Caught Mid-orgasm And Given The All Clear

I suppose it was inevitable, given how often I’m hiding up here doing it, but still hideously embarrassing. He knocks, but he never waits. That’s the problem.

So when the knock came, there was no time to cover up or even stop what I was doing before he was in the door, standing there and seeing everything. I had managed to run up to the brink once already, but right then I was going for it, full tilt. There was no holding back this time. With my dad unexpectedly there in the doorway, I grunted and fired rope after rope of hot, watery jizz into the air. The first jet landed on my neck and ran down to the pillow. The next few splattered noisily onto my chest and stomach. The last oozed down the shaft into my pubic hair.

He coughed, apologized, and closed the door.  I looked down in horror at the lake of cum that was spilling off my body onto the bed, and covered my face with my hands.I suppose it was inevitable, really. He’s that age now and, if his attitude and appetite are any guide, well into puberty. Of course he’s masturbating. Heck, I remember being that age and spending half the day thinking about my penis. Still, it was a shock to open the door and find him lying on the bed, as naked as the day he was born, one hand on his erection and the other cupping his testicles, pumping a fountain of semen across himself. I stuttered out an apology and left him to it, but the damage was done.

That evening was… awkward, to say to the least. He didn’t mention it at dinner, and I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up, so it just hung there. But after a couple of days, I decided that he’d decided to pretend it hadn’t happened and I was more than happy to go along with that. All the same, I was much more careful with my jacking afterwards. The shower seemed perfectly safe, though I had to careful not to knock everything over with my elbow as I pumped myself, and when it was late, and the house was dark and quiet, I could throw back the covers and silently work my cock in peace.

It must have been a week or so later when Dad was driving me home from school. There was a huge amount of traffic for some reason, so we just sat there not talking. After a while, he shifted in his seat and said, “I’m sorry about what happened the other day, by the way. I shouldn’t have come in like that.” At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to open the car door and throw myself out. “You should know it’s perfectly normal and healthy for a boy your age. Well, young man, really.” “I know,” I said, in a voice that was much squeakier than I’d intended.

“I don’t want you thinking it’s something dirty or something you should be ashamed of,” he continued. “Private, sure, but not shameful.” He turned to look at me. “You should be proud. You’re growing up, becoming a man. Learning about your body is part of that.” “Jeez, Dad,” I muttered. This was something else. “I’m serious,” he said. “Lots of men go through life thinking it’s wrong somehow and never shaking that feeling. I don’t want that for you.” “I know it’s all right, really,” I said. “OK, good. But I was your age once,” he replied, “and I understand what it’s like. You can talk to me about anything, even…, even masturbation, if you want. You won’t shock me and I won’t judge.”

He looked rather pensive at this and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. I admit, I had spent a lot of time in the previous week wondering what on earth I would say about it – and even whether I should. But now it was done and we’d both survived the encounter. I thought we would finish the journey home in silence, when he asked suddenly, “Can you, like, do it for too long? Y’know, when you don’t… finish straightaway?” “You mean, when you stop for a bit and then start again?” I asked carefully. “Yeah, like that.”

I chuckled despite myself and then hastened to reassure him. “No, sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I’m impressed, I suppose. Most guys your age just rush towards the finish, but if you’re learning to control your… your orgasm, then that’s a good thing. You shouldn’t be ashamed of making yourself feel good. It feels good, right?” He nodded, this time with half a smile. “Yeah, it’s good,” he said

I couldn’t believe what I’d just said. And it was more than good, by the way. I’d discovered it more or less by accident, when I’d been sitting at my desk doing homework one evening. I got horny. No particular reason. I pulled my hard cock out and gave it a couple of strokes, but I didn’t want to cum because it would have gotten everywhere – the desk, my clothes, the books. So I stopped and got back to work, while my dick throbbed meaningfully under the desk. It didn’t long to discover that long, slow teasing built up an absolutely enormous load. When I eventually came that night, I turned into a jizz spraying machine.

“I don’t do it that often,” I said, before adding, jokingly, “I have to wait until you’re out.”This got a proper belly laugh from Dad, one of those that echoes round the room (well, the car) and shakes the furniture. I suddenly felt really relaxed. “I’m sure you do,” he said. “Well, we’ve all been there. Waiting until you’re alone so you can have some quality time with your dick.”I don’t think I’d ever heard my dad call it that before.

He suddenly returned to Dad mode. “Well. Edging is perfectly safe.”I’d definitely never heard him use that word before.if you’re doing so long that it’s interfering with other parts of your life – or your schoolwork,” he continued meaningfully, “Then, yes, that’s a problem. Otherwise… if you’re aroused for a long time then your testicles can start to ache. That’s not dangerous, it’ll go away when you ejaculate.”

He seemed much more relaxed now, thank goodness. Though my head was still spinning at the thought of my boy – well, not so much a boy, apparently – deliberately working himself close to orgasm, holding it back, and then working himself again. It felt so adult for someone so young. I felt a small twinge of regret. Edging hadn’t become part of my life until my twenties, when I’d left home and could spend whole afternoons indulging my erection. I’d known he was masturbating of course – they think they’re being so secretive, but you didn’t have to be a detective to see the signs – but assumed it was the furious daily pounding that had filled my teenage years. “Sometimes I think I do it too much,” he said.

“You’d be surprised how many guys your age worry about that,” I replied. “And how often they’re all doing it, as well. You’re not unusual. As you’re as you’re being safe and you’re not being too rough, it’s OK.” This seemed to satisfy him. “So, you’re OK with it, then?” he continued. “With me… like, doing it.” I nodded. “If you need privacy, I’ll give you privacy. If you want to masturbate, just go up to your room and close the door. I won’t bother you. You just enjoy yourself.” He smiled. “You just… enjoy yourself,” he said.

When we got home, I went upstairs, feeling a mixture of confusion and arousal. Somehow, being caught by dad mid-orgasm was less embarrassing than unexpectedly telling him that I liked edging my dick. And he even knew what that meant! As I looked at the closed door, I remembered what he’d said and realized he fully expected me to be jacking off. Weird as it sounds, the thought didn’t bother me. What did bother me, though, was the cock that was suddenly feeling firm and heavy in my boxers. I stripped off, slowly, until I was standing there, in the middle of the room, right in front of the door, naked. It was strangely peaceful.

I tentatively wrapped my fist around my cock, like I was feeling it for the first time. At once it surged to its full hardness, the foreskin gradually pulling back to reveal the deep red bulb I loved touching so much. I slowly – ever so slowly – slid my fist up and over the head and gasped in pleasure. Oh, this was going to be good.

After that one time, we never spoke about it in great detail. Every so often he’d say to me that he was going up to his room for a bit, and I understood what he’d be doing, and he understood that it was fine. Or I’d come home from work and find his bedroom door already closed, with either the rapid squeaks of a mattress being subjected to a furious pounding, or a meaningful silence punctuated by the occasional moan, coming from behind.

I did catch him a few times after that, though. Twice when he was walking his erection to the bathroom to finish himself off. One Saturday afternoon I had to run an errand and he said, with a very recognizable glint in his eye, that he would rather stay behind than come with me. When I got home, I found him standing in the kitchen, completely naked. His feet were firmly planted a shoulder width apart, with his upper body leaning backwards slightly, so that his erect penis pointed almost vertically towards the ceiling. He was slowly and methodically working a fist up and down the full length of his shaft, which was slick and shiny with oil. The other hand, dancing across his chest, occasionally dipped down to let his fingers caress the head. He hadn’t noticed my approach: he was gazing upwards in wonder and lust, lips parted in silent ecstasy.

When he had finished unloading a raging torrent of semen onto the tiled floor, I left him there to clean up, ears ringing with warnings about respecting shared spaces. He had the decency to look a bit sheepish, but there was unmistakable pride there too. I think I’ve created a monster.

Yeah, in the end Dad turned out to be really cool. He knew and I guess he even approved. Once I was in my room, I was free. I jacked myself standing up, lying down, kneeling on the floor, and on all fours. More than once I pushed two chairs together and lay on top of them, face down, with my cock in the gap pointing at the floor. When it was time to let my jizz fly, I’d aim for my chest, or roll over to thrust into a folded-up towel, or stand up and unload all over the desk. But for easier cleanup, I’d just wander down the hall to the bathroom, my aching cock leading the way, and climb into the shower, where my knees would buckle as I painted the wall with rope after rope of cum.

After the kitchen incident, he even bought me some real lube to replace the lotion and the oil I’d been using. “Have fun,” he’d snickered, as I went upstairs. That first session was monumental. I didn’t care how much noise I made as I gave my lubed up fists a serious fucking. Now the bottle sits there, openly and proudly, beside my bed.

I’ve got nothing to hide. I jack off and I’m proud of it.