_This is a work of fiction. I've mapped this in my mind as a multi-part story. We'll see if I get there. Though I write for my own enjoyment, I am grateful you've stopped by and perhaps chosen to spend some time with my writing._
_And the usual disclaimer: All characters are 18 years of age or older. And no animals were harmed in the creation of this story._
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I shuffled to the kitchen. Abundant mid-morning sun poured through the windows and patio doors. I could feel the heat of the day already, but a light breeze swirling through the house encouraged me as it slid around my body; the stone floors were cool beneath my feet.
"Morning, Dad," I said, retrieving a coffee cup from the cabinet.
"Good morning, Alex," my dad replied brightly, looking over the edge of his bifocals, his head still tipped toward the newspaper spread across the kitchen table. "Sleep well?"
"Yup," I answered in a curt teenaged way as I poured coffee. I turned and asked, "You?" A subtle jolt shot through me as I leaned my bare skin against the countertop. I lifted my cup to my lips, pulling the brew's fragrance into my lungs.
"Yes, I did," my dad replied. Lifting his cup, he asked, "Can you give me a top-up?"
I twisted to grab the pot from the coffeemaker. "What time did you get up?" I asked.
"A little before seven, I'd hazard. You slept in...." His voice trailed as I padded to him.
"Nah, I've been up for a bit," I informed as I approached the table.
"Ah! Masturbating, I take it?" He inquired matter-of-factly.
"You know me too well," I confirmed in equal candor, pouring his refill.
Growing up, my dad went out of his way to build a strong relationship with me. Traveling heavily for business, he made sure to call me every night to talk, surely fighting bitterly against jet lag and time zones to do so. But it set a solid foundation where we could talk about anything. He and my mom recently parted ways, and he bought himself a little place near the tropics. Now retired, it's a place where he can spend, as he puts it, six Saturdays and a Sunday lounging nude; hot much of the year, and being on his own, he had no use for clothes.
He embraced a simple pragmatism in this house and encouraged me to adopt it. Myself a 19 year old simmering exhibitionist, I adored being nude, and grateful that my dad gave me space to engage and explore. He also saw no reason for erections to be hidden or suppressed. He maintained they're a natural function of a man's body and didn't believe that a penis becoming erect is in any way inappropriate, let alone shameful. When erections happen in pants, one doesn't scurry off, so to do so when an erection happens in the nude seemed absurd, he reasoned. Living nude was heavenly but being able to stroll through the house erect, since I found myself hard more often than not, without misgivings was magical. I was relieved that I didn't have to wait for my morning erection to subside before leaving my bedroom. In truth, I loved the the feel and sight of my hard cock swaying as I walked; the sensations of walking with my loins engorged was elating.
Listening to our bodies was another of his ideals. He believed the body's perfect design and rhythms superior to the construct of the clock. Eat when you're hungry; sleep when you're tired. Further, my dad concluded that sexual urges are no different than any other, so he drew this to a logical extension: if you're desirous, masturbate. If the urge was unavoidable — or if you just wanted to indulge — there was freedom to do so, wherever, whenever. One doesn't sneak off to a special room to eat in secret, so why should one feel compelled to do so to masturbate? I don't know if this was a concession to me, being nude and commonly wound-up, but I cherished this freedom; I was grateful that I wasn't going to spend most of my time in my bathroom.
Dad did have two steadfast rules within these house latitudes: One, please use proper terms. He loathed slang and nicknames. A nose is a nose; a finger, a finger; so a penis is a penis, he would say. I did finally get him to concede that slang was acceptable in the "throes of passion." But he also advised not to underestimate the power of the proper terms, revealing that some of the best sex he ever had was the night his first wife begged him, "Penetrate me...now!" I saw his point.
Number Two: Please use a towel and be mindful. Masturbating anywhere is permitted; secretion stains on the furniture are not.
"Am I correct in thinking you didn't ejaculate?" He sought.
"Yeah, you're right, but how can you tell?" I asked curiously as I finished pouring.
"Your penis says all." He dropped his glance and pointed: a pendulum of crystalline precum swayed from the tip of my penis, which was flaccid but still weighty with tumescence. My dusky glans had a patchy patina of dried secretions. I should be more enlightened by my dad's house rules, but I confess: I loved when my dad acknowledged my penis so directly, especially about something as primal as its — and my — sexuality; it sent voltage through me that surged into my cock. (My dad mandated proper terms, but I preferred slang in my internal dialog.) It stirred and plumped.
"Ah!" I exclaimed at the discovery. Thinking nothing of it, I caught the tear on the tip of my index finger and prudently smeared it on my thigh.
The coffee carafe replaced, I returned to the table. I unfolded a kitchen towel across the chair and sat, feeling the tip of my cock graze along the fabric as I did.
I grabbed a section of the newspaper, mindfully turning the pages. My penis' scuff along the towel fanned the spark within; I could feel it thicken and lengthen. The heat of the day and the light breeze dancing around my lengthening cock heightened my awareness of my own nudity. And sharing my nudity with someone else, including my own dad, was exhilarating. I was yearningly erect in no time.
Like a moth to the flame, my left index finger was lightly caressing the taut, smooth skin on the side of my torrid erection as I attempted to read the news. My face tightened and electrified as my caressing became more profound. My finger brushed against the bloated ridge of my glans; my cock shuddered. A rivulet of precum glided along the underside of my shaft, pausing and cooling on the contracting skin of my scrotum. I leaned back in my chair, abandoning the newspaper for the feeling of my fingers gently soothing my urgent cock.
