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In May of '52 I had been romping around in short pants and enjoying the bonanza of cheap left over balloons my dad had allowed me to buy at the novelty wholesalers the previous summer when we went to pick up the supplies for the civic association carnival. At that time I had buried the bulk of the balloons in air tight steel drums under the front porch, both to preserve the rubber and to keep my younger step brother from coming across them. I kept out a 'using supply' stashed in the back of my upper bureau drawer that I could readily grab when opportunities to play with my toys arose. I had exhumed my main supply only once during this period, and that was in the fall after my father and I took a hike up in the mountains and decimated my inventory. At that time, between the two of us, we busted a good 80 or 90 in one of the most sexually stimulating balloon play sessions I had ever experienced.
<See Later Years #12>

By May my using stock was low, and when Bob and I picked up the decorating supplies for the senior prom and I hit the jackpot when the store owner gave the Boy Scouts (he thought) over twenty gross of well overage balloons, I added most of them to my buried stockpile. In the process I pulled from my original buried stock what I figured would be a sufficient number of balloons to last me through the summer and fall which tended to be my heaviest busting seasons. I had planned to hide three of the large Navy target balloons Bob had given me the previous fall that I hadn't used yet, but while I was in the process of adjusting my inventory I forgot about them until after I already had everything covered and concealed. As a result they were still in my drawer when I added nearly four gross more to what remained from the winter stock. I segregated the balloons into separate small paper bags by size, type, and manufacture, to make selecting the particular ones I felt like playing with quick and efficient.

It was the third Sunday in June, the day after the association carnival closed, and my father still hadn't mentioned anything about the balloons Bob and I had picked up ostensibly for the popping pleasure of the Boy Scout troop in town. I couldn't imagine that the store owner hadn't mentioned it to him when he picked up the supplies for the carnival the past Wednesday morning. His silence had me concerned because he had hinted on a couple of occasions that he didn't want any balloons left hidden anywhere that my brother could conceivably find after I left for college fifteen months hence. Adding over three thousand balloons, even though they were stiff and almost unusable, to my rubber inventory was not the direction I'm sure he wanted to see it go from a quantity standpoint.

When we got back to the house from church, I changed into my old style shorts 'scoutfit' with the high hiking boots, neckerchief, etc. intending to 'commune with nature' as my dad would phrase it at my favorite popping location deep down in the woods. I was down stairs before him grabbing some lunch and when dad came down from changing and walked into the kitchen I almost choked on the sandwich I was eating. He was all decked out in the scout uniform I had dug out for him to wear last August when we had taken our super sexually stimulating hike. Although prior to that outing we hiked in the mountains weekends on a regular basis, that trip had been our last time out in the woods together. I think we both knew things had gotten way out of control and the resulting overt sex had damaged our relationship. Even though the experience resulted in the ultimate orgasm for me, having my father give me a hand job again was not on my list of things I would like to repeat.

The fact that dad was wearing his hiking boots indicated that a hike together was what he was planning for the afternoon, however. The fact that he was showing off the bare flesh of his sexy legs from the roll at the top of his knee socks to the hem of the baggy loose fitting scout shorts not only indicated he wanted to hike with me but that he probably had other activities in mind while we were about it. The only thing his uniform lacked was the scout neckerchief I had given him, which wasn't surprising, because he felt they were hot to wear and looked silly.

As I saw him standing there I felt a sudden heaviness in my balls. After he had made himself a sandwich and sat down across the table from me, he indicated it had been over nine months since we had hiked together and it would be a great afternoon to do so. His observation on that score was correct. Weather wise it was a nearly perfect day for an outing. My dick was still collapsed but upon hearing his most certainly non-negotiable invitation I could tell it was beginning to ooze. It really began to spring to life, when after finishing eating, he rummaged around in the pantry and came up with a large grocery shopping bag. My heart sank.

I could just guess what he intended us to use the bag for, but I smiled and cheerfully quipped, "What's the bag for. Are we taking along some snacks for later?"

Dad was all grins as he shot back, "Hell no boy. I thought you might want my help in disposing of some of those childish balloons you seem to enjoy playing with so much. Being up on the mountain, just the two of us alone, we should be able to do a pretty good job getting rid of them this afternoon like we did last summer."

My worst fear, dad's implied threat to destroy my balloons and possibly shorts as well, was being realized again. Still our shared pop off had been probably the most intense sexual stimulation of my life

I told him I would go up and grab a bunch; but as I expected he didn't buy that, and he followed me up the stairs and into my room. I immediately regretted forgetting to hide the three unused four foot target balloons. When I opened my drawer dad seemed to know which bag they were in, and I realized he had probably checked out my inventory after he found out on Wednesday that I had picked up thousands of additional balloons. When he pulled one of the unused ones out of the bag and commented on how big it was I had to come up with a quick story where I had gotten them. I didn't want to implicate Bob because if his dad still thought he had a thing for balloons several years after discovering and having him destroy his original stash, there would be hell to pay at Bob's house and he would certainly reward me for exposing him in a way which I could be sure would be most unpleasant.

In an effort to spare the four large balloons in the bag I told father we didn't need bother to take them because they were too big to blow up by mouth. Dad took the one he was holding and started stretching it between his hands. I could see his nails digging into the soft natural rubber skin and I suspected he was hoping the balloon would rip. It survived, however, and he stuffed it back into the bag he had taken it from. I was about to breath a sigh of relief when he took the bag with the target balloons and dropped it into the large grocery bag he had brought upstairs with us. I was about to protest when he peeked into one of the smaller bags that contained the three dozen or so 560 airship balloons I still had left and that bag joined the first.

I stood there mute with my balls aching and my half hard cock oozing juice as he next withdrew the bag containing the sixteen inch and helium fluted balloons I had just bought from the carnival inventory the night before. "Pay for these, boy," dad sneered.

I nodded assent as he tossed them in the large bag with the others as he added, "You wasted your money, boy."

He then inspected the contents of each bag from the back of my drawer as he deposited them in the large bag, one at a time, along with the others. The last one he came across contained the torn rubber remains of about two dozen of the airship balloons along with a number of large sheets of rubber from the four foot target balloons that Bob and I had busted as well as one that had accidentally popped while I was riding it in my bedroom.

The target balloons were well aged 100% natural rubber and they smelled heavenly sweet. I had saved the large sheets of rubber to press against my face when I was pleasuring myself because the smell of natural rubber provided added sexual stimulation for me. The long rectangular strips of rubber from the airship balloons I used for the same purpose as well as for knotting the ends together to make rubber sweat, arm, and leg bands. Several were so tied and had been worn on many occasions when I was in the woods having fun by myself. Stale sweat added to the pungent rubber odor. When he pulled out the contents dad snapped, "What in hell do you use these old busted balloons for boy?"

I immediately shot back, "Dad, you saw me wear them as headbands when we were up in the mountains last time; remember?"

"Yeah, that's right. My teen age son likes to look like an Indian," dad scowled as he hooked one of the head bands over his thumbs and stretched it as much as he could by spreading his arms apart.

Initially it looked like the rubber was going to take the stress, but after a second or two the rubber tore where I had the neck tied to the far end of the balloon, and the long rubber sheet made a sharp snap sound as it suddenly contracted and went winging across my room. Then he grabbed and fondled a large red rubber sheet from the busted target balloons and passed it under his nose.

"Hmmm, smells sweet like honeysuckle. Does smelling this rubber give you a turn on too, boy? Here, take a good whiff," Dad commented as he handed me the latex sheet. "I'll bet it won't feel or smell nearly as good after it gets a shot with my cigarette lighter," Dad chuckled.

He had me recover the busted balloon that went sailing; then he offered me the bag and I dropped the rubber sheet and the one I had fetched in with the remains of the other torn balloons. He grabbed the bag from me and tossed it in the large grocery bag with all the others. I looked pensively at my father and pointed at the grocery bag as I said, "Dad, why are we taking all these balloons. Just a single one or two of the bags you put in here contains as many balloons as we will have time to play with and bust this afternoon."

I already knew the answer, and dad didn't waste any time in making it clear what he intended to do with my rubber fetishes.

Dad scowled at me and said in no uncertain terms, "I don't think you are making any progress in getting rid of all these damn balloons of yours boy, so I aim to give you a bit of help. You were upset a couple of weeks ago 'cause I didn't let you watch all those busted balloons you rounded up from prom night burn. I felt bad that I didn't let you get your jollies then; so today you can enjoy yourself any way that pleases you while we get rid of all of these damn balloons you enjoy so much. You thought I liked to see balloons burn, and you are absolutely right. I'll be standing right next to you enjoying all these balloons of yours going up in flames, even if you won't."

Whenever my dad used the term 'boy' when addressing me it always indicated that his comment was to be taken seriously and that any argument I might try to present would invoke additional consequences. I wasn't any too sure that when we headed down stairs he wasn't going to have me turn over all the balloons I had hidden away under the porch as well. This would have made quite a size pack load to lug two hours into the woods, which would be the case if he was planning on using the same venue as our August foray.

With all my super fun toys on the line I had to chance making a point regarding rubber burning. I tried to sound firm but not argumentative as I rebutted his comments, "Dad, I only like to see already busted balloons burn. Why burn perfectly good balloons.  Balloons are made for one purpose and that is to be inflated and then busted. That's what makes them fun and what I enjoy. You do too. I know you just love to burn good balloons that are nice, fat, and tight, with your lit cigarettes. Admit it dad. You also love to blow them up and see how much they will take before they pop. Hearing and seeing them burst is a turn on for you too".

I wasn't too sure my stinging comments were totally accurate and might likely cause my Dad to blow his top. While Dad was mulling over a suitable reprise to my accusation I thought to add, "Dad if we torch all this rubber up on the mountain top we are going to attract a lot of attention from the smoke. Everybody knows what burning rubber smoke looks like, and a major cloud of it coming from the top of the mountain might get us in trouble."

"You worry too much boy," Dad fired back.

"I figured we would torch them off at the dump on our way home after our hike; and yes, I do like to pop balloons and that is what they are intended for, but I don't get a hard on and juice my shorts like you do, boy, while I'm doing it. Now get your back pack and get these balloons in it."

As I rounded up my backpack and stuffed the shopping bag crammed full of balloons inside Dad suddenly added, "Shuck those shorts your wearing, boy, and put on a pair of your short shorts. I want to see more of your bare tough skinned legs this afternoon."

Uh oh. This didn't sound too good either. I quickly changed into a pair of the cut down scout shorts Bob had made for me and we headed downstairs. I carried the pack out to the car and got in while he let my step mom know where we would be for the afternoon.

We drove to the mountains in silence. We lost little time after he parked the car off the side of the road to get the back pack on me. Then we headed out the trail to the point where the power line crossed the mountain, a two hour hike out.

When we had made the same trek back in August I hadn't any idea what dad's plans were for my balloons or the status of my short pants wearing. This time I knew the fate of the balloons we had with us, but I couldn't fathom what we were going to be doing with all of them since he had agreed that a major mountain top rubber bonfire would attract a lot of attention. If he planned to destroy them at our local garbage dump on the way home where black smoky fires were a common occurrence, why should I bother to lug all of them out there with us.

Apparently I was in for another balloon popping session with dad. I decided that come hell or high water I had to somehow keep my dick under control. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of feeling a boner the first time he grabbed my crotch after rubbing a few balloons on my legs. The fact that he had specifically asked me to change into shorts that only extended about a third of the way down my thighs made this possibility a near certainty. I was thinking that if I could keep from displaying uncontrolled sexual stimulation while we engaged in our balloon popping there just might be a chance he would rescind his edict and permit me to dispose of them in a more pleasurable and fun way during the summer.

Dad tried to get a conversation going several times as we trudged along, but I wasn't in the mood for talk or even for our hike. I was leading the way and his offhand comments about how sexy I looked wearing my scout short shorts simply added to my foreboding. Having your father know about your immature sexual attraction for a child's rubber toy is a bad situation in any family; having him participate in sexually stimulating play with you while using them specifically to get you super excited to verify his suspicions as he had on our last outing is a really bad scene.

Finally we reached the cleared cut through the forest where the power line ran over the top of the mountain. Dad turned off the trail and we went over the crest of the mountain and part way down the other side to the place where we had popped the balloons last August. In this location we would be visually, if not acoustically, isolated in the unlikely event another hiker came along the trail. I shucked my back pack and dad lost no time in grabbing the shopping bag stuffed with balloons and pulling it out.

"What ones do you want to get rid of first?" dad chuckled.

I didn't bother responding because he was rapidly pawing through the individual bags obviously in search of the kind of balloon he wanted us to destroy first. He soon came up with the bag that contained the balloons I had bought from this year's carnival. I had to admit it would have been my choice as well, because between working the day Friday and being over at Linda's place all day Saturday trying to patch over my ill concealed interest in the biker babe in the leather shorts, I really hadn't checked out these two new types of balloons that I had just added to my inventory.

Dad fished around and tossed me a sixteen inch balloon that we had been selling as stick balloons at the carnival. He smiled as he said, "Lets see my little Boy Scout blow up this pretty green balloon until in breaks, shall we."

He knew green was my favorite color and I really hated to just pop nice dark green ones like this one, especially on the first inflation, without playing with them a bit first.

My buddy, Dave, had purposely inflated one until it burst the second night of the carnival just to get a feel for how big the suckers could get. As a result I knew about how big it would go on first inflation (about 18 inches) and about how many breaths I needed to finish it off. I wasn't going to allow myself to get winded out as I had with Linda a few weeks earlier when she kept handing me one balloon after another to blow up and bust for her. I didn't have any idea how many dad might want me to blow up and pop in this fashion right off the bat, so I paced myself, inflating with slow deep lung fulls of air.

Dad was sitting on a large rock about five feet in front of where I was standing facing him. As the translucent rubber stretched more and more he became visible and I saw that proud papa look that dads get when they feel their boys do well. I knew when the natural rubber had reached its elastic limit because the rather short neck inflated causing the balloon to form a light bulb shape. The expanding neck made it hard to force in the last destructive breaths of air because the short neck wanted to pull through my fingers that I was holding it with, making it difficult to get a good seal on the neck bead that was trying, in self preservation, to escape from my lips.

Finally I was able to force enough air in and the balloon disintegrated with a loud sharp BANG. Dad didn't flinch in the least.

"Way to go, son," he exclaimed as he broke into a broad smile.

The bulk of the balloon had shredded into dozens of narrow strips of rubber all attached together with a section of intact balloon that was probably the end opposite the neck. It looked like a mass of green spaghetti in the grass and if I hadn't caught a glimpse of it flying I wouldn't have been able to spot it. I walked over, picked it up, and untangled some of the nearly four inch long rubber tentacles. I held the shredded rubber up in front of dad's face and blurted out, "Dad, this is what you are supposed to do with balloons. This is what you burn."

Ignoring me dad exclaimed, "OK, let's see what you do with this one," as he handed me one of the heavier rubber fluted balloons we had been filling with Helium at the carnival.

Again I could thank Dave for inflating one until it burst, so I knew what to expect. The rubber was at least half again as thick as a quality standard balloon specifically to reduce the rate of Helium diffusion; and was very soft. These balloons only required about as much pressure to inflate as the sixteen inch one I had just finished off. Dad had seen them inflated at our stand, but primarily for cost considerations, we had abided by the novelty store owner's recommendation that we just inflate them to about fourteen inches, so something a bit more than this was the size dad was expecting it to reach before it popped.

This was easily the heaviest and toughest balloon I had inflated to date by mouth. (Equivalent to a present day punch ball, minus the rubber band attachment and long roll up neck). The relatively short neck with a bead only about as heavy as the sixteen I had just popped would make inflation difficult when I had the thing fully inflated and it was fighting for every last bit of stretchable rubber to contain the ever increasing pressure. At the carnival we had found the necks were too heavy to tie a knot in, so we sealed the balloons with several tight wraps of the balloon string before we knotted the string.

The burst point of the balloon was about twenty inches and it did not attempt to inflate the neck up to this point. It took me about a minute to get it to this size and I could see that dad was impressed by how big it was getting and the seeming nonchalance I was displaying as I inflated it. Actually I was rapidly loosing my balloon busting nerve. I could readily visualize the strong heavy rubber lacerating my snout or whacking me in the eye when it let go. I made a point of bringing my left hand up to my face rather than leaving it braced against my left hip as I usually did when demonstrating my balloon popping prowess for an audience. With a lot of concentration and some innovative neck control I finally got it to bust. It didn't seem that much louder than the first one; but I knew it required at least half again as much pressure to finish it off. When it popped it just disintegrated totally. I think the short section of neck I still had clutched between my fingers probably was the largest chunk of rubber out of all the remains.

Father was esthetic. "You did good, boy," dad beamed.

"It looks like you have finally conquered your fear of rubber balloons. That should mean that you really don't need all the rest of the balloons you have hidden away to practice popping with; right boy?"

Oh oh. That sounded like dad was addressing my real concern. Good bye all my lovely sexually stimulating balloons.

I just thought dad's last comment was an expression of his opinion, but when he glared at me and repeated, "Right boy," I realized he wanted my concurrence right here, right now. A tremendous weight of sadness suddenly dropped over me as I angrily snapped back, "Wrong dad." I suddenly realized instead of being the best of pals as we always had been we were now suddenly adversaries. This was the first time in ages that I was openly defiant, but I wasn't going to see my fun toys destroyed without a fight.

My emphatic negative response caught him off guard. He slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand as he relieved the sudden surge of anger that my unexpected response generated. After he regained control he eyed me coldly and replied, "Then explain to me what you need all these balloons for then. The novelty supply owner said he gave you over twenty more boxes of them the other week when you were down getting the supplies for the prom. I know what I want to do with them, but I'm willing to listen to your ideas. One thing is for damn sure. I don't want your step mother or brother, or any of your boy friends or Linda to find out about your collection of silly rubber play toys. Understood?"

Unfortunately it was a bit late for that. Bob and Linda were well aware I was sexually stimulated by toy balloons and that I had an extensive inventory. My other two close friends, Dave and Mike, knew that playing with balloons would get me sexed up but I didn't think they realized that balloons were a fetish for me although they had to suspect.

Rather than try to feed dad a load of bull I just laid out my inner most feelings as I told him how much enjoyment I had gotten from playing with balloons while wearing my loose fitting shorts over the last year or so and that they both exacerbated my involvement with masturbation. I explained that I was well aware that I indulged in self stimulation to a far greater extent than normal boys did and that as a result it had isolated me and made me a loner with relatively few close friends. I closed by indicating that destroying all my fetishes would not alter my love for them and eventually I would find a means to obtain more.

Dad mulled over my words then scowled, "So what you are telling me is that you plan to spend the rest of your life dressing like a twelve year old Boy Scout that spends all his free time squirting his juice over a bunch of toy balloons. Is that it?"

I had to admit at this point I would have been happy with that.

"No dad. Not at all," I replied. "I don't think I'll survive college or a real job wearing shorts. As for the balloons I will squeeze, rub, juice, and then pop them for the foreseeable future until I get married and can replace them with normal sexual channels."

"Hmmm," dad mused, "What the hell makes you think you will ever have normal sexual feelings after years of having sex with balloons? You've been alone with Linda a number of times now and balloons still are your choice? Son, I'm afraid what you really need is some psychiatric counseling. I'm dead serious."

Little did he know how sexed up Linda was getting me, albeit because she loved balloons and knew how to use them to really get me excited.

"Dad, now you worry too much," I chirped back. "Like I said, I have a thing for shorts and knee socks, and when they have a girl like Linda in them, I get the same hard feelings I get when you rub me with these balloons. See this is the way I look at it. When I have sex with my toys I shoot my load and bust them, and all that results is some goo and torn rubber. I would rather have sex with Linda but the risk, physical and emotional to us at this point in our lives totally precludes my access to this avenue for sexual relief. Understand?"

I paused then continued, "I know you want the best that life has to offer me and that my toys and short pants are far from that; but for the time being this is the level of sexual development I'm at. Sorry I'm such a disappointment to you dad."

Dad scowled again as he said, "So you are not ready to give your toys and sissy little boy's pants up and be a man. Is that your final decision, boy?"

"Yes I'm afraid so," I shot back.

Father glared at me for what seemed an interminable period of time. Then he exclaimed, "I can't for the life of me see why a girl like Linda would want to spend so much time with an overgrown Boy Scout that hasn't grown up yet."

"Well dad, she happens to like he men that aren't afraid to wear shorts," I replied.

"Good," Dad said as he smiled, "Because by damn that's what you are going to be wearing."

It really wasn't a good time, but since he had raised the issue of my mandatory shorts wearing, I had to bring up the fact that the Boy Scout summer uniform is not the optimal attire for horseback riding; especially with an English saddle. Linda's father had great expectations that I would by some miracle overnight develop sufficient riding skills that I could show his thoroughbreds in dressage and over fences. He had already bought me riding breeches to that end. Also since I had demonstrated that I wasn't afraid to show off my pretty legs in public, even though I often felt like a fool, it was embarrassing for others that I was so unacceptably dressed for many social occasions.

Father did agree, and allowed that there were many circumstances where I could wear long pants when in public with my friends, pending his approval. Under normal circumstances, as a seventeen year old having my wardrobe dictated by my parents would have meant war, but at the moment I was happy to settle for any compromise.

Dad again looked me over for a period of time then responded, "Well my decision at the moment is that you have too damn many balloons that I can't see that you will ever have an opportunity to get rid of, so the ones we have with us today I want you to destroy, understand? Also, I know you have hundreds more from last year in addition to the ones you got last month hidden around the place. Sooner or later your brother or step mother is bound to find them. I don't know where you have them hidden, boy, but if they are anywhere on the property I want them moved. I plan to do a thorough search starting today, and after next Saturday any I find will disappear; so I would suggest next Friday night while we are out, or sooner if possible, you get them moved. Any balloons I find I will get rid of for you, is that clear?"

Dad paused to let his words sink in. Then he continued as he handed me the bag full of balloons, "So if you want to enjoy seeing these balloons pop you had better start blowing."

I quickly dug a pocketful of sixteen's out of the bag and started blowing up a nice fat yellow one. Dad pulled out a cigarette, lit up, and just sat watching me puffing away. When I had it to about rated size I breathlessly asked my father if he was going to help with the balloon blowing. He smiled and said, "Nah, blowing them up is too muck work just to get rid of them. You don't need to waste all your effort to pump all that air in; see."

With that comment he blew one puff of air into a sixteen inch balloon. It was just sufficient to begin to stretch the rubber and as he clamped the neck between his fingers the balloon stuck out from his hand. Then he took a drag on his cigarette and applied the burning tip to the rubber. There was a puff of smoke and a tired 'pweet' sound as the cig seared through the skin and the balloon drooped from his finger tips. Mom had finished off several of my balloons the same way in my younger days and seeing my fetishes wantonly destroyed in such a manner again gave me a raging hard on despite my desire for control.

As I watched Dad quickly burned holes in two more of my precious toys. Apparently realizing the effect his balloon destroying technique was having on me, my father ordered me to approach him. When I got within arms reach he grabbed my crotch giving my rock hard stem a firm squeeze. Dad grinned as he exclaimed, "See there. What I am doing to your balloons has got you just as excited as if we put all that effort into blowing all these damn balloons up and then popping them. Beside, this way they don't go with a lot of noise that might attract attention."

I had to admit dad was right on both points. Still he was just destroying them to get rid of them and not getting any enjoyment out of hearing them pop and watching the torn rubber fly.

Before I realized what dad was doing he brought his cigarette into contact with the yellow balloon I was holding and it busted in an honorable way with a loud BANG sending several large rubber sheets flying.

"Aren't you going to play with the balloons at all?" I asked dad pensively.

Dad sadly stared at the ground for a bit then said, "No son. I think I have played with balloons and you far too often. I fully realize that I am mainly responsible for them becoming such a sexual attraction for you. That's why I have allowed you to still have them and not insisted on having you put the whole damn pile of them you have in the incinerator which is really where we both know they belong."

Even though I realized what a risk it would be to all my fetishes I couldn't pass up the opportunity to get dad involved in some serious balloon busting like we had done in August. The fact that he had worn the scout uniform indicated he must have considered that we might get involved in some father / son balloon popping, so I pressed the issue explaining that we both enjoyed blowing up and popping balloons together. As far as I knew balloon play together didn't sex dad up, but seeing them get me sexed up I think did. I made it clear that interactive sex was wrong and I didn't want any sexual contact with him. I would take care of the raging sexual inferno in my loins later in private.

Since  he was into the new balloon bag I suggested we have a father son pop off with the sixteen's. Dad gave me a grin, stood up facing me, and grabbed a balloon for each of us from the bag. We started blowing like crazy. Poor dad didn't stand a chance. His cigarette smoking had definitely diminished his lung capacity, while on the other hand my regular balloon workouts, which included a lot of inflate to bursts for Linda of late, had my youthful lungs in top balloon busting shape. My balloon exploded with a sharp loud BANG that reverberated from the tree line further down the mountain where the power line angle off to the right. It took dad an additional four breaths to rupture his toy into shredded rubber.

Next I challenged him to a bust off with the heavier fluted balloons. Dad eyed up the heavy rubber sack and I could tell the specter of that much explosive force right in his face was causing him to hesitate. I laughed as I chided him, saying, "He men that wear shorts aren't afraid to blow up balloons until they bust."

Since I had just performed such a sacrifice, albeit with trepidation for his edification, he was forced to summon sufficient courage to match mine. The second one was easier for me because I wasn't as fearful. Again I beat dad by several seconds. Our balloons really popped with a vengeance; showers of rubber shards flying everywhere.

To my surprise I got dad, in a more leisurely mode, to pop off three more of the heavy balloons by over inflation. He realized it takes busting several balloons in this manner to feel really comfortable doing it. I joined in, pop for pop. I had such a limited number of them I hated to see them go, bang bang, just like that, but it sure beat watching flames racing through the un inflated toys.

Next dad turned his attention to the airship balloons. He blew up several and let them sail out over the side of the mountain. Most went fairly straight and because of the steep slope managed to sail a hundred feet or more. When he made no effort to go retrieve the limp cylindrical bags that were draped on the grass or over bushes I headed down the slope to retrieve them. Dad stopped me saying, "Don't bother getting them. We haven't near enough time to blow all these damn balloons up once let alone several times. Just let them there. The sun will finish them off in a day or two."

Oh geeze. What a waste of good rubber. I was well aware of how quickly bright sunlight rotted and formed holes in sheets of rubber from balloons I had popped and purposely left lay in my romping grounds down in the woods.

At this point our passive popping had me half limp down below so I suggested we blow up several of the twelve inchers and engage in some balloon wrestling. Seeing dad in his sexy scout shorts along with some balloon rubbing and body contact would most certainly rejuvenate my stimulation. He agreed and we spent the next several minutes inflating a number of the smaller balloons to a nice soft squeezable size of ten inches or so.

Dad and I faced off and he opened by squashing his balloon in my face with one hand with his other behind my head. I was holding my balloon and grabbing at the sides of his trying to get it off my face so I could breathe. The balloon shrieked in agony as my somewhat sweaty hands pawed at the rubber. The balloon burst with a sudden POOM as I got rapped in the kisser with the heel of dad's hand. I still had control over my balloon and since his one hand was still behind my head I was able to flatten mine in his face in retaliation. I didn't give him a chance to push it aside, thrusting my hand forward popping it almost instantly and giving him a return rap in the schnozz. Dad agreed that we were getting a little rough so early in the game so we finished off all but a few of the rest by simply trying the wrest the helpless balloon out of each other's grasp. The tortured rubber often shrieked for more than thirty seconds before the skin snapped and the balloon was history.

Then dad surprised me by taking one of the last inflated balloons and positioning it between us at crotch level. He reached around and grabbed my buttocks and pressed me toward him as he wiggled his hips. The same thing Bob and I had done during the sleep over. The undulating pressure through the scout shorts was delightful but there was no real rubbing friction created as the rubber bag rolled over my already erect stem.

Being so close I could smell my dad's pungent sweat which added to my stimulation. I suddenly became fearful that I was quickly developing an uncontrollable urge to have sex with my own dad, and worse that my body and sexual arousal was creating uncontrolled sinful desires in him as well. I reached up over his arms and grabbed him behind the back as I thrust my hips forward, finally popping the balloon between us. The sudden disappearance of the balloon separating us caused our hips to press together forcing my cock into his lower abdomen. Uh oh, dad wasn't aroused in the least unless he had the ability to bend his erect stem around and stick it back between his legs. It happened so fast I was able to twist away from his grasp and I danced several feet away out of his reach. I had little doubt at this point that he was testing me to see if my homosexual desires extended to having sex even with him.

In a disgusted and somewhat breathless voice do to our vigorous activity I said, "Dad I thought we agreed we were just going to have fun popping these balloons; not playing with each other."

Acting like he was lusting for me I emphatically added, "You already have a legitimate sex partner. You don't need me, even though I know that I turn you on sometimes."

As soon as it left my lips I realized that my last comment should never have been uttered. Any father falsely accused by a son of such a desire had every right to impose the most severe retribution. I wasn't sure if I should take flight.

Since Dad, his flushed face notwithstanding, seemed to be controlling his anger we just stared facing each other. Finally after what seemed an eternity in time he calmly replied, "Son I don't need you. What really concerns me is do you need me or some other boy to satisfy your sexual drives. I can't accept that playing with your rubber balloons and running around in short pants is all you require as far as sexual stimulation at your present age. Five or seven years ago, yes, but you are well beyond puberty now and unless you have some major mental or emotional hang ups that should be addressed, you have to be feeling a sexual attraction to others. Are they girls or boys? I need to know. We have to get this straightened out between us if you are going to continue to live in my house."

Boy was the fat ever in the fire. I thought I loved my dad and I knew he loved me. If I couldn't be totally honest with him right here and now, no matter what the consequences to me or my fetishes, then I simply didn't love him. I had no choice but to say, "Both. I've had mutual hand jobs with both boys and with Linda."

Smiling I added truthfully, "More with Linda."

Dad suddenly looked old and tired as he said, "Son I appreciate more than you will ever know that you have admitted your true feelings and told me the truth. I don't want to punish you. The last thing I would ever want to do is loose you. You have to understand the one thing I want more than anything in the world is to see you grow up to be a man, to have a loving relationship with a women as God intended; to raise a family. Do you understand this?"

I slowly nodded assent.

As I stood watching, dad went over to the rocks where the bags of balloons were and picked them all up. He began walking back and forth on the open grassy area under the power line while reaching in the bags and sprinkling the balloons about on the grass. I yelled at him, "What are you doing?"

Dad glanced over and replied, "I told you I was going to help you get rid of all these balloons you really don't need. The easiest and quickest way to get rid of unneeded balloons is to burn them. I know that you won't find it as sexually stimulating as if we put a match to them, but the sun will destroy all your toys in a day or two just as effectively."

My balls began to ache again; Dad was wrong on that point. I could readily guess the sexual stress I would be experiencing the following week knowing that my precious toys were being turned into sticky useless bags because I was well aware how quickly bright sunlight would rot rubber balloons; creating holes and splits in the thin rubber bags. Even a single day's exposure would break down the rubber to the point where the balloons would barely inflate before the damaged rubber would split open with an non sensual poof.

Finally he got to the four large target balloons. He dumped them out and began fondling one of the large red rubber bags. I made the comment that they were about the same as the two orange weather balloons we had got at the airport many years before. Father took the balloon and started inflating it. It took several puffs to get the rubber to the point were it began to stretch at about eight inches in diameter. He added a bit more air until it was around ten inches or so and held it up. His mostly burned up but still smoldering cigarette was on a neighboring rock and he reached over, took a drag on it, and moved to apply it to the red rubber skin of the balloon.

I screamed, "Dad don't just destroy it. Let me blow it up so we can have some fun with it first."

Dad smiled as he handed over the balloon. Standing in front of him I started working on it from where he had stopped. The inflation effort took quite a while and i noted that during a break to recover my breath that Dad's gaze was fixated on my bare well exposed legs courtesy of the abbreviated scout shorts he had asked me to wear. I knew from Bob's weekend stay that the balloon would get to six feet or more before it would bust which was well beyond my blowing capacity. I was satisfied to get it to about three feet or so in diameter which would allow it to be nice and soft and squishy.

When I reached that point I was able to tie off the rather stiff neck with some difficulty. After checking to see that father had extinguished his cigarette I surged toward him as I held the balloon in front of my knees. The soft complaint rubber pressed down over Dad's bare knees and up against the front of my legs. Ummmm, feeling the soft rubber pressing over my bare flesh was most stimulating. Father grabbed the sides of the balloon and began scrubbing his hands over the surface causing the balloon to emit a deep rumbling sound. I was rather surprised that he didn't just dig his fingernails into it and just pop it right off the bat as I leaned in towards him and then letting the balloon which was acting like a big spring, to push me back away from him. Each inward thrust caused Dad's knees to sink deep into the side of the balloon causing addition shrieks of protest from the rubber skin.

After about thirty seconds of this father reached up and pushed me away as he managed to get to his feet. Then he indicated he wanted me to lie down on the grass with my knees pulled up in front of me. He yanked the balloon out of my hands and proceeded to press it down on my knees as he had done during our balloon play nights before the war. As he pressed the balloon down over my legs he kept twisting it so the rubber kept having to slide over the bare flesh of my legs as he continued to increase pressure. Dad's downward thrust finally reached the point where his hands were actually down on my knee caps.

The rubber was fairly tight at this point because of the flattened state of the balloon and I think he probably pressed his fingernails into it because after a few moments the balloon burst, shooting off two large rubber sheets, with a deep POOM sound.

Dad's hands were now in direct contact with my knees whereupon he applied a firm grip to either side. As he knelt down in front of me he allowed his hands to slowly massage their way up my things toward my crotch in a most uncomfortable fashion. I knew their destination was a hands on stimulation check. I grabbed his wrists, but because he could apply his weight to his task his prying fingers were soon up inside my under shorts.

"Humm, I see you enjoyed your big red balloon," Dad declared as he withdrew his hands from the legs of my shorts and quickly stood up.

I had to admit that my O my I certainly did.

"I have to admit it kind of felt interesting myself," Father mused. "It's too bad it takes so much effort to blow those big balloons up. But like I said, it's not necessary to waste effort blowing up balloons to get rid of them, now is it?"

Dad then went over and picked up the other large balloons and took them over to the area near were we had been sitting. There he spread the three of them over the tops of some of the larger flat rocks. Then he took several smaller stones and placed them on the edges of the large flat rubber discs to prevent the wind from blowing the balloons off into the grass where they might find shelter from the sun's rays in the shadow of the rocks.

When he had completed this last task, Dad turned and beamed, "OK. I've done my contribution to getting rid of your playthings. I'm going to head back to the car now. When I get there I am going to leave and head for home. Meanwhile you will be alone with your fetishes to enjoy in what ever way you like. Whatever you do with them, at the least, I would suggest you take care of that problem in your shorts. But don't be too long about it unless you are prepared for a long hike home."

With that he turned and headed up the hill to the trail back to the car.

When dad's head had disappeared over the crest of the mountain I ran over to the rocks and grabbed one of the target balloons. I surveyed the hundreds of brightly colored rubber bags trapped in the grass that were spread out before me. It took all my resolve not to rush out and gather them up out of the killing sunlight and hide them off in the woods somewhere. Since I occasionally got to use the family car of late for outings with Linda, I could run up here and in a matter of four hours retrieve my stash. If necessary I could enlist Linda's help in my salvage effort. The problem was dad had made it clear he wanted the balloons destroyed. He would surely ask me what I had done after he left; and I would not be able to lie to him. It would have damaged our relationship forever.

I wasn't standing too far from one of the airship balloons dad had launched. The limp rubber was draped over the top of the grass and I picked it up. I inflated it and sent it sailing down the mountain side for it's last trip. I then came across another of the airships that dad had just tossed out of the bag. I inflated the fresh balloon until it burst with an echoing BANG. uncharacteristically the rubber didn't rip into one large rectangular sheet but tore into two sheets; plus of course the neck and far end.

Since I had unconsciously been thinking about turning it into a rubber headband, for which purpose this balloon was of no value, I looked about for the location where dad had tossed the head and arm bands along with the torn rubber sheets from the target balloons that had broken several months before. When I located them I applied the rubber bands to my legs, over the roll at the top of my knee socks, above my elbows, and finished off with a nice green one around my head. I instinctively stuck a couple of the larger of the rubber sheets from the busted target balloons in my short's pocket. I left the remainder of the rubber bands and the other rubber sheets on the ground where the sun would destroy them by the following afternoon.

I was at the point where I had to relieve my pent up sexual stimulation so I walked over to the rocks where we had first been sitting. I grabbed the used target balloon out from under the stones dad had placed on it to hold it in place and sat down. As I breathed in the sweet aroma from the balloon in my hand my stem was at full attention, the emotional stress of the last few minutes notwithstanding. From the bag that contained my previously used balloons was a fourteen incher that lay near my feet. I bent over, picked it up, and inflated it to about twelve inches. It had been inflated several times during the winter and would easily get to near eighteen inches; so it was nice and soft and had that wonderful aged rubber aroma.

I dropped my scout shorts and pulled down the waist of my gym shorts and set to work. I was rubbing my left leg with the soft balloon as I stroked myself. I soon reached climax and christened my rubber toy. As I started drifting down I pressed the semen coated rubber against my knees until the balloon popped. Then I took the target balloon and used it to wipe off my stem and to clean up. Finally I pulled my scout shorts back on, and with heavy heart, placed the large balloon back over the rock and re anchored it with a couple of stones.

As I was doing this I realized that I didn't know how long it had been since my father had headed back to the car. I really didn't think he would take off as soon as he arrived and leave me stranded miles from home up on the mountain. He just didn't want me to take the rest of the afternoon relieving myself and saying good bye to my toys that were waiting for the next day's sun to destroy them. I fought back an over powering desire to hide the large target balloons out of the son's devastating glare as I passed by them and quickly flipped the empty pack on my back. Then I raced up the hill to the crest of the mountain.

When I reached the far side I began jogging along the trail. I knew I had to travel twice as fast as I figured dad was walking if I wanted to get to the car at least by the time he did. I soon was well winded and my lungs ached as I rapidly gulped in lung fulls of mountain air.

After what had to be an hour, as each new vista open up I prayed I would see Dad up ahead of me. Finally about a half mile from the car I spotted him walking briskly. Damn him, I thought. Either he or Linda are surely going to bust my lungs. I poured on what little steam I had left and managed to overtake him as he was coming down the last slope just a few hundred feet from the car. Dad heard me gasping as I trotted up behind him and he at least did stop and wait up for me.

As I came along side he asked matter of factly, "Did you take care of that big problem down in your shorts?"

All I could manage was to nod "Yes."

"Good. I hope you enjoyed our little outing this afternoon," Dad said.

All I could manage in response was to pant and wheeze. When we got to the car I couldn't wait to flop on the seat and take the weight off my screaming legs. Dad laughed and said at least I got some good exercise out of the afternoon.

Naturally, in my emotional and physical frenzy, I was completely oblivious to that fact that I was still decked out in my bright rubber leg, arm, and head bands. As dad unlocked to car he gave me a disapproving look and asked me if I wanted my step mom and little brother to see me looking so silly. I quickly removed my rubber adornment, and since my surprise and embarrassment was genuine, Dad didn't say anything when I just automatically stuffed the sweaty rubber sheets into the pocket of my shorts.

As we drove down the mountain Dad reiterated his plan to search for and destroy any balloons I might have hidden away because he didn't want them on the property where mom, or more likely little brother, might stumble across them. Even though I was physically exhausted and my balls were numb I couldn't help asking Dad what he would do with any balloons he did find.

He grinned as he said, "Well if it's cold and the furnace is running I'll just stick them in there. If it's warm like now, the incinerator will take care of them just as well. If I discover a really large pile of your rubber toys they will go up to the dump and I will torch them there. In any case you won't get to watch them burn to get any further jollies from them."

Dad grabbed the hem of my shorts with his right hand and gave it a good tug as he said, "Now as for your little boy pants you don't need to worry just yet. I haven't decided what to do about having you romp around in your bare knee freedom. You look good in shorts and I don't mind seeing you wear them. In fact, deciding to wear shorts last year has certainly made you a lot tougher physically than you would have been otherwise. I think you like to wear them for the right reasons just as I do. However, I have little doubt that your Boy Scout uniforms, the knee socks and neck rags along with the loose baggy shorts, are definitely a sexual stimulus for you, and as such I really think you should  put a match to all of them."

Oh man. I hoped dad wouldn't give me a crotch check. Hearing his words and their implication for my shorts sent my stem racing upward under the olive drab folds of my cotton scout shorts. Fortunately things were positioned so the required expansion room was available without any hip contortions as I sat in the car seat staring stoically straight ahead.

I knew this next week was going to be sexually rough. Not only would I be stimulated as I sweated in the sun working on the brush trimming crew realizing what the rays that were tanning my hide were doing to my balloons; but my father had also made a strong suggestion as to what he thought I should voluntarily do with my shorts. A similar suggestion a year and a half earlier regarding my balloons had put me on edge for over two weeks and made sitting in school a nightmare.   Rev. Date: 4/03.
<Continue to Later years #22b>

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