Lie Father Lie Son

===

The first time I felt like I might be developing feelings for another man was the night when we'd gone out for a meal, and Marcus – my son's friend from university – made a joke that it was like I was Guy's boyfriend.

We'd all laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion – after all, Guy and I are both divorced men, both outwardly straight for all intents and purposes – but I felt the twinge of a new and unfamiliar emotion – an odd combination of pride and excitement, perhaps – which made me wonder if, maybe, I would like there to be some truth in the observation.

Marcus had no doubt made the comment because of the way Guy and I were teasing each other over dinner. I'd thought we were simply expressing the sort of typical, blokeish banter that men often indulge in to the amusement of others. But perhaps there was more to it than that: perhaps we had an over-familiarity with one another that betrayed a more meaningful connection between us; perhaps, right there in front of my son and his friend, we were making it obvious that there was a much deeper intimacy between us beneath the playful sparring we were enjoying together.

Or more likely it was just because Guy, much to my embarrassment, would occasionally call me "Big Boy" and throw a salacious glance at my crotch beneath the table.

Marcus had, thankfully, been oblivious to the reaction his playful "boyfriend" comment had elicited in me. We'd continued chatting and joking together over the meal but I'd been careful to keep whatever embryonic affections I might be feeling for Guy more discreetly to myself.

In other respects, Marcus had turned out to be a delightfully charming young man: a humorous but at times thoughtful friend for my son and a welcome guest to have in my home. He was both confident and well-spoken, and exuded an easy-going manner that made him almost impossible not to like. Apart from anything else, he was very pleasant to look at, being tall – similar in height to my son, Jake, as it happened – and athletic, with lovely mop of curly blond hair and a handsome smile that might melt even my ex-wife's frigid heart.

He'd arrived the day earlier after a dreadful train journey which had involved delays and cancellations at almost every stop. He'd disappeared off to bed just after ten, leaving Jake and me to chat together for an hour so downstairs.

"He seems like a nice lad," I'd said to Jake, although I'd hardly had chance to talk to Marcus as he'd been so tired by the time he pitched up.

"He is a nice lad," Jake had agreed, sprawled across the armchair opposite, sipping from a can of beer rather than the coke he'd been more accustomed to before he'd left for university.

"How does your... er... girlfriend, Ellie, feel about Marcus coming to stay?" I'd asked, deliberately emphasising the word 'girlfriend' but maintaining an expression which was as innocent as I could muster.

Jake had chuckled and thrown me a knowing grin, understanding full well the concealed meaning behind my question.

"She's fine with it," he'd said. "Why wouldn't she be?"

I'd shrugged, but we both knew what the score was. The two lads, after all, were sharing Jake's cramped, single bed; the two of them were, by my son's own admission, "slightly more than just good mates".

Nothing much else had happened that first night: Jake had gone up to bed and presumably snuggled up alongside his friend, but Marcus had no doubt been too tired for anything further to have developed between them.

If things had gone on after lights-out in Jake's room, I would undoubtedly have been aware of it, as both our bedroom doors had been left slightly ajar. My son had suggested some time ago that we should both leave our bedrooms open at night, on the excuse that he'd been awoken by our cat scratching at one or other of our doors. He had really made the suggestion, I'm sure, because he wanted to get a better look at what I got up to with Guy, Bradley or any of my other male friends when I had them to stay over. But now that the shoe was on the other foot, and it was he who had a male companion joining him in his bed, I'd been pleased to notice after brushing my teeth that he was following the same rule that he himself had requested and had left his own bedroom door ajar.

We'd all got up early the following morning to drive over to Buxton to visit a Neolithic stone circle which Marcus had wanted to see while he was in our area. He was studying archaeology at the university and had spent a considerable time taking measurements of the way the stones were positioned. Jake and I, meanwhile, sat and drank endless cups of tea in the nearby cafe, having grown bored of trying to think up things to say about the large, grey boulders after about three minutes.

Then, after spending the afternoon shopping in Sheffield, we'd picked up Guy from his house and had driven out to the Harvester in Braunstone where I'd had the foresight to book a table for the four of us.

And that's where the joke had been made that had prompted such an unexpected reaction in me.

I knew Marcus didn't have even the slightest inkling that there was more to my friendship with Guy than one might expect from a couple of ostensibly straight mates in their early forties. After all, if he had, he was far too polite to have made such an obviously controversial remark.

In any case, Jake had told me while we'd been alone in the cafe at the stone circle that he hadn't told Marcus about the sexual versatility I'd been embracing for the past year or so.

"Why would I have even mentioned it?" he'd said when I'd asked him about it point-blank.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I just thought with you guys being... you know... rather versatile yourselves."

"He just knows you've got a... er... girlfriend," Jake grinned, placing his own sarcastic emphasis on the same word that I had the previous evening.

"Okay... but what if I invite a bloke to stay over with me while he's visiting?" I'd asked. "And what if... you know... things happen between the two of us after lights-out?"

"Then, I guess, he'll realise quite quickly that I'm not the only one in the family who's heteroflexible."

I'd chuckled at that: was that what the two of them were calling it?

Now, after we'd got home from the restaurant and I was lying alone in bed, I pondered again on Marcus' joke, not so much interested in what prompted it but rather my curious emotional reaction towards it.

It was one thing to play the field with other men from time to time, but did I really want to think of myself as being another bloke's 'boyfriend'?

Just the thought of the question made shivers course down my spine, startling me and making me wonder again whether my attachment to Guy – a purely physical and sexual arrangement, or so I had previously thought – was in reality nurturing something more significant.

Was it possible that somewhere, deep my subconscious, I might actually want to be Guy's boyfriend?

Again, that strange ripple of nervous excitement at the mere posing of the question.

I remembered how funny Jake had found Marcus' comment – Guy had too, of course – and how he and his friend had laughed too loudly and for too long at the suggestion that I might be in a loving and committed relationship with another man.

Which was ironic, really, given that it was the two of them right now who were in the throes of passion in the room next door to mine.

I could hear quite distinctly sounds of sex from Jake's bedroom: now that Marcus had recovered from his train journey, the two of them seemed to be making up for lost time with gusto. Both of our bedroom doors were open, as per Jake's suggestion (although 'insistence' might be a more a more apt description), allowing the rhythmic noises from my son and his athletic friend to permeate through to me with surprising clarity.

And these weren't the sounds of two lads having a quiet wank together before turning over to sleep back-to-back. The two of them were quite clearly enjoying something altogether more involved: I could hear panting and grunting; the sounds of flesh against flesh.

Not that I wanted to listen in on what the two of them were getting up to, of course. But the open door policy made any attempt for me to try and ignore their private sounds of male intimacy near impossible.

I was fairly sure, from the slapping noises I could hear them making against each other and the beating of the headboard on the wall which separated our rooms, that the two of them were indulging in a fairly heavy-duty bout of anal sex. I was surprised that they had wasted no time in getting down to the nitty-gritty together: there was to be no tender foreplay or the appreciation of a nice, cosy snuggle from Jake – he'd gone in straight for the grand slam, irrespective of his old dad having to listen to him in the room next door.

Once I'd realised the extent of the sex I was listening to, it felt odd to hear my son – my little Jakey who I'd brought up single-handedly from being a kid – so brazenly enjoying homosexual intercourse with a friend as I lay in my bed in the room next door. I was listening to him engaging in buggery: an act which I had by now enjoyed countless times myself but which seemed a little precocious for my teenage son.

I wasn't in any way disgusted by what he was doing – after all, I was an ardent fan of the pleasures to be had from such intimate male company myself. It just felt strange to hear my son – a boy who had once seemed so innocent and had been wary of anything which might be perceived as 'gay' – enjoying what sounded like quite a heated and passionate sexual encounter with a member of his own gender.

Perhaps I would have felt similarly disquieted if I'd heard him enjoying the company of his girlfriend Ellie so noisily in the room next to mine: I don't know.

I took a couple of sniffs of the air as their rhythm grew steadily faster and their noises more intense. Yes, they were definitely enjoying a butt-fuck together – even though faint, I could easily recognise the distinctly anal whiff of a cock drilling in and out of another male's backside. I was more than familiar with that unique scent and its murky origins, having paused to appreciate it on many, many occasions during my own similarly odorous encounters.

I felt my own manhood stirring among the folds of my pyjamas, perhaps keen to experience for itself the activity its owner could smell. I gently kneaded it through the fabric: there was nothing similar on offer for it tonight, unfortunately.

I took another sniff, this time more deeply and allowed myself to savour the pungent, musky whiff that was wafting into my room from along the corridor. I had to smile to myself: it was as clear as day! My son might as well have announced to me at bedtime that he and his friend were going to end their evening with an impassioned bout of boy-on-boy buggery for all the subtlety he was employing.

I wondered if other dads whose sons had brought their university friends home for the holidays would recognise from that smell what the two young men were up to together; or whether, like me, one had to be a fellow enthusiast to appreciate why such a distinctive bouquet would accompany late-night rhythms from the shared bedroom.

I lay back, listening as the sounds the two of them were making together became steadily faster, squeezing my hardening organ as it responded to the proximity of the activity it had enjoyed so many times itself.

I was wishing, now, that I'd invited Guy back from the restaurant with us to stay over with me. At least then I would have been able to join in with the fun my son was clearly having and to have contributed my own panting and gasping sounds to those that he was making. We could have competed with one another, as father and son, as to whose exertions could produce the most vigorous tempo, and tried to outdo each other with the intensity of the crude, anal odour that was wafting from our rooms.

However, this being only the second night of Marcus staying with us, I'd taken, perhaps, an overly cautious approach and hadn't wanted to make him feel uncomfortable by brandishing my sexual dexterity too flagrantly. Working against the demands of my sex drive, therefore, I'd suggested to Guy that we part company after our meal instead of him coming back to my place as was more usual when we'd spent an evening together.

So now I was lying here, bored and alone, while my son was making no bones about the fact that he did not share my sense of polite restraint. It seemed that the friend he had brought to stay with him was being treated almost like a trophy: their sexual energetics being broadcast to the whole quiet house; a way, perhaps, for Jake, to let me know – as if such a message were needed – that he, like me, could very physically enjoy the company of some of the other males in his acquaintance.

As it was becoming obvious that sleep was going to be impossible while the two of them were so boisterously enjoying the end of their evening, I got out of bed and padded quietly over to my open bedroom door to crane an ear around it and better listen to the noises of their clearly purposeful coupling.

My cock was half-erect and making my pyjama leg rise upwards from my thigh. Was I really enjoying the sounds of my son revelling so unashamedly in his moment of homosexual passion with his friend? Was I really growing aroused by the intensifying odour being produced by the illicit union between cock and arse?

I'd never deliberately listened in on the sounds of Jake masturbating from along the hallway, a gentle percussion which had followed bedtime – as one might expect with a teenaged son – on many, many occasions. I would never have pried on him when he was enjoying such private ministrations in his room and had always tried to ignore the tell-tale complaints from his long-suffering mattress. But now, as I suspected I was the intended recipient of Jake's overt display of virility, it didn't seem so wrong for me to purposefully eavesdrop on his sexual escapades.

I decided, after standing at my bedroom door for a minute or so and trying to interpret the rhythmic, pounding sounds from my son's room, that Marcus was probably the one who was in the receiving position. For one thing, Jake's breathing sounded more laboured and he was more vocal in his appreciation of what his friend was allowing him to do, but I also felt that Marcus' contributions had a muffled quality about them, as if his face was directed downwards into a pillow.

I was listening to my nineteen-year-old son ending his evening by butt-fucking another young lad! While that knowledge still made me feel a little peculiar, it didn't affect me as much as I thought it would.

Then I heard Jake whisper, distinctly, through the rhythm of all the other sounds that were spilling from the room, "God! Your arse is so fucking tight, mate!"

Yes, my son was buggering his university friend. Of that I was quite sure.

For some reason I now felt more surprise at the thought of gently-refined Marcus – the sort of wholesome boy-next-door type you'd love your daughter to bring home – bending over to have another lad fuck him up the bum. It was this charismatic and rather dapper young man that I could smell, betraying to the whole upper floor of the house, it seemed, that it was being eagerly penetrated by my son.

Marcus would be horrified, I was sure, if he knew that such a frank and unambiguous anal fug was betraying his sexual indiscretions so explicitly. He was such a courteous young man, and yet here he was filling half the house he was a guest in with the crude evidence that his backside was being remorselessly stoked by his friend's large erection.

Unlike Jake, who was clearly out to engage my attention and would regard whatever smells they were producing as an additional means in achieving that, Marcus would probably be unaware of how pervasive such indelicate odours can be. The poor lad would no doubt blush a deep crimson if he realised that the particular variant of sex he thought he was so discreetly enjoying was being so unequivocally publicised to all in the vicinity by its cloyingly pungent trademark.

And, yet, here I was standing in my bedroom door sniffing eagerly at it with my prick at half-mast while I craned my neck to hear more clearly what they were doing.

For shame, Mr Furlong, for shame!

I reminded myself that Jake had been in my position countless times over the past year or so: listening to my sexual exploits while in the adjoining room and probably having a few appreciative sniffs of his own once the open door policy had been introduced.

Just last week, after he'd returned home from university, I'd had my friend Bradley over for an evening of football and pizza and Jake had had to listen to us ending the night in similar high spirits to those he was expressing right now with Marcus.

On that occasion, while my cock was driving in and out of Bradley's enticingly hairy arse as he bent on my bed on all fours to receive me, I had become aware of a figure moving around in the darkened doorway of my bedroom.

"I know you're there, Jake," I'd called out, maintaining my pounding rhythm on my young friend's rump regardless of my son's sneaky voyeurism.

At first he'd tried to shrink back into the shadows, as if he hadn't just been watching his father anally pleasuring another man, but I'd called out again, "Come on, there's no use pretending, Jake."

Then he'd appeared in the door of my bedroom, grinning at us and appearing cheerfully unconcerned that the loose grey shorts he was wearing for bed were being prominently lifted upwards by the thickened rod of his flagrant hard-on.

"I was just... er... heading downstairs for a drink," he lied, as I noticed a wet patch on the material of his shorts up near the pocket; a large dark circle at the tip of his hugely excited organ. It was obvious that he'd been rubbing himself as he'd watched us having sex: his precum must have been seeping from his erection as he'd massaged the swollen shaft of it through his shorts.

I was damned if I was going to let my son's unwelcome appearance spoil the enjoyment I was having with Bradley. Still holding onto his hips and without missing a beat as my crotch slapped back and forth against his arse, I said, "Of course you were, Jake," who grinned back at us broadly.

I kept up my exertions, wondering what my son would do next, and he just kept smirking at the two of us, the patch of wetness on his shorts growing steadily larger. He seemed especially interested in seeing Bradley as he bent forwards to be fucked, and my friend chuckled back at him with obvious amusement at having an unexpected audience. Jake even peered forwards so he could better see the size of Bradley's erection bobbing stiffly beneath his stomach as I maintained my constant rhythm in and out of his butt-cheeks.

"So, Jake, if there's nothing else," I said, feeling a touch self-conscious to have my son standing in front of me, gawping over as I buggered this younger man's arse. "I'd appreciate a bit of privacy, please."

He laughed to himself and licked his lips slowly: he was making it quite evident that he liked the look of Bradley's large cock.

I wanted to get up and see him out of the room but I was determined that he wasn't going to put me off: why should I stop what I was doing just because my son wanted to ogle us?

Eventually – after Jake and Bradley had grinned at each other a good deal more; Jake leering pointedly over at Bradley's bobbing hard-on and Bradley making it abundantly clear that he liked the look of Jake's inside his shorts – Jake said, "Can I offer either of you anything?"

"Offer us anything?" I asked with a pointed scowl.

"Yeah, to drink, I mean," Jake clarified, grinning again at Bradley while he rubbed up and down the thickened shaft which was lifting the front of his shorts. The gesture was flamboyantly masturbatory and Bradley chuckled at its unmistakeable intent.