Caden&Nicolas - Part 1 - Sex Stories

Caden&Nicolas - Part 1

... Daddy’s feet and I wanted so bad to reach down to them and hug them for all of eternity but I could already feel the sourness in my stomach began to poison me. So I clung tightly to Daddy’s neck as he and Mama rushed me back to the house. Moments later I was tossed into a steaming bath, something Mama had always insisted on doing when I got caught in the worst of weather. She wanted to nip any sickness in the bud before it festered within my body, but this time she was too late. I can remember throwing up in the tub almost instantly and my mother crying by my side as she pulled me out of the dirtied water. I knelt over the toilet, hurling my supper and lunch and breakfast into the water, crying at the same time the pain in my stomach heightened. I let out a soft holler into the toilet as I began dry-heaving and Mama wrapped me in a towel, carrying me upstairs to the master bathroom. She ran a steaming shower and threw my under the water, quickly scrubbing me with soap and shampoo and conditioner, and minutes later I found myself curled under my bed, wrapped snuggly in my covers, and my mother lying by my side cooing a lullaby as I drifted off to sleep. It was the worst mistake of my life. That was a good eleven years ago, to this day exactly. As a boy, prime in the age of seventeen, I can still relive every emotion that ran through me that day. And I can still see the boy rush to my side the next day as I burned with a fever. He brought me his mother’s homemade chicken soup ...

... and fell aside me in the bed as we watched Disney movies and drank ginger ale. He was a hell of a lot frailer then, his body long and slender and skinny. He was tanned from the trustworthy Floridian sun, his dark hair at birth transformed through few years to a sandy blond. He looked at me every moment the movie cut to a break to check my forehead, wipe the sweat off my brow and instruct me to eat my soup. He looked at me with a worry no six-year-old should ever know, and his pale blue eyes grew dark each time I dared to cough. My mother likes to say that it was he who nursed me back to health. His name then is the same now, Caden Ray Smith. His father was a lot less like my own than I used to think. He owned a local hometown diner that stood proudly in the center of town for the last eighty years. Fellow churchmen and women prayed over speedy breakfast meals, housewives met there for morning brunch, men with calloused hands and aching feet and backs shuffled in for a sandwich or hamburger for lunch, and a variety of families gathered for a homemade meal close to dinnertime. He rarely took a day off—and that’s about as much alike my father that man really is. He was a loyal man, all to his friends, his business, his town and family. A damned hard worker. He sacrificed everything he had to make sure that Caden and his little brother lived a good life. On the flip side, you have my father. Curt in the way he speaks. He ruled my life with an iron fist—or tried to. My father was a ...