Quillon's Covert (7 page)

“Keep cool”
Marty repeated over and over as he made his way toward the shower, the toiletries precariously held between his two immobile arms. The constant reminder he kept playing in his head,
“He’s your dad. He’s your dad
,
”
wasn’t really doing much good. But he silently repeated it over and over anyway while telling himself that thinking about Martin in
that way
wasn’t something he should even let cross his mind. It all turned out to be pointless as he made the trek down to the shower and saw his buck-naked father stretching under a steady stream of water. Blood instantly began flowing into his traitorous dick. Not for the first time, he thanked God not only for the fading light, but also for the seclusion of their cabin; at least he wouldn’t be sporting a hardon in front of anyone other than Martin—and his dad was more than used to his perpetual erection.

Marty’s throat clicked from a dry swallow as he came to a stop near the spray’s edge. He took in his dad’s closed eyes, his bowed head, and his relaxed expression as water beat against his back. The few errant beads, as they landed on his broad chest and formed into snaking rivulets down his torso, captivated Marty’s attention. Martin’s closed eyes allowed Marty’s gaze to chase the water’s trail down to his father’s wet dick. Yep, there was no doubt in Marty’s mind; he was definitely crushing on his dad.

And jeez, what a manly dick it was. Once he’d discovered Internet porn on his iPad, and what some of the adult stars did with their foreskins, he was grateful that both he and his dad were uncut. And bam, his mind went to the last video he’d watched and suddenly he was the one kneeling at Martin’s feet, running his tongue up inside the soft skin, pulling it back, sucking his father’s wet cockhead.
Whoa!

Martin opened his eyes and caught Marty’s gaze. What little use he had of his fingers failed him and the toiletry bag spilled onto the ground. Soap, shampoo, toothbrushes, combs, everything fell to the grass. “Damn arms,” he cursed, bending down while silently chastising himself again for the casts, and for not being able to keep his mind from drifting—yet again—to sex with his dad.

Martin stepped out of the stream and bent down to help toss everything back into the bag.

“The permanent hardon making ya lightheaded, Bonser?”

Marty snorted but nodded in agreement. He attempted to lighten his embarrassment and added, “It takes a lot of blood to keep that thing full, ya know.”

Martin grinned as they both stood and pulled Marty into one of his one-arm hugs. Of course he couldn’t return the embrace without getting his casts wet. But he enjoyed the solid, reassuring squeeze nonetheless. No matter how old he got, there were times, like now, when Marty was suddenly thrown back in time. He was six again, it was a bright Sunday afternoon, and he and Martin were on the sidewalk in front of their house. Elbow and kneepads, along with his helmet, were all in place, but he’d stubbornly refused to wear the protective gloves as he stepped onto his first skateboard. The day before had been his birthday and they’d spent it up the coast at his grandfather’s house. He’d thrummed with excitement at finally getting to try out his Brand-X Weirdo board. He’d loved that board—its crazy three-dimensional shapes and vibrant colors reminding him of his favorite video game at the time; Q*bert. But, not two minutes in, he’d been tossed off the board, landing palms-first onto the concrete. Although he’d felt incredibly foolish, Martin picked him up and ruffled his hair.
“Whaddya say we learn how to ride first and save the crashing tricks for later, huh?”
Marty had laughed and wrapped his arms around his dad’s strong neck. Setting him back down, Martin grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and wiped at Marty’s palms.
“Nah, barely any blood…won’t even need a Band-Aid…wanna try out those gloves?”
Looking back, Marty now understood that in everything his father said and did, there was quiet reassurance. An unspoken guarantee that as long as Martin was around, Marty would be safe.

This uncoordinated, one-arm hug, right here, the one that had him slightly off-balance with the side of his head pressed to Martin’s, was the same hug he’d gotten that day, and Marty couldn’t help but feel that same reassurance. Wet toiletries, broken arms, smashed cars, and his nagging boner all be dammed, Marty knew everything would be cool.

Martin released him and bent down, then tore a kitchen garbage bag off the roll lying in the grass. After opening it up, he started with Marty’s left arm, tightly and carefully wrapping his cast. It took Martin only a few minutes to finish, and then he started on the right arm.

“Dad?”

“Hmm?” Martin held the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on getting the bag’s top completely sealed off. He looked up at Marty when no reply came.

“I mean, we’re okay, right? You know I’m sorry about the car, the accident, the casts…all of it, right?” Marty knew they were, everything about Martin’s demeanor said so. But he just needed to hear his father say the words.

Martin blinked. Then secured the top of the bag with a piece of tape and lowered Marty’s arm. His dad stared at him for a short moment, his eyes indiscernible, then placed a palm on Marty’s shoulder. “I know you are, Bud. And, yep, we’re completely cool,” he reassured, and then guided Marty under the showerhead.

The water was the perfect temperature for offsetting the muggy lake air; not too hot and not too cold. Unfortunately, it wasn’t cold enough to force the blood from Marty’s unabating lead-pipe of a dick though. It was like the damn showerhead was aimed right at his junk! A constant stream pounded his head, just where it disappeared under the skin, and his fucking cock just bobbed in eagerness.

He cut his eyes to Martin, somehow convinced that his father could hear his internal, and increasingly profanity-laced, dialogue.

Doing his best not to squirm under the teasing jet, he chided himself for not choking one out before the shower. But trying to jack off with the casts often left him more frustrated than when he started because he couldn’t always get the friction he needed for release.

Moments after the shampoo bottle’s top popped open, his dad’s strong fingers began a lather of thick foam into Marty’s hair. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember the last time his father had done this.

“This is nice,” Martin said softly.

“Hmm?” Marty asked distractedly as Martin increased the pressure.

His father leaned forward and spoke closer to Marty’s ear. “Kinda thought I’d never get to do this again.” He pushed his fingers forward, scraping them against Marty’s skull and running them through his hair, just to hook them in and pull slowly backward, only stopping when they reached his nape.

“Jeez,” Marty moaned and closed his eyes. “Dad, does Mom know what she’s missing out on? That feels really good.”

Martin’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle as it brushed against Marty’s back. “Who says she’s missing out?”

“Damn,” Martin said over Marty’s shoulder.

Marty opened his eyes and followed Martin’s stare. “What?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I should start preparing my condolences now for your future boyfriend,” Martin said with a warm laugh.

When Marty blushed, Martin asked, “Is the water too hot? ’Cause that blush is eating you alive.”

“Har har!” Marty snorted. “You think you’re funny, don’t you? I’ll have you know, I think there are plenty of guys out there who’ll be okay with it…maybe even like it.”

Martin chuckled good-naturedly and wrapped his strong fingers around Marty’s neck, guiding him forward under the stream to rinse his hair. “Oh, I have absolutely no doubt they’ll be lining up.”

Martin’s powerful, sure grip on Marty’s neck offered him a deep sense of security. It easily brushed aside any remaining thoughts of Marty’s summer screw-ups. Martin’s confident hold communicated so much; that single touch held their shared history, it held their wonderful memories, and most importantly, it held his dad’s devoted love.

“I see practice is paying off.” Martin pulled him from under the water’s stream.

“Huh?” Marty asked, lost in thought.

A soapy hand ran down Marty’s firm back. “These muscles are impressive. But then you’re a Quillon, aren’t ya?”

Marty’s chest swelled a bit when his dad’s hands glided over his back. “Hey, don’t dis my hard work with talk of your good genes. I put a lot of hours in on the field, and even more in the gym.” Marty smiled over his shoulder. “Not that I don’t appreciate your contribution, but I deserve some of the credit too, ya know.”

His dad gave him a wink. “That you do, Ace. That you do.”

Martin’s hands dipped lower, smoothed over his ass, and then lifted his heavy cheeks. Marty’s breath quickened as his dad’s fingers slid beneath his glutes, ran between his crack, and then moved to his taint.

God, his dad was touching him, and thanks to his lingering erection, he didn’t even have to worry about Martin knowing how much he was enjoying it. He closed his eyes again, relaxed, and immersed himself in the feeling.

When Martin perfunctorily ran a finger across his hairy hole, his knees briefly shook before he willed himself to simply relax again and enjoy the sensation. However, he couldn’t hold back the spontaneous squeak when his father’s thick finger edged just inside before quickly moving back along his taint.

“Sorry ’bout that…just tryin’ to be thorough…didn’t realize things were quite that slick down there.”

Marty’s breath shuddered, but he managed what he hoped was a convincing
“No worries.”
Before trying to burn the memory into his mind. Fuck, that had been nice!

Martin knelt to do the backs of his legs and his breath drifted over Marty’s ass. “You’re getting to be a hairy bastard, like your old man.” And just like that, Martin’s hands retreated and his dad was upright, towering behind him again.

Marty kept his eyes closed and could still feel Martin’s thick finger dancing over his hole. Fuck if his dick wasn’t begging for some attention. But just as he foolishly tried to reposition the water’s jet
toward
his crotch, Martin placed sturdy hands on his shoulders and turned him around carefully. The pounding water hit his back and rinsed the soapsuds from his skin.

He was caught by surprise when his dad didn’t seem to think twice and dipped his soapy hand between Marty’s legs, just behind his balls, and built up a frothy lather. When Martin’s slick fingers cupped his nuts, Marty wasn’t sure if his legs would hold steady. He fondled them as he washed them with one hand and Marty’s cock bobbed with the attention.

Marty fought to keep his face neutral, while also being wholly determined to enjoy his father’s touch.

“These still get sore?” Martin asked matter-of-factly.

Marty shook his head briefly, not sure if he trusted himself not to stutter.

“You sure?”

Marty’s nonverbal answer seemed to distract him and his fingers absently continued to roll his nuts around.

Marty took a deep breath through his nose. “Yeah. Th-th-that stopped near the beginning of the year, thankfully.”

“Good. You’re lucky. I had several years’ discomfort when I went through puberty. In fact, there was a time I thought cutting them off would be less painful,” he said with a small chuckle. “But I’m rather fond of them now, so the agony was worth it.”

Martin grabbed hold of Marty’s dick and pulled back the foreskin. Even though he knew it was coming, he had to fight to keep from doubling over as electricity shot up his spine. Jesus, his dad was touching him—touching his hard dick.

Martin worked the soap around Marty’s dick, getting it in between the creases of the foreskin attempting to wash off the sticky precum that kept Marty’s underwear permanently damp these days. However, the stickiness was replenished nearly as quickly as Martin could wash it away. Undeterred, he began to redouble his effort.

Marty was in heaven. He’d never been touched by anyone before, and now his father was unknowingly edging him closer to orgasm. He knew he couldn’t take much more
and
maintain the façade. Hesitantly, he whispered, “Dad?”

Martin looked up questioningly, while still determined to get his oozing dick clean.

“Yuh-yuh-you haven’t forgotten I’m g-g-gay, right?”

Martin scrunched his brows together and wiped the dripping water from his eyes with his free hand. “No, I haven’t forgotten,” he answered, the confusion clear on his face.

“So, um, th-th-that…what you’re doing, feels really nice.”

Martin’s brows pulled together even further. “But, I’m your dad—”

Marty closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He focused on not giving way to the tingling in his balls and just how close he was to shooting his load in Martin’s hand, and interrupted, “Maybe it’s
because
you’re my dad.”

He creeped his eyes open and met his dad’s uncertain gaze. Marty could see his father was slightly taken aback, and the pressure on his dick eased off completely.

“Oh…um…” Martin started but then trailed off.

Chapter 4 – No Question, I Know What I Want

Marty / 17

Marty remained seated, yawning for good measure to make it seem like he was still waking up from the drive up to Quillon’s Covert. His dad had stridden into the cabin, and Marty heard him opening the windows to begin airing the long-closed-up space out, while leaving Marty in the truck to wake up. The thing was, Marty was already awake and had been the entire drive up the mountain. He’d also been frustratingly aware of his dad’s every movement next to him. Feeling every scratch from his dad’s hairy arm against his smoother skin when he shifted the truck’s gears, or brushed against him when Martin picked up his coffee cup or replaced it in the cup holder. He’d felt it all. How could a single year change so much, he wondered. Last year he’d been a curious sixteen-year-old, occasionally crushing on his dad, and had even fallen asleep for part of the drive up, but not this year.

He rolled down the window, enjoying the fresh mountain air, and reflected on the past year. It had been loaded with personal highs for both of them. Dad’s business had experienced massive growth with two large government contracts. Those had spawned countless smaller, subsequent contracts that led Martin to almost doubling his workforce—all in the span of twelve months. And, in the last few weeks, he’d been in talks with a German software entrepreneur who’d recently moved his business to the US and purchased a sprawling southern California estate. Not that the growth had really surprised Marty, his dad was one of the most dedicated men he knew. If Martin set a goal, failure simply wasn’t an option.