Stunned, I put my hands over the front of my pyjamas and waited for him to regain his composure. I didn't want to tell him off for what he'd done -- to make him think in any way that he'd touched a 'bad place' -- but he had to understand that it was not appropriate.
When he'd calmed down, I said, "Jake, you mustn't touch me down there. That's a very private place."
Apart from anything else, with the excited state I was in, just a couple more 'ba-doings' could very easily have caused something very embarrassing to happen. I didn't want to have to explain to my son why the front of my pyjamas had suddenly started seeping with glutinous white liquid.
Although he was still smirking, I could tell that my more serious tone had sobered him up enough for my message to get through.
"I was only joking... it was funny," he protested.
"I know. And I'm not having a go. You just shouldn't touch it like you did."
"Why?"
I didn't want to resort to, 'You'll understand when you're older,' but at the same time I didn't want to get into some long discussion. I was worried that I could end up burying the idea in his subconscious that it was wrong to touch all guys' penises -- after all he might turn out gay and having that in his head would really mess things up for him. But I wanted him to know that what he'd just done was not acceptable.
At length, I settled for, "I'm your dad, Jake. You shouldn't touch me there. In a few years' time, when your pyjama bottoms start doing the same thing, it'd be just as wrong for me to grab at your erection."
He shrugged. "I won't mind... you can 'ba-doing' me if you want to!"
I smiled, retreating to the bathroom. "Thanks for the offer, Jake. But I think it'll best if we both keep our hands to ourselves."
From then on, I tried my hardest to sneak around unobserved when I awoke to find myself aroused -- which was most mornings -- but occasionally a gale of guffaws from Jake's side of the room would let me know that I had not been successful.
After Jake had reached an age where his own pyjama bottoms were starting to tent outwards in the mornings -- a state which became overtly conspicuous with dramatic rapidity -- he began finding my own indiscretions far less amusing. I'd spent many years telling him not to be ashamed of his body and that puberty was something to be welcomed rather than condemned, and so he wasn't particularly embarrassed to get out of bed with his organ at full mast.
Nevertheless I felt perhaps Jake was reaching an age where he needed more privacy and so I suggested to him that we might in future stay in separate rooms when we went away together. Jake surprised me, however, by speaking out -- quite strongly -- against this as he enjoyed the fun of staying over together and said it would be boring to stay in a room on his own. I decided, then, that it would be a shame to spoil his weekends away for the sake of my own probably overly-prudent sensitivities.
So we continued sharing rooms when we went away, the two of us clambering out of bed each morning and smirking over at each other at the state sleep had put us both in, as the front of Jake's pyjama bottoms became as stretched as mine were by the nightly punishments his newly awakened anatomy was inflicting upon them.
What happened next was, in retrospect, inevitable. So inevitable that I should really have foreseen its arrival and yet, basked in blissful oblivion, I sailed right into it unawares.
We'd had a talk at home some time back about what Jake could do to try and becalm a spate of nocturnal accidents which had stretched to breaking point my ability to keep up with the laundering of his pyjama bottoms. I'd offered him some advice about what he could do in bed last thing at night to help his nightwear last more than a single sleep, and almost immediately afterwards the issue had quickly dissipated.
Jake presumably discovered, when his wet dreams had started, the paternal source of the "smell men sometimes produce", as I had referred to it that early morning. Once he had taken up the hobby I had suggested for him, he must have also quickly realised what I had just done to myself in the hotel room to elicit such a recognisable odour.
Another boy might have been shocked to learn, after the event, that his father had masturbated in the bed next to him while he'd been sleeping and that I'd just brought myself to climax at the moment he had awoken. Jake, though, with his typical matter-of-fact outlook on life, saw it simply as an opportunity to follow my lead.
I first realised we had a problem when I was awoken early one morning in a Premier Inn near Villa Park by a gentle rhythmic thudding coming from within the room. I'd blearily assumed the noise to be the sound of the pipework heating up and had groped at myself through my pyjama fly, finding my organ throbbing with its usual early morning demands and my balls heavy and expectant for release. I'd pulled my erection out through my pyjama fly and had started fondling it when, glancing over from habit to check Jake was still asleep before taking up my own rhythm, I'd suddenly realised that the beating noise which had awoken me wasn't coming from the plumbing.
It's not every day one sees one's teenaged son masturbating, and the image of Jake lying in the bed next to me enrapt in his own self-gratification is not one I like to dwell on. Nevertheless, I found myself enthralled to watch him pleasuring himself; my rapt curiosity at observing him in such a state tempered, but far from overcome, by my feelings of self-reproach.
He'd kept his duvet over him and had bent his knees upwards to try and conceal what he was doing, but the nature of his activity was blatantly obvious, especially to one as practised as I was to trying to hide the self-same recreation from others' prying eyes.
His bed was gently rocking back and forth and his elbow was making a rhythmic thudding noise against his mattress, but Jake seemed blissfully unaware that his solitary pleasures were being so conspicuously announced. He was totally absorbed by the sensations of his hand sweeping up and down his penis; his eyes were tightly closed and his mouth slightly open, his lips forming a half-smile. His breathing was quickening and the rhythm of his wrist, as betrayed by the thumping of his elbow, was also growing steadily faster. A film of sweat was breaking out on his brow and his mouth opened a little, exhaling, as his hand worked his organ, a quiet "Aah!"
His free hand, I realised, was probably on his balls: he was likely groping them, or at least holding them steady, just like I do when I masturbate. I wondered what else he might like doing at such moments: would he sometimes hold off from climaxing, repeatedly bringing himself close and then easing off; or would he push his face beneath his bedding to appreciate the strong sexual odour from his genitals? I enjoy doing both of those during moments of self-stimulation and it fascinated me that my son might, through some intricate genetic connection, have exactly the same predilection.
I was still achingly hard, my throbbing manhood poking through my pyjama fly, and I became aware that I was gently squeezing myself as I watched my son's rhythm on his own equivalent gradually increase. I momentarily considered joining him -- the two of us masturbating together as if in some weird father-son ritual -- but I quickly disregarded the notion on the grounds it would throw up too many difficulties afterwards.
He was, by now, gently panting; the beating of his elbow now accelerating quickly as he pushed himself towards his climax. I could tell that his erection would have swollen to its full aroused size and I found myself wondering how thick and how long it would be. Would it be as large as mine had been at his age, or could some random combination of providential genes from his mother and me have made him even more well-endowed?
He seemed very adept at what he was doing: perhaps all boys are once they've taken up the habit. How long had he been masturbating? How long had it been since we'd had that talk? Months? Years?
A distinct click-click-click sound started up and I realised it was coming from Jake's foreskin being frantically jerked back and forth across his distended cock-head. Evidently, his erection remained on the dry side during sex, just like mine, and didn't produce a copious ooze of lubricant as I knew some men did.
Abruptly he straightened his legs in his bed and opened them wide, his feet splayed apart at either side of the mattress. Now unsupported by his knees, his duvet settled down onto his groin and his hand thudded loudly against it, each beat of it hammering on its underside like a drum and the pace of it still increasing. I could see from his face -- from the way he kept puckering his lips and licking them with his tongue -- that he was too far gone to care. Evidently he was on the home straight, oblivious that he was bringing his dad along for the ride.
If I'd been going to let him know I was awake, the time to have done so had now passed. I knew I was now committed to watching my son experience an orgasm in his bed just feet away from me; committed to seeing Jake -- my little Jakey who I'd brought up almost single-handedly -- masturbate his penis to climax. And beneath my own duvet, for some reason, I was gently squeezing the shaft of my erection and circling its throbbing head with my thumb.
Thumping loudly against his duvet, Jake's rhythm was becoming impossibly rapid: like a steam train's engine hammering faster and faster as it sped into open country. Did I really wank myself this quickly? On my son it sounded hyperactive, almost painful; his fist must be literally slamming up and down his shaft like an over-charged piston.
His neck arched back against his pillow, his face thrown backwards towards the headboard with his eyes squinting tightly shut and his forehead wet with sweat. His mouth gaped wide and his elbow was somehow able to speed up even faster as it pounded mechanically against the mattress.
"Aah!" he gasped again, through rapid breaths. "Aah!"
