Hayle

I glanced back up at my dad and found that he was staring at the others guy's arse as intently as I had been. Then, when the guy bent low to pick up a couple of things that had fallen out from his bag, I was even more surprised to look up and find my dad subtly craning forward to get a better view of the man's parting arse cheeks.

My dad looked back over at me and smiled again. I guess I must have just looked confused. He nodded over at the guy's arse and his grin broadened. I looked over to see what he was gesturing at. The man's small pink hole was clearly visible between his muscular buttocks; it looked like a tiny rosebud nestling in swirls of wispy dark hair.

I looked back up at my dad's face and he nodded, still grinning. I smiled back tentatively.

Were we both thinking the same thoughts? Did he, like me, find what we were looking at interesting and attractive; or did he just think it was amusing to see another guy's arsehole? Could this part of a game or a test of my sexuality?

My dad said something like, "Yeah... I think I'll follow suit..." and to my surprise he pulled down his own briefs. Sleeping naked in hostels just wasn't normally done in our family.

He threw his underwear onto his bag and then climbed the ladder at the side of our bunks to get onto his own bed. As he did so I noticed that his cock was not exactly what you'd call limp. It was obviously a long way from being fully erect but it stood outwards from his balls, as straight as a rod, and looked swollen and thick. I'd seen enough of my dad in the nude over the years to know that his cock just didn't normally look like that.

I thought, "Shit! He really was getting off looking at that guy's arse! I'm not the only one!"

I almost laughed out loud! All that time I'd spent looking for answers about what I was feeling, and here they were right in my own family. It was a bit bizarre, but it made sense: it was a family thing. Like father, like son - all that crap! Maybe it was genetic. The arse-loving Jennings gene!

While I lay in the dark with the other men going to sleep around me, I began to wonder if maybe it wasn't only dad and I who had an interest in the rears of our own sex. Perhaps my younger brother Charlie would sometimes get a little interested in his mates' arses; maybe even straight-as-a-die Tom would occasionally get off fantasizing about some guy's crack.

But after a few minutes it began to seem too incredible; too far-fetched to be taken seriously. My dad had just thrown me a conspiratorial smirk about the fact we both had front-row seats to the view of the other man's most private spot. He'd taken his briefs off because he likes to sleep naked at home and the fact the other guy had stripped off had made him feel less self-conscious about doing so himself.

It was as plain and simple as that.

The Jennings gene was just a case of wishful thinking.

But after five or ten minutes I began to feel the bunk bed vibrating gently and realised that my dad was discretely masturbating in the bed above me. At first I thought that maybe it was one of the other men in the other beds trying to have a quiet wank, but the occasional telltale slapping sounds were obviously coming from above me and dad's breathing was definitely speeding up.

In all the time I'd slept in hostels, tents or hotel rooms with him, I'd never heard my dad masturbating and for those first couple of minutes I felt acutely embarrassed. I couldn't believe that I was lying beneath him hearing his hand working away on himself and hearing his pleasure beginning to build. These were sounds I shouldn't be listening to: this wasn't exactly a traditional part of the father-son bond.

I considered getting up and going to the bathroom while he finished himself off, but was stopped before I even got out of bed by the memory of something that happened a year or so earlier. Dad, Tom and I had been staying at Hayle, possibly in this room, and had been going to sleep pretty much like we were now, with the other beds filled by strangers. I'd been feeling horny - you can probably guess why - and had tried to attend to my cock beneath my duvet with as little noise and movement as I could. A couple of minutes in, as my forehead was beginning to sweat and the rhythm of my fingers was making my cock ooze precum, Dad whispered curtly over to me, "There's a time and a place, Ollie... and it isn't now..."

I'd stopped, my cock limp in my hand before he'd even completed the sentence and my sweat feeling like it was beginning to freeze on my face. I hadn't replied; I'd just lain there as if dead, not even wanting to breathe. As though my silence right then would undo the sounds I'd been unknowingly making in the minutes earlier.

And now here was the same guy doing exactly the same thing he'd reproached me for.

So I lay back down and, for a couple more minutes, listened to my own father wanking in the bed above me, hearing him occasionally sighing gently as his pleasure built and his rhythm increased.

I cleared my throat to let him know I was still awake but it made no discernible impact. He knew his son was listening to him masturbating but he didn't care.

I thought, "Jesus, you'd think at his age he'd be able to control himself a bit more..."

But then it occurred to me that he might be doing this to make a point: sort of saying, "Hey, Ollie... what we just saw there really turned me on..."

I thought again about the guy's pink arsehole and my dad's stiffening cock. If the two things were unrelated it was a very bizarre coincidence that they had occurred almost together. Perhaps my dad really had been aroused by the sight of another man's arse. Perhaps he was thinking of it, gently opening to reveal its puckered secret, right now. Perhaps he was thinking about himself 'bumming' it.

At the thought of that my own cock began to reawaken and I held it in my hand, enjoying the sensation of it slowly lengthening.

I wondered if my dad might have been pleased to see me showing an interest in the other guy's arse. Pleased that young Ollie was following in his old man's footsteps. Whether he'd worked out that, like him, I thought about other guys' backsides when I masturbated and whether he was, right now as he tugged at his own cock, wondering if I fantasized about sliding my own cock into one.

As though he'd been reading my thoughts, my dad's movements became faster and the bed started rocking, the frame making rhythmic squeaking noises. The slight slapping sounds of his fist against his cock became louder and I realised he'd pushed back his duvet to masturbate in the open air.

Were any of the other men in the room aware of this? Were any of them thinking, "Christ - that guy's wanking off in front of his son!"?

By now my own cock throbbed at full size. The fact that my dad was masturbating right above me still wasn't, in itself, turning me on; it was the knowledge that we were both secretly attracted to the same forbidden fruit, and that we both knew we were.

I pushed back my own duvet and began masturbating myself to the same rhythm as my dad was using on himself. The extra movement made the sounds from the bed-frame intensify and the whole bunk swayed to our beat. Dad paused briefly, as if confirming to himself that I was joining in with him, and then got back to business as we both enjoyed pleasuring ourselves.

I wondered what the other guys, if any were still awake, were thinking now. That this was a bit of an unconventional father-son moment? How similar our techniques were in silhouette against the dim white wall behind us?

I don't know what my dad was thinking about when he climaxed, but I clearly remember my own thoughts. I was imagining the two of us, my dad and me, sitting side-by-side on my bunk wanking our separate cocks and occasionally smiling at each other. In front of us were the four guys in the room, naked, with their backs to us and their arses firm and round. Sometimes they'd bend over to put things in their rucksacks, and their cheeks would open with their holes looking pink and shiny inside. Dad and I were watching them, enjoying noticing each man's differences and similarities with the others, masturbating our cocks quickly and panting gently.

Occasionally my fantasies would run away with me, and I'd be unable to stop myself imagining my dad striding over and driving his cock into the arsehole of one of the men. I didn't want to think about that - I didn't want find myself getting aroused by that idea. So I'd stop that one in its tracks even though, right then on that first night, I was certain that it was something he had already done.

And sometimes my thoughts would veer off in the direction of me penetrating one of the men's bums. My dad staring at me, smiling and nodding encouragingly. But, again, I cut that one short; the idea of me actually having sex with a guy's arse was a road I wasn't ready to go down right now.