Please Visit Our Sponsor

The weekend after the camp out with the boys it dawned a beautiful Sunday and I was hoping this afternoon when we got home from church my head would not serve as a punching bag for another of dad's boxing lessons. My bruised flesh was tender from my waist up and my hide was all blotched in black and blue motif like a tie died shirt. My father had relented on his edict that I was not to wear long pants even though he had bought me sexy white tennis shorts that I was supposedly to wear for church and dress up. I realized that the only reason I was sporting longies was because the minister felt shorts worn by older boys and men were undignified in church. As I was going upstairs to my room to don my scout shorts, dad piped up "Hay this would be a great day for us to take a hike up in the mountains."

I was still nervous about extended one on ones with dad because of the realization the my father was well aware of my balloonie lifestyle. I also thought he suspected I might have a thing for shorts as well. We normally went on long walks at least once each month with our last trip the Sunday before the balloons / shorts incident when I came home from the carnival. Since this had been a while and I enjoyed hiking with my father, I agreed.

I changed into my scoutfit, knee socks and all and I thought, 'damn I am going to call dad's bluff and see if he is man enough to wear shorts, knee socks, and neckerchief on our hike like me'. I rushed up to the attic and pulled out the requisite garments in the size I knew would fit him and laid them out on his bed. When he came up to change after reading the paper I went in the room with him. I was totally surprised when I got little argument from him about wearing the short pants and knee socks I had laid out.
I was in my room after he changed when he walked in. No doubt about it, dad looked younger in shorts. I gave him my best 'wolf whistle' and he just smiled. I was dressed and ready to go but he was standing blocking the door and I wondered what he was waiting for. Reading my thought he finally said, "Aren't you going to take any of your damn balloons with you BOY to have fun with?"

Oh! Oh! Oh! "Uh, what do we need balloons for?" I asked rather tentatively, as if I didn't suspect what was on his mind.

"Well I think you enjoy them so much while you are down in the woods and out camping with your friends I thought you could show me some of the ways you enjoy playing with them and just what the hell you do with all of them," he replied.

Before he let me get caught in a lie he continued, "I hear tell some kids had a bonfire and were playing with a lot of balloons up at the old spring in the mountains. (Dad knew that was where we had been camping the previous weekend).

Since bringing along some balloons didn't sound like a suggestion the only thing I could do was to pull open my upper bureau drawer exposing the bags of balloons in the back. Without hesitating he reached in a grabbed the bag filled with the fourteen inch rounds. I had been reserving these larger balloons for special occasions and dad had just grabbed nearly twenty five percent of my total inventory. He looked in the bag and grabbed another that had my supply of twelve inch balloons. This bag was really stuffed with about two gross so he pulled out about half of them and stuffed them in the bag with the fourteens as he quipped, "This ought to be enough so 'we' can have some real fun. I can help you get rid of the others another time. After all, the sooner you get rid of them the sooner you maybe will grow up".

"What about some of those long balloons from the carnival? Are they in this bag?" he suggested as he groped for the last bag in my drawer.

As I looked at the nearly 300 balloons on my bed he wanted to take with us I thought, 'Was dad turned on by balloons and the cause of my life long rubber addiction? He must know how far away you can hear balloons popping out doors. There is no way we are going to blow up all of these to bust them. Damn, he is probably just going to burn them'? I hadn't missed the "we" in his last comment and I was filled with apprehension as to the possible implications. He had me gather up the bags of balloons and we headed down to the car.

As we drove I couldn't resist asking for details on the report of the wild balloon party up at the spring. I was mainly interested whether anyone suspected the boys or I were involved. He said no, they didn't know who it was. This put me at ease and I felt it safe to relate our narrow escape. I didn't mention the part about the boys pissing on me, however. I detected he was pleased with my performance and mentioned that he thought I had smelled pretty rank that night when I got home. I had no comment. We finally reached our destination and dad parked the car on the top of the mountain where the trail crossed the well rutted dirt road we had driven up. Dad indicated that we should take the balloons out of the bags and stuff them in the pockets of our shorts. As a result, to my surprise, we only took about half of them. He would either destroy the rest when we got back of perhaps I would get to bust them another day.

We headed down the trail walking along mostly in silence. As during the incident at the dump I was trying to figure what kind of balloon play and 'do with' demonstrations dad was looking for. That was foolishness of my mind. I knew damn well what he wanted to see and learn. Now thanks to last weekend and knowing that the boys and I had balloons along he would also want to know about any mutual sex play I might have been involved in. Truth is when I was out alone I always spent the first hour or so in conventional balloon play; multiple inflation's to soften up the rubber and allow the balloons to distend well beyond their rated size. Then batting them up in the air and allowing the air currents to carry them some distance down the field. Releasing untied inflated balloons and watching their zigzag course as they bounce off potentially destructive obstacles. But following that, then I would move into more sensuous balloon play. Squeezing and rubbing the complaining rubber on my body and between my bare legs as my tool began to ooze.

The implications of his suspicions being verified seemed obvious. Without doubt there would be dire physical personal consequences and certain total destruction of all my fetishes. There was just no way I would get through a balloon play session with dad as we had done in the years before the war without his detecting my arousal. Just even thinking about the balloon session in the old barn and the following camp out with the boys started dampening the crotch of my gym under shorts as we walked along. Then I recalled how aroused I had gotten when he was ripping the gym shorts off me. There was just no way I could get through the next couple of hours of balloon play with dad without revealing how deep seated my toy balloon and short pants fetish had become.

We had reached a large open grassy area where high tension electrical lines crossed over the ridge of the mountain. Dad and I had been here many times before and he indicated we should go over the crest and a bit down the far side where there were some rock outcroppings. It would isolate us from the little used trail we had been hiking on by a good 1/2 mile. I noted we were also several miles further isolated from listening ears then I had been at the spring.

We soon arrived at the far side of the mountain crest. In an attempt to delay what was surely coming I asked dad what he thought about wearing his scout outfit for our hike; did he think it was cooler, more comfortable, freedom of movement, etc. It really made him look sexy with his calves encased in the olive drab knee socks and the legs of his loose fitting shorts flopping about mid thigh on his upper legs. I was frankly ashamed that I was getting turned on as I watched my father trudging along in front of me.

In response to my question he indicated he was in total agreement that shorts and knee socks were quite appropriate for our activity except he felt his now well sweat soaked neckerchief was ineffective and he thought we looked silly wearing them. Suspecting the reason for my question he responded, "I have no problem with your wearing shorts as long as they do not become a homosexual fetish for you. (I wasn't sure of this in my own mind but I suspected dad might be right again). I think you look good when you are wearing reasonable length short pants. I appreciate the fact that your not afraid to show off your legs like like other boys your age. I like coming home and seeing your strong muscular legs and your dirty skinned up knees."

After a bit Dad got to the point of our hike, so he exclaimed, "Remember how much fun you used to have when we played with balloons in the living room? I want to see if you still enjoy them the same way you used to."

Oh oh, here it comes. I had come to the realization over the years that my parents knew that playing with balloons caused me to have erections which mom referred to as 'being silly'. Back then when I was six and seven shorts were mandatory attire for my play; and how could a little tike not be expected to get a rise in his little dickey what with falling and crawling all over the soft rubber bags lying about on the floor. (I was really afraid of loud noises and balloons in particular at that time, so most of the time dad only inflated them about three quarter full so they didn't pop too loud and held up to my abuse fairly well).

Dad then reached in his pocket and pulled out a nice dark green fourteen inch balloon (my favorite color) and handed it to me saying, "Here let's see you blow this baby up until it pops. I liked watching you bust them that way when we were up at the dump. You seemed to enjoy them a lot more now that you are not afraid when they pop anymore."

I took the green balloon from dad and stood in front of him and began blowing away. As I looked through the rapidly stretching rubber I could see him smiling in anticipation. I was using slow, deliberate, full lung blows in my work. Finally with no more rubber available and the pressure building the balloon yielded with a sharp BANG on the 20th blow. Dad grinned and said "Bust another one. I like to see you burst them like that."

I pulled out a yellow twelve incher and finished it off with sixteen blows. Dad said "I like the bigger ones better. Would you like to see me break one that way?"

I was really getting into it. "Sure," I laughingly replied. "That's the only way for us he men to bust balloons."

Things were really beginning to stir down below. I figured let the hard times roll. Dad knew damn well I was already sexed up. I wasn't going to fight it. If he was trying to see if our balloon play would get me sexually excited up I wasn't about to disappoint him.

Cigarette smoking had definitely reduced dad's lung capacity but he still did a respectable job on his balloon, bursting it in 25 blows. He was reading my thoughts as he suggested we finish off some more in a one on one balloon bust contest. We ripped through some of the big as well as some of the smaller round balloons. I could have out popped him every time but I deliberately slowed down on our last pop off to let him finish his off first. I this point was just glad my balloons were being inflated and busted and not just destroyed by being burned which was what I figured he would want to do when we left the house. It was becoming obvious that my father wanted to be sure and get me fully aroused. At this point I had no intention of holding back. My tool was at full attention and getting additional stimulation from sliding around inside my gym under shorts.

Finally after we had popped about a dozen balloons between us dad suggested I show him some other things I liked to do with balloons when I was out in the woods alone; so I demonstrated balloon sailing in which I would bat balloons up in the air so the breeze would carry them down over the mountainside. This didn't work very well this day because there was little breeze. We couldn't get the balloons to sail on the wind currents more than one hundred feet or so. This activity involved a good deal of running up and down the slope on my part to retrieve the balloons when they fell into the grass because Dad was quite content to just let them lie where they landed and let the blazing sun finish them off. One by one our balloons eventually popped as they landed on or were blown into sharp briers or branches. After 20 minutes or so of launch and chase, with my sweat building, I had totally lost my stimulation.

Dad noticed this and suggested I bring out the 560 airship balloons left over from the carnival. I told him we could shoot them up in the air like rockets. I gave dad half of them and cautioned him that you had to hold them so they would inflate from the far end first. We each blew up one of the airships as we moved to the center of the cleared area. When we had them fully inflated we aimed them upward and released the balloons. They both soared about forty to fifty feet into the air, actually higher than the high tension wires that were overhead. Dad wondered if we could hang one of the balloons up on the wires. I suggested that would be a waste of a good balloon because it was the destiny of every balloon to burst with a glorious POP. Dad agreed. Each of the airships were good for four or five good decent flights before the rubber softened and the bloated bags would just lazily lift off from our hands. When this happened dad just grabbed a fresh one rather than bothering re inflate the old one. He hung the limp long thin over stretched rubber of his tired toy over a limb of a nearby bush.

After 6 shots with my first balloon I just kept on blowing. Dad noticed the distended bulge at the neck end and commented that it was going to burst, which it did. It ripped open from end to end and the large hunk of rubber flew a few feet out in front of me as it fluttered to earth. I couldn't resist picking up the remains. A few weeks earlier I had used the long rectangular pieces of rubber from the busted balloons for head, arm, and leg bands when I had last played with the airship balloons with the boys. I had enjoyed the sweet smell of the rubber when it mingled with my sweat. I only wore the rubber bands when I was alone, of course, since they tended to make me look a bit 'odd'. Dad asked me what I was going to do with the busted balloon, and since I was so uninhibited at this point from our balloon play, I just wrapped it around my forehead and tied the ends together behind my head. Dad scowled and said it made me look like a native American, and I just smiled.

We continued to sail the airship balloons until we had gone through the dozen or so that I had brought. One of dad's busted as he was blowing it up, and the other four he had hung on the branch when they filed to sail sufficiently well. I made a point of inflating to burst each of mine after the 5th or 6th inflation. I tied two of the torn rubber strips around my legs over the roll at the top of my knee socks. Dad thought I looked silly. I knew that I looked silly, and I was loving every minute of it.

After we finished with the rocket balloons dad suggested we move to a more level grassy playing area where there were fewer weeds and brush to break our toys. He said, "Remember the fun you used to have when we played with the balloons in our living room. Why don't we blow up a whole lot of balloons and you can play with them the way you did years ago."

Wow! here comes the fun, I thought, and most likely the consequences. We spent the next twenty minutes or so inflating at least four dozen of my rubber toys. Dad was blowing up the larger fourteen inch balloons and I was taking care of the smaller twelves. We had them in two piles around our feet. I think dad was beginning to get winded so he finally called for a halt. As it was I still figured there had to be close to a half a gross left between us in the pockets of our shorts.

After a couple of minutes to recover our wind, Dad started off by grabbing a balloon near his feet and came over and whacked me in the face with it. I quickly grabbed one of my smaller balloons and used it to defend myself as well as using it to get in a couple of swats to dad's kisser. He cheated, however, and grabbed my balloon with his other hand digging his nails into the rubber skin. With my offensive weapon 'popped' I grabbed his balloon and tried to pull it away from him. The rubber squealed in delight as our hands slid over the surface. The balloon, unable to withstand the abuse for more than a few seconds, died with a loud 'poof' as it's skin was ripped asunder.

We each quickly grabbed an additional balloon from our arsenal. Dad grabbed the back of my head and pressed his larger balloon into my face. It squeaked in protest as the rubber stretched over my sweaty cheeks. The balloon popped with a loud over pressure BANG. Fortunately for me he was pressing on the balloon with the flat of his hand or he would have certainly bloodied my nose as his hand slammed into my face. If he was going to get rough, I would too, so I drove my balloon into his mid section with my fist; POOM.

For our next pair of balloons, Dad managed to grab and bust mine right away. As I made a grab for his he quickly stuck it down in the crotch area between us. He grabbed my buns and squeezed the two of us together on the complaining rubber. I immediately revised my estimate of dad's intention. He wasn't just trying to see if he could get me sexed up with balloons (which I more than was already), he wanted to see me come off (which I was nearly about to). I pictured my pecker popping the thin rubber skin, notwithstanding the difficulty through the gym and boy scout shorts I was wearing. The balloon finally died and dad gave me a wicked grin. Hot damn our balloon play had to be getting him psyched as well because he was really getting in to it. I now had little doubt that my father got more enjoyment out of playing with rubber toys than I might have ever imagined. We each grabbed more of the balloons from our reserves. We were both getting physically into the balloon popping play. It was becoming a repeat of the balloon free-for-all I had had with the boys in the old barn a few weeks earlier.

When dad and I played with balloons in my younger days I would do most of the racing around batting them, kicking them, rolling on them, and in the process nearly wrecking our living room. Dad would remain in his chair and supply me with replacements as they succumbed to my harsh play. Unlike our old living room, however, the balloons were not surviving nearly as well in the grass as they had on the rug. We finally finished off the remaining inflated balloons that hadn't been kicked or blown away from the immediate area by rolling around on them, rubbing each other in stimulating spots, and popping them by squeezing them between our bodies. We were literally wrestling, trying to push each other over on top of the balloon supply. Squeak - pop, squeak - pop, the balloons were succumbing to the weight of our bodies crushing them into the lush green grass.

Dad and I were really huffing and puffing by this point. I was stimulated to the max and could feel that I was oozing fluids all over the inside of my gym shorts. At this point father called a halt and we went over and sat on a large rock to survey the results of our play. We had busted over 4 dozen balloons in less than 10 minutes but there will still a few inflated ones left. Dad looked at them and I thought, uh oh, now comes the feel and tell. What will he do when he finds I am near ready to dump a load in my shorts.

I had noticed when we sat down that both our knees were well dirtied by ground in dirt and grass stain and that one of dad's was skinned and oozing blood. Before Dad could get his thoughts together I said as I pointed to the torn skin on his knee, "That was fun dad, but I see you got your short pants baptism"."

"You're right boy" he volunteered. "Remember, though, you got an edge on me. You've been wearing shorts for 6 weeks now; your knees were bound to get toughened up in that time."

He paused while he lit up a cigarette. I quickly jumped up and rounded up a couple of the balloons that still survived. I held them by their necks and lazily waved them over in front of my father. I figured anything to delay his verification of my balloon play stimulation which I figured would seal the fate of my balloons and shorts. I had decided that since he seemed to get so much pleasure from our balloon popping over the years, not to mention his just demonstrated enthusiasm, that he had to be partly responsible for my sexual attraction to the rubber toys. If he would demand their destruction I was prepared to use this fact to defend my sexual perversions and hopefully save my fetishes.

"Hmmmm, real inviting. Pretty rubber balloons just waiting to get burned," Dad ventured.

"You know burning them is my favorite method for getting rid of your balloons. They bust so easy this way; you don't even have to touch them with the burning tip," he mused.

As he talked I was picturing all my balloons piled in a blazing mound going up like a sacrifice in a dense black cloud of smoke.

POP! POP! I was suddenly jerked back to reality. Dad had kissed the two balloons I was holding with his lit cigarette.

"Do you want me to get rid of some more for you. It's a lot quicker and a lot less effort than what we have just been doing," dad volunteered.

"Nah," I replied, "Burning them seems like a waste of good rubber. The balloon doesn't stand a chance. I like it more when we torture them a little bit first and let them put up a fight before they give in and bust."

Dad got up and went over and brought the remaining inflated balloons over to our rock. He took one of the balloons and pressed it into my knee with a twisting motion. The rubber complained loudly with a rising pitch as it got tighter and tighter with the increasing force that he was applying. The balloon took his abuse for about 10 seconds before it ruptured. He grabbed a second balloon and scrubbed it on my other knee. It soon popped and I was about to also.

"Did that get you turned on boy?" dad asked.

His words jolted me out of my euphoric state almost as much as the fact that I realized that he had reached up the leg of my shorts and grabbed my stem after the second balloon popped. If he was hoping for a steel hard rod he got his wish.

"Looks like you have a problem here boy," was his response.

Without thinking of possible consequences I then retaliated by running my hand up the leg of his shorts for a feel as well. I was hoping to find that he was aroused by what he was doing to me that I might use as an excuse for my balloon fetish, but his fully relaxed dick didn't offer me any defensive ammunition.

"Sorry son," he said. "I like breaking balloons, and I love to see you play with them and bust them; but they are not a sexual stimulation for me as they are for you. I think it's time you and I had an honest talk about this childish balloon fetish of yours. I also love seeing you wearing shorts, but I want to fully understand why you seem to have such a passion for wearing them especially since it places you in such an awkward position with other boys your age."

Dad paused a moment to let his words sink in, then he continued, "But before we do that we had better relieve that pressure you have in your shorts, don't you think."

Man he had that right. My balls were aching so bad I thought they were going to explode. Dad went on, "Now don't be concerned, I'm not going to punish you. It's perfectly normal for a boy your age to masturbate and relieve himself. What's not normal is your use of rubber balloons, and I suspect wearing those short pants as well, as a means of achieving your sexual stimulation."

After a pause he continued, "Why don't you take off your scout shorts. I want to see how manly you look wearing just your gym shorts."

I dumbly obeyed and removed my scout shorts while dad got up and fetched the used airship balloons that he had hung on the branch earlier. He began inflating one of them. My white gym shorts had a nice tent in the front and I could feel a large patch of boy goo as well. Dad was smiling as he looked me over. Under his scrutiny I was rapidly loosing my stimulation.

Then he motioned me lay on the grass in front of him and then pull the waist band of my gym shorts down below my balls. He looked at my fading manhood and started rubbing my penis with the end of the balloon he was holding while he remarked, "I hope you did better than this when you were with the boys up on the mountain the other week."

I could sense he wanted a complete report of our sexual encounter. So as he rubbed the balloon on my legs and over my dick I gave him the details of my fun with the boys and what all we had done with the balloons around the camp fire and in the tent on our camp out the previous week. I indicated the interaction with my friends wasn't nearly as sexually stimulating as I had envisioned it would be and that, in the end, I had to give myself a hand job and wouldn't have gone over the top if they hadn't been massaging me with balloons. I did not mention how much I enjoyed seeing my friends, and my father for that matter, wearing shorts and how much that stimulated me.

Father absorbed my explanation then thoughtfully responded, "Son, if you are telling me the truth I am very pleased. My greatest concern is that you grow up and mature sexually so that you can have normal loving relationships with a women. I have not wanted to admit it even to myself, but I think I have to take some responsibility for your unnatural sexual affinity for toy balloons. Rubbing them on your body and bare legs when you were younger reflected very poor judgment on my part. For this reason I will not destroy your toys because I know you will just find a way to get more. As I told you when I accidentally found your stockpile of balloons, I still strongly recommend that it is in your best interest to destroy them; and I don't mean in the way we have just been doing. That just allows them to create more stimulation. So may I again suggest that you take them up to the dump and put a match to them so they don't give you any further sexual play stimulation. "

Dad paused to allow his chilling suggestion to sink in. Then he continued, "But now I want you to tell me exactly why you have such a strong desire to dress like a little boy in short pants; and I know it's not just because they are cool and comfortable to wear in this kind of weather. I know you wouldn't submit to the humiliation and risk ridicule and physical abuse from other boys just for that reason, so I want an honest answer as to why you find wearing shorts sexually attractive. If it is for the reason I think it is then I am going to insist that you destroy every pair you own except for the one you need for school gym class."

Even though I was super stimulated by dad's balloon massage, lying there in front of him the frank discussion about my fetishes and especially their destruction prevented me from getting fully aroused. When he made his comment about destroying all my shorts, my dick almost instantly collapsed. It had to be a dead give away that my love for short pants went well beyond the practical.

My mind raced. What could I say to him that would spare my scout, gym shorts, and the ones my friends mother had made me from going up in flames. Choosing my words carefully I said, "To tell you the truth, dad, It's the combination of playing with balloons while wearing my shorts that is the real turn on. I like the feel of the rubber when I rub the balloons on my bare knees and legs. I like the freedom and feel of wearing shorts out in the woods and running through grassy fields. I like getting my knees dirty and even skinned up sometimes. I find these things a real turn on. To be really honest though, I would love to just go back to being a young kid again having fun rolling around in shorts busting balloons in the living room like I used to do."

I was hoping he would connect my last comment to his divorce from my mother. I continued, "You are right. I really feel awkward wearing shorts in public in front of other kids and adults. It pisses me off when they call me a sissy when the other guys are the ones who are afraid to get their knees skinned up."

While I had been talking Dad's attention had strayed from his balloon massage and I was hoping he would see that as the reason for my limp condition; not the dread I was feeling as I expected dad to momentarily order the destruction of all my shorts. He mulled over my response to his question, before he responded, "You gave me some pretty good reasons for your fascination with short pants, but I really suspect that even though you may not acknowledge it, you have some strong homosexual desires that you are going to have to overcome. If I really thought burning all your short pants would eliminate your deviant desires we would head home right now and put a match to all of them. What I am going to require you to do is wear shorts as often as possible, not just when no one is looking and you are alone hiding down in the woods having fun with yourself. That way shorts won't be as much of a fetish object for you. If that's agreeable then I won't make you get rid of them right now."

I slowly nodded in agreement, not sure what 'as often as possible' would entail.

With the immediate threat to my fetishes apparently passed I was able to relax. What I had anticipated would be an inquisition turned out to not be as bad as I had figured it would be. It appeared my balloon and short pants fetishes were safe from destruction at least for the moment. The resumed soft rubber squeaking on the end of my dick was rapidly bringing me to climax even in front of my father.

Initially I didn't think there was any way I was going to come off in front of dad, but the balloon rubbing my legs, crotch, and stem brought ooze that smeared over the rubber tube and reduced the friction. "Hay boy," father exclaimed, "It looks like you are about ready to go. Grab hold and lets see you pump yourself off."

Man it didn't take very many strokes. I stiffened in ecstasy as my initial load shot over my right shoulder. The secondary shots landed under my chin below the neckerchief slide. Dad grinned from ear to ear as he asked me if I shot a good load like that every time when I came. I replied, "No, not usually like this. It does become a mess though."

A couple of years earlier I had discovered that my masturbation pleasure was enhanced when I used a condom. I didn't have to worry about getting my hand into my gym shorts and under my tool to catch my juice when I came. Also containing my pre cum greatly enhanced the feeling and the thin rubber sheath was much less abrasive than just rubbing my stem on the cotton of my shorts. Since there would never be a better time to bring up such a subject I blurted out, "Dad would you be willing to get me a box of rubbers to use when I am relieving myself. Then I won't have to be so careful about making a mess in my room. I'll pay you for them out of my allowance."

He indicated they were too expensive for such use so I admitted that I had borrowed a few from the box in his bureau drawer and found that I when I was done I could rinse them out and re roll them for multiple use. I could usually get 15 to 30 uses out of one before it would bust. Dad agreed to take my request under advisement.

At this point as I floated down from my orgasm Dad pressed his nails into the end of the airship balloon he had been rubbing me with. The tired balloon went POOF. The flying sheet of rubber wrapped around my stem like a flag. He wouldn't have been able to duplicate that pop in 1000 tries.

I removed the rubber sheet as I used my hand to wipe the semen from the end of my still throbbing dick. I then rubbed it off my hand on the grass next to me. The juice that I shot landed on my scout shirt and neckerchief and mixed with my sweat. As a result there wasn't much I could do to clean off that juice other than to try to spread it around as much as possible.

Somewhat cleaned up I pulled the gym shorts back up to my waist and got up. I was about to put my scout shorts back on again when dad said, "Hey leave them off for awhile while we see if we can dirty up those pretty white gym pants you're wearing. We still have a lot more balloons to get rid of."

Dad grabbed an inflated balloon in each hand while I walked over to retrieve a couple that were lying in the high grass. The next thing I knew he tackled me and we both landed in the lush green grass on top of the balloons I was trying to pick up. Poom poom as they got flattened under my chest and hips. I twisted into a sitting position as dad squeezed the balloon in his left hand over my face as I tried to get up. Fortunately it popped right away. Then he jammed the one in his right hand between my legs above my knees and pushed it hard up into my crotch. The balloon emitted a loud short squeal before it also popped.

Even with the balloons in our immediate vicinity popped we still continued to wrestle and thrash about in the grass for a good five minutes until dad finally called time to catch his breath. I was surprised how much stronger and more endurance I had since the beginning of summer. All the sweat and pain of my morning workouts with the bar bells was paying off. Our sweaty efforts had achieved Dad's goal of getting mud and grass stains on my formally all white gym shorts. There were numerous noticeable stains on the olive drab scout shorts dad was wearing.

We got up and father and I walked over to where there were four remaining inflated round balloons. Dad was about to finish them off under his foot when I stopped him and said, "Can't we have a little more fun with them."

Dad said, "Sure," as he turned and sat down within arms reach of them. He spread his legs and said, "Here, sit in front of me."

I sat on the grass with my ass pushed back into his crotch. He grabbed the waist band of my gym shorts with his left hand and pulled it away from me while grabbing my balls and dick with his right. He let the waist band snap back under my sack. I suddenly thought, oh no, I've played right into his hands, literally. He is going to see how much I enjoy having him jack me off'.

It was too late. He grabbed a balloon with his right hand and started vigorously scrubbing my stem which immediately sprang to life. He wasn't any too gentle with his rubbing and the balloon soon burst. He finished off two more as he vigorously massaged my rock hard dick. I began to groan; holding back trying to achieve a super orgasm. Before it too popped he handed me the last balloon which I started rubbing between my hands and over my knees as he reached around, grabbed my shaft, and started pumping. Whoaeeee, did I ever shoot a load. The cum squirted all over the balloon I was holding which I then immediately popped by ripping it apart with my fingers out of the shear ecstasy of the moment. The wet flying rubber caused my juice to get sprayed on the both of us.

As I came down from my sexual exhilaration I expected dad would rescind his position of not destroying my shorts, and maybe even the balloons. Then I realized that there was something heard pressing against the crack of my ass through the thin cotton shorts. Using my legs I quickly pulled myself away from him, twisted around and grabbed the fly of his shorts. Dad gave me a weak grin and said, "Looks like you got me. I guess we all have our sins and weaknesses. I wish to hell now I hadn't done this to you. Can you forgive me?"

I said, "Look dad, It's OK. Do you want to trade places and I'll do you?"

I was relieved when he said emphatically no and again expressed remorse at having played with me. Because of our mutually shared guilt I certainly would not have enjoyed doing it to my father and it was unlikely he would have enjoyed having me play with him either.

Dad's indiscretion had suddenly ended our play. I put on my scout shorts and we started the hopeless task of policing up our play area. The larger pieces of rubber were no problem, but there were thousands of smaller shards from the balloons we had blown up until they burst or had been flattened in the grass. Even so we gathered quite an impressive pile.

When we had gathered up all the obvious bits of torn rubber Dad asked what we should do with the broken balloons and I said, "Burn them, naturally."

Dad grinned as we piled all the torn rubber on a large rock. Then Dad made the chilling remark, "Are you sure you don't want to add all the rest of your balloons we brought along?"

I gave my father a sick look and was about to tell him, 'No I want to save them to have fun with later'; but I thought better of it as Dad handed me his lighter. Without pressing me further, I touched the flame to the pile. The torn rubber sheets flared up quickly as the ravenous flames licked upwards. The busted balloons burned for twenty minutes or so before the last tongue of flame disappeared from the bubbling black residue. Watching the rubber go up in smoke was just as spectacular as when we had burned all the balloons from my seventh birthday party years earlier. Only this time I was a very relaxed puppy.

When the fire was out we headed over the hill back to the trail. I grabbed the couple of remaining used airship balloons from the branch where dad had hung them and stuck them in my pocket as we left. They had been inflated several times and been hanging out in the bright sunlight for well over an hour, so I thought they might be well on their way to feeling and smelling really good.

I was thankful I had an understanding and loving father. I knew under the circumstances any other dad would have made me gather up and destroy all my balloons and shorts and then probably beaten the living hell out of me. I knew my father really didn't have to reveal any sexual arousal to me and I realized he had done so as a token of his love and understanding of my sexual deviation. I knew this was certainly due to the fact that he acknowledged that he was to a large extent responsible for my sexual anomaly. We kept our thoughts to ourselves as we hiked along in silence the mile and a half  back to our car.

As we drove down the road off the mountain I just had to ask my father when I wouldn't be expected to be wearing shorts. Three months earlier up at the dump I had apparently at least in his mind, committed to wearing the scout shorts we had bought essentially all the time and every where. Since then I didn't know if he seriously expected me to wear them in a few weeks when I would return to eleventh grade high school. Dad's answer was chillingly direct when he said he couldn't think of any times he did not expect me to be in short pants, aside from church.

With that comment I blurted out, "You don't really expect me to wear these shorts to school, do you? Hell the teachers will send me immediately to the principal and they will throw me out on my ear."

That was assuming I was still alive and not beaten to a pulp by the other boys in school. Dad gave me a smug glance and replied, "Don't worry about that. I have already told the school administrators you will be showing up wearing shorts with nicely rolled knee socks showing off your tough manly knees. They said they had no objections to such dress at all. In fact your gym instructor Mr. Mack (another good friend of my fathers) will be happy to give you or any other boy who wears shorts to school for at least half the school year an automatic "A" in phys ed."

I thought, 'That figures. Mackey has a thing for boys that wear shorts'. Damn, why did I have to have a father with so many friends in the wrong key places.

Then a thought popped into my mind as I said, "Dad, you know that it is illegal to wear a scout uniform in public if you are not an active member or participating in Boy Scout function."

I didn't know this for sure, but I thought I had heard that was the case. I figured Dad would then just tell me I would be wearing the somewhat longer blue denim shorts the boys mother had made me. I figured this would make me look a little less dorky; however the only knee socks I had were the several dozen boy scout socks we had bought when we got all the rest of the outdated uniforms.

"You worry too much boy," he chuckled. "I checked with Mr. Mack (who was also the scoutmaster in town) and have already got your membership card and troop neckerchief that you think is so much fun to wear all ready for you when we get home."

Was I dead meat or what. Wearing shorts to high school was unthinkable. Wearing a dorky short pants scout uniform day in and day out was beyond comprehension. If dad thought his position was making me think that burning all my shorts would be a fun thing to do, he was absolutely right.

"You know all the boys are going to beat up on me," I weakly offered.

"Yes, I'm even counting on it," he replied. "I also think you are man enough to handle it. If you decide you haven't got guts enough to wear shorts, then like I said before, we can take them up to the dump and get rid of all of them for you."

Pain notwithstanding, getting in shape zoomed to my top priority. The last few weeks of the summer I really poured on the work outs with the bar bells as well as with the striking bag. Revision Date 2/03.
<Continue to Later Years #13>

Sponsored by: Ashley's Sex Toys and Adult Video Store