Changing Seasons 1

Editor's note: this fictional work contains scenes of fictional incest or fictional incest content.

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I'm a fifty year old man, and want to share. Dunno why really, except that I'm bored and hurting, and writing helps take my mind off the pain.

Most of the time I can keep the pain at bay with Tylenol or the occasional Tramadol, but some days it's so bad that walking from my living room chair to the toilet is torture.

A series of x-rays, cat scans, and blood tests lead my doc to believe it's rheumatoid arthritis, which is just icing on the cake that is my life at this point. Not only do I get to slowly waste away, I get to do it with debilitating pain.

Well, the other day I was deep in the dumps; I had a severe case of the poor-me-syndrome and was complaining to a good friend who I'd invited over. He eventually got fed up with my whining and asked why I didn't go see a masseuse. I continued my bellyaching, this time about being on a fixed income, and doubted that Medicare or Medicaid would cover the cost; to which my friend replied that he knew a guy who was a private physical therapist. He was pretty sure he could convince him to give me a free treatment, so long as I kept it hush-hush and maybe fed him a decent meal as payment.

I've never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I agreed. My buddy promised to pass along my number and my sob story, and after another half-hour of listening to my crybaby nonsense, found an excuse to get out of earshot of me.

A few days later I had completely forgotten about the conversation about the physical therapist. My phone rang with an unknown caller. Assuming a telemarketer, I answered with my gruffest, most irritated, "What?"

"Am I speaking with Jack Mehoff?" asked a male voice on the other end.

"Who's speaking," I barked, still irritated at having my day interrupted by a useless marketing call.

"Uh... I'm a friend of John Johnson... he gave me your number," said the voice on the other end. "Did I call you at a bad time?"

I sighed loudly. Great first impression, asshat, I thought. I quickly explained my behavior. Happily, the guy seemed to have a good sense of humor and laughed off my gruff introduction, saying he'd probably have done the same if he was in my situation.

We chatted for a bit, he asked about my medical issues, I told gave him the standard sob story I gave to every medical professional who asked; life ending disease, newly diagnosed arthritis, crappy Texas weather, high cost of living in my home state of California, etc.

The PT, we'll call him Joe, name changed to protect the blah blah blah, mmhmmed, yessir'd, and commiserated at all the right places, then after I had finished warbling on about how unfair life was, asked if it would be alright if he stopped by later in the week to assess my situation. I agreed and we set up a time and date.

On the arranged day, right at the specified time, Joe was at my door. He's a hefty guy, mid thirties, about five-eleven or so, neatly trimmed brown hair, a trucker's tan, and dressed in what I'd call a track suit, though there's probably a more fashionable name for it nowadays. He carried with him an oversized gym bag. All in all, a clean, handsome guy with a firm handshake.

We had a seat in the living room and discussed some terms for his services. He'd work on me if he had a spare time slot so long as I gave him a week's advance notice. I'd also have to agree to keep quiet about our arrangement. I agreed to both terms.

My first session with Joe happened in my bedroom. He offloaded from his bag a waterproof sheet, a foam exercise mat, and a selection of bottles of various tinctures and unguents. He set me up across the foot of my bed, me in my boxers with the waterproof sheet and exercise mat under me.

Now, let me tell you, I haven't been touched intimately by another human being in almost five years, since I left my home state of California for the bass-ackwards state of Texas. My being in a general state of misery and ill temper meant that most females of the species regarded me with either pity, disgust, or a little bit of both.

Which is why, I think, when Joe laid hands upon me and started gently poking, prodding, and kneading, certain parts of my anatomy reacted. The little soldier was standing at attention, ready and rearing to sally forth and slay any virgins, MILFs, or unlucky grandmas who got in his way.

I was less than perturbed by this situation. In the last few years, countless doctors, nurses, and med-techs have seen my junk. I figured Joe'd be no different. Mine's not likely the first, or last, old bone he'll see waving at him.

At some point, Joe finished up working on my back and asked my to turn over. I did so, and wouldn't you know it, the little soldier had slipped out of the barracks. He was poking out of the fly of my boxers, ramrod straight. I rolled my eyes, tucked the little guy back in, and muttered an apology.

"No worries," Joe laughed, "Either you're really happy to see me or it's been a while since you've gotten some action."

"Little of column A, little of column B," I joked in return, and we both had a good laugh.

Joe continued his work, and while he did, little GI Johnny was jumping here and there in my boxers, still searching for those virgins, MILFs, and grandmas. Wasn't long before he'd worked his way back out of my boxers.

Joe looked at me and said, conversationally, "Would you like me to take care of that for you?"

I raise my head and gave him a hairy eyebrow. He raised a latex gloved hand and waggled his fingers.

I dropped my head, shrugged, and replied, "If you aren't put off, neither am I."

After giving me the standard spiel about how I should stop him if I felt uncomfortable, felt any pain, or experienced any shortness of breath, he wrapped his hand around little GI Johnny and got to work.

Now, brothers and sisters, let me tell you, I recall with great clarity the first blowjob I received; the first time I sank into the warm, wet folds of a woman; the first time I pushed through a willing woman's back door. Joe's hand has been added to that list. I was done in ten seconds. The last time I shot a load that high was in high school when my then girlfriend let me slip a hand in her panties and let me cop my first feel.

Now, I'm not going to say Joe turned my gay, or even bi, or what the hell ever the kids call it nowadays, but that man has magic in his hands.

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After our first session, I scheduled a second for the following week. Not only does Joe give great handjobs, he's a great all around masseuse. After he was done with me, I felt better than I had in years.

That night, I was sitting up in my easy chair, TV connected to the internet and playing a YouTube video of some guy repairing some bit of electronic junk. I prefer watching those nowadays, since most modern television programs are off-putting to me.

As I idly watched a pair of disembodied hands take an angle grinder to a PCB, my mind wandered. I grinned at the memory of Joe's handjob, and it took my memory back to my younger days, when I was full of piss, vinegar, and no small amount of cum.

Back in high school, my first real girlfriend was Amber Green. She was eighteen, a head shorter than me, and what most people would call either 'fluffy' or 'pleasingly plump'. She had a head of the most stunning red curls, cupid lips, freckled, alabaster skin, an adorable button nose, and a taste for paisley print, knee length dresses. Her family was also devoutly Catholic, as my devoutly Lutheran grandmother was fond of reminding me.

That last part didn't faze me in the least, mostly because I was quickly becoming of the mind that most religion, Christianity especially, was patently stupid and served no other purpose than to make people hate each other for no good reason.

Yes, Amber was worth going to hell for, I reasoned. Or Catholic mass. Six of one, half dozen of the other, as they say. She was as innocent as a lamb, but my god was she willing to learn. And I was going to make it my life's goal to corrupt her.

We kissed after our second date, a quick little peck that made her titter and blush. After the third I introduced her to the French style of kissing, and after the forth, slipped my hand into her blouse. After our first month together, my head was between her thighs, and I learned that a woman's juices are sweeter than any ambrosia.

She learned that she loved the feel of my tongue against her soft, pink nether lips. She'd let out soft little sighs of passion, her knees over my shoulders and her fingers twined in my hair.

At first, she'd gently push me away before she came, never quite allowing herself to fall into the throes of her passion. It took time, gentle nudging, soft caresses, my fingers exploring her soft, wet folds, my tongue and lips tasting and teasing, before she'd experience her first real orgasm; her body shuddering against mine, her soft sighs turning to deep, lusty moans.

She was quite adept at returning the favor as well, her handjobs were divine, her mouth, hot, wet, and eager, and she loved making me groan after an orgasm, sucking greedily as my seed slipped past her lips to be hungrily swallowed. I often had to forcibly push her away as I nearly convulsed in the pain/pleasure of post blowjob bliss.

Only one thing came between us. No penetration until marriage. It drove me absolutely batty. I had a great urge to stick it in her, to feel the soft, yielding folds of her flower, to deposit my seed deep inside her, to make her a proper woman.

But, no meant no, and it eventually led to our end. Well, that and the fact that I hated the idea of being tied down to one lover. There were so many, many women in the world, and I wanted to taste them all. I wanted to be the gourmand of pussy, to experience every flavor and color.

My mind drifted back to the present. On the TV, the disembodied hands were soldering a teaspoon to the PCB. In my pants the little GI was standing at attention. Memories of precious Amber had brought him around, and he was once again ready to set off into the wild unknown, to plow fields fallow and virgin alike. Sadly, he'd have to make do with Rosie Palmer and her five daughters.

I reached over and pumped the top of the lotion bottle that sat on my end table for just such occasions. A generous dollop of lube in hand, I shrugged off my trousers and dropped my boxers. I closed my eyes and conjured up an image of sexy Amber Green. Plump, pale, topped with fiery ringlets, cupid lips... What came to mind was a vision of a man in his thirties, dark hair and eyes, truckers tan, firm but gentle hands...

I popped an eye open. The fuck?

I've never been one to be attracted to men. Women are where it's at for me, soft, juicy, succulent, ripe women. Long flowing tresses. Skirts and stockings. Boobies. Any size in nice, but, of course, anything more than a mouthful is a waste.

Yet, here I am, raging hard on, mental image of a dude who offered me a pity handjob. Come on, brain, I thought, get it together.

I closed my eyes and thought of my cousin Heather; tall, auburn headed, sparkling green eyes; she was all legs and tits and unbridled hunger. I recalled the time I convinced her to let me taste her pussy lips, the time we huddled under the blankets of our grandmother's bed, my raging hard on in her warm, eager mouth.

Mmmm, yeah, that's the stuff. My lubricated hand slid up and down the shaft of my little GI. He was quite pleased with the memory as well.

Never quite got up the never to actually put it in Heather though, hard incest just seemed a step too far. Didn't stop us from having all sorts of other fun though. I recalled the time she invited me to play 'hairdresser', a game that involved me laying on my back on the bed with my head near the side, while she stood over me, the hem of her t-shirt hanging just past my nose as she ran her fingers through my hair, her bare breasts visible underneath. Her hand going to the button fly of her jeans, pushing them down, pressing her panty clad crotch against my face. Her small cries of delight as I nibbled at her, her other hand going to my crotch, taking my cock in her hand.

My hand pumped faster as the memory washed over me. I could feel the firm but gentle grip, the rhythmic pumping, could almost see the solid, husky frame of Joe as he stroked my cock, heard my cry of release...

I came, hard. Semen spurted across the hardwood floor, my hips pushed up from the seat of my chair, quivering with the force of my orgasm.

"Fuck," I shouted, not just at the mess I'd made on the floor, but at the fact that my brain was betraying me. Again.

"Common, man," I said to no one in particular. "Sexy, nineteen year old Heather giving me a handjob or big, blocky Joe giving me a handjob. And you pick Joe. Fuck's sake."

Common, man, replied my brain. Heather is back in Cali, is the mother of three, grandmother of four, has put on fifty pounds, and has a husband who would kill you dead if he found out his wife used to happily suck your cock. Joe's here, is possibly queer, and you got lots of beer.

"Don't know what beer's got to do with it, but you might have a point, brain," I muttered.