I could see my breath in the cold evening air when I got out of the car. A little below freezing as I pulled into the driveway, parked, and got out. Brrr. I had been gone from the Midwest winters for too long, and I had forgotten how cold it could get. As I walked to the front door of the house, I shivered. It had been a long flight then the drive here, and the car was so comfortably warm. But now, standing on the front porch, I was chilly and wanted to get inside. I rang the bell, stamped by feet, cursed the cold. The door opened, light pouring out from inside.
“Dad!” There he was, my dad, my childhood idol. 64 years old, widowed a few years now. No trace of the ginger that had been in his hair and beard. He stood there, smiling in welcome, that warm smile that always signaled his care and approval.
“Dan! Welcome home. How as the drive?” He stepped forward and drew me into a hug. I breathed us in deeply, then let it all out. That trip had really been a lot, and I was so glad to be back at the house where I grew up. We pulled apart and smiled at each other. “You look great, son! So glad you decided to come for a visit. Far too long, champ!”
His nickname for me. A nickname others use, I know, but I always loved hearing that from him. I stepped inside the foyer, we closed the door. Finally, warmth! “I know, Dad. It’s been so busy at work and such. And I’m sorry I couldn’t get Christmas off this year. That really sucked being away for the holidays.” I was pulling off my coat and scarf and knit cap and wanting to get away from the door, warm up in the living room where I knew the fireplace would be blazing.
“Come on in, champ. I have some soup on the stove and a good loaf of bread for us. Get you warmed up. And I want to hear how everything is going out west there.”
It was all so easy, being home. And soup? Yes, please. I was hungry, and I knew Dad knew his way around the kitchen. I’d missed being here for all that I loved my life in Seattle. Mostly loved it, I guess. Good job, and I had managed to buy a nice little condo there. I had great friends, and I had dated on and off. But I had missed being here, too. I missed snowy winters and the small town feel of it. And I had missed Dad. He was my buddy. Even before Mom died, we talked twice a week on the phone. When I came out in my early twenties, he didn’t bat an eyelash. “You’re my son, period,” he had said, and that was that. Utter acceptance, total support. Unconditional love. My Dad. At 41, I had my life together, and a wonderful part of that was my Dad. Of course I wanted to come visit him.
I got myself settled in my old room upstairs, came down, and found Dad in the kitchen. He was at the stove, stirring a steaming pot that smelled so good. I was in for a tasty dinner, I knew, and thank goodness for that. There he stood, an apron around his waist, intent on stirring the pot. Grey hair and beard, a plaid flannel shirt on. The table behind him was set for the two of us. I came up behind him, wrapped my arms around him. “It all smells so good, Dad, thanks!” And it did. The soup. But not just the soup. No, hugging him in the kitchen I caught a whiff of Dad himself. Manly, natural. My nose picked it up. An automatic response – I have always loved the scent of a man, no perfumes. Been that way since I was young. My cock twitched, and I was startled. Nope, down boy. This is my Dad, scent or no scent.
He dished up the soup and set it on the table for us. We sat there, slurping it up and mopping our bowls with some good, crusty bread. Dad liked wine with dinner, so we shared a bottle and got caught up. Life in Seattle, life here, the various relatives, who I was dating, his retirement not too far off. The things we talked about twice a week still, but so much better for being face to face and sharing dinner and wine. I helped him clear the table and wash up, then we headed to sit in the living room with a little more wine.
The fire had warmed the room, making for a cozy night inside. We sat together on the couch, chatting more. In the heat of the room, I had unbuttoned my shirt a little, and so had he, and I found myself noticing the hairs in the V of his shirt. I’m hairy-chested like Dad, but I had never really given it much thought. Tonight, though, I was drawn to seeing his hairiness, even just that glimpse. And then I caught his scent again. Masculine, natural. My cock twitched again, and I shifted how I was seating, suddenly conscious of my Dad as a man and of how I was responding. I didn’t want him to be weirded out, so I kept up the chat. But an hour later, having inhaled him all that time, when I stood to head to bed, I knew that my uncut cock was bulging in my jeans. I just hoped he didn’t notice. I said goodnight and headed upstairs.
Lying in my bed in only my briefs, I found myself unable to sleep. Why was I horny? My Dad’s scent? No, that couldn’t be it. But it was. I couldn’t stop thinking of it, and lying there, I could smell myself, too. A sweaty crotch from a day of travel, an uncut cock that had drooled out some already. I love the smell of my cock, I admit. I pulled off the covers and pulled down my briefs. My cock was hard, standing up thick. The foreskin didn’t fully peel back, so there was only a little peek of the cockhead. I gripped it and began to stroke. Memories of past encounters and of porn I enjoy drifted through my head, interrupted by the thoughts of my silver-haired, bearded Dad and his ripe scent. And I imagined him. Undressing for me, pulling me into his pits, inhaling his bush, and more. So wrong, I know, and yet, I couldn’t shake the image.
What did he look like naked. I knew he was hairy, but how hairy? I hadn’t seen him naked since boyhood trips to the community pool, so I had never seen him hard. I remember that he was uncut like me, that he had insisted that I be uncut like him even if that made me the oddball in the locker room in high school. I kept stroking, pre-cum starting to ooze, making my cockhead slick under its hood. The scent of my cock fueled my bate. Soon I had completely given myself over to thoughts of Dad. What did he enjoy? What would his cock taste like? What about his ass? How would it feel to kiss him? My thoughts were a jumble. I imagined him here with me, naked and fragrant like a man is. I wondered about what he enjoyed, what made him cum.
Fuck. I wanted my Dad. This was not right. My hand slid up and down my uncut cock, and I tried to think of other things, but that silver, bearded fox of a man kept coming back to my mind. I wanted to see him naked, the soft swell of a belly that I could make out, the cock and balls I knew were packed into his jeans and whatever type of underwear he wore. Fuck, what did he wear? I was suddenly desperate to know.
I kept working my cock, feeling it hard in my hand. My foreskin doesn’t slide all the way back when I am hard, but it does slide enough on my cockhead to feel really fucking good. My own stink in my room was getting to me, feeding my fervor. “Dad,” I said quietly. At first. “Dad, fuck,” I said louder. I was lost in my bate, enjoying my cock. I abandoned any attempt not to think of him. I wanted to know his scent intimately, wanted to inhale his pits and cock and balls and hole. I kept bating, thoughts of smelling and tasting my Dad racing through my head. “Dad, please,” I groaned loudly. My balls were pulling up, my cockhead flared, and fuck yes, that awesome feeling. I rode it, my cum shooting up my hairy belly to my chest. “Dad, fuuuuuuuck.” I couldn’t help it. Seeing and smelling him had unlocked something in me I had never considered before. But now? I needed it. I need him.
I licked the cum from my hand then slid my briefs all the way off to use them to wipe up my load just like I used to when I was a kid. That’s when I heard it. The creak of the floorboards in the hallway. Dad’s room was at the end of it, past the bathroom. I froze, the taste of my cum in my mouth and my cock softening. Had he heard me? Oh Jesus, fuck, I hoped not. Or so I tried to tell myself.
I finished wiping the cum from myself. The hallway was quiet. I didn’t dare look out the door. Just please, I told myself, let Dad not have heard me calling out for him.
I was fooling myself, though. In my old room, enveloped in the scent of my cum and ripe body, I was still horny. And I still was thinking about Dad....
