Quillon's Covert by Joseph Lance Tonlet, Louis Stevens

also been slightly dreading the thought ever since they’d arrived. There was no way he could bathe himself. Back at home, his mom had rigged up a sponge on a stick thingy that he used in the bathtub to clean all of his unreachable spots. He hadn’t taken a bath since he was a kid, but the tub allowed him to keep his casts dry while still managing to get himself clean despite his arms’ limited mobility. He knew there wouldn’t be that option at the cabin—Dad would have to help him—and that both excited him, and filled him with dread. “Sure,” he finally answered. There was no way around it, so he may as well get it over with.
    “Grab the toiletries on your way down, if you can manage,” Martin said. “I’ll head around back, get the water to the shower turned on, and then meet you down there.”
     

     
    “Keep cool” Marty repeated over and over as he made his way toward the shower, the toiletries precariously held between his two immobile arms. The constant reminder he kept playing in his head, “He’s your dad. He’s your dad , ” wasn’t really doing much good. But he silently repeated it over and over anyway while telling himself that thinking about Martin in that way wasn’t something he should even let cross his mind. It all turned out to be pointless as he made the trek down to the shower and saw his buck-naked father stretching under a steady stream of water. Blood instantly began flowing into his traitorous dick. Not for the first time, he thanked God not only for the fading light, but also for the seclusion of their cabin; at least he wouldn’t be sporting a hardon in front of anyone other than Martin—and his dad was more than used to his perpetual erection.
    Marty’s throat clicked from a dry swallow as he came to a stop near the spray’s edge. He took in his dad’s closed eyes, his bowed head, and his relaxed expression as water beat against his back. The few errant beads, as they landed on his broad chest and formed into snaking rivulets down his torso, captivated Marty’s attention. Martin’s closed eyes allowed Marty’s gaze to chase the water’s trail down to his father’s wet dick. Yep, there was no doubt in Marty’s mind; he was definitely crushing on his dad.
    And jeez, what a manly dick it was. Once he’d discovered Internet porn on his iPad, and what some of the adult stars did with their foreskins, he was grateful that both he and his dad were uncut. And bam, his mind went to the last video he’d watched and suddenly he was the one kneeling at Martin’s feet, running his tongue up inside the soft skin, pulling it back, sucking his father’s wet cockhead. Whoa!
    Martin opened his eyes and caught Marty’s gaze. What little use he had of his fingers failed him and the toiletry bag spilled onto the ground. Soap, shampoo, toothbrushes, combs, everything fell to the grass. “Damn arms,” he cursed, bending down while silently chastising himself again for the casts, and for not being able to keep his mind from drifting—yet again—to sex with his dad.
    Martin stepped out of the stream and bent down to help toss everything back into the bag.
    “The permanent hardon making ya lightheaded, Bonser?”
    Marty snorted but nodded in agreement. He attempted to lighten his embarrassment and added, “It takes a lot of blood to keep that thing full, ya know.”
    Martin grinned as they both stood and pulled Marty into one of his one-arm hugs. Of course he couldn’t return the embrace without getting his casts wet. But he enjoyed the solid, reassuring squeeze nonetheless. No matter how old he got, there were times, like now, when Marty was suddenly thrown back in time. He was six again, it was a bright Sunday afternoon, and he and Martin were on the sidewalk in front of their house. Elbow and kneepads, along with his helmet, were all in place, but he’d stubbornly refused to wear the protective gloves as he stepped onto his first skateboard. The day before had been his