A month or two had passed since my chance encounter with Dad at the motel. He never mentioned the episode again and shied away from every attempt of mine to broach the subject. It had created a tension between us which badly needed breaking for both of our sakes -after all, we were the only family we had left.

The opportunity came when I had to look out my graduation certificates when I was applying for a job. "They're in the den" said Dad "Look in the desk drawers." He had converted our basement room into his study/den and the main item of furniture is one of those massive old-time roll-top desks -you know, the one the sheriff always has in his office in westerns.

I tried all of the drawers in turn until I came to the bottom drawer, which, in my haste, I pulled hard out so that it hit the stops. All the drawers are really deep, so that things tucked at the back rarely see the light of day. Right at the back, behind a homemade wood partition, I saw about 6 or 7 videotapes. From their size and shape I realised that they were the old Betamax type, long gone from the stores. Glancing up, I saw our old Betamax- player still on the shelf -Dad NEVER throws anything away I thought, as I replaced the drawer and went back up with my certificates.

For the next few days I puzzled over those tapes: We didn't own a video camera until fairly recently and anyway, if they were 'family' tapes, why would Dad hide them away so carefully? I didn't want to play them in secret -I guess I'm not that sneaky, but I really did want to know what was on them! It was only a few days ago that I finally found out: Late afternoon I was helping dad on the garage roof -the winter gales we've had recently had lifted quite a few shingles- when our conversation came round to the movie we had all been to see the night before: "I might get the video when it comes out." Said Dad. "Sure, it'll be good to watch it again." I said. Then -after a deep breath. "I wouldn't mind watching those old Beta tapes, either!" (I can't believe I just said that! I thought in panic.)

There was a pause, then Dad muttered, "Oh.... so you've found them.... They belong to Uncle Bob...I must give them back sometime." Dad doesn't lie a lot -he's not very good at it and I knew that this was one of those times. "OK" I said casually (although my throat still felt tight with anticipation) "But make sure you let me see them first!" He must have read something in my voice, because he just nodded slowly and turned back to his hammering and the subject was closed.

Later that evening, Dad and I cleared up and settled down for an evening alone. I'm still waiting to hear about my job and I started to read up on the company while Dad was watching some garbage on TV. He was obviously getting as bored as I was and said over-casually. "You still want to watch a video?" (YES! - I could hardly stop myself from giving an air-punch.) But I said equally casually "Sure, why not."

The den is next door to the boiler and warm -too warm for me- so I slipped off my tee-shirt and made myself comfortable on the old chesterfield. The leather felt warm on my naked back as I watched Dad set up the big silver Betamax video.

I remember noticing that the Sony badge had fallen off the front, but everything else seemed to be working fine. The screen was high up on the shelf next to the player and caught the glare of the main light, so Dad switched on a small reading lamp instead and the den became gloomy. The first video was not very good -a poor quality copy of an n'th degree copy, but the second one was great and we both watched spellbound as some good-looking guys wanked and sucked and generally horsed around. The second part featured a trio of handsome black guys who started to stroke themselves and each other into a frenzy.

I was only wearing a pair of jogging pants and when I slipped my hand down past the waistband to clutch at my aching balls I saw Dad glance over and give me a shy smile. In the gloom I heard a click as he undid the fastner of his jeans and the quiet "zeep" as he opened the fly. He lifted himself off the chesterfield and slipped his jeans down to his knees, his white legs catching a greenish glow from the lampshade as he sat back. His cock was already standing stiff above a jungle of thick hair which glistened in the soft light and his ball sack drooped low, resting on the leather seat between his spread thighs.

Taking his cue, I quickly slid my pants down and we both sat there, each waiting for the other to make a move. Eventually, after a long pause, Dad's fingers slipped over his cock and began to stroke gently up and down, making his balls bounce lightly against the leather seat with a quiet slapping sound. He kept glancing over at me and watched with a slight smile as I began my favorite two-handed stroke.

The black guys were still sporting with each other and I remember thinking enviously "Why does God gift only some guys with cocks like that?"

I saw Dad's hand begin to move faster and faster in rhythm with the show on the screen, so I reached over placed my hand over his and stopped him, shaking my head and mouthing "Not yet". He twitched nervously at my first touch of his penis but he loosened his grip reluctantly and we both went back to our stroking. But now it was different: It was my hand firmly wrapped around Dad's thick cock while he was making his first tentative exploration of mine.

Not long after, the video finished and Dad's hand slipped away from me and he looked at me enquiringly. I noticed the appeal in his eyes -he didn't want this to end any more than I did. My mouth had gone dry, so I only smiled and nodded "Yes" and he got up to get another tape out of the desk drawer, holding up his drooping pants with one hand. While he was busy, I went up to the kitchen to get us some beers, hoping that one of us had remembered to draw the shades, since I was nekkid as a jaybird and it's a nice neighborhood.

When I returned downstairs, Dad had stripped off his jeans and check shirt and was lying naked on the couch. I noticed with some pride that he hadn't let himself slide into that middle-aged flab you see on so many older guys and his body was still in good shape. He was lying full length with his eyes tight shut, one hand lifting his balls while with the other he pinched at the tip of his long foreskin, stretching and relaxing it in a slow insistent rhythm: He hadn't missed me, that's for sure!

I put the beers down and knelt beside him, gently moving his fingers away and replacing them with my mouth. As I began to explore him, he began to lift and buck his body in time with my sucking, all the time giving out little grunts and gasps of pleasure. When he had relaxed, I held him gently between finger and thumb while I burrowed through the hood of his foreskin with until I found the smooth silky meat beneath, feeling the soft outer skin stretch as I slid my tongue from side to side.

I used all the tricks I had learned from my jerking days at college, so that soon Dad was whimpering with ecstasy as I gave him my all. I had always loved my Dad, but never so deeply as then and I felt a desperate need to prove to him that his son could give him that height of pleasure only another male can give.

He arm slid off the couch and I felt his fingers scrabble across my belly, catching and tugging at my bush, searching and urgent. As I shifted round to face him, I couldn't keep back a groan of delight as I felt his cool fingers fold round me. He tugged on me gently, lifting me, so I straightened my legs until I was leaning over his chest in a sort of stooped crouch. I felt the brief rasp of his whiskers on the sensitive tip of my cock as he drew me into his waiting mouth. (Dammit Dad, why couldn't you have shaved first!) I thought, before I was engulfed. We stayed like that for a long time-a father and son lost in the wonder and enjoyment of sharing each other's bodies.

It was a good hour later when we could take no more and sat facing each other, watching our separate strings of sperm make a glistening crisscross on the old blanket we had placed on the floor, while on the shelf, the old Betamax video sat hissing to itself, its tape long finished. I was so aroused that some of my cumming had splattered over my old man's thighs, but his hadn't quite reached me -his sperm was thicker and tended to bubble out, rather than spurt in a thin jet like mine. We had been sitting cross-legged for some time so that when Dad got up get a box of Kleenex from the desk he moved stiffly and I could see little pearls of my sperm glistening on the curly hairs of his legs. As we wiped ourselves off we smiled at each other, both wondering what to do or say next.

Now it was all over, I guess we both were going through that post-sex feeling when, for a while; your body seems to lose interest. I saw that Dad was getting embarrassed, searching behind him for his discarded clothes -was he already regretting this lapse with his only son? If I didn't do or say something, he'd retreat back into his shy, repressed, shell and I'd never know another wonderful session together. Impulsively I went over and hugged him hard, feeling the warmth of his groin press softly against mine -the hug I got in return told me that I had done exactly the right thing.

By now it was in the early hours when we both showered and went off to bed -not together, I'm sorry to say - I guess Dad still makes the rules there. I slept soundly for the rest of the night and for once, I didn't wake up with my morning flagpole salute. This morning, Dad has been his usual self and hasn't mentioned last night, but the occasional shy smile he gives me tells me that last night won't really be our last.

*

Some months have passed since my first wonderful encounter with my Dad in the den. Since then I can't say that we've had as many sessions as I would have liked, but he is a lot more relaxed now. Even so, his shyness still wont allow him to talk much about them, so we have developed a sort of signal code which doesn't need words. Often it's just a raised eyebrow and a quick glance at the door leading to his den that tells me when he's in the mood. We still watch the old Betamax tapes -It's become almost a tradition although we both know every scene off by heart.

We had just finished a short but intense session and were dressing to face the real world once more after our latest fantasy trip. I watched as Dad carefully stripped the last few drops of cum from under his long foreskin and tuck himself back into his shorts. As he dropped the damp Kleenex into the bin, he looked up at me and said casually. "When we next visit Bob I'll ask him if he's got any more tapes we can borrow." My ears pricked up at the "we" part - I was definitely being included in the deal.

Uncle Bob is my Dad's older brother by a year or so and he runs the family farm in the next state. I had virtually grown up there and spent every summer playing with my cousins and helping round the farm. For me, no summer camp could ever compare with life on the farm and the carefree evenings we shared after a day's work. I hadn't visited much while I was away at college though, and during that time my three cousins had either moved on or gotten themselves married, leaving Uncle Bob to run things alone except for a few migrant hands.

It was some weeks later that Dad and I took the long highway to visit with Bob. I was in my final year and would be staying on, but Dad would have to return to work at the end of the weekend. The miles drifted by until we finally turned off onto the long blacktop that led up to the farm. The long journey had made me feel incredibly horny -the movement of the car and long periods of inactivity always seems to have that effect on me together and I had already had the hint that this visit could turn into something special.

Several times during the drive I slid my hand into my pants to rearrange myself, but Dad was too busy driving to notice and didn't suggest we make a 'comfort stop' along the way, so I just nursed my aching balls in silent agony. Eventually the familiar white gates came into view and we turned down the track to the long, low farmhouse that was Uncle Bob's home. He had seen the lights of our approaching car from a long way off and stood waiting for us on the porch steps.

He isn't the typical image of a rancher; no dungarees or straw hat for him. He's stocky and tanned with curly hair that was just beginning to go gray round the temples. He was wearing a smartly pressed check shirt -and were those designer jeans tucked into his polished boots? He and Dad had earned the reputation as being a pair of hell-raisers in their youth and they had remained close buddies into their middle age, so the welcome we both got was warm and genuine and we were ushered into the house, where Carrie, Bob's Filipino housekeeper, had prepared a gigantic meal.

*

For the next two days, Bob kept us well fed and entertained and we spent most of the daylight hours exploring the beautiful country around the ranch. Church on Sunday gave me the opportunity to meet up with a lot of old friends and I was quick to notice that some of the girls I remembered as gawky teenagers had bloomed into real lookers. I collected no end of invitations to visit -my vacation was getting off to a good start already.

Sunday evening came and Dad left for the long journey home. Bob and I watched his departing plume of dust as it trailed all the way up to the highway. A gorgeous sunset had thrown the distant mountains into sharp relief and cast long shadows over the upland pastures. Freed from the smell and sounds of the city, this was a paradise for me -and now there was only me and Uncle Bob left to share it. I was roused from my romantic mood by the sharp hiss of an opening beer-can which was thrust into my hand with a smile.

"Sometimes I think that there can never be another evening as good as this." Bob opined. "But sure as hell, along comes another even better the next day." He had caught my mood exactly and I nodded slowly saying nothing. We made ourselves comfortable on the porch chairs and watched the sun setting over the ridgeback of hills. A set of lights turned off the highway and made their way down the track towards us. "That'll be my new foreman." Said Bob. "I told him to come up for a beer after he has checked the stock."

I gave him a quick look of surprise - he was generally reckoned to be a good boss but I'd never known him to socialize with his farmhands before. Seeing my surprise, he added. "You'll like him, he's different." A dusty red pickup turned off into the yard and we heard the door slam. A while later a figure approached from the barn, climbing the long flight of steps up to the house. Just as Uncle Bob was no typical rancher, his foreman was not the grizzled old-timer that I had imagined either. He was tall and lithe with the high cheekbones and long black hair that declared his Native American ancestry. Peter Long Wolf was very proud of his Nez Perce roots and I was to learn that he had inherited all his peoples' legendary skill with horses. No wonder he got along so well with Bob -they were soul mates.

The introductions over, Peter settled himself in one of the chairs and helped himself to a waiting bottle of Coors. From his casual manner, I gathered that this had become something of an evening ritual for them both. As Peter savoured his first beer of the day, I studied him closely, trying to guess at his age.

His smooth unlined face made it difficult, but I finally put him in his mid-thirties. Until then, my only contact with Native Americans had been at my local drive-in, and this guy, with his long ponytail and richly decorated shirt, could have starred in any screen western. Realising that I was staring, I busied myself with my beer while he and Bob began to plan the work for the next day. "I'll head into town and pick up those trailer tires." Bob said, adding. "Perhaps Mark here would like to ride out with you to check the out-bye herd." I caught the hint of a strange smile on Peter's face as he nodded his agreement. Thinking he was about to poke fun at a tenderfoot, I said defensively. "It's been a while since I last sat a horse."

"I can take the pickup if you like." Peter replied. "But your ass might be just as sore by the end of the day!" I joined in their laughter, not appreciating the joke at the time.

I was up early the next day and made my way down to the barn where Peter was already waiting. He had selected a gentle old roan mare for me and after an hour or so my riding skills returned and I relaxed in the saddle and began to enjoy the countryside. Peter kept the pace slow, although I guess he could have made far better time on his own, but it gave me time to get to know him. He didn't seem much into casual conversation at first, but as the day grew older he began to open up and I started to get more than a 'yes' or 'no' to my many questions.

He told me about his life as a boy on the reservation lands, where money and opportunities were scarce and how his father had left the family never to return, leaving his mother to bring up a family of seven alone. Peter had been shipped off to a State boarding school at an early age and from the little he said, I guess it had been pretty tough. Dragged away from his tribal culture and forbidden even to speak his own language, it was to his credit that he had not become resentful or bitter but had gone on to do well. He left school for agricultural college, gaining a string of diplomas along the way. After a disastrous marriage, he had struck out on his own, first as a traveling rodeo rider and then as a combine driver, following the ripening grain ever northward up the Mid-West Corn Belt.

Although he never mentioned it, I suspected that he had run into a lot of discrimination in his time and he spoke warmly of the easy-going Bob who treated him with genuine friendship and mutual respect.

It had taken most of the morning to prise Peter's life story from him and by the time he had finished, our trail had led us to the outlying herd. While Peter busied himself checking them over, I went down to the riverbank deciding to cool off with a swim. The feel of the water on my naked skin was a real tonic and I stayed in until the chill finally got to me and I made for the bank to dry off. I was just rubbing myself down with my shirt when a deep voice growled. "How! Paleface!"

Startled, I looked up to see Peter grinning down at me. Dammit, I hadn't heard a sound. Definitely an Indian thing! I thought. He tied up his horse next to mine and made his way down the slope, remarking dryly.

"Better not stay like that too long in this sun or you could get burnt in some funny places!" Then he walked round me, studying me appraisingly, as if I was one of his prize heifers.