JiminQueens2's blog

I smirk at him as he rolls onto his back and, before I can offer to help, stands up. He shoots a glare at me – Dad doesn’t like losing, even when it’s ostensibly for fun, like our matches are. But even if he is pissed off, he’s not too much so not to glance down at my very obvious erection and chuckle, “You’re still coming up a bit short there, son.”

“I haven’t had any complaints,” I sneer back. I make a theatrical glance down at the mass protruding from inside his briefs. “Mom, on the other hand….I’ve been hearing her say something about ‘barely bigger than a raisin’.”

“C’mere, you little…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, but strides toward me – Round Three is underway.

We crouch down, protecting our legs, eyes locked on each other as we try to anticipate the first move. Dad feints, I respond, and he draws back, smiling. Dad feints again, and I respond again, and he draws back again, still smiling. He’s done this since I was a kid, and the end result is always the same. Sooner or later, I lose patience with the dance and throw myself at his legs, trying to take him down – and since Dad knows my shots as well as he knows his own, I miss by a mile.

As soon as I hit the mat, Dad is on top of me, quickly spinning around to get us head-to-head. I’m face down, and we’re doing sub, so as he finishes the spin but before his weight is completely on me, I quickly roll over onto my back to keep him from going for a rear choke. My legs shoot up and I wrap them around his waist, not squeezing yet. I just want to keep him off of me until I figure out my next move.

I grab Dad’s wrists to keep him off me, and we hand-fight for a couple of minutes, him try to free his arms to do unspecified horrible things to me, me trying to keep him from squashing me too early. With a grunt of exertion, Dad throws his right arm out to the side. My left isn’t long enough to go with it and Dad’s right hand is free. He takes his meaty right hand and plants it right on my face, not hitting me, but pressing down on my nose and mouth.

I let his left hand go and with both my hands, I try desperately to pry his right hand off my face. The trouble is, I’m trying to pull his hand off to the side, and Dad goes with it, so the effect is me shaking my head “no” over and over and expending a lot of energy without getting much done.

Dad shifts position, still using his considerable weight to keep me pinned beneath him, and wraps his arms around my head in a tight headlock. My face is pressed against his rank but so tantalizing armpit, and it’s all I can do not to allow things below my waist to come to a head, nor to open my mouth and let my tongue go wandering. Besides, I can tell that Dad is leaning back as he controls my head, because pain begins to simmer in my neck and upper back. There’s no time for play; I’ve gotta get outta here!

I plant both my feet on the mat and throw my hips in the air like I’m fucking someone riding me. Dad has to have known that was coming, but he doesn’t try to counter it, and his sweat-soaked body slides off of mine as he “loses” the headlock. I quickly roll onto my stomach and, seeing that dad is still on his back, lunge at him, my chest landing just below his sternum with enough force to drive a surprised “WHOOSH” out of him.

I got lucky hitting the solar plexus – the “slats” as some woman once called them – and Dad’s momentarily stunned. I quickly grab his head with my right arm with a headlock of my own, but my left arm is sliding under his left leg and forcing it into the air. It’s a bit of a strain, but I manage to bring my hands together and clasp them tightly, forcing his knee into his face. I sidle my body so that we’re parallel instead of perpendicular, and my left leg forces his to stay straight, and his legs are now doing a split almost worthy of a cheerleader.

Dad grunts and groans as I cradle him, and I mutter, “Any time you want to give up, old man, you just let me know.” What he mutters back are the sort of words he told me never to use around Mom when he taught them to me. I grin and I squeeze my arms even more tightly together, forcing his crotch into an even bigger stretch.

Dad’s left arm is trapped between our two bodies, and I can feel him trying to free it, but there’s not much I can do but try to get our bodies closer together to reduce the amount of space between them. But he manages to fake me out the way I’d faked him out in the fingerlocks contest, and I move a bare centimeter to the left while his body moves a bare centimeter to the right.

That’s all the room he needs.