The Vacation House

I lay back down on my side of the mattress, the cover sheet wraps around my legs, it pull completely off dad. Rolls over, the cool air meeting his warm skin. He slowly lowers his formidable frame down his side of the mattress as I turn again onto my side to face the blank wall a few feet away.

Moonlight filters into the room, shadows of our bodies cast upon the wall. One figure, that's all I can make out, yet there are actually two full sized figures between summers moon and that master bedroom wall.

I'm so nervous, anticipation, maybe even a little scared to death of what I am beginning to imagine might come to be in just a few short hours. Lays still, quiet, I listen intently for the familiar sound, the comforting deep rhythmic drone of Dad's light snores.

He's fallen asleep so very quickly yet I'm anxious, all jittery inside. Unable to force myself to sleep, I try to clear my mind only to find that this is simply useless. Fidget's a little more as the minutes pass. Every sound that normally would have gone unnoticed seems to be amplified, crickets, creaks of the house as it settles in for the night.

My imagination winds me up to the point that I convince myself to stay in bed, not get up to do some work on the sheet rock. Knowing dad and I are going to be tackling this huge job all weekend.

No, I have to lay here, act normal. I'm not going to wake dad up, he's worked himself ragged all week, the little sleep he can catch is something I have to afford him, even if I am about to go off the deep end.

I don't even know when I had dozed off, being awakened by the ringing of the small plastic wind up alarm clock on the floor next to dad's side of the bed. I roll over, realized he's not there. I have to stop that clanging noise, get myself up, find out what this morning is going to bring our way.

6:05? 6:05? Why did he let me sleep in this late? Is he upset with me about what happened last night? My stomach drops, waves of nausea wash over me, sweat breaks out all over my body. Shaking, I slapped the top button of the alarm to it's off position, near silence, that is if you do not count the thumping of my own heart.

Tosses off the top sheet, grabs my work shoes, leans against the back wall in order to pull them on without having to tie them up, laces left dangling. I pull a dirty T-shirt worn the evening before over my head. Walks to the partially closed bedroom door, steps out into the hallway.

Stands for a moment, listens for sounds of running water, any movement at all. Not a sound, not a single peep meets my ears. I head into the kitchen to find that it too is abandoned.

The table had been set with a few napkins, two mugs, empty at the places where we sit and eat our donuts, drink coffee before getting to the tasks of the day.

Compelled to confirm that dad had left, gone into town to get supplies, I head into the living room and stand in front of the large picture window. There is no dad, no truck, he must have gotten up and decided to get an earlier start.

While I was staring blankly out of the expansive front window, taking in everything and nothing of the green forest that surrounds the property the Vacation House, I notice movement off in the distance. Dad's pick-up rounds the corner of the dirt driveway. His dirty truck comes to a stop right in front of the walkway, he jumps out, his arms laden down with brown paper bags. He kicks the drivers door closed with the bottom of his work boot, turns his back to the truck, heads to the front entrance of the house.

I rush to the door, nearly trip on the overturned milk crate foot stool. I unlocked the door handle, opens it. Dad walks in, I closed the door behind, follows him into the kitchen. He puts the bags on the partially finished kitchen counter, sets his Thermos of hot coffee down. He reached into one of the bags, removes a folded up newspaper, tosses it several feet across the kitchen, it lands nearly perfect, just where he enjoys his coffee and donuts.

"So, are you ready to get things started Robbie?"

Dad's words come as a complete shock to my system, he so rarely speaks in the morning, almost never before he's had his coffee? NEVER!

Not sure of what exactly had occurred the night before, I'm deathly afraid of just coming out and blurting something that might have taken way out of context, totally miss-understood. I figure if I just respond with ambiguous comments, I might be safe.

"What ever you want dad, I'm up for anything you think we should do today."

Hears myself saying this but not sure that I didn't just come across as an idiot.

"Robbie, if you are having cold feet about last night, I'll understand, we don't ever have to talk about it, ever again. This is your baby, I'm going along for the ride to see where it leads us at this point, got me?"

I didn't dream or imagine what I thought had happened, I'll have to make the first move. My nerves turn to inner strength, go for it Robbie, just go for it.

"Yes, dad, you've got it. Where do you figure we should do this?"

Boy that sure sounded like the most lame thing ever!

"Robbie, let's go into the living room, I think that's were we should get this started."

Dad turns on his heals, walks toward me, takes my hand into his own rough paw, gives it a tight squeeze as I am being pulled into the expansive, sparsely decorated room. We approach the folding chair dad sits in to relax. I see a shadow of him, his pony beer in hand after a long days labor. He gazes into my eyes, not flinching nor blinking, his pupils are large, BLACK, as they fill the entire area between his top and bottom eyelids.

He settles himself down in the folding chair, pats his thigh which is covered with his well worn tan work pants. He wiggles himself back into the seat, assures himself of a stable seated position.

I open my mouth, began to speak, yet only a few words came out before I am cut short.

"No, don't do anything, don't touch anything don't make a sound. I 'm in control here, this is your punishment, I am going to handle things and YOU in any way that I damned well see fit, got that?"

Scared like a little kid by the tone in his voice, it's no longer calming or happy. It's a tone completely foreign to me compared to any I had ever heard.

He moves, both hands reach up grab at the elastic waist band of my black Calvin Klein form fitted boxer briefs. He pulls them down with such force that I feel as if he had left an Indian sunburn on each side of my thighs. The are forcefully yanked, the stretchy fabric garment brushes the top of my feet.

"OUT! Out of them, NOW!"

I respond immediately, steps out of them, kicks them off with my left foot as the undergarment is tossed across the room.

Dad raises his hands, takes my left hand by his heavily calloused digits, the other hand is firmly placed upon my shoulder. I find myself being pulled down, across his slightly separated legs.

I wiggled a bit into place, find my privates parts are being mashed against the thickness of his right thigh. Dad grabs hold of the hem of my T-shirt, pulls it up over my head. The arms of the shirt were still on me, my shoulders tightly pulled up inside the fabric. My shirt is stretching across the front of my throat and under my chin. My chest, stomach and back are exposed as is the full roundness of my hockey created bubble butt.

Dad puts his right arm underneath the front of my thighs, extends my legs out and away from his lap so that only the very tips of my work boots touch the floor.

I'm in a very unstable position, feel a very rough, warm caress of his right hand as it ran over the back of my thighs, then up and over the mounds of my exposed backside.

His left hand reaches, grabs my right wrist. He pulls my arm into a reverse V shape over my back, away from the object that he is determined to have clear access of. My left arm is stretched forward so I can barely touch the floor with my fingertips, just enough to have some stability and not fall off sideways onto the plywood floor below. We are in this position for what seems an eternity.

I can hear dad breathing very quickly, tell that he is purposefully slowing his inhaling, exhaling. His right hand lays directly on the center of my upturned behind.

I crane my neck, look over my should only to be met with a sharp twist of my right arm into yet an even more uncomfortable position. I lay motionless and gave in to his dominance. The control level has gone completely from 50/50 to 95/05 with me being the lowly 05% of control. Looking down at the plywood below us, I fixate upon a row of penny nails that holds to the flooring the joists below.

His hand raises from my buttocks, sudden coolness of the air surrounds what had previously been a gentle, almost sensuous touch of my butt. It is replaced with a deafening slap, searing red hot pain, pain that shoots down my legs to my toes, then back up to the very tips of my crew cut sandy blond hair.

My head snaps back, I'm staring directly at a window on the far side of the living room. A beautiful white Paper Birch receives the bulk of my attention. I attempt to bite down upon my lower lip to steady myself for what I know is just the beginning of a long, painful experience.

The cool air comes quickly but is replaced by an even sharper smack, more red hot pain. I actually see small floaters of sparkling light in front of my eyes, I try to focus on the Paper Birch.

Again, again and again, the cadence quickens as the blows seem to become ever more severe.

I become acutely aware of my private parts, they dangle between my dad's heavy thighs. My penis is hard as a rock, balls hanging in the most precarious position I could ever imagine them in.

The rough fabric of his work pants rubs down the back side of the tender, lightly haired skin that loosely covers my balls. With each and every blow to my behind, my stiffened penis swings wildly back and forth, as if a clapper inside of a bell. My tormented balls bang one muscular leg, then swing forcefully back, slapping hard against the other.

The onslaught continues against my backside, it starts to become desensitized, almost numb. If it were not for the loud smacking sound, mixed with dad's heaving grunts as he lays fully all of his weight, strength into each and every spank, I would have have almost been lulled into a state of a hypnotic trance.

Tears well up on the bottom of my eye lids. I fight desperately not to make a single sound or to allow theses tears to breach my bottom lashes.

This is of my own doing, I'll be damned if I allow this to make dad feel sorry for me. I refuse to let him think that I am anything less than the man he once believed I had become, rough, tough and in control. This is why he was so disappointed in me for having gone through his things in his room at home. He's right, I do know right from wrong and I purposely chose wrong.

Why the heck am I so darned hard? Why is this pain, I mean REAL PAIN in my ass causing such an aroused feeling down in the pit of my stomach. My head was begins to spin, a familiar feeling, feeling I give myself when I'm in private, rubbing one off after a long afternoon of hockey practice. I have always given in to the urge to get myself off, just tossing one and figuring it was brought on by adrenaline, the shear closeness of other naked bodies.

It does not matter to me if they are male or female, just the closeness and what I saw as the glimpses of the forbidden fruit of someone Else's private parts. Areas of their bodies otherwise is considered off limits to look at while in any setting other than the locker rooms.

It's common place to snap towels at a well shaped bubble butt, to make fun of the guy with a dong so long that it nearly drags on the floor, the head on it, shaped like a huge ripe tomato. We all dare him to try to wrap it around a door-nob, then give him and ourselves high five's when it turns out that he actually can wrap that thing around a door knob! We found out that he can touch the end of it to his ass hole too!

"SPANK!"

Brought back to the moment, I no longer hear another sound, nor any new sharp burning pain. It's a constant pain, throbbing as if my heart has been transplanted into my backside.

Raw pain, not being allowed to turn my head to look at my swollen, dark red raised hairless mounds of muscle. What once was super white flesh and smooth cheeks in my minds eye appear angry and inflamed.

Dad's voice brings me back to reality of the situation.

"Well, is that enough for now?"

A completely different tone in his voice now, he sounds exhausted but that satisfied kind of exhaustion that I recognize. It's like when he is proud of himself for having done something difficult and done it well.

My response comes slowly, I am trying to keep myself from a bit of emotional release. Then there is this sensation that is running through my body, like electricity running through a toy.

"Yeah, for now, thank you. Next time, maybe a bit more role play. What do you think about that dad?"

Yep, I let the sexual tension take over my mouth. I am a guy filled with not only emotions but I think my hard on has drained my head of all reasoning, there's just not enough blood for both of them to work at the same time.

"Robbie, I'm with you on that one. Next time, maybe a little spanking, not as long. I think that we can play a little with other things too. I've got a little something for you too because we do have to get into that shower, wash off last nights stink."

Dad's hand releases my twisted arm, reaches under my chest to help assist me so I can stand up in front of him.

There it is, right at his eyes level, rock hard, no way of getting around it. I'm well beyond excited, it's begging for more, more of something, anything, I have absolutely no control over it.

Dad reaches forward, places his hand at the base of my penis, low hanging balls. He wraps his large, rough fingers around them, forcefully pulls away from my body. He stands up tugs more roughly than I had anticipated, he lead me into the kitchen.

Upon our walking toward the bags on the counter, dad reaches into the tallest one. Digging down, he then pulls out a round container of Crisco,, shortening for baking? What the heck is he going to be doing with this stuff that mom puts into the bottom of the cupcake tins.

Not a word of explanation, my privates firmly encircled by dad's powerful paw, I'm led into the partially completed hallway bathroom. It's larger than the master bath, the black and white tile flooring has already been installed. A large garden tub and separate glass encased standing shower are located at the far end of the room. A double sink set in a long granite vanity counter with brushed nickel finished faucets stands opposite the gleaming white low tank toilet.

Still holding me in his vice like grip, dad sit down on the closed toilet seat.

"Turn around, put your hands on the counter top."

Dad's command is one that I know not to question.

Finds I'm facing the long beveled mirror that runs the length of the vanity. I can not see much of dad other than his wide shoulders. Realizes that he is unbuttoning, removing his short sleeved plaid shirt.

The reflection shows he has tossed his shirt, it lays limp on the edge of the tub. He starts to pull his sleeveless T-shirt off tosses it along with his other shirt.

I attempt to turn, wishing to see what he is doing only to again hear a deafening spank, another searingly sharp pain to my naked very vulnerable butt.

Forcing myself to stare into the mirror at my own face, realizes that I am a total mess, puffy and red eyed.

"POP"

I hear the top of the container being pulled back by it's metal pull top key. Then cool, no a COLD soothing sensation being spread all over the surface of my burning behind. Dad is applying the Crisco to my backside as a cooling cream, well that is until I feel a large gob of the white paste being smoothed between the two swollen cheeks of my ass.

The application of more and more creamy white coolness to my fully exposed backside causes my penis to stick straight forward, a trickle of clear sticky liquid escapes the dark reddish purple opening of my uncut 7" long, thick penis. The entire head sticking out of it's natural casing jacket, it began to leak like a bad faucet.

Dad's fingers, yes, I said it, three of them, fully greased up are forcefully rubbing up and down the entire length of my crack. They slide up to the area of my lower back where the top of my haunch muscles cut to my narrow waist, just as forcefully he slides them back down between my thighs, rubs the underside of my balls, then back up again.

Extra pressure is added each and every time his three fingers pass over my butt hole. My virgin hole is clenched tight, his middle finger tries to push just the tiniest bit of it's tip into the very opening of my super sensitive ass hole.

I believe the top of my head is going to shoot off and that my penis is going to literally explode!

"In the shower with you Robbie, we have a ton of sheet rock to do today and I'm hoping to get some of the taping started too."

Another sharp spank is applied to my greased up backside, dad rises from his throne to remove, step out of his work pants, kick off his shoes completely disrobed. He turns, walks into the shower stall, beckons me to hurry, follow him. I know that there is just so much water at our disposal and to waste it would be criminal.

A broad, wicked smile crosses dad's face, he turns the large handle, the water begins to cascade over his head, down his shoulders, over his chest and stomach only to waterfall off his massive penis and low hung balls jutting out from between his legs. It looks as if it is a shorter third leg surrounded by this massive forest of thick short black.

I stand up straight, walk into the shower to stand along side my naked dad. He hands me a bar of soap, asks if me if I would wash his back for him. He says that his shoulders and hands were too sore from the heavy work out from this morning.