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Subject: Common Law – Ch. 4 Common Law by RJ This piece of fiction is about a teenager who finds himself co-parenting his son with his father. If you are offended by themes of incest and adult/youth, do not read. If you have any questions or comments about this piece, want to know about any of my other works, or just want to reach out, please don’t hesitate to email me. A list of my works, including links and descriptions, can be found here: https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI. If you would like to be added to a mailing list for this story (or all stories) and receive emails about any updates, let me know. Please also consider donating to Nifty if you fty/donate.html ~ Chapter 4 ~ It’s a typical Thanksgiving morning. I don’t have class, Mason doesn’t have school, Dad doesn’t have work, and so, as part of tradition, the three of us make an overly large breakfast together: a mountain of pancakes, a farmer’s helping of scrambled eggs, and as many of those thick sausage patties as we can devour. All of it gets chased down by helpings of juice, milk, and (in Dad’s case) coffee. We even fast the night before so our bodies are ready to gorge by the morning. But this Thanksgiving is a little special, because this year, Dad’s birthday falls on the third Thursday of November. In acknowledgement of this special day, the pile of pancakes is topped with a single candle, flickering as Mason and I sing “Happy birthday!” at the top of our lungs. Dad just has a soft smile on his face, chuckling slightly when Mason’s voice breaks trying to hit the higher note. “Thanks, fellas,” he says gently when we finish singing. “Now make a wish,” Mason says, sitting up on his knees in his chair and looking antsy. I can tell that if Dad doesn’t blow out his candle soon, Mason will. “Alright,” Dad says, his eyes shifting towards mine. There’s tender emotion in his gaze, and I find myself smiling before Dad leans forward and blows out the candle. Mason claps gleefully. “Happy birthday, old man,” I tease, but Dad just smiles at me. “Thanks, buddy.” Mason, in his eagerness to dive into the food, reaches towards the pancakes. He plucks the candle from the stack and says “Time to eat!” However, he always forgets the integral part of our Thanksgiving morning. “Wait a second,” Dad says, snatching Mason’s wrist before the boy has his little fingers around a few hotcakes. “What are we thankful for?” “Oh yeah!” he says, sitting back in his chair. For the past couple years, Dad has had Mason pick something that he’s thankful for, and we take a moment to discuss it and appreciate it before we dive into our meal. I’ve always thought it was a good idea. It gets the boy into the habit of reflecting on things. “Um…” He scratches his chin a bit, clearly thinking hard about an answer. His eyes shift lazily over towards me, and that seems to spark something in his little brain. “Each other!” Dad smiles slightly. “Each other, huh? That’s a good one,” he says with a decisive nod. I smile slightly. Seems turning six has matured Mason a little bit, considering last year he was thankful for chicken nuggets. “And pancakes,” Mason adds, staring almost lustfully at the fresh pancakes in front of him. I laugh. “Equally good, I’d say,” I joke. “Let’s focus on the first one,” Dad says, eyes on Mason. “Why should we be thankful for each other?” “Because we love each other,” Mason says, smiling brightly. He’s sitting between me and my father, so he constantly looks back and forth between us with a blissful expression. “Damn right we do,” Dad says, still half-smiling. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Mason giggles. “*Real* good.” “‘Really’,” I correct him, but Dad continues with his lesson. “And we can’t take those good feelings for granted,” he says to Mason before pointing at him lightly. “Don’t ever forget how much your daddy and I love you.” Mason bites back a smile, scrunching up his shoulders in the most adorable way. “I won’t, Papa.” “That’s my boy,” he says, patting Mason’s arm before he sits back in his own chair and then gestures to the feast before us. “Go ahead.” Mason wastes no time diving in for some pancakes, drenching them in so much syrup that both Dad and I laugh a little before starting to stack our own plates. Breakfast is full of good laughs and good food, staples in a proper familial meal. While we’re all chatting, though, I’m running through all the things I have to be thankful for in the back of my head — a lot, as it turns out. College-life is treating me exceptionally well. I have my own car now, a job at the on-campus library, new friends that I see between classes, and I’m staying focused in my studies. I’m surprising myself by how well I’m doing so far. I wasn’t necessarily a bad student in high school, but I certainly wasn’t an A student. I’ve been keeping tabs on all my grades so far, though, and if I do well on all my finals, I’ll have managed to start off my college career with a 4.0 GPA. That only motivates me to do better, to keep up this excellent streak of motivation and productivity. I still don’t know what I want to specifically major in yet, but I’m learning more and more every day. I’m getting there. I’m thankful that busying myself with school still gives me enough time to be with Mason. I was worried that school and my new job would be so demanding that my relationship with my son would take a toll, but things have only gotten better. Most of the time he’s preoccupied with being a first-grader anyway, but we still manage to spend ample amounts of time together playing games, doing arts and crafts, watching movies, and (of course, his favorite) cuddling. It’s a joy to see him blossom more and more every day. He’s unashamed to be affectionate still, but now he follows up his physical expressions of love with words. Sometimes he’ll whisper in my ear that he loves me. Sometimes he’ll brush his thumb, damp from sucking on it, across my eyelid and giggle, saying “You’re so handsome, Daddy.” My precious boy. We’ve nearly filled a whole scrapbook already with various Polaroids of him just from this past summer and his first few weeks of school, and at least once a month, we look back on each picture together and laugh, or smile, or silently appreciate. We’ve gotten much closer too, it feels like. Over the past few months, I’d often catch Mason in bed trying out what I showed him, and I’d smile, feeling a mix of pride and excitement. I’m just happy my boy’s discovering himself and exploring and enjoying his own body — sometimes right alongside me. On the off-chance that we do it together, I get a sensation similar to that feeling I get when I masturbate with Dad: a sense of bonding. And *that* bond? Well, it’s only gotten stronger. There’s no presence I’m more thankful for than my father’s. He’s been my pillar, my rock, my support system, my quiet cheerleader. Even if he’s not terribly expressive, I feel the pride radiating from him when I tell him not only about how well I’m doing in school but how much I’m enjoying it. I know he sees potential in me, and I know he just wants me to find my way, so it does him good to see me motivated and happy. Our bond seems to have deepened over the past few months more quickly than it has the past few years — and I think a lot of that (in a weird way) has to do with porn. Once a week, we set aside a night to wind down, lounge in front of the computer (or, if we’re both really horned up after a workout, we’ll hook my laptop up to the television in the basement) to kick back, watch porn, and stroke off together. Since I still like straight porn, we watch plenty of that, and in return, I’ve gotten a pretty general taste of what Dad likes the most: namely groups, public scenarios, and cum compilations. What excites me most, though, is that he’s even branched out a bit into *my* territory. Just last Friday, he suggested we watch a bisexual MMF threesome so that I’d “get something out of it” (which got my cock rock fucking hard just at the mere suggestion of it), and when I asked him if it would turn him off, he said he’d be fine. And he was. Both of us shot major fucking loads that night. As much as it turned me on, though, what felt best was knowing how unbothered by my sexuality he was, and how open he’s proven himself to be. Interestingly enough, the closer we seem to get, the more afraid of my feelings I become. They frustrate me, really. Why can’t I just enjoy what I have without fantasizing about more? I keep wanting something more romantic, more sexual, more fiery and raw, and because of it, I find myself often reading into his actions too much, finding possibilities where there probably are none. Sometimes his kind actions feel romantic, and I have to stop myself from letting my mind go there. The sooner I accept that Dad will never want me in that way, the more content I’ll be with our current relationship. I just have to keep reminding myself over and over: “Stop being crazy. He’s your father. He doesn’t want you like that.” Simple. Just as I’m telling myself that for the third time this morning, Dad speaks up. “So, when you gonna get a boyfriend?” I look up as he leans back in his chair, sipping on his coffee while looking in my direction. The question surprises me. I hadn’t anticipated Dad to ask about my romantic life. On occasion, he’ll ask if I’ve “gotten laid yet,” but he never nags about anything more serious than that. I just play it off. “I already have a boyfriend,” I say with a grin, leaning over to tickle Mason. He giggles, slapping my fingers away. That’s one of our favorite running jokes as of late. A month ago, after he overheard me say “I’m not *that* gay” in a joking manner to my dad, Mason asked what that meant. His Papa Joel told him it means that I like boys instead of girls, and Mason looked at me with a little sparkle in his eye, chirping “So that means you like me?” with a giggle. Ever since then, every so often, we’ll playfully refer to each other as “boyfriend”, and even though Mason’s too young to have much of an understanding of that concept, it’s still fun. Dad doesn’t smile. “I’m serious,” he says, setting his coffee down. “You gotta get out there while you’re still young.” “I don’t want a boyfriend,” I tell him, pushing the last bit of my sausage through a pool of syrup. “Why not?” I shrug. “Because I’m happy where I’m at.” Dad smiles gently, pondering this. “So, what, you gonna live here forever?” I grin. “If you let me, yeah.” He chuckles a bit, shaking his head before downing the rest of his coffee. Then he stands up, steps over to Mason, and kisses the boy’s cheek to thank him for singing for him. Before he can pull away, Mason grabs his cheeks and cries “Birthday smooch!”, planting a big, playful kiss on his Papa’s lips. Dad laughs a little when they break apart. I bite my lip when he comes around closer to me, imagining giving him the same treatment. So I tease: “Come get your birthday smooch, big guy.” He grins slightly before leaning down, holding the back of my head. I expect him to kiss my forehead like he usually does, but he does something that nearly makes my heart stop: he presses his lips to mine, just like Mason did to him a few seconds ago. I’m too stunned to move, or even breathe. He pulls away, the kiss making that soft wet smacking noise upon separation. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says, lightly stroking my hair, the warmth of his kiss trickling down my body. “No problem, Dad,” I say, smiling brightly, his kiss almost making my skin vibrate. I give my lips a little lick, tasting syrup and coffee. He gives my shoulder a firm squeeze before starting to head out of the kitchen. I told him I’d handle all the dishes today. It’s his birthday. He should relax. “Hey, what time should we be ready for tonight?” I ask before he disappears. “Four or so,” he says shortly before I hear him getting comfortable in the living room and turning on the television. Since we don’t have any blood relatives, we typically spend Thanksgiving with Dad’s biker family. It’s always a fun ordeal hanging out at their bar, playing pool and shooting darts while everyone mingles and eats more than their fill of turkey, mashed potatoes, various pies and casseroles, and beer. Mason, being the only kid ever in attendance, gets particularly excited about hanging out with all the “big men”. “You wanna help me with dishes?” I ask Mason as he finishes drinking his milk, still feeling Dad’s lips on mine. He smacks his lips playfully. “Not really.” I laugh. “Please?” He giggles a little. “Okaaay,” he drawls. “But *I* wanna do the drying this time.” I chuckle, patting his leg under the table. “Deal,” I say. “Then we can work on finishing that card for Papa.” The Bad Bastards consist of my dad, Jack, and ten other people, three of which are incredibly bad-bitch women. They keep their group tight-knit, only expanding when family members carrying their blood want to join. Marrying into the fold doesn’t count as grounds for membership. I’ve always found that tradition strange, mostly because I myself have never felt obligated or pressured to join. It’s my choice — which means, inevitably, this familial gang will die out one day. But I guess that makes it all the more special. They all congregate at this one dingy but incredibly homey bar (that they own) in the next town over, which they’ve rechristened as Olly’s after one of their members died in a wreck a decade ago. It’s more so a safe meeting space rather than just a bar, because I’ve always been able to come and go as I please, as well as any other relatives of members. This is where we hold bigger events, or celebrate holidays. We even had a wedding here last year. I’ve always considered this place somewhat like my second home, and that’s absolutely the intention of the establishment. Thanksgiving is held here every year, too. Those who have extended, non-biker families to visit usually pop in later in the evening, but it’s still a solid crowd each time we all get together. I love mingling with everyone. Jack, the jovial bastard that he is, is always the life of the party, slightly belligerent when he drinks but still a good guy. Rachel is another favorite of mine. She’s easily the coolest woman I’ve ever met, decked out with tattoos and piercings and long, decorated dreads. She has the impression of being tough as nails (which she is), but she’s also incredibly humanitarian, and she tells me all about her trip back to her home in Nigeria where she did some volunteer work with her husband. Honestly, she’s the closest thing I have to someone I consider “a mom”. She doesn’t have any kids herself, but she looks out for me. Hell, everyone here does. Besides Mason (who receives copious amounts of attention and blessings), I’m the baby of the group, and I always get special treatment because my dad is so respected around here. There’s always a stiff drink if I want one, praise even if I don’t ask for it, and advice for whenever I should need it. Most of our time is spent chatting and catching up with everyone while picking at the buffet. Sometimes Mason and I will watch a few guys play pool, and sometimes, Mason will go off on his own and talk with other adults. Occasionally, I’ll hear a collective laugh following one of Mason’s adorable anecdotes. Mason’s a natural charmer, and it’s clear he loves to soak up the attention. Eventually, my dad is given the spotlight for a birthday announcement. Jack (being the şişli travesti tallest, widest, and loudest person here) gets everyone’s attention before addressing Dad and wishing his “brother the happiest fuckin’ birthday we can muster up.” Everyone cheers as Jack hugs his best friend and then presents Dad with a brand-new leather jacket, all decked out but still classic-looking. Dad swaps out his simple jacket for his birthday gift, and he’s immediately met with affirmations. He just smiles in that soft way he does when he doesn’t want to be the center of attention, nodding and thanking everybody. Hours go by. Quickly, the environment just becomes constant, droning noise in my ears, and after so much social interaction, I start to get exhausted. I leave Mason with Jack as they mess around with the billiards balls so that I can take a moment to get some fresh air. It can get pretty stuffy in this bar, especially with all these bodies, and I feel an instant sense of relief once the cool night air hits my skin. I breathe in deeply before heading to the corner of the bar to lean up against the wall. Full moon tonight. I look up at it illuminating the parking lot more effectively than the lamps are. It looks huge. I can see details of its craters, even. As my mind drifts and speculates about the concept of infinity (of all things), I hear the front door of the bar open. When I look over, I see none other than Dad peeking his head out and looking around. He notices me and then steps outside, the chatter and laughter coming from the get-together sounding crystal clear before it’s all muffled by the door swinging shut. “Hey,” he says, walking slowly towards me. “You okay?” “Checkin’ up on me?” I ask with a slight grin. “Just wanted to make sure you’re alright.” He stops in front of me, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I’m good,” I say with a smile. “It’s just stuffy in there, and I needed some air.” That makes him laugh slightly. “Think you mean ‘loud’.” “That too.” “Mind if I stay out here with you for a bit?” he asks. “I need a break.” “Not at all,” I tell him, and he gives me a small smile. “I dig the jacket, by the way,” I add, gesturing to his new piece. “Looks good.” “Think so?” he asks, looking down to check himself out. “It’s not too much?” “Definitely not,” I assure him. I prefer his more minimalist jacket, but he still looks good. In fact, even with all the silver zippers and various faded patches, it’s sexy on him — but of course I’m not going to tell him that. He nods a bit, running his fingers over a few of the patches. “I appreciate the jacket, but… I feel kinda dumb wearing it.” “Dumb?” I ask with a laugh. “Why?” He shrugs. “Don’t think I can pull something like this off.” I laugh, my eyes wandering his body. “You’re a stud, Dad. You’d look good in anything.” For the first time maybe ever, I notice my dad blushing. I raise my eyebrows a bit, intrigued. Dad can blush? He’s never seemed like the type. In fact, I often wondered if he even *could* blush, considering I always assumed that I inherited that trait from my mother. But here he is with his reddish cheeks and soft smile, clear as day. I’m sure he’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but I change the subject in case he is. Plus, I have a gift. “Hey, so… I didn’t wanna embarrass you in there, but I have something for you.” “Mitch–” “It’s small, don’t worry,” I say, reaching into my jacket. I know Dad doesn’t like gifts, especially extravagant ones, but Mason and I couldn’t resist doing a little something. I pull out the homemade birthday card from my inside pocket and hand it to Dad. He takes it. “What’s this?” “Mason and I made it.” Mason made the card completely on his own, and we taped a little braided hemp bracelet that we made together to the inside cover. I let Mason pick out the colors (green and blue and yellow) while I took care of the more intricate work. Although the colors are a strange mix, and although Dad’s not really a “jewelry” type of person, it was fun to make something with Mason with the intention of gifting it to a man we so dearly love. When Dad reads the card, he smiles one of those full smiles that completely livens his face, his teeth practically radiant in the moonlight. It makes me indescribably happy to see that expression on his face, especially over a crappy card. But Mason worked hard on it, drawing stick-figure versions of the three of us at our house with the words “We love our dad” overhead. “Our?” Dad asks. I shrug. “You’re as much his dad as I am.” He stares at me for a long moment before he takes the bracelet out of the card, hands it to me, and then holds out his wrist. “Put it on for me.” I smile, taking a moment to fashion the bracelet around his free wrist, his arm hairs tickling my skin just right. “It’ll make Mason happy to see you wearing this,” I say as I tie the knot and make sure it’s tight. “Does it make *you* happy?” Dad asks. I look up at him, nodding slightly. “Yeah.” We lock eyes for a moment, one that feels eerily poignant, before he pulls me into a hug by gripping my shoulder and tugging me closer. My arms automatically find their way around him, resting my face happily against his shoulder. “I love it,” he says, and then I feel him kiss the side of my head. “And I love you. And the little guy.” “But me especially?” I ask with a grin. I hear him chuckle gently, giving my body an extra, reassuring squeeze. “You especially.” I smile as we pull away from the hug but still stand close to each other. “We love you too. Me especially,” I tease, and he lets out a tiny laugh through his nose. “And, it being Thanksgiving and all, I just wanted to say… Well, it’s something I should have said forever ago… But I’m really thankful for you.” He smiles a little wider again. Damn, two of those smiles in one evening? Must be fuckin’ Christmas. “Yeah?” he asks. I nod. “A lot of my friends always tell me how they don’t really have relationships with their dads and… obviously I don’t know what that’s like.” Dad laughs. “I get the same thing from guys in there,” he says, cocking his chin towards the bar. “Everyone’s always so surprised that I’ve got a boy I’m close with.” A boy. Something about the way he says that, the way he refers to me, tickles my insides in the strangest way. “We kinda have to be close,” I say with a smirk. “We’re raising a damn kid together.” He scoffs. “That’s the truth.” Then he smiles gently. “You’re a good dad, you know.” “You are too,” I say, trying to ignore the surge of pride I’m feeling. “And a good man. And… just… good,” I trail off with a laugh, glancing at the ground. He chuckles slightly. “A good partner too?” he asks, and when I look up at him, I see that he’s grinning slightly. “Yeah, a good partner, too,” I say, poking him in his stomach. Dad just smiles. “I remember you mentioning something about common law last year.” Oh God. “I was high and joking around,” I say with a blush. He shrugs. “Still made me laugh,” he says with a little grin. “Reminded me of you when you were younger.” “Yeah?” I ask, perking up, always eager to hear Dad reminisce. “Uh huh. You used to always say you were gonna marry me as soon as you turned eighteen.” “Oh yeah,” I say with a laugh, my face getting warm. Does he remember my mock proposal? What am I saying — of course he does. Dad is the quiet library of familial memory. I’ve noticed that whenever he *does* decide to divulge some information or talk about the past, he recalls everything in vivid detail, like he’s watching a replay of it and is just describing it to me. I can imagine how he’d describe my playful proposal to him — every detail, down to the color of the socks mostly hidden by my shoes. I remember we were outside, at one of the local parks. It was a particularly breezy afternoon, but the temperature was perfect. He was teaching me how to skip rocks into the lake, but we both were distracted by something occurring about a hundred feet away: a man proposing to a woman. The man was on one knee in front of his soon-to-be fianc�, and she screamed in delight before covering her mouth with her hands. Then, after he slid a ring onto her finger, she leapt into his arms. I must have felt particularly inspired, because little seven-year-old me got down on one blistered knee and took my dad’s hand. That’s when he turned and noticed me kneeling in the sand, looking surprised. “Will you marry me, Mr. Dad?” I said playfully, smiling up at him. He paused before he burst out laughing, harder and fuller than I’ve ever seen him laugh before (and since). And he wasn’t laughing because he was making fun of me. He was laughing because he was happy. I felt the joy emanating from him, resolute and powerful. “You wanna marry your old man?” It wasn’t the first time I had said something like that. I always used to tell him we’d be lawfully wed (though I always screwed it up and thought it was “awfully wedded”). “Yup!” I said gleefully, his laugh infectious, warming my entire being. “We can be in love and everything.” He just picked me up in his broad arms and kissed my cheek before saying “We already are, Mitchy,” and I gushed so hard that I planted a wet kiss on his lips, right there, by the lake, while the newly-engaged couple were kissing across the way. Dad pulled back with a little laugh and one of those rare, full, gorgeous smiles of his, directed right at me. And goddamn if I didn’t feel like the luckiest boy on Earth. “Guess I always knew I’d make a good wife,” I joke. That gets a laugh out of him. “Well, you’re a year and a half too late.” “Better late than never,” I say with a grin before looking at him more seriously. “I’ve always been curious… Think you’ll ever get married again?” “Me?” He shakes his head. “Nah. I doubt it.” “Why? “It’s not what I want.” I raise my eyebrows. “What *do* you want?” He stares at me for a moment, characteristically taking a little too long to answer. “To be honest, I like how things are now,” he says. “Really?” I say. Half of me is surprised to hear that, and half of me expected that answer. “Even with me and a six-year-old?” “*Because* of you and the six-year-old,” he says with a little smile. “I like that it’s just the three of us. I mean…” He shifts a bit, sighing through his nose. “We’re the only family we’ve got.” I nod a little, understanding. He wants to keep us all together. “I was serious when I said I’d stay forever if you let me,” I inform him. He smiles gently. “I’ve always wondered, y’know, now that you’re older… Boys grow up and wanna leave the nest.” “Not this boy,” I say firmly. “You say that *now*, but–” “And I’ll say it tomorrow, too,” I say with a smile. “I like being with *you*, Dad.” There’s another blush. His cheeks turn a slight tinge of red, and it makes me want to hold him, to be held by him. We lock eyes, and again, I feel it: a moment. It feels like we’re sharing in a brief digression from the normal world, where all that exists right now is this connection. Dad has always had a way of making me feel spotlighted by his gaze, but it’s something I’m noticing more and more lately — especially today. Right now, most of all. Everything he’s thinking is directed right at me, I can see that in his eyes. He reaches his hand up to my face and gently strokes my cheek with his knuckles. Automatically, without even thinking, I nuzzle my face into his touch, which causes him to open his palm and hold me gently in his hand. His hands smell like sawdust, like freshly cut cedar — a scent that I’ve so deeply connected with him that whenever I pass a construction site, I’m immediately calm, centered, focused. I feel safe. At-ease. Loved. My hand subconsciously reaches for him, and I rest two fingers in the pocket of his jacket like a mini-anchor. He makes a small noise, and I’m not sure if it’s a small laugh or he’s just exhaling. “I’m so lucky to have you, Mitch.” I look up at him, my cheek still situated gently in his palm, his rough thumb tenderly stroking my skin. Then, his fingers slide further backwards, running through my hair as his hand (the hand with his new bracelet fashioned around it) settles on the back of my skull. But they don’t just rest — they tug. I feel the faintest force pulling me closer to him, and I fall back into his arms, hugging him tightly to me, just as tightly as he’s holding me. We stay locked like that for a while, just enjoying each other’s warmth, the feel of our bodies together, the closeness, that father-son intimacy, the joy we bring each other. I nuzzle into his neck a bit before shifting my face so that I can kiss his cheek. “Love you, Dad.” With a hand still on the back of my head, softly stroking with his thumb, he kisses my cheek in response, holding it for longer. “Love you more, kiddo.” “Yeah right,” I say sarcastically, laughing. “There’s no way you love me more. I’m your Mason.” That gets a little laugh out of him, and we turn our faces to each other. He smiles at me with such tenderness in his face. “Still my little boy, aren’t you?” I feel my skin getting warmer, but I nod, smiling and sealing that fact with a playful kiss to his nose. “Always, big guy.” I see a happy glimmer pass through Dad’s eyes, and he smiles softly at me before (surprisingly) leaning in. With his hand still securely pressed to the back of my head, he plants a soft kiss on my lips — almost exactly like the one from this morning. Instantly, I’m taken back to all those kisses we shared when I was little, all those kisses Mason still gets to enjoy on a daily basis, all those kisses I’ve so terribly missed. It’s gentle and sweet, and although quick, it makes my heart throb. When the kiss is over, we stay close, not yet separating. We just look at each other, stare, lock eyes. He looks a little more expressive than usual. Normally, any movement in his eyebrows are subtle, almost imperceptible to the average person. But right now, they’re furrowed at the center. Is he concerned? Deep in thought? His eyes tell me both. I wonder what’s on his mind, specifically. Can he tell what I’m thinking, too? There’s an intensity to his stare, an urgency to our connection, something I can’t quite pinpoint. I can’t help but feel… something in the air between us. Then, out of nowhere, it clicks, a thought hitting me. Is it what I think it is? No. Surely I’m reading into it like I usually do, projecting my desires onto him. But still, I feel like I can see it clearly, and instantaneously, my heart starts beating like a machine gun. It’s not just confusion, or thoughtfulness, or conflict in his eyes. It’s want. Now *I’m* confused, and thoughtful, and conflicted — but there’s no denying what I see in his eyes, what I feel from his energy. From the way he’s so gently combing through my hair to the locked-sight expression he’s giving me, I can feel it. Even while my thoughts are racing a million miles a minute, my body is acting on its own accord, leaning closer, bridging the gap between our lips just another inch as if testing the water, tempting fate. That’s all Dad needed, it seems, because in an instant, the tension snaps, and he pulls me into him as his mouth meets mine. Fuck. Holy fucking goddamn fuck. My hands stay deep within his jacket to hold onto something, anything, lest I fall over. I grip his sides as our lips move insistently against each other, complete reciprocation, undoubtedly mutual. beylikdüzü travesti It’s explosive. It’s making me high. I feel dizzy, light and heavy at the same time, almost like I’m not myself, like I’m not within my own body right now. I feel *good*. Then, Dad lets out a groan against my lips, so soft and indistinct, and it grounds me. Suddenly, I’m here. I’m in this. I’m feeling everything, from the softness of his lips to the scratchiness of his moustache, from the sheer presence of his body to the tender way he’s touching me, gripping me, keeping me close. I tug on Dad’s shirt a bit, and he responds my tangling his fingers in my hair, practically grabbing a fistful of it — gently, but with that teasing heat of passion. His other hand snakes around me, still clutching his birthday card as he holds onto the small of my back and then presses me up against the wall. I almost lose my breath right then and there as I feel the brick against my back, as I sense his body getting closer, desiring more contact. There’s nothing but us right now, nothing but the firm heat of our bodies and the wet, insistent smack of our lips as we kiss, and kiss, and kiss. I want more. I inch my tongue forward, and almost moan when I see how eagerly he parts his lips and grants me entry. They touch. Our tongues slide against each other, tasting each other, wanting nothing more than to go deeper– The front door of Olly’s swings open, and as soon as we hear the noise bursting from the bar, we break apart. Dad looks down, clearing his throat, and I just stare at him in disbelief for a moment, my chest heaving. What the fuck just happened? I look over to see Rachel and her husband heading out. When she notices us, she waves. “‘Night, boys! Happy Thanksgiving!” she shouts. “And happy birthday, Joel!” Dad turns towards her and nods, giving her a little wave. “Thanks, Rachel.” We both seem to like the idea of watching her and her husband climb into their car and drive away, though I think it’s just because it gives us time not to look at each other. When Dad finally does turn in my direction, he looks at my chest first and then lets his eyes flicker up towards mine. He holds my gaze for just a second before he looks away awkwardly. “I should, uh… probably head back inside.” I swallow thickly. I wonder if I can even speak right now. I can barely even breathe properly. “Y-yeah, okay.” “You–?” But he cuts himself off, unsure what to say. He simply adds “Yeah” before turning on his heels and walking right back towards the front door, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my hard-on. I’m too stunned to move. During the actual kiss, that’s all I was thinking about: kissing. I was barely cognizant of the who-what-when-where-why. Just the simple act of lip-locking so passionately completely blinded me. But now… now, I have to think. I have to make sense of it. It doesn’t take more than a few moments to start making connections — the long stares, the private smiles, the lingering touches, the compliments when we jack off together, those increasingly intense gazes we’ve been sharing lately. Looking back on those moments now, in this specific context, makes them seem like perfect prerequisites to what just occurred, but probably only because I’m looking for answers anywhere I can find them. None of those explain *why* it happened, either. He wasn’t drunk, and I only had one beer, so I can’t very well blame it on alcohol and incidental horniness. I try to reflect on that weird energy between us, that light tension as we stood here talking, that *something* I couldn’t quite discern. What was that? Did I miss something? Did it really feel that sudden, or am I still in a state of shock? That must be it. I’m still too stunned to really consider signs I may have missed, too distracted by the questions “Does Dad feel something for me?” and “Has he been holding it all in all this time?” to ponder anything else. Fuck. *Fuck*. I start laughing, out-loud. I laugh to myself out of nerves, excitement, disbelief, maybe even a little denial sprinkled in there. I just kissed Dad. I *kissed* him. Hell, *he* kissed *me*, right on my fucking mouth, with tongue. This was so much better than that brief, somewhat accidental, over-the-line kiss we shared when I was fourteen. This time, we made out for at least a full minute. He pressed me against a brick wall. Our tongues touched. I tasted his spit. He felt me moan. Holy fucking shit. I’m still buzzed. I can still feel his lips on mine, like a weird phantom sensation. I don’t know whether or not to smile, if it’s okay to feel both ecstatic and queasy. But I guess the real question now is “Now what?” Once my hard-on goes down, I head back inside. I scope out the room for my dad and find him chatting with a few other folks, and I decide that this isn’t the time or place to talk about what happened. We can do that later — if he even wants to do that. For now, I reconvene with Mason, smiling when his eyes light up at the sight of me coming over to him. He stretches out his arms and I laugh, picking him up and giving him a kiss on the cheek. Mason will be a good distraction. For a long while, Mason and I end up collecting all the empty beer bottles and making a musical instrument out of them. I teach him how filling the bottles with varying amounts of liquid changes the pitch, and he, absolutely fascinated, bangs away a made-up tune with me by slapping pens against the glass. His face is illuminated by a bright smile and an even brighter laugh, looking thrilled that we can now “start a band and be famous together.” After a lot of music-making and chatting, though, about an hour later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. When I turn around, I’m face-to-face with Dad. I gulp a bit, the spark inside me going off again. “You ready to go?” he asks in a level voice. I try to read anything I can gather from his expression, but there’s not much there. He seems… normal. Did he forget about the kiss or something? “Yeah.” We take another ten minutes to say goodbye to any stragglers, pack up some leftovers, and then head out to the car. We pile saran-wrapped plates of food onto the backseat with Mason before driving back towards the house, and even though Dad’s expression remains blank, there’s clearly tension on the ride home. Mason keeps talking and telling stories, but neither of us respond to the poor kid unless directly asked a question. Dad and I just keep glancing at each other a bit, probably speculating what the other is thinking — because that’s all we can really do right now: speculate. By the time we get home, Mason has talked himself sleepy, dozing off in the backseat. Once Dad parks the car, he handles bringing the food in while I unbuckle my son and scoop his tired self into my arms. “Someone’s sleepy,” I mutter in his ear, and he just murmurs an indistinct reply before lazily guiding his thumb back to his mouth. I chuckle softly and kiss his cheek. I shut his door closed before I follow Dad into the house, unlocking the front door for him since his hands are full. We step into the house with a sigh each, clearly trying to ignore the mild tension a bit. Hell, my stomach hasn’t stopped bubbling since that kiss. “Gonna tuck him in?” Dad asks me. “Whuh? Oh, yeah,” I say, glancing at him and clearing my throat. “Okay,” he says with a little nod, his eyes meeting mine so intensely that I want to look away. “I’ll try ‘n make room for all this in the fridge,” he adds, lifting the plates of leftovers in his arms. My mouth feels both dry and wet. Is that possible? “Sounds good,” I say, before I turn on my heels and head straight for our bedroom, lying Mason down gently. I help get him undressed, carefully stripping him off his pants and sweater before pulling the nice warm blanket over him. He barely stirs, mumbling indistinct words in half-consciousness as I tuck him in. I just smile, placing his panda bear beside him and kissing his forehead. “Daddy?” he mutters. “I’ll be right back, baby,” I assure him, stroking his hair. “Gotta talk to Papa.” I nudge Pandy closer to him and he automatically wraps his arm around the toy, his free thumb heading right for his mouth as he sinks into the mattress and relaxes. Now that he’s all tucked in… it’s time to face Dad. When I head back into the kitchen, Dad is in the midst of unwrapping the plate of leftover pie. He glances over at me when he senses my presence. “Think pie can be left out?” he asks, transferring the remaining slices of an apple pie to a Tupperware with his hands. “There’s not much room left in the fridge.” “Yeah, if we just eat them tomorrow they’ll be fine,” I tell him, opening the fridge door and seeing my eyebrows raise. Jesus, it’s full, mostly because his beers take up half the fucking space. I sigh looking at them before reaching in and grabbing two: one for him, and one for me. I don’t drink out of Dad’s stash much, but this seems like the kind of night for a cold one. Once Dad packs up the pie and sees me offering him a drink, he nods and thanks me. He takes it, and when our fingers nudge, I swear my cock twitches. I watch as he uses the edge of the counter to pop the cap off of the bottle. I can’t help but laugh a bit, peering at him as he brings the drink to his lips. “That’s so barbaric,” I jest. He raises an eyebrow slightly before swallowing his sip. “Gets the job done.” I bite my lip before trying it myself, internally apologizing to the counter as I quickly drag the bottle down the edge. Guess I didn’t get the angle right, because the cap doesn’t come off. “Uhh…” “Here,” Dad says, stepping close to me and taking the bottle. I gulp, deciding to stay put and soak in the heat radiating from his body. Our arms touch as he raises my bottle and quickly pops the cap off before handing it to me. “All about technique.” “Thanks,” I mutter, making sure our fingers touch again when I take the beer from him. I take a long, long swig of my drink, and even though I don’t love the taste, I’m silently hoping this bottle is 90% alcohol so that I’m drunk enough to be daring. When I swallow, I exhale deeply, my heart thudding. Why do I feel like I’m in trouble right now, like I’m about to be chastised for fucking up in some major way? I have to remind myself that *I* didn’t do anything wrong here. Dad’s the one who has some explaining to do. “So…” I say, clearing my throat. “So,” Dad repeats, looking at me calculatingly. He leans against the counter, one hand resting on the marble and the other raising his beer to his lips. “Did you… enjoy your birthday?” I ask slowly. He stares at me, and I almost want to throttle him for taking so long to answer. “Yeah. Pretty good this year,” he says. “Thirty-seven,” I say, stating his age. He nods. “Long time.” “Almost forty.” “Sure am.” I feel awkward. I know Dad hates this type of small-talk, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t even know what I *should* say — though I suppose the proper thing to do would be to take a leaf out of his book and just spit it out, be blunt, be forward. But Dad clears his throat after an uncomfortable half-minute pause. “Listen,” he starts to say, and then he cuts himself off, sighing as he looks down. He’s clearly thinking hard about something — and I’m pretty sure I know what that something is: the kiss. Heart pounding like a war drum, I slide my hand over the counter to lightly nudge his fingers. I notice his head tilting towards the contact before he allows my fingers to slip under his palm. Then, he grips my fingers, firmly holding on as our hands become bound. He smiles slightly at the sight, brushing my wrist with his thumb tenderly. And then, we make eye contact. I feel that powerful force from earlier, that strange tugging feeling just behind my navel. It’s intense. It’s almost innate, the way I feel drawn to him, even right now. There’s an undeniable truth in this moment: our chemistry is electric, fucking indisputably electric. Can he read my expressions? Can he see how much I’m struggling in this moment? Is the tension of debate written so clearly on my face? The temptation is there, and the moment feels right to kiss him all over again… All I have to do is lean forward and take it. But there’s that doubt that’s holding me back. Am I really about to get what I’ve dreamed about practically my whole conscious life? I leap. I leap, and I leap fast. I’m throwing myself off the cliff, in a way, jumping with no ropes to pull me back in. That’s exactly how I want to do it, because I don’t want to pussy out at the last second. As I lean in, I see Dad’s eyes shift towards my lips before, a split second later, my mouth is on his. I feel his hand tightening against my hand as we hold our lips together — just hold. We don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t make a sound. All this moment consists of is sensation: lips on lips and hands on hands and bodies tensed. Then, he starts to pull back, and our lips smack in the most exquisite way. I let out a soft sigh, but Dad doesn’t make a sound yet. I feel my face getting warm, my core body temperature rising, my heart rate increasing tenfold. But it needed to be said this way. I don’t have the balls to tell him that I liked the way he kissed me earlier, nor the audacity to ask for more. I have to show him. I have to take it. I kiss him again, but harder this time. Deeper. I’m more expressive with my lips, and I find myself melting when Dad’s meeting me with that same physical dialogue. Fuck. He steps in closer, and right as I hear his beer bottle hit the floor, I feel his arm wrap around me, holding me up against him. There’s a fire here, ignited between us, inside of us, surrounding us. This kiss can be described as nothing less than passionate. I could fucking cry right now. I could cry, and I could cum if he would just– “Daddy?” Mason comes shuffling in and Dad and I break apart again. I hear him mutter “God fucking damn it” under his breath as we separate and put a little distance between us. Heart still racing, I glance down at Mason, who’s rubbing his eyes with his fists. Guess he didn’t see anything. “What are you doing up, Mace?” I ask, trying to sound gentle — but I’m just as irritated as Dad is. In the corner of my eye, I can see him facing the cabinets, not even looking at his son and grandson. “I heard a loud noise,” he says, and my eyes flicker to the beer bottle on the floor that’s dripping its remnants onto the hardwood. “And you weren’t in bed.” Mason comes over to me, sleepily hugging my leg, his head nudging the hard-on in my jeans. I sigh heavily, running my hand over my face. “I told you I’d be right there,” I say. “Come sleep,” he says softly. I glance at Dad for a moment. “Give me a few minutes, buddy.” “No,” Mason pouts, looking up at me. “This is grown-up talk.” “Nooo,” he whines. I know he’s desperate for some affection. We didn’t get any nighttime cuddles in. I squat down, being as patient as I can possibly be in this moment. “Head to bed, and I’ll bring a treat for you.” His eyes light up a little. “Really?” “Mhm. You can wait up for me.” I kiss his cheek. “Just give me a few minutes, okay?” “Okay!” he says, looking a little more awake all of a sudden. He smiles, seemingly satisfied for the moment as he runs back to our bedroom, leaving me and his Papa Joel alone in the kitchen. I scratch the back of my head as I glance at Dad. He’s just eyeing me strangely. istanbul travesti “Everything always comes in threes, so expect another interruption,” I say, trying to bring humor to the situation. Dad actually laughs softly. “Maybe that’s a sign.” I blush a little, looking down at my hands for a moment. “So… what now?” He seems to hesitate for a second longer than usual. “Maybe we should call it a night,” he says decidedly. “I need to… think.” Not wanting to push it, I just nod. “Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “So… Goodnight, then.” He nods a little, biting his bottom lip — something he only does when he’s nervous. “‘Night, son.” We lock eyes for another intense moment, and part of me wonders if we’ll kiss again. But I shouldn’t. He said he needs to think, so I’ll let him think. I’ll be a good kid. I grab a leftover cookie and leave Dad in the kitchen, hoping Mason’s excitement for sweets will exhaust me enough to fall asleep quickly. When I feel someone shaking me awake, my first emotion is irritation. Why the hell is Mason pulling me out of deep sleep? But then I notice how strong the grip is, how large the hand feels on my upper arm. It’s not Mason. It’s Dad. “Mitch,” he whispers, and my eyes start opening slowly. My vision’s foggy for a moment until Dad’s face, even in the semi-darkness, comes into focus. “Hmm?” “C’mere.” “What?” “Come here,” he says more firmly, beckoning for me to get out of bed. I blink a few times, stretching and feeling groggy as I check the time on the clock on the nightstand: it’s just past three in the morning. Now, that irritation returns. What the fuck does Dad need at three in the morning? I slide myself out of bed, rubbing the center of my forehead with my fingertips before sighing and standing up in just my boxers and a long-sleeved shirt. I mess with my hair a bit as I follow him towards the doorway, and the closer we get to the dim light coming from the hallway, the more he comes into view. He’s dressed for bed, wearing plaid, drawstring pajama pants and a tank top. Did he just roll out of bed, too? When we step out into the hallway, he turns, reaches behind me, and pulls my bedroom door shut. I slide out of his way, raising my eyebrows. Does he want to talk or something? “Is everything oka–?” But I don’t get another word out because, in the blink of an eye, Dad has me pressed up against the wall with his lips planted securely on mine. Instantly, I’m awake. I’m awake, and I’m alive, and I’m aware of every inch of my body as well as his, my focus on his lips meeting mine. Fuck, I’m dizzy. He pulls back gently, leaving me panting. “I can’t sleep,” he says in a low voice. “Okay,” I tell him. I’m not sure what else to say. I’m still reeling from that kiss. He seems to think on something for a moment, his eyes staring at my mouth until he holds my gaze. “Do you want this?” This? What’s he referring to, exactly? But then, I reconsider, because in all actuality, who cares what he’s specifically referring to? In all cases that are relevant to this context, there is only one right answer, only one word I’d ever allow to leave my lips: “Yes.” Clearly that’s all he needed to hear, because he nods. I almost expect him to smile, but he still has that focused expression on his face as he takes my hand and murmurs “C’mon” before leading me further down the hallway — to his bedroom. When we enter his private space, I feel like I’m seeing the room differently. The dim lighting from the bedside lamp makes everything feel sensual rather than just calming, erotic rather than just moody. My body feels hyper-charged, a sensation that starts spreading from the hand-holding to all my other extremities that want to be in contact with him. But that’s just the vibe of the bedroom. I can’t really take in any of the details besides the undone bed, because Dad shuts the door and practically pins me against it with his body. He’s a little gentler this time, though. That sense of urgency seems to have taken a backseat, and now that we’ve acknowledged that this is what we want, he seems to be moving a little slower, taking his time. I feel his hands at the hem of my shirt, and I look down just as he starts to tug upwards. Fuck, that simple act is giving me chills. I swallow thickly as he lifts my shirt, and I raise my arms so that he can tug it off of me. I feel so exposed all of a sudden that I almost laugh. “Is this really happening?” I mutter aloud. He just responds by tossing my shirt to the floor, snaking a hand to the back of my head, and reeling me in for a deep, tender kiss. His other hand slides down my arm and rests at my hip, and I in turn grab onto his sides, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly enough to pull him closer. I feel the bulk of his body, strong and ample, with our bulges lightly touching. His hand slips around me more, holding the small of my back before trailing lower. I can sense him hesitating a bit, his hand drifting lazily over my ass as if he’s unsure if it’s okay to touch me there. So I give him the green light by pushing back against his hand, sandwiching his palm between my ass and the door. He hums deeply into my lips, closing his fingers around one glute, making me moan right back against him. He steps even closer, close enough for our groins to really come together. There’s no hiding it now: we’re both hard as fuck for each other. He steps back a hair to start pulling off his shirt, and he only breaks the kiss when it’s time to pull it off over his head. I can’t resist the opportunity to touch him for real, to physically express the admiration I have for my father’s body. I put my hands on his pecs as he tosses his shirt to the floor, and he looks down as my hands wander his lightly muscled form — still big and plenty studly, but with a hint of softness to it. I slide my fingers through his fur, practically melting as I touch him. God, how long has it been since I was able to explore his body so freely? Things are different now, though: what once was a boyish comfort is now sexual drive. “Fuck, Daddy,” I murmur, the word slipping right out of my mouth. There was no stopping it. It came from deep within me, I suppose — Daddy’s little boy, like he said. He seems to respond to that well, because he grunts softly. “Yeah?” he murmurs, and I lick my lips slightly as my face flushes, embarrassed by both the momentary regression and the swearing. But he doesn’t seem to care about the latter right now. All he does is look at me. Even in this dim lighting, he seems to notice me blushing — and it makes him smile slightly. He leans in and kisses one cheek, then the other, then my lips, the soft kiss making his moustache tickle me in the best fucking way. I’m melting. I’d be a puddle on the floor if my hands weren’t on him. “Baby boy,” he mutters against my lips. I swear my cock throbs in my underwear and my gut trembles. Dad wraps an arm around me and holds me, pulling me into him so that I can bury my face in his neck. I inhale him, and I can tell he didn’t shower tonight. He’s still got his natural scent, the smell of which goes right to my cock and gives me an absolute rush. I kiss his neck gently before putting my forehead on his shoulder and looking down as my hand explores his furry torso — the strong pec and hardened nipple, the faint abs I can trace with my fingers, the soft happy trail disappearing into his pajama pants… I follow that trail down to the waistband, my heart racing. There it is: his manhood, just mere inches from my fingers, tenting the pants I so desperately want him to get rid of. I test the situation, reaching down to grab at one end of the drawstring. I glance up at him and see that he’s watching my hand — but when he notices me looking, he turns his face towards me. His eyes tell me exactly what I want to hear: “Do it.” I tug slowly, feeling the knot coming undone until his pants are loosened around the hips. I look down, my breath short as I notice more of his pubes have come into view, looking absolutely, positively inviting. I touch his happy trail again, but this time, I put my full palm on his lower abdomen and hold my hand there. When I look back at his face, he’s licking his lips, leaning ever so slightly into me — like he wants to kiss me again. We just breathe, holding the moment, prolonging the inevitable. Then, I feel his hand cover mine, his big calloused worker’s hand guiding mine lower, and lower, and lower — right into his pants. I can’t look away from his eyes. It’s like I’m hypnotized as he brings my hand against his cock. I gasp slightly when my fingers touch the base of it — and I nearly get dizzy with lust when he guides my fingers around his shaft. It’s unbelievable. I’m holding my father’s cock in my hand. It’s thick and hard, hard for me, hard for us, and I’m feeling it throb and pulse in my grip. I must have died and gone to heaven, if heaven if where one lives out their wildest, life-long fantasies. Just as his own fingers tug at the waistband of my boxers (and thereby causes my skin to erupt in fresh goosebumps), he leans in and resumes kissing me. He keeps the kisses slow and tender, but *deep* — ample amounts of tongue, copious amounts of spit, gruff moans against my lips. I’m in fucking heaven. I’m in love. As I start stroking him in his pants, Dad grunts softly, expelling humid breath against my lips. “God, Mitch,” he murmurs. I just wrap my fingers even more tightly around his manhood, his fatherhood, the cock that made me. In response, he slips his hands into my boxers and wraps a sure hand around my own member, making my legs twitch. “Hnnng,” I grunt, my nose bumping his, lips brushing against his in a sloppy manner. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this, Mitchy,” he coos, his voice sounding softer than I’ve ever heard it. He gropes me with one hand, his other hand stroking my side and my back. “To touch and kiss my baby boy.” He looks me in the eye, and I see that desire of his, clear as day. I’d almost laugh if I wasn’t so fucking turned on right now. How long, Dad? As long as me? “Me too, Daddy,” I say gently. I feel his cock throb when I call him that. His eyes even glaze over momentarily. “Call me that again,” he says in a low, deep tone. It resonates through me, his voice, and as he steps closer to me. I swallow thickly, my voice soft. “Daddy,” I murmur, my tone tender and boyish. In a way, I *feel* boyish again, like I’m getting close with my dad in all new ways. Dad growls at me in the sexiest fucking way. It makes my cock twitch and throb and spurt precum into my boxers, coaxed out by his grip. He gives my hard-on a few tender, paternal strokes before removing his hand from my underwear and tugging it off my hips. Then he does his own, letting his pajama pants fall down to his ankles before stepping out of them. Just as I’m stepping out of my underwear, Dad’s hand goes to my throat — not necessarily in a domineering way, because he holds me tenderly, his lips right up against mine. “You wanna sleep with Daddy tonight, baby boy?” he asks, his other hand on my cock again. I swallow thickly, my body so responsive to his touch, his words, his tone. I’m going to die tonight. I can feel it. I’m going to die in the best fucking way. “Yes please,” I say softly, my breath almost catching. I swear Dad smirks ever so slightly as he steps back, keeping a grip on my cock as he turns towards the bed. He leads me deeper into his room, and my heart pounds as we get closer to the mattress. I don’t think my heart has slowed since he started kissing me in the hallway. Maybe it’s because I’m still in denial that any of this is really happening — but Dad crawls into bed and I follow closely behind, settling into his arms and meeting him halfway for a deep kiss as we hold each other. We don’t do much in his bed — but at the same time, it’s fucking everything. The closeness, the touching and grinding, the deep kissing, this newfound intimacy, it’s plenty enough to get both my heart and cock throbbing. We spend most of our time making out, the kisses ranging from quicker pecks to deep, lewd tongue-battles while our hands drift over each other’s sides, hips, chests, cocks, and asses. When our lips aren’t on each other, we’re focused on our hands fondling each other’s hard-ons or stroking them in one sure grip. I even take a few minutes to nurse on his nipples after nuzzling so boyishly between his pecs. I get encouraged by his fingers in my hair and his cock pulsing in my grip and his voice saying “That’s it, baby boy” amidst soft grunts that emerge every time I suck harder. And then — my lips find their way back to his. We lie on our sides and kiss slowly, taking turns receiving tongue, grabbing hold of our own cocks and stroking them as the heads rub together. Our knuckles bump into each other with every up-stroke but we don’t shift to move away. We just kiss and enjoy ourselves and bring ourselves (me particularly) to the most relieving sort of orgasm I think I’ve ever felt. It’s not just a good sensation. It feels emotional. It feels like a breath of fresh air, or a weight shoved off my shoulders, or stripping off clothes I’d been sweating in all day, all in one. It’s an all-encompassing orgasm, and as I roll onto my back to finish, I feel the sensation of it ripple through my entire being, made perfect by Dad’s arm keeping me close as I spill my load on myself. He does the same soon after. I hear him grunt near my ear before he looks down, working faster, his knuckles brushing my hip with each stroke, the sounds slick and lewd. He inhales through his nose and then goes silent as he gently nudges his hips forward and cums. His hot load shoots hard across my lower abdomen a few times, even hitting my wrist all the way on the other side of me, before the rest of it oozes from the tip onto my hip, thick and pearly white. Then, silence for a bit. We just lie there, hands loosely holding our cocks, breathing softly in that exhausted sort of way. Now that we’ve gotten off, nervousness starts to creep in. Will he freak out? Did we do something wrong? Has this damaged our relationship? But he lifts his hand from his cock and places it on my lower stomach, wet and firm, and starts gently rubbing his load into my skin. My eyes almost roll back from how tender and relaxing it feels. Daddy’s hand on my tummy practically lulls me to the deepest sleep. His hand roams my abs in circles before sliding up to my chest. Then, he shifts a little closer, his front pressing against my side, a leg draping over mine, his arm resting across my chest and holding me close. I feel him plant a kiss on the side of my head, and I nearly burst into tears right then and there. But I keep it together, only allowing one or two tears to run down my cheek. We sit there in silence for a while. I rest a hand on his forearm as a tender sort of anchor, keeping my thoughts to myself. There’s so much I want to know, so much I want to ask him — and so much he probably wants to discuss with me, too. After several minutes of quiet, I speak up. “Dad?” “Hm?” he says sleepily, that noise coming from deep within his chest. I open my mouth to speak, but suddenly, I don’t know what to say. Maybe this isn’t the right time. So I keep it simple. “Happy birthday,” I say softly, giving his forearm a little squeeze. He lets out a tiny laugh through his nose before kissing my head again, letting it linger. “Thanks, buddy,” he mumbles, clearly tired and already drifting off. I just grin a little bit. Talk is for later. For now, I’m going to soak in every detail of this perfect moment and do nothing but smile until sleep takes me. – End of Chapter 4 –

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