My Father and I, in Our Underwear, That July Morning

The apartment above the bakery was like an oven before nine in the morning. It was the second summer that Joaquín and his son had spent alone in that house in Cádiz, and neither of them had quite grown used to the silence their mother had left behind when she packed her bags. To survive the Andalusian heat, father and son had ended up eating breakfast in their underwear, without asking permission, with the naturalness of two men who no longer had anyone in front of them.

Joaquín stirred the sugar into his coffee, the spoon clinking slowly against the cup. He had his legs spread under the table and his broad chest covered in blond hair that the sweat was beginning to flatten into thin lines. Forty-nine years old, carried with the dignity of a man who still plays football on Wednesdays. His unkempt beard and his white briefs, worn thin by so many washings, gave him the air of a domesticated alpha male he himself was incapable of measuring.

What a hangover from wanking I’ve got from last night, he thought.

He remembered the brutal release from the day before, locked in his room, with his cock in his right hand and his left bitten hard enough to leave teeth marks. He had been hammering his dick for almost an hour, spitting into his palm every so often so the skin would glide better over the swollen glans, and when he finally came he did it with such force that the first load of jizz hit his chest and the second stained his chin. Ever since he signed the divorce papers, his body had become a loose bull. Any brush, any image, any sound left him with a hard cock and tight balls. That morning, with the Cádiz heat already climbing up his back, he could feel the first hot warning between his legs.

Hugo appeared in the doorway, shuffling his feet. Twenty-one years old, just turned, a swimmer’s lean body, a blond fuzz above his lip he’d left there out of sheer laziness. He was wearing tight gray briefs that hid neither his package nor the clearly outlined shape of his sleeping glans against his thigh. He yawned without covering his mouth, scratched his cock and balls without the slightest shame, and dropped into the chair opposite his father.

—Good morning, Dad —he said, and the smile on his face had something mischievous in it—. How did you sleep after last night’s festival?

Joaquín froze with the spoon in the air.

He heard it.

—Shit, kid —he finally answered, chuckling low to cover it up—. Was I really that loud?

—That loud. It sounded like you were fighting someone in there.

Hugo picked up a piece of toast and started spreading butter with exaggerated calm. He didn’t look directly at his father, but he didn’t avoid him either. He spoke to the bread, as if the conversation were about the weather and not about what it really was. Inside, though, he was replaying every grunt he’d heard through the wall and the image he had built while he was pounding his own cock in silence in his bed, imagining his father with his dick in his hand, his balls tight, and his mouth open letting out those rough moans that slipped through the partition.

If he knew I came while listening to him, he thought, if he knew I swallowed my own load so I wouldn’t stain the sheets, he’d spill his coffee all over himself.

Joaquín scratched the back of his neck, still laughing.

—I’ve been like this for months, son, and it ain’t normal. Since your mother left, this thing’s been running wild —and he nodded downward, toward the cock that was already starting to stir under his briefs, without drama—. Three wanks a day, some days four. Like I’m sixteen again.

—Jesus, Dad, you’ve really let loose on the subject.

—Well, you’re grown now, kid. Why should I come at you with bullshit? Wanks are wanks. At your age I used to tug it off even in the school toilet.

Hugo let out a short, genuine laugh and bit into the toast. The conversation ought to have died there. Any other father would have changed the subject the moment the boy laughed. But Joaquín still had his coffee in his hand and that crooked smile of a man who’s just let something out that he’d been carrying inside and now feels satisfied.

The heat was beginning to come in for real through the kitchen window. From the street below came the slow sounds of Cádiz waking up: a shutter, a motorbike, someone sweeping an entryway. Father and son fell silent for a moment, chewing, sweating a little, not looking at each other.

—Last night I had you at two hundred, right? —Joaquín said suddenly.

Hugo choked on his coffee.

—What are you talking about, Dad?

—That I heard you too, bastard. These apartment walls are paper thin. I heard you moving, heard you spitting into your hand, heard you working your cock, and then I heard that breathing we both know exactly what it is. And when you came, you moaned softly, with your mouth closed, but I still heard it.

Hugo went red to the ears. For the first time that morning, he didn’t know what face to make. Joaquín, seeing him flustered, set down the spoon and leaned back in his chair, his legs even wider apart, his cock already half-hard making itself known through his briefs, amused.

—Relax, son, it’s fine. I get it. We were both at it at the same time, each one beating off in his own room, for fuck’s sake. It’s almost poetic.

—Dad, please.

—What? We’re talking like adults. I was jerking off in my room, you were jerking off in yours. Where’s the drama?

Hugo didn’t answer. He lowered his gaze to his coffee, stirred sugar that was already dissolved, and glanced without meaning to at his father’s lap. What he saw made his breath catch.

Joaquín’s white briefs were beginning to strain in a way that could not be hidden. The fabric, already worn thin and a little see-through from use, rose in a thick bulge, and through the fine cotton the pink color of the glans was visible, already peeking over the waistband. The cock kept growing while the two of them talked, pulling the fabric upward, tracing every vein. Hugo snapped his eyes away, but it was too late. The image of his father’s pink head poking out over the elastic had seared itself into him like a coal.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he thought. He’s getting hard. At the table. In front of me. His cock’s coming out of his briefs.

Joaquín noticed it. He felt it from the inside, that hot warning he knew all too well, and he felt it from the outside too, because the fabric was pulling tight and outlining the whole shape of his cock with almost obscene clarity: the thick base resting on his balls, the shaft straight against his belly, and the tip already free, shining with a fat drop of precum beginning to trail down the glans. He made no effort to hide it. He didn’t cross his legs, didn’t put a napkin over it, didn’t stand up. He stayed there, his hard cock fully outlined beneath the white cotton, looking at his son, weighing what would happen next.

—Jesus, Dad. —Hugo took a deep breath, not sure whether to laugh or get up—. Are you…?

—Yeah —Joaquín said without blinking—. I’m getting hard talking to you. I’m a fucking mess, son. I’ve been like this since I sat down. I’m dripping and everything, look at that.

And he pulled the waistband of his briefs down a little with two fingers, not taking his cock all the way out, just enough for the fat red glans to appear fully above the elastic, with a thick string of precum hanging from the slit. Hugo swallowed with a click that echoed through the whole kitchen.

The heat in the kitchen turned dense, physical, like a hand pressing against the nape of the neck. Hugo felt his own cock hardening under the table, felt it stick hot against his thigh and start pushing the gray fabric upward. He hated himself a little for how quickly he reacted. The briefs left too much visible: the whole shape of his stiff cock, the bulge of his tight balls, the dark wet patch already beginning to spread over the tip. He prayed his father wouldn’t look down.

Joaquín looked down.

—You’re hard too, you bastard —he said with a small smile, almost sad—. Nice and hard you’ve got it. Don’t tell me this is only my thing.

Hugo picked up the cup with both hands and drank, just to be doing something, not tasting a thing. Inside, a thought he’d spent years pushing down was hammering away and, that morning, had escaped on its own.

I’ve been listening to him ever since Mom left. I’ve been hearing him jerk off against the wall and pretending to be asleep with my cock in my hand. And he knows it.

—Dad —Hugo said very softly—. What do we do?

—I don’t know, kid.

—But we have to do something.

—No, we don’t have to do anything —Joaquín let out the air slowly, as if he’d been holding it in for half a life—. We have to finish the coffee. And we have to acknowledge this is happening. Both things at once.

***

The microwave clock read eight twenty. Down below, in the bakery, the oven machinery kept heating on its own. Joaquín had half an hour before he had to go open, and they both knew it. That margin, small and exact, suddenly became a dangerous space.

Joaquín rested his forearms on the table. His cock was still firm under his briefs, with the glans still peeking over the waistband, and the wet patch on the tip had already become a small puddle of precum soaking the white cotton. Hugo tried not to look, and looked anyway. Every time his father’s chest rose and fell with his breathing, the cock gave a small tug against the fabric, alive, as if it had its own heartbeat.

—Son, I’m going to ask you for something. And if you say no, we never talk about this again. I swear.

—Tell me.

—Tell me what you were thinking about last night. When I heard you. In detail, kid. Don’t leave anything out.

Hugo went dry-mouthed. He thought about lying, thought about getting up and locking himself in the bathroom to hammer it until his balls hurt, thought about slamming his fist on the table and breaking the thread. He did none of those three things. What he did was put down his cup, look his father in the eyes for the first time all morning, and speak very slowly, feeling his cock throb under the table with every word.

—Your voice, Dad. The voice you use when you’re alone. How you grunt softly when you’re wanking, the sound your hand makes when you move it fast. I was imagining you, Dad. I was imagining your cock in your fist, imagining how your balls tightened when you were about to come. And I was pounding mine at the same pace as you, so we’d both finish at the same time.

Joaquín closed his eyes for a second. Just a second. And when he opened them, there was something different in them, something Hugo had never seen before and understood immediately. It wasn’t fatherly affection. It wasn’t anger. It was the naked desire of a man who has found, on the other side of the table, the exact mirror of what he’d been hiding for weeks.

—Jesus, kid —he murmured—. Jesus. And did you come?

—I came when I heard you come. As soon as I heard that moan that slips out at the end, I let everything go. I stained the sheets, Dad. I got my chest, my stomach, even my hand all sticky with load.

—Fuck, son.

—And then I licked my fingers, Dad. I licked my own cum thinking about yours.

Joaquín let out a long, rough gasp he couldn’t control. Under the briefs, his cock gave a sharp leap and a fresh wave of precum overflowed over the glans. He ran a hand through his hair. His other arm trembled against the table. His breathing was fast, his forehead beaded with sweat, and his shoulders were tight, like a footballer just before taking a penalty. And then, without touching his cock, without lowering his hand to the bulge, without making a single movement other than the tremor in his spread thighs, his body betrayed him.

—Wait —he whispered—. Wait, son, wait…

—What?

—I’m going to come. Here. Without touching myself. Fuck, I’m going to come from hearing you, kid, I’m going to come just from the words you’re saying.

The moan came out rough, almost a whimper, bitten down between his teeth so as not to wake the neighbors. His cock tightened under the fabric, the swollen glans turned purple, and suddenly it began shooting thick, hot ropes of semen that soaked the white briefs from the inside. The first spurt lifted the fabric hard and drew a thick stain right over the tip. The second overflowed over the waistband and ran down his belly, mixing with the blond hair and sweat. The third and fourth came out slower, thicker, soaking the cotton completely and dripping between his open thighs onto the chair. Joaquín gripped the edge of the table with both hands, knuckles white, legs spread wide, mouth twisted in a grimace of almost painful pleasure, and held the orgasm in silence while his son watched without blinking, seeing the thick semen keep pulsing out in waves and soaking his briefs until they clung to his skin like a second layer.

When he was done, he let his head fall back and laughed. A broken laugh, breathless, almost a sob. His cock, still hard and shiny with load, was still fully outlined beneath the soaked fabric.

—Fuck, son. Fuck. It’s been years since I came like that.

Hugo didn’t move. His hands were still wrapped around the cup, his breathing ragged, his cock rock hard against his belly and a hot ache between his legs that would take a long time to go down. Under the table, without even realizing it, he had begun squeezing his cock with his hand over his briefs, working it slowly through the fabric, and he could already feel that he too was only a couple of shakes away from exploding. The only thing he could manage to say was the most obvious thing in the world.

—Dad, you came at breakfast.

—I can see that.

—Without touching yourself.

—I can see that too, kid. I can see that.

—I’m going to come too, Dad —he blurted suddenly, voice breaking—. I’m rubbing myself over my briefs and I’m going to come right now.

—Then come, son. Come too. We’re both going to finish at the same time, like last night, but this time with the table in between.

Hugo clenched his fist around his cock, shoved his hips up from the chair and let out a stifled moan. The gray fabric of his briefs was soaked through in an instant, a hot stain spreading across his entire crotch in just a few seconds. He felt each spurt of semen hitting the cotton, the thick load sliding over his balls, the wetness clinging to his thigh. He closed his eyes, threw his head back and endured the tremors biting his lip, unwittingly imitating the very same gesture his father had made a minute earlier.

When he opened his eyes, Joaquín was looking at him with bright eyes, his mouth open and that new smile that was no longer a father’s.

—Good boy —he murmured—. Good boy.

They stayed silent for a long while. The smell of coffee mixed with another smell much more recent, much more intimate, that dense, salty scent of fresh load from two men who had just come at the same table. Through the window came a gust of street air, already warm, which made their skin a little more alert and raised the hair on their still-damp chests. Down below, the oven gave a distant beep warning that the first batch was ready.

Joaquín finally got up. His briefs, soaked and heavy, clung to his body in a way that left no room for doubt: his cock, though it was already beginning to soften, was still fully outlined beneath the semen-translucent fabric. He stood there for a moment, looking at his son, saying nothing.

—I’m going to change —he said at last—. And I’m going to open the bakery.

—Okay.

—And this afternoon, when I close, you and I are going to talk. Seriously. Without coffee between us. And without briefs, if need be.

—Okay, Dad.

—Hugo.

—What?

—Don’t regret it yet. Wait at least until this afternoon. What just happened now was only the appetizer.

Joaquín left the kitchen with the same naturalness with which he had come in, dragging his soaked briefs as if taking them out like that were the normal finishing touch to any breakfast. Hugo was left alone at the table, in front of a half-eaten toast and a cold cup. It took him a good while before he moved a single finger.

When he finally got up, he saw that his fingers were stained with butter and his whole body was shining with sweat. He looked down at his own gray briefs and saw, with a mixture of shame and nervous laughter, that the stain of load had spread from his crotch down to mid-thigh, soaking the fabric and leaving his cock, still half-hard, stuck to the cotton. He brought his fingers to the stain, gathered them up sticky with his own cum, and, looking at the door his father had gone through, slowly put them in his mouth.

Summer in Cádiz had only just begun.