My father-my lover

Greetings: My name is Clarence Devore, and I am 40 years old. My surname is rare, and the only other people I know with this last name are members of my family. I live in a medium-size Midwestern city, in a decent middle-class neighbourhood.

I had the day off from my job as bookkeeper/accountant in a factory in my city. I was sitting in my living room reading a book about history, my favourite subject. At 10 a.m., my doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I was curious to see who it might be—probably a salesman. When I opened the door, there stood a good-looking guy about 20 years old. He introduced himself.

“Hello. My name is Peter De Vore.”

“How interesting,” I replied. Maybe we are related.”

His response sent cold chills down my spine. “Yes, we are related. I am your son.”

“Whoa,” I exclaimed. “I don’t have a son.” Instead of simply saying, “This is some kind of fraud. Go away. Instead I said, “Let’s go inside and discuss this.”

Once seated on my sofa, I explained that I was never married, and asked who his mother is.

“I’m not permitted to tell you,” he replied in a mysterious way.

I asked him if he would like something to drink, I was already nourishing an Irish whiskey, and he replied, “I’ll have what you are drinking.”

“You will need to show me DNA proof that you are my son,” I explained.

“I happen to have it with me,” he assured me.

“Good,” I replied. “I happen to have a friend who is a geneticist. I’ll submit it to him.”

I scanned his DNA and e-mailed it to my friend. He replied very quickly, telling me that our DNAs match almost perfectly. I was shocked. I told Peter the results, and he gave me a smirking smile.

Peter then surprised me by stating, “I’m very unhappy where I’m living. Can I live here?”

“Hey, I don’t know. I’m used to living alone. I do have a spare bed room,” was my startled response. Give me a couple of days to think about it. I don’t do anything in a hurry. Give me your phone number, and I’ll respond in a couple of days to think about it. I’ll phone you with my decision.”

I mused the rest of the day about this possibility. “After all, he ISmy son,“ I thought. This was an idea difficult to grasp. The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. So two days after his visit, I phoned Peter and told him that I would accept. He was thrilled. Several hours later, he appeared in his beat-up old car, with two large suitcases. He took them to his bedroom, and we settled down for conversion.

“You’d be surprised how much I know about you. I have read your memoirs,” he remarked.

I was astonished. He went on, boldly, I might add, to say that we have many things in common.

“Such as,” I asked.

“I too am gay, but I prefer guys over 35. Unlike you, who prefers them young.” He went on to say, “You are a handsome guy for 40 years old.”

“Well, I go to the gym four days a week, and I don’t have any blubber,” I explained.

The big mystery explained

I was wracking my brain every day to figure out how I could be Peter’s father. Then it hit me. When I was about 20, I discovered a sperm bank in my city that paid $1,000 per donation. Partly to earn the money, and partly to brag to my friends, I applied and was accepted. Remembering that incident helped clear my head.

Peter needed to find a job. I spoke to the owner of the factory where I work, and got Peter a job in the shipping department, with the promise of a fast promotion.

After the fourth or fifth day after Peter moved in, he threw me a whopper. “I’d like to suck your dick,” he implored.

“Wait a minute. We are father and son, and that would be incest,” I cautioned.

“So what,” he retorted. “Who will know? And what does it matter? Let’s go to the bedroom, you stretch out, close your eyes, and pretend that I’m somebody you don’t know.”

I was torn between the little devil on one shoulder, and a good angel on the other. Of course, the little devil won, so I obeyed my “boss’s” wishes, but with misgivings.

But I couldn’t keep my eyes shut. I quickly opened them to find Peter nude. I couldn’t keep from admiring his handsome face and trim body. His cock was exactly the same as mine in length and girth. Peter had acquired good training, because he could swallow my entire dick with ease.

Once I came (not cummed) I sat up on the bed and grabbed Peter’s cock. With a mixture of guilt and sexual appetite I went down on Peter. It was almost like sucking my own cock, which I could never do.

Peter’s narrative

“Hello, my name is Peter—Peter DeVore. You already know a lot about be, but I wanted to add my two cents’ worth. I love to putter around in the backyard. One day after work on a pleasant summer late afternoon, I was putting down new plants, when I was interrupted by a female voice saying hello. She greeted me by saying, I am Amy Jones, your neighbor. I brought you a slice of sponge cake that I just made.”

“Thanks,” I replied, instinctively disliking her.

“How do you like living with your father,” she asked. My dad and I resemble each other closely, so everyone assumes that we are father and son. I replied that I love living with him.

Then she asked, “Where did you live before moving here?”

“Mrs. Jones, I replied. “I thank you for the sponge cake, but I prefer not to discuss my private life.”

She gave me a haughty look and ran back into her house. “What a yenta and neighborhood gossip,” I thought.

After a couple of weeks sleeping in my bedroom, I decided that I would rather sleep with my daddy. I put the question to him.

“You are always full of surprises,” father remarked. “I’ve slept alone all of my life. I don’t know if I can get used to it.”

“You’ll get used to it fast,” I assured him. I made my bed for the last time. I suggested that we sleep nude, facing one another. Sure enough, once in bed, we began passionate love-making.

“I love you Daddy.”

“I love you too, son.”

And so our routine went. I joined the same gym as my dad, and worked out together. We got many admiring glances. I provided daddy with tricks, or should I say treats, which I picked up at the gym, or other dins of sin, such as parks, highway rest stops, or adult book theaters. Speaking of rest stops, I met a lot of hot truckers, ready for a quickly.

So that’s my story. I relate this two years after moving in with daddy, and I am happier every day. – Peter.