Author: Grown Up Boy

Title: That’s Way It Was

Summary: While cleaning out his deceased uncle's house, a man comes across a box of photos and remembers their incestuous relationship started when he was a little boy

Keywords: Mb

This is an ADULTS ONLY work of fiction 




I hadn't seen him in 20 years or so, and I had mixed feelings when I heard that he had died. I used to love him, and at one time I believed he loved me. He was my first lover, and the thrill of discovering sexual pleasure burns deep into your memory.

My mother had asked me to help her go through his house, getting it ready for sale. I hadn't been back there in a long time, and as I drove out there I had really mixed feelings: fear, confusion, sadness and occasionally arousal as I remembered those years we lived with him.

My mother was sad, crying as I hugged her there in the front yard. She didn't know the other side of him, I had never told her. To Mom, her older brother was a good man, who had saved her time and time again when she needed a little money, a car fixed, or a place to stay. To her, he was the man who stepped in and was the only "father" her son, had ever known. I wasn't going to take that away from her. 

We worked on the house for a few days hauling load after load of his old furniture and belongings to the dump. Neither of us had been there in a while, and we underestimated how long it would take. On Wednesday she had to leave; she never had much money, and couldn't take too many days off work. Maybe selling the house would finally allow her enough money to take a vacation. She needed one.

A few hours after she left I opened a cardboard box I had found down in the basement, stuffed behind the old disused coal furnace. There wasn't much light down there in the basement, just enough to tell that the box was filled with pictures, pictures of me. I carried the box upstairs to the room just off the kitchen, the only room that still had a chair to sit in. I felt kind of funny sitting in his recliner. 

He had sat in that chair hundreds of times with me, on my knees before him. It was always the same. I would unzip his pants, and carefully take out his cock and balls. I respected his cock, it was thick and powerful and magnificent. 

I was a mixed up kid, he had groomed me well, and I thought penises were some sort of mystical source of a man's power. His cock was big and strong, so was he. He could do anything, catch anything, fix anything. I had a small little penis, and I couldn't do anything that he could. I was lucky to have him love me, and sucking his cock was the least I could do to pay him back.   

My mother worked four to midnight cleaning offices. She was so happy that Uncle Bill had helped get her that job, and she bought me a new baseball glove with her first paycheck. I still have that glove.  With Mom gone, it was just Uncle Bill and I after school.

We didn't have sex every day. He had a few small retail businesses around town, and he was always busy dealing with them. On those days I would just go out and play with friends, go to little league practice or watch TV.

Some days though, he was there. When he was, he would greet me, ask me how my day had gone, ask to see my folder of schoolwork. He would look at it, praise my good grades, and chastise me for my mistakes and failures. He would ask if I wanted a snack, and then tell me to go ahead and take off my school clothes while he got it ready. 

I knew what to do, he didn't have to tell me, after the first few times. I would go into my room, and take my clothes off, put the dirty clothes in the hamper, and the return in just my white cotton briefs and socks. I would sit at the table while he watched me eat my milk and cookies.

He would talk to me about school, the Red Sox, our next fishing trip, or anything else that was on his mind. I would talk with him sharing the details of my day. If you overheard us, and didn't know I was about to suck his cock, it would have been a wholly appropriate and healthy conversation between a man and a boy. 

When I was done with the cookies, he would make a slight nod, and tap his crotch, and then it was time. I would wipe the milk off my mouth with the paper towel, stand up, push the chair in and walk over to kneel down with him.

He was always soft when we started, and I had to make him hard. After a few months, I had become quite good at it. I liked the feeling of his cock when it wasn't hard. Warm and yeasty, thick and floppy, I was always amazed by it. I liked feeling it come alive and grow firm in my hands.

 I knew what he liked, how to look at him with big grateful eyes, how to use two hands, how to swallow it all. When I sucked his cock, I called him Daddy and he called me son.  I judged myself by how much cum he gave me. If I got a big load, I knew I had done a good job, and apologized if only a little came out. 

I always licked him clean afterwards, and helped him put away his cock.

I tried my best. I wanted to swallow his cum so that my cock would grow big and powerful like his, just as his father had done for him. I was so lucky to have him there to help me, because I had never known my father, and didn't know how else I would ever become a man.

He would pat my head, play with the short hair on the back of my neck, and sometimes hold me on him as he thrust up at me, humping my face and getting his scratchy pubic hair in my nose. I was a little scared when that happened, sometimes I couldn't breath, but I knew how much he liked it, and that he would be giving me a really big load.

All this came rushing back at me as I sat in his chair in that empty house. I didn't know what to think, how to feel. My cock was hard though.

I opened up the dusty box and the pictures seemed to be chronological, oldest on top.
There were a great many school photos, team photos, pictures of he and I together. On the top layer were pretty normal family photos. There were a few of me as a little kid, naked, or in my underwear, but they didn't really seem out of place in a family photo collection. As I removed the old pictures and relived the memories, I came to a bulging manila envelope. 

In the envelope were his special pictures. I had never seen them, but they were mostly of me. In most of the pictures I was naked. There were many pictures of me sucking his cock, my eyes smiling up at him, and my mouth trying to frame a smile, at least as much as a boy can smile with a mans thick cock in it. I remembered now that he had taken pictures.

There I was, on the bed, on the couch, in the living room, everywhere. The memories came flooding back. As I dug through the stack of old pictures, I found pictures of me as an infant and toddler, sometimes in a diaper, sometimes naked, erect sometimes, nursing on his cock, smiling.  This really surprised me, I thought it had all started on that beach when I had just turned 9, and he took me on that long promised week long fishing trip. I didn't remember any of this. I guess a lot of little boys were too little to remember what happened during those years.

The pictures seemed to have a big gap that started between the ages of around 4 or 5, and went on until I until I was 9. I wondered why? I guessed that like a lot of men, he felt comfortable using me when I was too young to remember any of it, but got scared off as I approached the ages where memories begin to linger, and become permanent. 

There were a few pictures of other naked boys, but I didn't recognize any of them.

Those years between 5 and 9, he wasn't overtly sexual with me, but there seemed to be a lot of wrestling and changing into bathing suits together. He always asked if I wanted to go with him to bathrooms in restaurants. My mom thanked him when he did that. We would pee together in a stall, and I would stare at his cock. Sometimes he let me hold it while he peed. Sometimes he held mine, but that was as far as it went.

What happened when I turned nine? I don't know. I had red hair, freckles, and was small for my age. From the back you couldn't tell if I was a boy or a girl. My little penis (only men had cocks) was almost a cartoon of a penis, a tiny, pink, rubbery afterthought. When it was hard, it stuck up and touched my belly, with an almost comic sense of urgency.

I was fascinated by penises and would peek at other boys or men whenever I had the chance.

I believe that by age 9 my body had started to swell, gathering resources for the next growth spurt and my rounded, androgynous pre teen body, still padded with a layer of baby fat was more than he could resist. 

When I think of those days, what I remember most is a feeling of being owned, possessed; loved. My body was his, and it never occurred to me that he shouldn't touch it. He was the man, and I was the boy. That's just the way it was.
