My full, aching bladder roused me from sleep.
I patted the foot of my top bunk and quietly climbed the ladder down, careful to not make noise as I transferred my weight to the small area rug. Fingertips gliding along the wall, I crept out of the bedroom I shared with three of my younger siblings, tiptoeing across the moaning, creaking antique wood floors. In the hallway--narrow and short--the bathroom waited halfway down on the right. At the very end, my parents' door cracked open barely an inch, where my baby sister, less than a year old and a light sleeper, required darkness and silence.
Breath held tight, I reached into the darkness where I expected the bathroom door. The hinges moaned with the nudge of my finger. I ducked in, closing the door behind me before finally flicking the light switch.
I winced at the sudden cool light. As I lift the seat, reach into my underwear, and grasp my shaft, a bright yellow something floating at the surface of the water catches my eye. I lean my face forward, brows furrowed. Oh my gosh, I think, I think it's a condom.
My throat tightened, heart beating hard and fast. Vivid images popped into my head. My dad's hard cock filling out the condom as he pumped his white hot juice into the reservoir. My shaft stiffened in my hand.
I trembled, twisting my head to look back at the bathroom door. I gulped, darting to clasp the handle. I turned the lock until it clicked.
A dribble of pre-cum oozed from my tip as I crept back to the toilet.
My hand hovered. I could stop now. Just flush it. Go back to bed. But I didn't. I couldn't. Even as my mind chanted for me to flee, I reached forward and pinched the condom with my thumb and index finger, and lifted it from the water. Teeth gritting, I let a few drops fall to the water before hovering over the basin of the sink. The lever squeaked as it twisted. A small, quiet stream ran from the faucet. I gave the outside of the condom a cursory rinse. My head screamed at me to stop or at least wash the inside. Your dad's juices are in it. My cock twitched at the thought. I shuttered imagining how it'd feel to have my dad's cum slick on my cock.
Hand shaking, I pulled my underwear halfway down my thighs, and pinched the condom's base ring with two fingers from each hand, and brought it to the tip of my glans. The latex glided over the sensitive skin of my shaft, hugging it tight. The head reached the end, the swirling white liquid dancing over the slit. My body quakes.
This is so wrong, it's so bad. You shouldn't be doing this. What if you get caught?
My cock twitched. Those thoughts sent a wave of goosebumps over my body.
Pulling my white briefs all the way down and kicking them into the corner, I rolled the end of the condom further down my shaft until I reached the end, leaving about an inch still unsheathed. The head darkened to purple as a large vein bulged on its top.
Both our dicks touched this, it's like our dicks touched too. Visions flew through my head. My dad's meaty hard cock rubbing against mine, our pre-cum mixing and lubing each other. I covered my mouth to stifle a moan and bit one hand as I stroked with the other. My eyes wouldn't close, drinking in the view of the clear yellow latex sliding up and down. I forced my cock deeper, penetrating and stretching the small reservoir over the head, pushing my dad's juice lower, coating me.
My chest tightened as I stroked faster. My dick ignited with overwhelming pleasure. I bit my hand harder as my whole body flexed and twitched with each pulse of my orgasm. A single jet refilled the end. After five, the mixed cum flowed from the bottom and down my balls. When the throws subsided, my feet were soaked in a slick pool of our cum.
Frantic, I wadded toilet paper, wetted it with water from the sink, and wiped up the puddle on the floor. Then, balancing with a hand on the wall, I did the same to the soles of my feet, and traced up the stream from ankle to sack, slipped off the condom, wadded it inside a nest of toilet paper, then dried myself quickly.
The scent of fresh cum sat thick in the air.
Dare I turn the exhaust fan on?
Retrieving my wadded briefs from the corner, I pulled them up and over my softening bulge and tucked it down and under my balls in a feeble attempt to minimize its enhanced size.
I swallowed, reaching for the switch to turn on the fan. I hesitated before turning it on. The fan spun and hummed, vibrating.
My parents' bed twanged and groaned.
We never locked the bathroom. There were seven of us. One shower, one toilet, too many unspoken rules. But the door was locked now. The knob rattled--once, then stilled. My chest slammed. I didn't breathe.
"Clint?" my dad's low, quiet voice pierced the door.
"Yeah, sorry." I said in a hissing whisper as I stuffed the wad of toilet paper with the condom into my briefs.
He tried the door again. "You pooping?"
I gnashed my teeth. That was likely the only acceptable reason to lock the door. My throat tightened.
"Why's the door locked?"
The door rattled again.
I forced myself to move, lifting my hand to the knob. It unlocked with a click.
My dad pushed the door open, his tall, muscular frame casting a sharp shadow along the hallway wall. Mesh garments clung to his body, the fabric catching the clear white light. His thick, salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled--yet somehow still perfect--and his steely blue eyes squinted as they locked onto mine, pinning me in place.
Instinctively, I moved a hand to cover my bulge. This would only draw attention to my crotch. I forced my arm to settle at my side.
Our eyes elevator'd up and down one another.
He was so built--chest like armor, arms sculpted, solid. A tuft of body hair crested above his Mormon garment top, the mesh showing just enough to make it worse. My gaze lingered on the only opaque area of the garment shorts, the crotch. I had only just started growing hair at the base of my shaft, but balls were still small enough to hide behind it. I told myself that was fine. Preferred, even. But a full, weighty pair--dang, it looked good.
He glanced at the toilet bowl.
Did he remember if he flushed the condom or not?
I gulped as I met my father's eyes. Did he notice me looking?
"What are you doing?"
"I-I-I needed to pee."
"Didn't hear you flush." He pointed. "Water's clear."
My heart raced, mind scrambling for something believable.
"Drank a lot of water yesterday," I said. "Didn't have much of a color."
"Then why'd you turn the fan on?"
He was on to me. What would he do? I knew I wasn't supposed to play with myself. It'd be so embarrassing if I had to admit that, let alone how I did it, and with what. Think Clint, think.
"Well?" His eyes thinned into a glare. "Your mom and sister are sleeping in the next room. Don't you know better--?"
"Sorry," I stared at the floor. "I farted." I risked a smirk.
My dad chuckled. "Smell that bad?" He flared his nostrils.
"It did." I grinned. "Before I turned the fan on."
He folded his arms. "From now on, leave it off. Okay buddy?"
I dipped my chin and met his eyes for a moment.
He stepped aside and pointed an arm toward the hall.
I tread lightly past.
He clapped my shoulder and rubbed it with a strong, callused hand. "Love you, buddy."
"Love you too, Dad."
I retreated as quickly as I could back to my top bunk without testing Dad's patience further.
Eyes glued open, I stared at the popcorn textured ceiling. I reached into my underwear and wrapped my palm around the cocoon of toilet paper. My dick stiffened, the corona gliding along one side of my lower stomach until it reached full mast.
I pulled out the wad and pressed it against my nostrils, drawing the scent of our mingled cum deep inside. I'd seen Dad in his garments more times than I could count, especially in this house, where we all shared one bathroom. But had I ever seen him naked?
Cupping my balls, I wondered how my dad's hefty sack would feel in my hand--his shaft. The image of us rubbing them together resurfaced. My cock bounced, a droplet of pre-cum stretched from my slit to my stomach. I dabbed a finger in the syrup and brought it to my tongue--sweet, tangy. I licked my lips. Would Dad taste like this, or as in so many other ways, different? More potent, manly, and intense.
How did he compare to the guys I saw at school? My mind bloomed with memories.
In the high school locker room, the boys often exchanged boasts and jabs about their latest, likely embellished, conquests. It was rough keeping things under control without all the gestures, gyrations, and details. The pictures they painted made it impossible to stop my excitement. The fact I could see their equipment only fueled the unbidden, lurid images.
The first time I faced those showers, just a towel covering my semi, the tightness in my chest nearly suffocated me.
Would they slur me? Gang up on me?
When I finally ducked under the spray of water without my towel, I clenched my eyes closed.
Moments later, snide laughter, I peaked with one eye, and one boy pointed, "How's it hangin'?"
Another boy buckled with a laugh. "Who let the donkey in here?"
Mortified, I skittered out of the showers, slipping and catching myself once, twice. I grabbed my towel, covering my arousal, and hiding my face. I couldn't help it. Guys saw my dick and talked about it. I hid in the corner, back to them, barely drying myself before I dressed. I all but toppled when my underwear clung to my wet feet, sparking a fresh chorus of chitters.
I ignored them and the boys eventually lost interest, but the nickname stuck. My chest swirled with conflicting emotions when they called me "Donkey", but eventually I convinced myself it was better than the "f" slur or "baby dick."
My fantasies and dreams fixated on men going down on me and me them, a preoccupation, honestly. There were nights my whole body ached for someone's tongue on my hard dick. At least twice a day, during a shower, I rubbed one out to keep from losing my mind.
If I didn't take care of this, I'd never get to sleep. I rummaged through the wad and retrieved the slick condom and slipped it over my shaft again. A train of boys from school made appearances in my mind, each of them on their knees, swallowing and gagging on my "donkey" dick.
A group of them huddled around us, pumping their cocks to the view. All their eyes on my body, my dick, getting aroused as one of them milked me with his mouth. Dad flashed through my mind, now kneeling in front of me. My breath quickened as I plunged over the edge and pumped fresh cum into the condom.
With a few deep breaths, I sighed with satisfaction. I tugged at the condom. It left my dick coated in cum and lube. How many times could you use one? How many had Dad? It wasn't near as messy when it only contained his. Maybe he didn't cum as much. My skin flushed. Should they only be used once? Would something bad happen if you reused one? How could I find out?
Before the broad adoption of the internet in the mid-nineties, getting answers to such questions was fraught. If you knew where to find them, it was often in a place you needed to sneak into.
The adult bookstore I saw from the bus on the way to and from school popped in my head.
I scowled. There's no way I could make it there on my bike.
Maybe the condom packaging came with instructions, but when would I have an opportunity to search my parents' stuff?
I got little sleep that night, luckily the next day was Sunday; the day of rest. I pretended to be sick. If I could convince them to go to church without me, I'd get my chance right away.
My parents were skeptical, but let me stay behind.
I watched as they backed out of the gravel driveway in the station wagon and drove off to church. Someone often forgot something, so I waited a few minutes at the window to make sure they weren't going to pop back in just as I started my search.
After I waited for what I hoped was enough time, I scurried to my parent's room, opening and closing drawers, pushing aside clothes, and patting around under their bed. Nothing.
Hands on my hips, I scanned the room. Where would I hide something I didn't want my kids to find? I folded the sheets down, noting how they were so I could make it look the same after I was done.
"Hmmmm." I pursed my lips.
I laid down on my dad's side of the bed, fingers laced together over my stomach. Squinting, I patted the side of the bed and felt at the seam between the mattress and the box spring. I swung my legs over the edge and dug my fingers deeper. A plastic edge bent against the tip. I knelt on the ground and lifted the mattress. Bingo, a set of six connected square wrappers.
Bringing them close to my face, I read all the instructions. How to open the wrapper, put it on, and dispose of it. My dad must have skipped some of these. He's not supposed to flush them. I guess, technically, he didn't, but clearly he intended to.
"What are you doing?"
I jumped to my feet. Dad stood in the door frame dressed in his Sunday best, white-collared shirt, deep red argyle tie, thick black belt, dark gray dress pants, and shiny black shoes.
"Uh, uh." My breaths were quick and shallow. "I-I-nothing."
