Sonntag, 13. September 2015

The Mountie's Grandfather

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Canadian national police service, is unique in the world since it's a national, federal, provincial and municipal policing body -- all the police organisations rolled into one. And we're proud of it. Canada skipped the violence of the American pioneer experience as Canadians spread out onto the western plains because the Mounties were the advance guard, establishing friendly relations with the Indian tribes and maintaining peace as the settlers arrived.

Back in the 1960s, my family was a literal dynasty in the RCMP. My grandfather, my father, and I married young enough that our sons were old enough to join the force before Grandfather's retirement -- four of us in the RCMP at once! The news programmes and press services went cookie. We received honours, testimonials, appeared on RCMP recruiting posters, and so forth. But we felt like Paris Hilton -- famous for dick.

We made a good picture, though. Four men over 180cm (6 feet) tall, each weighing more than 90kg (200 lbs.) dressed in the famous scarlet tunics with the leather belt & chest-strap and the navy blue riding breeches with the yellow stripe down the legs. Grandfather was an Assistant Commissioner, my father a sergeant major. I was a sergeant, and my son was a corporal.

After the paparazzi frenzy, thankfully life settled down. But up in the "Frozen North," as the Yanks call it (actually a Canadian term invented to keep Tubby in his Hawaiian shirt down south of the 49th Parallel), my personal life had became more complicated. For one, my wife ran off with an American tourist who convinced her he was a big Hollywood producer. Never heard of him? Me, neither. It's hard not to gloat.

With my wife gone, I turned more completely to a hobby, a secret life as one of the "Brokeback Mounties." My sexual interest in men actually began with the RCMP, back in the basic training.

In spite of a father and grandfather in the force, I had to take my place among thousands of applicants hoping to put on the cherry-red uniform that year, but my dad gave me some pointers. The RCMP has a handful of strange requirements: Dad taught me to use a typewriter because it's an RCMP rule -- typing 18 words per minute. Would the burglars would get away if I could only manage 17?

But I made it to Depot, for 120 years the RCMP training academy in Regina, Saskatchewan. I was in a 30-man troop where the average age was 27, the average weight was 88.64kg (195 lbs.), the average height 186cm (6'2"), and (from my own estimates) the average dick length was at least 22cm (9 inches).

Maybe I led a sheltered life; all I know is that before basic training, I had never seen so many naked men at once. In the training barracks showers, surrounded by naked males, slowly, imperceptibly -- okay, not "imperceptibly." I certainly perceived those muscular, hairy, big-dicked bodies around me -- I grew to appreciate the beauty of the male body. And, God, every man-jack of them packed enough to stretch-out a k5trap. No wonder k5traps sell so well in Canada, eh -- the Mounties stretch them out useless after a single wearing!

"Appreciation of beauty of the male body" to me meant a frenzied wank-session in the washroom stall after every shower. Doesn't seem to make sense, eh. Getting yourself all sweaty right after a shower.

My "appreciation of the male body" grew stronger (and more frequent) until I made the inevitable personal connection -- don't know exactly how it happened, wasn't a matter of arching eyebrows, winks, or nudge-nudge -- but somehow Corporal Bite (one of the Depot staff) and I knew.

Met him in the showers. Interesting situation -- the hot-water pipes were leaking in the staff barracks, so while they were fixed, the staff showered with us. One particular guy (didn't know he was a corporal until later -- hard to tell the rank of a naked man) was big, muscular, hairy-chested, and masculine. He stood 198cm (6'6") and I guess a good 113kg (251 lbs).

Big, broad shoulders. Reminded me of the buffalo on the RCMP insignia. Also covered with dark chest hair. He had a wedge-shaped torso that narrowed down to a slender waist . . . focusing the spotlight on a pecker that had my eyes bugging out. God! For starters, the thing was at least 15cm (6") still soft, a big, fat hose filigreed in ruby and horny-blue veins, ending in a graceful shroud at the tip that almost covered a deep-red cockhead -- but not quite. The dark eye of his piss-hole looked out at me.

Its owner caught me looking back. His last name was Bite, not an unusual surname in that part of the country. He had an interesting "turning out" story, though. Poor guy. Whenever he had the duty in Québec (where his name pronounced "Beet" is slang French meaning "cock"), he got so many come-ons from Montreal gays, it was only a matter of time before he decided a blowjob might be adequate compensation to the State for improper parking or a broken taillight.

By the time I met him, he had "gotten his man" a number of times closer to home -- in RCMP barracks. He thought of himself as the "Mountie Liberator" -- one by one teaching acquiescent troopers how the absence of women in a lonely northern post needn't put the damper on an evening and the fascinating things a man's arsehole can do.

He bragged a little: if the Mounties in a certain city happened to walk a little gingerly as they went about their duties, it was because their arseholes still hadn't quite shrunk back to normal after a night with Bite.

To cut a long story short (not something that could be said of Bite's cock), after a time of invitation, curiosity, seduction, and foreplay, I found myself up against the wall as Bite performed a strip search including a cavity-search using a most fascinating search technique and -- Ooomph! -- his own cavity-probe.

Bite knew what he was doing. Soon he had me past the pain part, and into the imprisonment of his cockhead in the noose of my rectum. And once his prong broke in, it released me into the wonderful parole of man-sex, coasting along with his big sidearm as it stretched my bumhole out into a new Great Northern Passage.

And I walked gingerly around the building the next day. A couple of the others looked at me with sly grins. They knew. A night with Bite.

By the time I graduated from the training academy and became a constable, I had a few tread-marks on my cock and up my arse, and I had to keep it a huge secret -- if not from the RCMP, at least from my family, particularly my grandfather, who would have me ceremonially executed for such a dishonour to the family.

I succeeded well enough: my RCMP career progressed nicely, I woke up many happy mornings in sweat and cum-soaked sheets, lying against a hairy body that belched and reached down to scratch himself. My family was none the wiser.

One year my father, my son, and I flew in to the ancestral home in Saskatoon from the cities we were assigned to. We had decided to make my grandfather's birthday a family reunion. Since I was alone, I stashed my things in one of the upstairs bedrooms in Grandfather's house -- my father and son with their wives took rooms in a hotel.

The day of the party, we all wore our uniforms. We cut quite a jaunty figure, the four of us. Most of the guests were other Mounties, who also wore their uniforms, so the party was a mass of bright red uniforms and yellow-striped pants, the street outside crowded with white RCMP squad cars with their rainbow lightning stripes and the Mountie crest.

The whiskey flowed, thanks, in a way, to our Yank friends. The huge Canadian whiskey industry, in particular Seagram's, owed its success to American Prohibition. During those infamous dry years in US history, our Canadian whiskey literally poured down the hill into America's speakeasies After they abolished prohibition in 1933, the American Federal Alcohol Administration allocated the importation of 3,314,443 gallons of whiskey -- for medicinal purposes, eh -- and most of that came from Canada.

To this day, downtown Montrèal has many buildings, libraries, and hospitals bearing the name "Bronfman" -- the founding family of Seagram's.

The party could have become a real wowser -- we were toasting each other and kept ordering Seagram's whiskey at the bar until we couldn't say it any more -- then we asked for Hirsch. Everybody was feeling fine and would have started looking for some fun --

-- if not for my grandfather's influence. Anybody drunk enough to start dancing around with a lampshade on his head thought twice about it under the stern glare of my grandfather -- it would be like exposing yourself to the Queen, eh. Although we put away enough to start a forest fire, the party never sank below a genteel soiree attended by dignified, soft-spoken people -- who later were only barely able to stagger out to their cars.

My grandmother had passed away several years ago, so when Grandfather's housekeeper had left in the evenings, he and I were alone in the big house. That night, after the revelers had gone, I found Grandfather sitting on the covered porch with a glass of wine. I joined him, and we sat watching the sun go down over the South Saskatchewan River.

I was in a nostalgic mood. I leaned back in my chair. So many years. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police had been a good life for me. I was proud of myself and of the RCMP. It had a long and proud history in the "evolving world of policing" -- meaning keeping the Yanks from coming up and selling their illicit drugs and buying our prescriptions ones, eh.

I thought about Grandfather. I wondered if gays were around, or at least as open, in his day as they were in mine. What did he do when a gay Mountie patted his arse in the showers? Did he ever notice another officer showing a big stiffie to him while he took a piss?

Nope. Couldn't make it work. Sticking Grandfather into that fantasy was like placing Winston Churchill in a scene with John Holmes. Grandfather was my definition of Straight. So straight, in fact, that no way in hell was I going to let slip any of my own preferences. It would have torn the family apart -- at least, I would have been kicked out on my arse.

Grandfather got up, said he was turning in. I sat in the darkness for a while longer. Letting my hardon go down -- got one thinking about Grandfather with John Holmes. Finally I got up and headed for the bedroom, still a little uneven on my feet.

As I walked through the living room, I passed the antique full-length mirror. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture -- a Louis XVI tri-fold. In my own, full-length moonlight reflection from three angles, I saw the outline of my dick in the fabric of my RCMP riding breeches.

It had been a long time since I had a good wank. What the hell, I unbuckled my belt, lowered my trousers, and peeled down my k5trap. Always gave me a little rush, that. As the blood flowed back into my cock, and after hours tightly packed in my pants, my scrotum was always very sensitive. The first wanking stroke always made my cock jump and gave me goose-bumps. I listened for sounds from the upstairs bedroom, but I didn't hear dick.

Still under the influence of Seagram's, I sat in front of the mirror, legs wide, rubbing and jacking myself to an intense orgasm, catching the semen in my hand to keep it off my uniform. At the very end, though, when the pounding of my heart slowed, I thought a heard a slight noise from the direction of the stairs.

I froze. Damn!

Nothing more. No sound. Nothing. Thanking God I hadn't spattered any on the mirror or the floor, I hurried up to my room.

The next morning, I went downstairs -- Grandfather was still asleep. I made breakfast of ham & eggs and cups of Timmie's and put it on the table, hoping the smell would wake him up. Sure enough, he came down the steps. "Coffee smells good."

We ate without a lot of chitchat. He never had a lot to say to me -- people my age were to be seen and not heard. Finally, as he finished, Grandfather pushed his plate away and looked at me. "While you're here, let's make it a good vacation for you, eh. Let's you and me go down for a little sunbathing at the beach."

What he meant by that was the large stretch of sand on the near edge of a small lake near the house. I went up to my room and changed into a shapeless pair of khaki swimming trunks. Grandfather came walking out of the house in a long, shapeless housecoat and rubber flip-flops.

We marched down to the lake's edge, and I snapped out the large beach towel for us to lie on. As I did, Grandfather shrugged open his housecoat, and it fell from his shoulders.

I gaped. He was wearing a tiny, shiny scarlet Speedo swimsuit in the RCMP color, and that was shock enough -- Damn, Grandpa is in pretty good shape for a man probably 70, he's tight and strong -- and God, is that an RCMP-issue swimsuit??

But something else: whatever he was packing between his legs strained the poor suit into a huge, sagging bag. My God! The front bulged out so far the leg-opening stretched open, and I spotted what must have been his scrotum. The waistband sagged down so far I could easily see his pubic hair. God, who knew? My Grandfather was really hung! Damn, my own Grandfather, eh!!

I had a problem. I felt my own dong snapping to Attention. I was never so thankful for a shapeless, baggy swimming suit. Grandfather helped me spread out the towel, and I could do nothing but gape at his mammoth bulge. God, what a cock he must have!

I realized that I was actually staring when I saw him looking back at me -- Damn, caught! -- but he didn't say dick, just lay back on the blanket and put his hands behind his head.

Feeling suddenly clumsy and sheepish, almost like a little boy in my suddenly oafish boxer shorts, I lay down beside him, my heart thumping with a strange excitement.

We made idle talk for a while about the lake, the weather, the fishing and so on until Grandfather said, ""Put a handful of that suntan lotion on me, won't you."

He wanted me to rub my hands over his body. Ordinarily no problem, but I gulped. Oh, God. Treading my way through a minefield here, eh.

Kneeling behind him, I poured a glob of the lotion into my hand, rubbed my hands together, then massaged his back and shoulders. Immediately I felt him relax. "Oh, yeah," he groaned.

As I continued to massage, I could feel the tension easing out of his back. As I moved down into the small of his back, closer to his arse, I realized with a jolt that I had a massive hardon! God, I was glad I was wearing boxers, but one nervous glance down told me that even that loose clothing was not hiding me -- a khaki tent showed my condition. Oh, God, what will he think when he rolls over and sees I'm hard for him?

I massaged and oiled his back and sides, moving out to massage each arm. I stopped at the tight waistband of that tiny bikini suit. Where in hell did he get that? I skipped over it, and moved down to his feet, starting again with a massage for each foot, then for each calf.

When I moved up to oiling his thighs, I was actually breathing hard. Damn, what's wrong with me? This is my grandfather!!

Then, to my horror, Grandpa spread his legs! He did it so I could kneel between them, the easier to massage his thighs, but Jesus! A huge, cloth-covered bulge stuck out from his crotch. The family jewels, eh! I know that bulge has to be his scrotum!

Trying to keep calm, trying to keep my thoughts on something else, I squatted between his legs, working first one thigh then the other. As my hands reached the top of his thighs, my mouth was dry, and I was sweating. "Don't rub so hard, eh," he growled. Yeah, in my excitement, I'm literally groping him! The pressure of the massage instantly switched to something more like a caress. My erection was throbbing, and all I wanted was to get out of there so I could yank down my shorts and give myself some relief!

More astonishment: Grandfather reached down and pulled his Speedo to below his buttocks! "Put some oil on my arse, won't you? I might do a little nude tanning, eh."

I was dumbfounded. Trying desperately to keep my hands from trembling, I touched each cheek softly, massaging the oil into it. So hot I was a little dizzy, I rubbed around and around, not really knowing what to do, but panting and sweating like I had run a kilometre.

Then he reached back and pulled his cheeks apart! "Put a little in between."

There it was. Grandpa's brown rosebud! Can't believe it! I'm staring down at Grandpa's arsehole! I dutifully let a little tanning oil trickle over it, and in a daze, I rubbed a finger gently up and down his crack, spreading out the oil, and I ran gentle circles around the hypnotic hole.

And it winked at me! My grandfather had clenched his arse muscles, and his hole tried to grasp my finger!

Before I could react or think what to say, he pulled up one leg and rolled over, arching the leg over me. He lay on his back, his Speedo pulled down to his thigh. Jee-sus Christ!! My grandfather had the biggest erection I had ever seen. Every cock I had ever admired, every Mountie who had ever mounted me -- even Bite's bite was dick -- nothing compared to what swung between my grandfather's legs!

God, it was titanic! I felt like a little boy. Struck dumb. I knelt there with my mouth hanging open.

Grandfather looked down at me. "Suck it," he commanded. "You know you want to, eh. You've been fantasizing about it since I dropped my housecoat."

I could smell it. I swear to God his scrotum exuded a pure animal scent, a lust-musk that wiped my mind clean of all thoughts -- except one. Under a power I could not resist, I bent my head, opened my jaws as wide as they would stretch, and sucked his huge organ into my mouth.

Or tried to. I was astounded. My grandfather's giant cock filled my mouth and spread my jaws but was too huge to move down my throat.

But God help me, I craved it! I bobbed my head up and down on the big organ, trying to get it deeper, and Grandpa lurched his hips at me, trying for the same. The attempted blowjob went on for several minutes until, grunting with effort, his face contorted with lust, Grandpa cummed in great, heaving jolts. Hot jizz filled my mouth, and as I swallowed it, a great warmth filled me from my belly out.

As his breathing slowed, Grandpa pulled the royal scepter out of my mouth, and I licked my lips. "Good boy," he said quietly.

I looked down at him sheepishly. "Don't know what came over me, eh . . . never done that before." No sense in letting all the cats out of the bag.

"Get your trunks down, boy; let's get a look at you."

I wanted to, but I felt the eerie notion that I had to. I couldn't refuse him. Grandfather had always been the head of the family. I pulled down my shorts, and my hard cock snapped up to slap me on the belly.

He smiled. "Yeah, you're hot for this, eh. How long have you been wanting to suck my cock?"

"Never before, I swear! It's just that I never knew . . . I never saw . . . I didn't know you were so . . . hung!" And damn, look at that! He's getting hard again! So soon! A man of his age, eh!

Sure enough, Grandfather's giant pole was swelling again, arching up into the air. I stared again. When I finally brought my glance back up to his face, his eyes bored into me. "Get over on your hands and knees." It was a command.

"Just a minute. I'm not really into this sort of thing." Appropriate protestations. Throws off suspicion. But I obeyed. Naked, I dropped to a hands & knees crouch.

I jerked as I felt his fingers swipe over the cleavage of my arse, slathering me with something wet and slimy. God, it's lube! He brought fuck-lube with him! He's been planning this since before we left the house!

He rubbed the stuff around a bit with a single finger . . . then -- Hoop! -- that finger sank into my manhole! It was so slimy, it slid in rather easily, and when Grandfather slid the finger in and out, I was astonished at the thrills that came from my backdoor!

Then I felt his massive cock begin to push at me. I tried to pull away, but too late -- "No, Grandpa, wait a minute!" -- with a mighty push, his peckerhead popped through into me, and I couldn't hold back a scream of pain. But I was so drunk with lust, so overpowered by Grandfather's maleness, in some psychological short-circuit, the pain twisted somehow into . . . pleasure!

Grandfather was gouging open my arsehole, ripping me open. But it was also wonderful! When his pace slowed to more deliberate, more forceful strokes, the pain lessened, and I drew pleasure from the impossible stretch of my sphincter muscle as he spread it wider and wider.

I was submitting. Somehow Grandfather's fucking was about his power over me. The Alpha wolf. My submission in his pack grew more complete as he pumped me again and again, spreading my arsehole, thrilling me with new sensations. I felt oddly happy about that -- providing Grandfather with proof of his power. He's fucking me like a wolf. The Alpha wolf. I'm his bitch.

God help me, I liked the idea. I began to meet his thrusts, pushing my bitch-hole back against him as he fucked me, shoving him deeper and deeper. I realized how profoundly he was in charge.

That screw was for him. Just one thing mattered there -- his pleasure. I was his hole, something for his use. I clenched my anus around him even though it increased my pain, anything to give him more pleasure. My Grandfather was The Man.

He finally pulled out, and I fell forward, panting and sweating, feeling his slime drooling from my poor rectum . "Damn, Grandpa. You fucked me to death."

He didn't say a word. He just stood up, reached down and took my hand, then pulled me to my feet. With a shrug of his head, he instructed me to pick up the beach-towel and his housecoat. Still holding my hand, he led me back to the house. I'd never felt so completely "owned" before. Even sex with Bite was just an interlude, something to get my jollies off with.

Grandfather's dong had tamed me. I wanted nothing so much as to have him do me again, and at the same time I knew my place was no higher than to please him, just an eager hole for that magnificent royal lance .

On our way back to the house, we passed both the gardeners. At first I was embarrassed to be walking hand-in-hand with a man, even my grandfather, but when I spotted their knowing smiles, suddenly I realized the truth: they were members of the pack. I glowed with pride. I was the Wolf's current mate.

Once back in the house, Grandfather pulled down the tiny red excuse for a swimsuit, and I stared worshipfully as his mighty cock grew back to Fighting Trim. "Go get on the bed," he ordered .

I hurried upstairs, stripping off my boxers as I went. I hurried into his bedroom and lay back on his bed, excited to be serving Grandfather again.

When he walked into the bedroom, his giant dong swung back and forth like a construction derrick in a hurricane, and goose-bumps thrilled me all over. He lifted my legs and pushed them back to my shoulders. I felt as though I won some kind of wonderful prize -- Grandpa's mammoth cock sank deep into guts, and although the pain was still stabbing and sharp, I was much too excited and horny to care.

"You want this, boy?" Grandfather's voice was smooth and confident.

"Yes." My voice, though, was a croak.

"I didn't hear you. Do . . . you . . . want . . .this?"

"Yes! Oh, God, YES!!"

Grandfather gripped my sweaty torso in a grasp like a wrestler's hold, getting greater leverage as he lunged forward, deeper and deeper. "Beg me, you little bitch!" The growl was a voice I didn't recognize. This was Grandfather? The man who played Santa Claus at Christmastime? The man who dandled me on his knee?

"Beg me to fuck you!"

I surrendered . "Oh, God, yeah! Grandpa, do me! Your cock feels so damned good! Oh, yeah, make me your bitch! Grandpa, fuck me like I'm your bitch!"

As he lunged back and forth in me with that big, slimy tool, I was like a ragdoll, a slab of meat there for his enjoyment. He shoved me here and there, manoeuvring me as he wished, however he wanted, whatever felt best to him.

My needs, my pleasure, even my pain didn't seem to concern him. Holding onto my hips, pulling me back to meet his fierce, powerful deep-dicking thrusts, his cock was going too far into me, and I knew he was rearranging my guts -- he was form-fitting my bowels to accommodate him. I would forever be his fuck-toy.

I had the stiffest erection of my life, aroused and on fire from my own submission and by this man -- whom I once knew as Grandpa -- and his sexual ability and dominance. Oh, yes, the Alpha wolf. I was his eager, grateful cum-receptacle.

If I had not been so over-the-top turned on, I might have been a little scared -- soon the only thing I could think of was his huge cock jabbing in and out of my arse. I felt every vein along its length as it slammed in and out. As he pulled out, I could feel the thick head come back against my arse-ring, and I clamped down with my a-hole, tightening my sphincter around his big chugger to give him greater pleasure.

And giving him pleasure gave me pleasure! As I tightened my hole, the stretched skin of my arsehole was dragged back by his pistoning cock, then stretched and dragged the opposite way with his in-stroke. The pain/pleasure was almost too much to bear.

Yet I was there not for my pleasure but rather his, and he was building toward his release. The added friction of my gripping arse-ring sped him toward his orgasm. He lunged and slammed into me, harder than I could imagine. I whimpered . I had learned to live for his pleasure, and I knew he would be cumming in me soon.

I could not explain why, but I would get a great deal of satisfaction from his seed in me. I wanted to give him pleasure, yes, but I wanted to feel his jism fill me, I wanted him to impregnate me, I wanted to be his sperm receptacle.

Suddenly he pulled all the way out, and with all his might punched that amazing baby-maker back into me deeper than ever before. By then I was screaming, telling him to screw me harder, telling him I was his bitch, his fuck-hole, his whore, his slut. The very air was electric! Grandpa gripped my ribs painfully, and my vision started to go a little dark. And it happened.

I could feel it: Grandfather's sperm surged up deep inside my bowels, a hot fountain or his boiling lava surging, inseminating, invading through my whole body. As his sperm filled me, his masculine, animal essence saturated me to the core. This is the essence that generated my father! This is the Basic, the Core-Jism! I could hardly breathe; I saw everything through a ruby haze of lust.

I felt my thought processes changing. Nothing would ever be the same. Grandfather marked me as his territory, his property, his fuck-slave. I knew my place -- at the end of his dong, thrusting over him, his hole.

His wild lunges skidded me across the bed, and finally my head slipped backward off the edge. As my head dropped back, I saw the door on the other side of the room -- it stood open. And upside-down I saw two naked figures.

Suddenly alert, I opened my eyes wider and focused. Could those upside-down figures be my father and my son?? Ohmigod They saw me! Saw me being fucked!!

But they were naked, both of them! Jesus, am I dreaming? Is this some sort of fuck-dream fantasy-nightmare??

Grandfather continued sticking it to me, slower then as his orgasm had passed and he was enjoying the afterglow. I twisted in his grip, enough to bring my head around to look at the figures in the door. Oh, God! It was my father and my son, both of them nude! My father stood behind my son, his hips lurching at my son's arse. My son's cock stood out proudly like a regimental flagpole, hard and long. And bouncing: Jesus Christ, my father is fucking my son as they stand there!

I wanted to say something, but I was speechless. I mean, what can I say in that situation, eh. My grandfather was fucking me, so I could say little about my father fucking my son. This must be the definition of "fuck-drunk."

I knew -- God, did I know -- that I had just been tamed. And by whom. When Grandfather finally pulled out of my arse, I squeezed my sphincter tightly. I wanted his sperm swimming in me, I wanted them to lodge themselves in me. I wanted Grandfather's sperm to become a part of me. To go into my bones. To ferment in my balls.

Grandfather crawled off me, off the bed, and stood up. "Never thought we'd get around to you, eh. Slipped through my fingers. When you were old enough, you were off to the training, off to here, off to there, never around long enough."

I looked at my father in wonder, and he smiled at me. "Yep, Pa got me when I was 18. Thought he'd get you, too, but you slipped through the cordon." He was still butt-humping my son. "He got Brian, here, though."

Brian looked at me with lust-glazed eyes. "God, you were great, Dad. Grandfather's cock is a marvel, eh?"

Grandfather reached down and grasped my third-generation cock, which leaped and stiffened like he plugged it into a wall-socket. "Get over there," he growled, "and suck off Brian! He's yet to get his."

"What . . . my own . . . " But the huge, ancestral cock was bobbing near my face, dripping with Grandfather's jism and my juices. Like a zombie, I leaned forward and kissed it in obedience. Then I scrambled to kneel before my boy.

Brian let out a low, soft moan, and so did I. His crank was an exact duplicate of mine. And it suddenly hit me that I wanted this experience and had fantasized about it for a long time -- maybe never enough to let it surface to a daytime conjecture -- but simmering under the surface.

Brian was big. He grew into a muscular kid. He stood 185cm (6'1") and I guess a good 89kg (195 lbs.) He had the family shoulders, big and broad like Grandpa's.

Hadn't seen his cock in many years. It was good and big. His shaft was ridged and veined like mine, but seeing it was oddly like looking at my own, but up close and from another angle. It was strange and exciting. Spunk dribbled from the tip, so I dabbed the tip of my tongue into it and playfully pulled away, drawing a string of silvery fluid between my tongue and his cockhead.

"Ah, Dad," he murmured . "I can't tell you how long I've been waiting for this day. Great-Grandfather laid me years ago, then Grandfather. I've been waiting a long time for you." Well, what the hell, here goes, eh. I dropped down, mouth open, to show him what I had been doing with my sexual free time since his mother ran off. I licked up more of the salty goo slithering from his piss-hole. I was proud -- my boy's cock throbbed hard from the excitement, hard and shiny with salty fluid. He's hot for me! I swirled my tongue along the staff, licking up more of the tangy stuff.

I gargled his penis in deep, guiding it down my throat. With my eyes closed, I played around the base of his tool with my tongue, and his hips lunged toward me as he moaned with pleasure, forcing more into my throat. It was so overwhelming, I shook like a leaf.

I manoeuvred him down onto the floor, and when I backed off momentarily, I glanced up. Brian looked back at me and licked his lips, in daze of lust. My son. Then his eyes closed tight, and I focused on the job at hand — deepthroating my boy!

Then Brian began to climax. I felt his warm fluid surging down my throat, and I hurriedly backed off so I could catch the rest in my mouth and taste it. The taste was wonderful, thrilling! Nothing like Bite's. Nothing like Grandfather's. As I sucked away, I stroked his young nut-sac, encouraging him to unload more.

It was important to me that his first blowjob from me was a good one; I wanted him to remember it as a mind-blower. It already was for me.

After his orgasm subsided, and our breathing returned to normal, Brian broke the silence. "Well, I guess I owe you, Dad." As I considered those words and looked around at the other naked men in the room, the possibilities of our situation sank in fully -- I fell back, jerking at my cock in a frenzy, surging into an orgasm born of the realization that my sexual world had just turned into a universe!

Over the mantelpiece in the ancestral home to this day is a photo of the four of us, wearing our Royal Canadian Mounted Police uniforms, the scarlet tunics with the brown leather belts and chest-straps, with the brown campaign hats, the blue riding breeches with the yellow stripe, and the tall boots. We are standing very close, one behind the other: my son is first at the far left. Close behind him and slightly to his left am I myself. Just behind me and slightly to my left is my father. Close behind him and slightly to his left is my grandfather.

What's not obvious is that each pair of the Navy blue riding breeches we're all wearing is an old, about-to-be-retired pair, and on Grandfather's order, each had the arse-end cut out of it.

What the picture doesn't show is that my grandfather's enormous cock is jammed up the arse of my father, his big cock is throbbing inside my contented backdoor, and my family pole is quivering in Brian's tight bum. Poor Brian: he's the one straining to conceal a fourth-generation hardon.

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