to hear.  My hand couldn't get all the way around
his cock, even soft.  But I grabbed onto the bit of shaft I could and
lifted it up a little.  His head was darker than mine, almost purple.  And
bigger.  I could see all the tiny little cracks and lines that made it up,
just like the back of your hand.  But it was squishy.  I squeezed it
gently, spellbound by the opportunity.  I pulled down on the skin, which
made it look like the cock was nodding its head appreciatively.  I couldn't
help but smile.

   My dad led my other hand underneath his balls before leaning back. 
Kneeling and focusing on the events below, I tried my best not to make
waves so I could see clearly.  My other hand hefted his testicles, watching
the skin tighten a little at the touch.  They felt bigger than the biggest
marbles in my tin.  They even tumbled around inside.  He had so much more
room in there than I did.  I was lucky if my little sack relaxed at all.

   As I played with him, I noticed that my Dad's shaft was getting a little
bit longer.  I would lay it down and it would reach farther down his balls
than before.  And the skin wasn't as easy to pull.  And then it wouldn't
lay down any more at all.  It stuck out on its own, like a puppet on a
string.  It got firm.  I could not bend it like before.  It even felt
hotter than the water.  The tip of his cock poked at the surface of the
water, affected by every movement at its surface.

   "It floats," I said quietly, poking it at the shaft and watching it buoy
back.

   I spent some time pushing it under water, then swishing it back and
forth before letting it bounce back up to the surface.  I was having more
fun in the bath than I had ever had before.  Dad was staring at me,
watching me play, but I didn't notice it.  It was cool to watch it grow. 
That was something I never knew could happen.

   My father made a grunting sound and I froze.  Knelt down with my nose
almost touching the water and my hands clutching my father's hard shaft, I
slowly turned my gaze to my father, yet again prepared for chastisement. 
Looking down at me, he had this strange expression, like he was so relaxed
that he was going to close his eyes and fall asleep.  He let out a deep
sigh.  "Keep going."

   In my hand, my father's cock flexed, the head flaring against my palm.
Something inside my stomach fluttered in response, like when Dad held me
tight, but deeper inside me.  Abandoning his balls, I took my father in
both of my hands, feeling the pulse of his cock straining against my grip.
I gave it an experimental pump with both hands and received a positive
twitching under my fingers.  My father's hips shifted, offering himself up
to my tiny control.  Latching onto the skin just under the head, I pulled
it up as far as it would go, then came back down.  Each new pump on him
created new waves, making it harder and harder to see the details of it
all.

   The sounds of water washing against the tub and my father's breathing
were the only things I could hear, reverberating just so off the tile and
tiny space of the bathroom.  Though the water around us was losing its
heat, I hadn't noticed.  The feeling of his hard, yet soft cock in my
little groping, tugging, teasing hands was mesmerizing.  It was hotter than
I remembered the water being, but it didn't feel like it would burn me.

   Tugging became jacking after a short time and my father was becoming
more tense.  The muscles of his legs jumped or stretched against the sides
of the tub.  Dad's butt would lift up and drop down, making the tip of him
peak out from the turbulent waters above it.  It seemed like it was more
and more swollen with each new breach of the surface.  I had never seen him
like this, so loose.  So free.

   I pumped his cock for all my flimsy arms were worth.  Not just because I
was allowed to touch him now, but because when I did, he seemed more alive.
The shifting waters turned to little splashes as I sped up, eager to make
him more and more animated.  But after a while, it started to die down on
it own.  My arms hurt from the constant motion and I couldn't keep it up.
As I slowed down, so did he.

   Eventually, he put a hand on one of my arms and stopped me.  Uncertain,
I let go of him and waited, my two eyes staring up at Dad.  Even though he
wasn't working hard like I was, he seemed just as tired.  I watched his big
chest rise and fall, letting himself down from the sexual strain.  The
butterflies in my stomach remained, especially when I glanced down through
the rippling water to see him still standing tall.

   "Stand up," he said quietly.

   I did as I was told.  I used one of his knees to stop myself from
slipping.  As I pulled myself up, the lukewarm bathwater sluiced off the
curves of my belly, rear, and thighs.  Above that, I had become dry save
for my arms.  Standing up straight before him, I patiently waited for my
next command.

   My father scooted towards me, the entire tub squeaking against his skin.
Cupping the water, he poured it over my shoulders and chest.  He seemed
intent on watching the minute streams of soap and liquid have play across
my body.  I too followed them down until I noticed something unusual. 
Between my legs, it seemed like my own nub was a little bit bigger than it
was before.  As my hands often did, they came down upon it.  Inside, it
felt more rigid.  Not quite like Dad's, but still more solid.  It stood
outwards, as if pointing at my Dad.  When I touched it, I could feel it way
more than when I touched anywhere else.  And when I pulled on it, I could
feel my cheeks going flush.

   My Dad grabbed me by the hips and pulled me close to him.  His lips
found my stomach and, while I expected a raspberry or a tickle attack, he
gently kissed me right on the belly button.  His beard tickled on me, but I
couldn't laugh.  Then, he turned me around and pulled me back down.  My
bare butt found his abdomen, my back to his chest.  I felt eaten up by his
warmth, safe in his grasp.  One arm came around my chest, holding me tight.
Between my legs, I could feel the cock I had, minutes ago, been so obsessed
with.  My infantile scrotum, wrapped up tight against the changing
temperature, met the back of his helmet.  Somehow, it felt as though it
belonged in this place.

   My first instinct was to close my legs around it, but Dad pried his
fingers between them and pulled one leg aside, then the other.  Following
my inner thigh back down, he covered my little package with his big hand
and squeezed it ever so gently.  A little wave rushed across me, eliciting
a gasp.  Dad laid a kiss upon the crown on my head as he took my tiny,
half-hard cock into his fore-finger and thumb and began to roll it around.

   At first, it felt odd, nothing more special than when I held it to pee.
But the longer he did it, the more I felt it grow, the more it stiffened in
his grasp.  Finally, it stood on its own.  And my dad began to tug on it.
Little waves pulsed across me.  It felt like my hips were on a string and
they jumped whenever he pulled, trying to get more tug out of him.  And the
feeling spread all across me.  It shot down my legs, making me pull up like
a baby and making me curl my toes tight to my feet.  My hands clutched at
the arm around my belly, holding on for dear life.  I couldn't watch
because I wanted to thrash my head from side to side.  And it was hard to
breathe because I had to whimper like a little puppy.

   My Dad had to turn the water back on to cover up the sound of me.  Past
the splashing of the water, I whined and squealed at the new sensations my
father's bear paw fingers played upon me through the tiniest of piccolos
between my legs.  The warmth and the heat spread through me, coupled with
the butterflies and the sparks and the earthquake tremors.  My little cock
felt so hard it might explode.  So I did all I could to keep it there.  I
pushed into my father's hand with the little motion his other arm allowed
to me and used every muscle in my body to flex and stretch with the pure
sensation he made in me.

   It rose like a volcano all of a sudden.  I squeaked and choked on my own
breath.  My entire body quivered.  Fireworks were shooting across my eyes,
splashes of color because I couldn't see anymore.  My arms and legs seized
up.  The glow of my first orgasm washed over me, all pouring from the
flexing of my tiny, flushed cock head pinched between my dad's fingers. 
Inside my chest, my heart pounded a mile a minute, faster than my hardest
bike ride.  And as the power of it wore down, all of my muscles went limp.

   It is there that I drifted between sleep and wakefulness, drenched in
something more than fear or lust.  The quiet roar of the water pouring in
the tub ceased, leaving only the trickle of the emergency drain, so far
away from where I was.  And a heart beat, strong and true, keeping time for
two.  I felt so far away in that daze, even though I was closer to home
than I had ever been in my life.

   I laid draped across this man, a father I barely knew, naked and in
love. For all the times he was never there, I sensed the redemption for
lost time.  And for all the sternness that made him my Dad, I could feel a
caring in him in his touch.  Even at that age, I knew this feeling, this
afterglow of love would fade away.  And yet, laying there with his arm
around me, his chest cushioning my face, his sex touching mine, I also knew
that he would never let me go.

   Writer's Notes: I doubt this will be the masturbatory fantasy a lot of
folks will be looking for, but it was important for me to write.  So many
years later, I am only just now finding the sorts of love that can fulfill
anything in my life for me.  And to think it could have happened so long
ago is sad.  But the truth behind this story is simple: despite this being
a fiction, my father never did let me go, no matter what.  He was a good
man.
   -Shadey Grey (shadeygrey@gmail.com)