I couldn't believe it had come to this. Five years with Carla, starting when we were young, fumbling through our first awkward kisses behind the bleachers at school. Now, at 18, she was gone. 'It's not working anymore, Jacob,' she'd said, her voice flat over the phone, like she was reading from a script. I replayed it in my head a thousand times, each loop twisting the knife deeper. Football practice? I showed up late, missed tackles, got benched. Friends texted about hanging out, but I ignored them, curling up in my room instead, staring at the ceiling. Food lost its taste; I'd push plates away half-eaten. And sex—God, the sex. We'd done it all, from quick handjobs in her car to full nights tangled in sheets. Now, nothing. My body screamed for release, but every time I touched myself, her face haunted me, turning pleasure into pain.
It built up over days. I'd lock my door, strip down, and grip my cock, stroking hard while picturing her lips around me, her tits bouncing as she rode me. But midway, tears would blur my vision, sobs choking out as I pumped faster, chasing an orgasm that felt like betrayal. That afternoon, Mom was out shopping—groceries or whatever—and the house was quiet except for my ragged breaths. I lay on my bed, jeans shoved to my ankles, shirt rucked up over my chest. My hand flew over my shaft, pre-cum slicking the way, the head swollen and red. 'Fuck, Carla,' I muttered, hips bucking. Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting. I was close, so damn close, when the door creaked open.
Dad stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway. Christopher—tall, built from years of manual labor, with that salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes that always seemed to see right through me. He froze for a second, taking in the scene: me sprawled out, cock in hand, face streaked with tears. I yanked my hand away, scrambling to cover up, but he raised a palm, stopping me. 'Hey, easy, son. Don't stop on my account.' His voice was low, calm, like he was talking about fixing a flat tire.
I stared, mouth agape. 'Dad? What the—get out!' But my voice cracked, weak from crying. He stepped inside instead, closing the door softly behind him. 'You're hurting, Jacob. I can see it. Go on, finish what you started. It's okay.' He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress. My heart hammered, a mix of shame and something else—relief? I hesitated, cock still throbbing, twitching in the cool air. Slowly, I wrapped my fingers back around it, giving a tentative stroke. The sensation jolted through me, and I bit my lip to stifle a groan.
'That's it,' he murmured, watching intently. 'Tell me what's going on. Carla, right?' I nodded, pumping slower now, the words spilling out between breaths. 'Yeah... five years, Dad. We started so young. She was everything. Now she's just... gone. I can't eat, can't focus. And this—fuck, I need it so bad, but thinking about her just makes me cry.' My hand sped up, the slick sound filling the room. Tears welled again, but I didn't stop.
He nodded, his expression softening. 'Women can be complicated, son. They pull you in deep, then leave you wrecked. But you're young, strong. You'll get through it.' His hand moved then—reaching out, brushing mine aside. I froze as his rough palm encircled my cock, warm and firm. 'Dad—' I gasped, but he shushed me gently. 'Let me help. Just relax.' He started stroking, slow and deliberate, his grip tighter than mine, thumb circling the head to spread the pre-cum. Electricity shot up my spine; it felt wrong, so fucking wrong, but my body betrayed me, hips lifting into his touch.
'Good boy,' he whispered, like I was a kid learning to ride a bike. 'That's my Jacob. Feel that? Let it build.' His other hand rested on my thigh, squeezing reassuringly. I panted, chest heaving, the pressure coiling tight in my balls. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my skin, and pressed his lips to my neck—soft at first, then firmer, a trail of kisses along my collarbone. Each one sent shivers racing down my arms. 'Dad, oh shit,' I moaned, my voice breaking. His strokes quickened, twisting at the base, making my toes curl.
He didn't stop there. His fingers tilted my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet his—dark, intense. Then his mouth crashed onto mine, tongue pushing past my lips, full and demanding. I tasted coffee on him, felt the scratch of his stubble. He kissed me deep while his hand worked my cock relentlessly, up and down, squeezing just right. The world narrowed to that: his tongue exploring my mouth, his fist pumping me toward the edge. I whimpered into the kiss, body arching, and then it hit—waves of pleasure crashing over me. Cum spurted from my cock in thick ropes, splattering across my stomach, his hand milking every drop as I shuddered and gasped.
He pulled back slowly, licking his lips, a satisfied glint in his eye. My chest rose and fell in heavy bursts, sticky warmth cooling on my skin. Dad straightened up, wiping his hand on his jeans casually. He winked—playful, almost conspiratorial. 'There you go, son. Feel better?' Without another word, he stood and slipped out of the room, leaving the door cracked.
I lay there, stunned, staring at the ceiling. My cock softened against my thigh, spent and tingling. The tears had dried; Carla’s face was a distant blur now, overshadowed by the heat of what just happened. Shocked? Hell yes. But damn if it didn't chase away the ache, at least for now.
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