growing-up-with-mason-jars

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Subject: Growing Up With Mason Jars A father is into water sports and uses his sons, Taylor (now about 8) and Kyle (now about 12) to satisfy his insatiable need. (c) 2016 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author’s permission. As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about the story, positive or negative, to ity. Thank you. .oOo. Growing Up With Mason Jars As soon as I was out of diapers, I began peeing in a jar. Daddy explained to me that the toilet bowl was for Number two, but Number one, peepee, had to go in a jar. There were always clean Mason jars lined up on the bathroom sink. Even if I was sitting on the throne to shit, I was supposed to hold a jar to catch the piss that would inevitably accompany the BM. I didn’t question it. That was just the way we all pissed in our home, Daddy, Mommy, my brother Kyle (four years older than me) and me Taylor. When I began school, Daddy carefully explained that if it was an emergency I could pee in the urinal in the boys’ room, but he would really prefer it if I waited until I got home and used the jar. Most days, I ran from the school bus into the house. But I did what Daddy told me to. Daddy stressed it was important for me to drink at home. At school, it was better to limit my liquids to avoid emergencies. But at home, there was always an ample supply of sodas, juices, milks, waters. If I was sitting around without a glass in my hand, he’d tell me to get myself a drink. That way, I always had plenty of peepee. When I got a little older, I realized that other boys my age didn’t pee into jars. For one thing, we began to have sleepovers. When I went to their houses overnight, Daddy repeated the routine I had for school: use the toilet to pee in an emergency, but watch how much I drank. However, when they came over to my house, it was different. There was plenty of soda and juice in my bedroom, and my friends were told to help themselves. Then Daddy explained to my friends about peeing in the jars, not in the toilet. He said he was conducting a secret medical experiment and needed their help. My friends loved the fact they could drink all the Pepsi and Root Beer they wanted. We had belching contests all night long, which would make us all giggle uncontrollably, which would make us race to the bathroom to piss the the jars, then back again to drink more and belch more. By the morning, the bathroom sink was covered with half full Mason jars. My friends also loved the idea that they were sworn gaziantep travesti to secrecy. Daddy was always pleased when I had friends sleep over. Daddy worked in the local hospital, so his story about some sort of medical experiment made sense to me then. I also never questioned the fact that whenever he kissed me, his mouth tasted like piss. And when joined my brother and me playing ball outside in the summer, or roughhousing indoors, I never questioned the fact that his sweat smelled like piss. That was just the way Daddy was. I knew also that Mommy drank a lot of wine. I know now she’s an alcoholic, but back then it was just the way she was. After a while, I became somewhat of an expert on the piss in the jars. I could tell by their color and clarity which jars were Kyle’s and which were Mommy’s. When I realized none of the jars contained Daddy’s piss, I asked Daddy why. “I perform the test on my own piss as soon as I urinate, that’s why.” I was getting to an age when such an answer wouldn’t satisfy me though. “Can I watch you when you test my peepee, Daddy?” He hesitated a bit, but then replied “No, I’m afraid it’s too dangerous.” Of course that answer just piqued my curiosity more. So I decided to sneak in and catch him in the act some time. I studied his routine. I knew when he collected the jars from the bathroom and when he brought the empty ones to the kitchen to put through the dishwasher. It was between these two times that he must have performed the tests. So I quietly tiptoed after him one morning on his way from the bathroom carrying a plastic bin of sloshing bottles. He was working the 11-7 shift that week at the hospital. He carried his treasure into his bedroom and shut the door. I could hear him opening the jar lids. The odor of urine came through the door. Then I thought I heard him drinking something. I squeezed myself close to the floor and peered through the tiny rack under the door. I saw him. He was sitting on his bed, butt naked. One by one he was opening the jars and drinking them! And he didn’t just swig them down as fast as he could. No. He rolled the contents of each one around in his mouth, savoring it, like Mommy did with a glass of wine. Daddy smacked his lips, moaned softly, shook his head. I could tell he was really enjoying drinking all that piss. I tiptoed away, a little confused, but it made me glad to see him so happy. I began to realize that while it was true Daddy worked at the hospital, it wasn’t in the gaziantep masaj salonları laboratory. Daddy, I learned, was an orderly. He transported patients from one place to another. He helped them get to the bathroom if they had to. He helped nurses lift the heavy ones. And he emptied bedpans! I began to think about how he emptied them. Soon after that, I noticed that Kyle no longer put his jars on the sink. Of course, I had to know why, so I asked him. “Daddy asked me to put my piss somewhere else.” “Where?” I wanted to know. “Can’t tell you, that’s part of the secret.” Well, shit. I had to find out where Kyle was putting his piss now. Again, I studied his routine. Right after supper, Kyle and Daddy would disappear into Kyle’s room for several minutes. It happened again before bed and again in the morning. I checked out Kyle’s door. There wasn’t a big enough crack under it to peek through, no matter how flat I pressed my face to the floor. I had to find another way. I learned this trick on TV. Kyle’s school bus came before mine, so after he left, I put a piece of tape over the end of Kyle’s lock bolt. Then I went into his room and locked it. The lock seemed to work fine, but I could still turn the doorknob. That night, after supper, when Kyle and Daddy disappeared, I told Mommy I had to pee and went to my room. I gave Kyle and Daddy time to get started. Then I snuck down the hall and slowly, quietly, opened Kyle’s door. The lock trick worked. There was my brother standing with his back toward me. His pants and underwear were down around his knees, so I was looking at his bare ass. In front of Kyle was my Daddy. He was completely naked, just like he was when I saw him drinking the jars in his bedroom. He was on his knees facing Kyle, except his face was turned up to the ceiling. “Don’t spill any this time, Son,” he said. “Don’t worry, Faggot, I won’t,” Kyle promised. I couldn’t believe it. Kyle called Daddy a bad word. Neither of them saw me, so I kept watching. “Here it comes, Faggot,” Kyle announced, and just then he let loose his golden stream, pointing it right into Daddy’s mouth. I could see Daddy’s adam’s apple bobbing quickly. He was trying desperately to swallow Kyle’s piss without letting any of it leak out. Kyle’s stream slowed down but he kept directing the last few dribbles into Daddy’s gaping mouth. Daddy swallowed hard, and when he was able to speak, he said, “Thank you, Son. I love you.” Kyle replied, “You’re welcome, gaziantep escort bayan Faggot. I’ll see you later.” Kyle pulled up his pants and zipped up. I should have left, but I was too slow. Kyle turned and saw me. “Well, well, well, looky here, Faggot. We got company.” Daddy turned toward the door and saw me. His face turned all shades of red. “Please, Kyle,” he whispered, “Don’t call me that in front of Taylor.” “Why not, Faggot? He’s gonna find out some time anyway. Why not now? Why not let Taylor see what you are?” “Don’t say that, Kyle,” I screamed. “Don’t call Daddy that. He’s our Daddy.” “Oh, yeah? Well, take a good look at our Daddy, little brother. See him there on his knees with my piss in his mouth? If that ain’t a faggot, then I don’t know what is. Do you know what he does with all those jars of piss?” “Yeah, he drinks them.” I said, before I realized what I was saying. They both looked at me. “How did you find out, Taylor?” Daddy asked me. “Did Kyle tell you?” “No, Daddy, I seen you on your bed drinking.” “You saw me and you didn’t hate me for it?” “No, Daddy. I could tell you really liked it. It made you happy. I was glad to see you happy.” “Come here, Taylor. I want to give you a hug.” “Give him a kiss, too, Faggot, a big slurpy pissy kiss.” Kyle left the room and slammed the door. “Why does he call you that bad word, Daddy?” Daddy leaned back against Kyle’s bed. I sat beside him. He smelled like piss. It smelled good. I loved my Daddy and I felt sorry for him. He started to explain. “When Kyle learned I was a piss-drinker, his reaction wasn’t like yours, Taylor. He was disgusted, He said he wasn’t going to piss in any more jars. So I asked him if he would piss in my mouth instead. I expected him to say no, but he surprised me. He said yes, on one condition.” “What condition, Daddy?” “That he would call me a faggot. And I agreed. I’m so addicted to piss, I’ll do anything to get more.” I sat there a long time, thinking. Finally, I said, “Daddy? I’ll be happy to piss in your mouth, and I won’t call you anything but Daddy, because I love you.” Daddy had tears in his eyes. “Oh, Taylor, I love you too.” I stood up. “OK, Daddy,” I smiled. “Open wide.” Daddy grinned, leaned his head back and opened his mouth. That was the first time I pissed right into his mouth. And I’ve been doing it ever since. Kyle does it too and he keeps calling Daddy Faggot, but that’s OK, cause that way Daddy gets more of what he wants. Last summer we had a garage sale and sold all the Mason jars. Some of my friends came by and snickered when they saw them for sale. Now when we have sleepovers, Daddy stays awake all night, so all my friends can piss in his mouth. And none of them call him a Faggot. .oOo. As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about the story, positive or negative, to ity. Thank you.

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