In Love With Daddy

Hi, I'm Taylor, a 28 year old married man with a 4 year old baby boy. You might say that I am just your everyday Joe. I watch football, love to barbecue, go to work to earn bread money for my little family, and I enjoy sitting down in a sports grill with the fellas to have some beer and talk chicks. My wife Becca is stunning, my boy Alexander is growing fast right before my eyes, we live in a nice middle class suburban neighborhood, and I find my work fulfilling. Just an average guy—a dime a dozen. But in reality that is only a part of me. In fact it's only the outer shell. For hidden away deep inside of me I have a dark secret: I am a closet homosexual. And I am in love with my dad.

It all started—well, at least I think it all started here—after Mom died when I was 19. She got in a car accident on her way to work one early morning. I was devastated, shocked, and although it was nearly Midterms in my sophomore year of college I decided to rush home to be with Dad and my sisters back at home for the funeral. Those were hard times. Emotionally strenuous for all of us. I was about to book a hotel room for the week long stay ahead of me but Dad insisted on me staying with him. So I agreed and he set up the guest bedroom for me and everything else in terms of arrangements for the funeral went on track. The first few days of my stay were totally normal so I won't talk about those. But something happened the night before the funeral, something totally unexpected: for the first time in my life I found myself looking at my father—grieving though he was—in a not so son-like way. Here's how it went down:

I was sitting there on the couch in the living room with one of my textbooks open in front of me, bored out of my mind, when a knock came at the door and Dad quietly entered.

"Hey Dad," I said, putting the book away onto a side table. "How are you? Have a seat."

He smiled a kind of sad smile and sat down on the couch right next to me, close like he wanted to whisper something to me. I scooted away towards the arm of the couch a bit but I didn't have much room there.

"Taylor, I want to thank you for everything you've done to help," he said softly. He was turned so that his knees and his chest were facing me at a slight angle.

"Dad, it's nothing," I said, and turned towards him. "Everything ready for tomorrow?"

He looked towards the ceiling and then returned to look upon my face again. "Yeah it is," he said. "All set . . . I wish I didn't have to keep on thinking about it though. My mind's a blur! I need to get thinking about something else." He chuckled.

"Hmm . . ." I took my eyes off of him and looked at the T.V. in front of us, with a DVD player on a stand just below. "How about we watch a movie tonight? Just like the old days?"

He pursed his lips, hesitant. Finally: "Okay, son," he said, smiling now and settling down. "Let's watch something. Anything you want. I don't care."

After searching through his somewhat scanty DVD collection we decided on something and flipped it on. I don't remember the name of the movie. But I do remember Dad, and how my feelings for him first began to bud as we sat there in the dark watching it.

It started like this: He had scooted up right next to me on the couch, as I stated before. That was fine, but throughout the film it seemed like he was getting closer to me every time I turned to look at him in the dull light coming from the T.V. It seemed that I could feel his body heat against me. I didn't mind all of this, enjoying the warmth since it was a little drafty in the room.

Now about halfway in the movie we suddenly became closer—a lot closer—since he raised his arm and put it around my back, placing his left hand on my shoulder. I shuddered at the feel of it but looking at his unturned face in the dark I noticed—for the first time, really—the sadness in those brown eyes, the loss this man has just suffered. I felt a wave of pity for him, and wanted him to be okay, to be comforted in his time of greatest need. I smiled at him and leaned deep into his open chest, and took his hand with both of mine. I began to massage it, locking and then unlocking fingers with him. I turned to look at him and he, in turn, turned his eyes towards me and smiled.

About five minutes later and I felt him leaning over to face me again at that same angle that he had at the beginning right when he had sat down with me. I kept my eyes on the screen but from their corners I saw him gazing on me. He reached out towards me with his right hand (his left being over my shoulder) and placed it softly around me towards my left side, just above my hip. Once there, I felt his thumb begin to roll over my skin, back and forth, and his hand slowly sliding up and then down again towards my hip. I shivered at the touch of his thumb against my stomach, and inside of my chest just above it my heart was thundering. He was, for these first few moments, still staring at me. I dared not turn to look into his eyes—those sad eyes. Finally he turned again to the T.V.

Gradually, my heart calmed and I started to like his hands on me, his left on my shoulder clasped in my own two hands as I continued to massage them, his right on my side sliding over my hip with his thumb caressing my stomach. I felt so comfortable then, and let my body melt into his warm embrace. In that position we went through the rest of the movie, though I wasn't paying any attention to it anymore, just to those soft hands, delicate fingers. I didn't even try to move even after the credits started rolling. We just sat there against each other enjoying the peaceful moment, listening to the music pouring from the dark screen.

"So . . ." Dad said after the last of the white lines on the screen had disappeared. "How did you enjoy the movie?"

"It was good," I said, lying. I hadn't even grasped the plot. It was all just a blur of cowboy dressed people flying across the screen jabbering about God knows what. "So . . ."

"Yup . . ." he said. "So . . . I guess we probably got to get to bed right?"

I sighed. "Yeah, suppose so." I rose my head and turned to look into his face again, the light from the DVD menu shining brightly upon it now. He looked back at me, his eyes serious, though not quite as sad as before. "Dad . . ."

"Thanks for . . . being there for me, Taylor," he said now slowly, and swallowed. His eyes, I noticed, passed over down my face all the way to my lips. "You are a good son."

With that, he let go of me and brought his left arm back towards his side again. I brushed back my hair with my hand and watched him as he got up from the couch now. I caught myself just then looking straight at his butt as he reached the T.V. and bent over to take out the DVD. I scanned the jean-clad bumps twice, and then quickly raised my face to his as he turned around.

"Goodnight, then," he said. He opened his lips as if he were about to say something else but then hesitated. "See you tomorrow." I watched him as he walked out of the room leaving me there, exhausted on the couch.

A few minutes later and I was up and preparing the hide-a-bed. The funeral was to be in the morning so I would have to get up real early. Sleep would be appreciated if I could get some. As I was about to get into the covers a picture on the wall caught my eye: it was me and Dad on a trip to Washington D.C. a few years back. In the picture his arm was around me and we were both smiling. Looking at my father's face made me smile and I felt my heart jump, and my limbs filled with excited energy. I bit my lip and ran my fingers over my father's photo, imaging that I was there again with him, in his arms. I swallowed hard. What was I thinking? I asked myself. Did I have butterflies in my stomach just now? I put the picture down and got into bed. After turning off the light I gently ran a hand over my stomach where his thumb had caressed a couple hours before.

"Am I . . .?" I started to ask myself aloud. "Am I . . . excited by Dad?"

A horrifying thought, yes, but somehow when I said it aloud, and remembered the feeling of those hands on me, I was filled with a kind of exhilarating power, and felt like getting up right then and leaping high into the air. The taboo of it, the forbidden fruit, my father. All of it, with accompanying images, ran through my head all night and it was only far into the early morning that I finally fell asleep.

The funeral the next morning was pretty normal, except that it was hard to talk with Dad. It's like there was a clamp over my throat and I'd get real nervous around him. It seemed like he felt the same way. And he kept on looking at my lips, and I swear that I saw him looking at my ass once, in the church of all places. Maybe I just imagined that. I don't know.

I left town that night since I had work the next morning real early, Sunday, and then school—my Midterms in fact—started on Monday. Dad was really preoccupied with all of the relatives at the funeral so I just rushed back home in my little car, packed my stuff, and began the long drive back to school.

The years passed, I finished up my degree in Nursing, landed a great job at an Emergency Room in the same city where I went to school, and I met and fell in love with a beautiful blonde named Rebecca—Becca for short. Me and Becca were living out of an apartment but times were good and we had our first and only child, Alexander. Everything was pretty much normal. I still thought, often in fact, of that night with Dad and how his hand against my stomach had felt, and how the butterflies had bounced around inside. I called him often but saw him seldom, and nothing abnormal passed between us. A few years after Alex was born I began to view pornography. Not just any porn though, but gay porn, and my favorite (if I could find it) was gay incest porn. I had to do it all behind my family's back, of course. At every opportunity I would go online and masturbate. I still had sex with my wife, but I found myself enjoying it less and less. She was beautiful and had great breasts and a super personality—all a guy could ask for—but she just didn't excite me anymore. I only got excited now at seeing or reading things online about horny gay brothers or, the thing that really got me going, father and son sex. It thrilled me so much to imagine that and worse, to spend moments in self-pleasure imagining how it would feel to have my own father sucking on me, pounding his penis into me, of kissing those soft tender lips of his. I began more and more to crave him, but for a long time nothing happened outside of my own mind.

Everything changed though when I finally convinced Becca that we should move back to our hometown, and closer to Dad. That's where I pick up this story:

"Hey Dad," I said as I approached him at the restaurant where we had agreed to meet up.

He smiled and spread his arms wide and I fell into him for a very close hug. A memory of a thrill sped through my veins at his touch. We sat down, looked at the menu and ordered, all the while just talking and getting caught up with what not. It had been a long time since I had last seen him, and longer since I had been alone with him. Well, alone if you count all the people here in the restaurant.

"So Dad, now that I'm back home we can hang out," I said, and sipped my Coke.

"Yeah, I'd like that, Taylor," Dad said. "What are you doing this weekend . . . maybe Saturday?"

"Hmm . . . well we'll be all unpacked by that afternoon," I said. "We are almost finished now, actually. Why, what did you, uh, have in mind for Saturday?"

"Well," he began. "I usually play racquetball on Saturday afternoons. I've got some friends who play with me but this week they're all busy. I was originally planning on just going anyway to practice but if you want—it's fine if you don't—but if you want to you can come along . . . I have an extra racquet."

"Oh yeah, Dad," I said. "Yeah, sure. I'd love to. Let's plan on it!"

So we planned on it, and Saturday finally came, and he and I drove to the gym and played an hour of racquetball.

"Wow, good game, Dad," I said, wiping my forehead with a small white towel as we walked back towards the locker room. "You're sure in shape for an old guy." We both chuckled.

We were the only two in the locker room that night. I went to my locker and started to take out my bag when Dad said behind me, "You want to shower up?"

I halted and put down my bag. I turned towards him and found that he had already taken off his sweat-drenched shirt. He was ripped! I wasn't joking when I said that he was in shape! Giant pecs, hard nipples, rivets in his stomach, tan skin. I knew he was fit but not so muscular. His sweat dripped in beads down his chest making it shiny in the florescent light from above. I swallowed hard.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "I guess we should, huh?"

"Yeah, I don't want to get my car all sweaty," Dad said. "I brought some soap if you don't have any . . . Irish Spring. Good stuff."

"Okay."

I slowly removed my own shirt and watched him sit down on a bench and remove his sports shoes and his socks. He stood up, half facing me, and in one smooth motion pulled down his gym shorts. I stared on wide-eyed as he bent over—his hard tight ass coming into straight on view—and grabbed his shorts and briefs from the floor and placed them in his locker. He turned to face me all the way and I saw his penis. It dangled limply against his thigh, his balls hanging beneath. It was long too, and wide, vein bumps all along the flaccid tan shaft, black hair all surrounding it.

"Are you okay, son?" he asked.

"Uh," I quickly brought my eyes to look up into his. I made as straight and normal face as I could. "Yeah I'm fine, Dad. Just, uh, zoned out a bit. Kinda tired, ya know."

"That's okay," he said. "You coming?"

I nodded quickly, nervous. The butterflies were at it again. I bent over and took off my Nike's and my socks. Standing back up again, I took another look at him and saw him watching me, his hand on one hip, looking like a Greek statue. I felt so embarrassed that I was so puny compared to him. I was fit, yes, but not ripped like an Adonis! Nevertheless, after a moment, I put my thumbs at my shorts and pulled them all the way down and kicked them off immediately following.

My penis—big but not incredible like his—flopped out against my thigh. I instantly felt it twitch, and looking down upon it I saw that it was starting to fill up with blood, started to get hard. Dammit! I thought. I gotta think of something else!

I walked just behind him as we headed towards the standing showers in the next room. I tried to not think of what was happening here, tried not to look down at those tight hot buns directly in front of me, but I simply couldn't. The temptation was too high. I so wanted to reach out and touch that butt, to caress it like his hand had caressed my stomach that day several years ago. But I didn't. After all, he didn't seem to be getting too excited in seeing me. What would he think if he found out that I fantasized about him, jerked off to him, wrote erotic stories about him? I couldn't take the risk of an approach, not yet at least.

He lead me to a corner of the shower area and put his soap down upon a little ledge there. Turning towards me—that enormous penis facing me again, tantalizing my eyes—he reached with one hand and twisted the knob on the shower. Water came pouring out as he turned beneath it. I took the one right next to him, almost forgetting what was happening since I was so nervous and so embarrassed. I did the best I could to not show him my excitement, but I couldn't help but notice that my penis was rapidly enlarging between us as I soaped myself up and as I stole glances at him doing the same, at that perfect Olympian body glistening in the warm steamy water. He looked at me then, those big brown eyes directly onto my face, but then, as I watched him, his eyes trailed down my body—only very quickly, like he was only taking a guilty peek. The mere thought that he might be checking me out, his own son, was enough to harden my penis the rest of the way. It was now hard as rock and pointing straight up towards him, right in his view. I turned away from him as fast as I could and then, closing my eyes, tried to think of things that would make "it" go down.

"Taylor," Dad said now just behind me. He must have taken a couple of steps closer to me. I could feel him there, inches away from me.

"Yeah, Dad?" I said, not turning.

I almost fell over when, totally unexpected, I felt him place his hands at my naked sides. I shivered even though the water was warm—too warm in fact. He didn't stop there though. He caressed my side and his fingers explored the region around the edges of my stomach, and he slowly slid his hands lower on my waist down onto my hip, only inches away from my rock hard and completely and embarrassingly erect cock! I know that there must have been pre-cum dripping from my penis just then. I was absolutely dazzled by his sensuous touch.

"Taylor," he repeated, his breath just behind my neck now. "Do you want to come over to my place and watch a movie with me, like we did that night before your mother's funeral?" I took his hands in mine and guided them slowly over the middle of my stomach. "I enjoyed it so much. You don't know how much I enjoyed it."

I was having trouble breathing. I thought that I might die just then, struck by pleasure itself! I managed out, "Uh, yeah, Dad . . . how about tomorrow night—oh wait, uh, that doesn't work actually . . ." Damn wife! I thought just then. She always has to make me do things that I don't want to do. When was I ever free anymore? "Um, how about, Wednesday night—no, afternoon, I mean. Wednesday afternoon?"

His hands, those caressing, fondling hands beneath mine, over my stomach! I closed my eyes and tried to hold back the orgasm that I knew would come if this kept up much longer. Oh God!

"Sure," he said now. "Wednesday . . . at 5 I am free."

"Okay," I replied. "5 okay, Wednesday it is . . . I always wanted—"

"Hey Mike!" a man's voice said from somewhere behind us, interrupting me. "What's up?"

Dad let go of me and I could hear him turning around very quickly. "Oh, hey Bob, just showering up after a tough game of racquetball with my son here."

The situation was so completely and absolutely anti-climatic that my penis drooped again in no time and I had turned around to see my father shaking hands with another man about his same age who was just as nude as us, but less fit, I'm sorry to mention. It took away all the excitement of the situation and while the two talked about whatever it was they were talking about I exited the shower.

The drive home was quick. We didn't say much to each other, only listened to the radio a little bit. Then, saying goodbye until Wednesday, we parted ways as he dropped me off at my house where Becca was waiting for me to fix the air conditioner as I had promised. Bitch.

I jacked off every night the next four nights. On one of them Becca had wanted to make love and so she had got all dressed up in some fancy black velvety lingerie for me to try and excite me, and I did appreciate her efforts, but it didn't excite me much at all. She lay on the bed above my body sucking me off and all the while I could not think of anything except those big fatherly hands rubbing around on top of my stomach in the shower that day. That thought turned me on enough that I finally came and so Becca thought it was her.

After she had gone to sleep I lay there thinking about what I would do—what I could do—about her and the boy. And what made it worse is that I was not at all sure that Dad was as into me as I was into him. Maybe he just wants comfort, not sex. He is a sensitive guy, I think. I hardly got any sleep that night, especially since I knew that it was the night before our Wednesday afternoon plans.