Boner Interruptus

In the house where I grew up, our basement included a one-car garage. My father drove a second car that he parked at the end of the driveway just beyond the garage door.

At 14, I was horny so often that having an erection seemed like a near-permanent condition, and I had started finding new ways to play with the toy in the middle of my body, since I had already discovered the joys that could bring.

One newfound pleasure was confining my dick in tight clothing. For example, I had these white jeans I’d outgrown by about a year. I’d pull them on, tug at the waistband to button them, then very carefully zip them up so as not to catch the skin of my cock in the teeth of the zipper, since I’d wear them commando. I’m not sure they would have accommodated the extra layer of fabric underwear would add. My cocooned cock and balls in these very tight pants always felt great and wearing them got me very hard. In particular, they were snug against my taint, which felt amazing when I moved.

One hot summer afternoon, I was in the basement, the coolest place in the house. Both parents were at work. The garage door was closed but had windows in it so I could see out. I was wearing my skin-tight white jeans and nothing else. I’d unbuttoned and unzipped them and I was walking around the basement stroking what had to be the biggest, hardest hardon of my young life. It ached so good I just had to play with it. It felt hot in my hand.

Just then, I heard someone backing down the driveway. I saw my father’s car ease past as he neared his usual parking spot. I panicked. I tried to zip up the pants but they were not going to close with my dick as big as it was, not without doing myself serious injury. I could zip them up when my cock was soft but not when it was hard.

I ran to a work table at the back of the garage and turned my back to the garage door just as my father opened it. I was still hard as a steel pipe with the button and fly of those skin-tight jeans open. I said, “Hi, Dad,” without turning around. He said hi and asked what I was doing. I mumbled something implausible and incoherent. He decided not to pursue it and went upstairs. I’m sure he suspected that I was involved in some sort of masturbatory escapade.

As he closed the door at the top of the stairs, I breathed a sigh of relief, but my heart was pounding from my narrow escape. Even with my still-raging boner, I lost the will to stroke it. I waited for it to deflate, carefully zipped my pants, and went upstairs to change.

Cue the sad trombone.