It is funny what you remember from your childhood. This is an alternative, the way I wish things played out for me as a kid. I wonder how different I would have been had my curiosity been sated. This is one of my earliest memories with my father, even though the sexual part isn't real. It is truly amazing to rewrite a piece of my past. To this day, even though it was never sexual, I treasure these memories both erotically and generally.

It always started the same way. The sun would be out on a Saturday, but I wasn't out in the lawn or at the park. Nobody could find me sitting at the TV or on the computer. The phone would ring, one of the few little friends I had asking if I could come out to play. But my mother would tell them that I was busy. Maybe later.

I would notice that Dad wasn't around. That, in and of itself, was not unusual. My father worked long hours and traveled quite a bit. When he was around, he and I didn't do much together. He and I were both quiet people. He really only got involved with my sister and I if we were in trouble, so it added up to us not spending a lot of time together; or, if we did, not actually interacting much.

On the days when my father had work off and was in town, he usually spent it on the couch, switching between watching TV and playing guitar. If he wasn't in either one of those places, I knew where he was. And on those rare occasions where I didn't figure it out, my mother would pop her head in the doorway and tell me. "Dad is taking a bath."

I would drop whatever I was doing. Every minute spared is another lost. I would scramble up the stairs practically on all fours, forgetting the handrail. I could barely even feel the carpet under my hands and bare feet. Mom and Dad's bedroom was always open and meticulously cared for. Dad's clothes or robe weren't thrown on the bed. There wasn't any sign of undressing. And he didn't just get out of bed either. Mom had made it hours ago.

All you had to do to know was smell. You could smell the bathwater, a faint mix of lavender, buttermilk, and steam. The scent rolled out from under the bathroom door, which was only closed during the day when Dad was in the tub. It was the moment of reassurance, when I confirmed that I would have my time with him. Not time I had to share with Mom or my sister, just him and me. We got so little time as it was that every minute counted for me.

So I knocked on the door and asked, "Can I come in?"

I would hear the surface of the water shift about, responding to him. "Yes, bud."

When I would open the door, a wave of senses would splash over me. The air that came at me was humid, thick with warmth. My nose was filled with the relaxing smell of the dissolving bath formula. The room was silent save the settling of the bath water from my father making room for me. But most of all, it was an excitement borne of memory, of my favorite way to spend an hour.

My father lay slumped in the tub. Only his face and a foot were visible over the edge. He looked serious, just as he always did. Smiles rarely graced their presence through his carefully-trimmed beard, which was only long enough to completely cover his skin. Dad worked for a big company, so he had to keep neat. He gave me a cursory look, but nothing more.

This was how Dad relaxed after a long week at work. He loved music and played it all the time, but bath time was the only one where silence was expected. But that didn't bother me at all. Somehow, the lack of distraction made it better. I wasn't much for games and excitement anyway.

So I would close the door go over to the toilet and sit down. First, I would pull my white, almost-calf-high socks off and lay them down on the tank. My pale toes rarely saw the light of day, nor did most of me. I was so prone to burning that I covered up outside. My tee-shirt came next. Pulling it up past my belly was easy, but I always struggled getting my arms out and then getting it over my head. Mom usually helped me, but there was no expectation that Dad would get out of the tub for me. So I usually ended up bouncing about, aiming my head at the ground while I pulled it the rest of the way off.

Underneath my shirt was a rounded tummy, kept soft by baby fat, and a perfectly circular belly button. My little back naturally sat a little arched, forcing my shoulder blades to poke out a bit. Back then, my arms were pretty skinny too. You could see the lines on my skin making up the edges of the tee-shirt: where the sun always shined and where it never did. But even then, I barely managed a tan. Very few healthy young boys had skin as light as mine.

The shorts my mother would buy me were very short, still in the style of what I would later learn to be gay men from the seventies and eighties, and, a year or two later, would be received by my peers as "daisy dukes". I was ignorant of such things as fashion. These shorts had little draw strings, another thing I struggled with at this age. Usually, I would try for a minute, but my mom cut my nails so short I couldn't do it. So I would just pull hard until they stretched over my hips and butt. A few wiggles later, I would be free of the two-toned, polyester shorts.

Just as with my arms, tan lines stretched across my thighs, but hardly made a dent in my porcelain skin tone. The only real color on my legs was at the knee, where it turned a little red. There wasn't a single hair on my legs, a fact I was always amazed by. I took quite a bit of pleasure in rubbing my legs because they felt soft. I lamented the day hair began growing there.

So there I stood in a pair of Thomas the Tank Engine underpants, with deep blue waist band and hems across crisp white cotton. I loved that TV show as a little kid. Even though I hated it when people bought me presents like underwear and socks, I was happy that they knew which ones to buy.

I shucked my underwear quickly to the ground. In some ways, getting naked was my favorite part. I had a secret love of taking my clothes off. I never did anything about it, but my brain was always imagining new scenarios to get naked in. I never really knew why or what I would do after I got my clothes off, but I didn't care much for the practicals. It didn't matter much anyway, since bath time, either under Mom's supervision or Dad's, was the only time I could be.

Before I dared to get in, I always did a little inspection of myself. I would investigate scrapes, bruises, or any other marks. I did this because my Dad did this to himself the few times I was there start to finish. Of course, my eyes would always draw down to my penis, as I didn't often get to see it. There was a little pink head poking out of my stomach and some wrinkled skin all scrunched up behind it. When it was warmer, it would not be all hidden like that. And my scrotum was tight underneath it, firmly wrapped up close. I liked to pretend that, when it was warmer, it was a little dragon or, in conjunction with my balls, was the breasts and head of a busty lounge singer.

Behind me was probably my best feature, though I didn't know it back then. Two silky smooth mounds made up my rear. My back has always been a little arched, which always managed to push my butt out a bit more, making it look fuller than most of my peers. The only time it got center stage, however, was when I was spanked.

The hardest part to a bath with Dad was getting in. He liked his bath way hotter than Mom would give for me. It looked so easy for him, but it was a process for me. I couldn't sit on the side of the bath either, because the porcelain was too cold.

Dad would be in the bath with his legs spread, waiting. I started with dipping one foot in. The heat seized it, made it feel like it was going to burn. I would hold it still, so as not to make the water around it move. If it did, it would feel too hot all over again. As my delicate skin adjusted, I would make it to the bottom of the tub and wait again. It must have taken me five minutes just to be standing in it. Even though the initial dip almost hurt every time, I pushed past it so I could be with him. And all the while, my father is watching and waiting for me to settle down.

With one hand securely placed on either edge of the tub, I lowered my butt closer and closer to the water's placid surface until I could feel the heat coming off of the water. I would pause, close my eyes, and brace myself before sitting down. Every nerve from my knees to my ribs would light up. I would suck air, suck my tummy in, and wait for my body to adjust. In a few more minutes, I would open my eyes and see that Dad and I are taking a bath together.

It was like ritual. My father at the far end of the tub, where he could recline. And me between his legs, my head right next to the faucet. I could listen to water trickling down the overflow hole behind me. And Dad would lift up one giant hairy foot and turn on the hot water to boost the temperature again. I would help by pushing the fresh hot water his way, so it wouldn't get all trapped behind me.

My first activity upon joining the bath was looking at myself through the water. The distortions of waves made me look all different ways. Looking between my crossed legs, it seemed as if my penis was so close, but it wasn't. Sometimes, I would test it by pushing my hips up until just the head of my dick touched the cold air above. Then I would settle again.

Serious splashing or horsing around was not what bath time was for. If I was to be there, I had to keep quiet and let Dad relax. So, outside of flicking water for waves and pushing waves of current around, there was nothing for me to do. So I would look at Dad.

To me, he was huge. Two big arms, even compared to other men I met, were positioned over his stomach under the water. His chest had a thin cover of hair across it, spreading over the big stomach he wore. Dad wasn't so fat that his stomach overwhelmed his belt, but it did stick out a bit. Two thick legs, covered with a matte of black hair, ran down the walls of the tub. They were usually too long to be fully submerged, leaving kneecaps poking out like two ocean islands. But the prize for me to see lay hidden deep in the depths of the tub.

There were only two times I got to sneak a peak at my father's penis: in the tub and when he wore a robe. I remember well enough being fascinated by it. When Dad played guitar in his robe, he spread his legs. And, at the right angle on the floor, I could see it hanging down. It was never sucked into his belly like mine. I loved to catch sight of it.

Then there were times like these, when Dad and I were all alone in the bath and I could freely stare at him. Relaxed, his dick was draped across his balls, with a cock head just as thick as the rest of him. He wasn't wrinkly at all. His balls hung low every time I saw them, as if they never scrunched up at all. It was hairy a bit, but it was, just like his chest, thinly spread. If Dad had ever noticed me staring, he never said a word about it.

Usually, Dad tended to ignore me during baths, but there was one time where it was different. One time, my Dad looked at me while I swirled water around my finger in the silence of his peaceful bath, and he broke it.

"Come here."

I looked up. My first instinct was that I was in trouble. But I climbed onto my knees and sneaked up closer, between his knees. And I waited for punishment, even though I couldn't yet imagine the crime. So I peered up through my big blue eyes with an innocent uncertainty.

My father looked me over once, as if he was uncertain of himself. Then he reached over and took my hand into his. He clasped my fingers and palm between both of his big, hard hands and rubbed them as if he was warming them up. Then he kissed the back of my hand. His beard tickled, but I dared not laugh. Taking one last look at my little hand, taken from the same cut that his own had been, and dragged it back down under the water.

He tugged me forward a bit more. And my hand landed on him. It was limp for a second until I realized where he had placed it. Looking down into the murky water, three of my fingertips ever so gently graced the crown of my Dad's soft cock. I started to pull away, but my Dad held me there. "Go on. You won't get in trouble." There was a softness to his voice I wasn't used to.

I heard what I needed to hear. My hand couldn't get all the way around his cock, even soft. But I grabbed onto the bit of shaft I could and lifted it up a little. His head was darker than mine, almost purple. And bigger. I could see all the tiny little cracks and lines that made it up, just like the back of your hand. But it was squishy. I squeezed it gently, spellbound by the opportunity. I pulled down on the skin, which made it look like the cock was nodding its head appreciatively. I couldn't help but smile.

My dad led my other hand underneath his balls before leaning back. Kneeling and focusing on the events below, I tried my best not to make waves so I could see clearly. My other hand hefted his testicles, watching the skin tighten a little at the touch. They felt bigger than the biggest marbles in my tin. They even tumbled around inside. He had so much more room in there than I did. I was lucky if my little sack relaxed at all.

As I played with him, I noticed that my Dad's shaft was getting a little bit longer. I would lay it down and it would reach farther down his balls than before. And the skin wasn't as easy to pull. And then it wouldn't lay down any more at all. It stuck out on its own, like a puppet on a string. It got firm. I could not bend it like before. It even felt hotter than the water. The tip of his cock poked at the surface of the water, affected by every movement at its surface.

"It floats," I said quietly, poking it at the shaft and watching it buoy back.

I spent some time pushing it under water, then swishing it back and forth before letting it bounce back up to the surface. I was having more fun in the bath than I had ever had before. Dad was staring at me, watching me play, but I didn't notice it. It was cool to watch it grow. That was something I never knew could happen.

My father made a grunting sound and I froze. Knelt down with my nose almost touching the water and my hands clutching my father's hard shaft, I slowly turned my gaze to my father, yet again prepared for chastisement. Looking down at me, he had this strange expression, like he was so relaxed that he was going to close his eyes and fall asleep. He let out a deep sigh. "Keep going."

In my hand, my father's cock flexed, the head flaring against my palm. Something inside my stomach fluttered in response, like when Dad held me tight, but deeper inside me. Abandoning his balls, I took my father in both of my hands, feeling the pulse of his cock straining against my grip. I gave it an experimental pump with both hands and received a positive twitching under my fingers. My father's hips shifted, offering himself up to my tiny control. Latching onto the skin just under the head, I pulled it up as far as it would go, then came back down. Each new pump on him created new waves, making it harder and harder to see the details of it all.

The sounds of water washing against the tub and my father's breathing were the only things I could hear, reverberating just so off the tile and tiny space of the bathroom. Though the water around us was losing its heat, I hadn't noticed. The feeling of his hard, yet soft cock in my little groping, tugging, teasing hands was mesmerizing. It was hotter than I remembered the water being, but it didn't feel like it would burn me.

Tugging became jacking after a short time and my father was becoming more tense. The muscles of his legs jumped or stretched against the sides of the tub. Dad's butt would lift up and drop down, making the tip of him peak out from the turbulent waters above it. It seemed like it was more and more swollen with each new breach of the surface. I had never seen him like this, so loose. So free.

I pumped his cock for all my flimsy arms were worth. Not just because I was allowed to touch him now, but because when I did, he seemed more alive. The shifting waters turned to little splashes as I sped up, eager to make him more and more animated. But after a while, it started to die down on it own. My arms hurt from the constant motion and I couldn't keep it up. As I slowed down, so did he.

Eventually, he put a hand on one of my arms and stopped me. Uncertain, I let go of him and waited, my two eyes staring up at Dad. Even though he wasn't working hard like I was, he seemed just as tired. I watched his big chest rise and fall, letting himself down from the sexual strain. The butterflies in my stomach remained, especially when I glanced down through the rippling water to see him still standing tall.

"Stand up," he said quietly.

I did as I was told. I used one of his knees to stop myself from slipping. As I pulled myself up, the lukewarm bathwater sluiced off the curves of my belly, rear, and thighs. Above that, I had become dry save for my arms. Standing up straight before him, I patiently waited for my next command.

My father scooted towards me, the entire tub squeaking against his skin. Cupping the water, he poured it over my shoulders and chest. He seemed intent on watching the minute streams of soap and liquid have play across my body. I too followed them down until I noticed something unusual. Between my legs, it seemed like my own nub was a little bit bigger than it was before. As my hands often did, they came down upon it. Inside, it felt more rigid. Not quite like Dad's, but still more solid. It stood outwards, as if pointing at my Dad. When I touched it, I could feel it way more than when I touched anywhere else. And when I pulled on it, I could feel my cheeks going flush.

My Dad grabbed me by the hips and pulled me close to him. His lips found my stomach and, while I expected a raspberry or a tickle attack, he gently kissed me right on the belly button. His beard tickled on me, but I couldn't laugh. Then, he turned me around and pulled me back down. My bare butt found his abdomen, my back to his chest. I felt eaten up by his warmth, safe in his grasp. One arm came around my chest, holding me tight. Between my legs, I could feel the cock I had, minutes ago, been so obsessed with. My infantile scrotum, wrapped up tight against the changing temperature, met the back of his helmet. Somehow, it felt as though it belonged in this place.

My first instinct was to close my legs around it, but Dad pried his fingers between them and pulled one leg aside, then the other. Following my inner thigh back down, he covered my little package with his big hand and squeezed it ever so gently. A little wave rushed across me, eliciting a gasp. Dad laid a kiss upon the crown on my head as he took my tiny, half-hard cock into his fore-finger and thumb and began to roll it around.

At first, it felt odd, nothing more special than when I held it to pee. But the longer he did it, the more I felt it grow, the more it stiffened in his grasp. Finally, it stood on its own. And my dad began to tug on it. Little waves pulsed across me. It felt like my hips were on a string and they jumped whenever he pulled, trying to get more tug out of him. And the feeling spread all across me. It shot down my legs, making me pull up like a baby and making me curl my toes tight to my feet. My hands clutched at the arm around my belly, holding on for dear life. I couldn't watch because I wanted to thrash my head from side to side. And it was hard to breathe because I had to whimper like a little puppy.

My Dad had to turn the water back on to cover up the sound of me. Past the splashing of the water, I whined and squealed at the new sensations my father's bear paw fingers played upon me through the tiniest of piccolos between my legs. The warmth and the heat spread through me, coupled with the butterflies and the sparks and the earthquake tremors. My little cock felt so hard it might explode. So I did all I could to keep it there. I pushed into my father's hand with the little motion his other arm allowed to me and used every muscle in my body to flex and stretch with the pure sensation he made in me.

It rose like a volcano all of a sudden. I squeaked and choked on my own breath. My entire body quivered. Fireworks were shooting across my eyes, splashes of color because I couldn't see anymore. My arms and legs seized up. The glow of my first orgasm washed over me, all pouring from the flexing of my tiny, flushed cock head pinched between my dad's fingers. Inside my chest, my heart pounded a mile a minute, faster than my hardest bike ride. And as the power of it wore down, all of my muscles went limp.

It is there that I drifted between sleep and wakefulness, drenched in something more than fear or lust. The quiet roar of the water pouring in the tub ceased, leaving only the trickle of the emergency drain, so far away from where I was. And a heart beat, strong and true, keeping time for two. I felt so far away in that daze, even though I was closer to home than I had ever been in my life.

I laid draped across this man, a father I barely knew, naked and in love. For all the times he was never there, I sensed the redemption for lost time. And for all the sternness that made him my Dad, I could feel a caring in him in his touch. Even at that age, I knew this feeling, this afterglow of love would fade away. And yet, laying there with his arm around me, his chest cushioning my face, his sex touching mine, I also knew that he would never let me go.