Catching Daddy

I often fantasized about my father when I was a young girl. I’d seen his penis many times when I was little, and I was fascinated by it – it was so much bigger than my brother’s. But, as much as I wanted to, I never dared touch it. It wasn’t until I was a bit older that I first saw my father’s cock when it was hard for the first time.

I had found my dad’s stash of porn in an old toolbox under his workbench in the basement. A few copies of Playboy, a hardcore magazine with thick pages and a squarish binding, and a yellowed adult novel with the cover torn off. I hadn’t told Brad and Connie about my find – this was my secret.

One autumn day, while my brother and sister were off playing, I went to sneak downstairs to look at the pretty naked ladies in the magazines. I was on the third step when I heard that someone was down there already. The right side of our basement stairs was mostly blocked off by that pegboard stuff that men like to use to hang their tools on. I crouched down and peeked through one of those tiny holes.

There, on the musty old sofa we kept in the cellar, was my father. He had his pants down to his ankles, his old toolbox nearby, a magazine lying open on the cushion next to him, and his big, hard cock gripped tightly in his hand. I felt suddenly lightheaded and couldn’t believe how lucky I was. I was actually seeing my own father masturbating!

I pressed my fingers between my legs and practically held my breath. With my eye right up against one of those peg-board holes, I watched with longing interest. I’d seen my brother jack off a million times by then, but this was different. This was the “real thing.” Dad thought he was all alone during this private moment, and so this was purely about his own pleasure without any other consideration. It wasn’t a performance for my sake.

His hand moved up and down his shaft in slow, steady strokes. His hairy balls hung between his thighs, one resting higher than the other. He would turn several pages, then pause when he saw something he liked and look at it for a time. It wasn’t anything especially unique, just a basic jerk-off session alone in the basement, but for me, it was the most wonderful thing I’d ever witnessed.

He looked at one picture longer than any of the others. He started pumping his cock faster, then leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and pulled the front of his shirt up to his chest. Seconds later, three big spurts of cum shot out onto his belly. He just sat there like that for a time, holding his cock and giving it the occasional squeeze. I wanted to run down the steps and lick up his cum and suck on his spent penis, but I stayed still.

My father eventually stirred and cleaned himself off with one of those reddish mechanic’s rags. As he was packing the magazines back into the toolbox, I snuck upstairs and ran out to the woods behind our house. I found a hidden spot, dropped my pants and panties, and fingered myself to an almost instant orgasm. I diddled myself three more times, my bare butt wiggling on a bed of wet autumn leaves, thinking about what I had just seen.

That memory of my father has been a regular feature of many of my masturbation sessions to this day. We never did do anything sexual with each other, but at least I have that. That day set the bar for me when it came to what it meant to be manly.

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