I still remember the first time I did it.
I was twenty-one, living with my dad after the divorce. He was forty-one then, still solid from construction work — thick chest, heavy arms, a dense mat of dark hair that covered his pecs and ran down his stomach. When he drank, he drank hard. Not every night, but when he did, he came home late, heavy on his feet, and the next morning he remembered almost nothing.
That was the opening I used.
The first night I waited until I heard him stumble into his bedroom. I waited another twenty minutes, then quietly opened his door. He was face-down on the bed, still in his jeans and work boots, snoring. I locked the door behind me, got on my knees beside the mattress, and carefully worked his belt open. His cock was soft when I pulled it out — thick even then, heavy, hairy, the head dark. I took it into my mouth and started sucking slowly.
He shifted once, muttered something, and went back to snoring. I kept going until he hardened against my tongue. The taste of him — clean skin under a faint layer of sweat and the leftover soap from his shower earlier — went straight to my head. I sucked him for a long time that first night, taking him as deep as I could, until he finally came with a low, confused groan and filled my mouth. I swallowed everything, tucked him away, and left like nothing had happened.
The next morning he came downstairs for coffee like always, hair messy, eyes bloodshot, and never said a word about it.
That became the routine.
Whenever he went out drinking with his buddies from the job site, I waited. Some nights it took longer than others. Some nights he was already half-hard when I got his jeans open. I learned the exact way he liked it — firm pressure, lots of tongue on the underside, deep enough that my nose pressed into the thick hair at the base. He never woke up fully. He’d just grunt, hips twitching a little, and empty himself down my throat.
I got good at cleaning every drop so there was nothing left on the sheets.
It went on for almost a year. Then one Thursday night everything changed.
I was in my room scrolling on my phone when the door opened without a knock. Dad stepped inside, still wearing his work jeans and a faded black t-shirt that clung to his chest. He didn’t look drunk. His eyes were clear. He closed the door, locked it, and just stood there looking at me for a few seconds.
Then he unbuckled his belt, shoved his jeans and boxers down, and pulled out his cock.
It was already half-hard — thick, heavy, the same one I’d been sucking in the dark for months.
“Get over here,” he said, voice low and calm. “I want a blowjob.”
I stared at him, frozen.
He actually laughed a little, the sound rough.
“Oh, knock it off. I’ve been getting head from you for over a year now. Did you think I didn’t know it was you?”
My mouth went dry.
He stroked himself once, getting fully hard while he watched my face.
“No guy has that many wet dreams,” he continued. “A few mornings I came down for breakfast and saw dried cum on your chin. Your breath smelled like semen. I put two and two together pretty quick.”
He stepped closer until the head of his cock was only a few inches from my face.
“After that I didn’t need to be drunk anymore. I just let you keep doing it because it felt too fucking good to stop.”
I still hadn’t moved.
Dad reached out, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and guided my mouth onto him.
“Open up, boy.”
I did.
The second my lips closed around the thick head he exhaled hard through his nose. I took him deeper, the way I’d done dozens of times in the dark, and he let out a low, satisfied sound.
“That’s it. Just like all those nights. You’ve gotten really fucking good at this, son.”
He didn’t let me set the pace this time. His hand stayed in my hair and he started using my mouth properly — slow, deep strokes that pushed into my throat. I gagged around him. Spit ran down my chin. He kept going, watching me with dark eyes the whole time.
“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered. “My own son on his knees choking on my cock. And you’ve been doing it for a year like a dirty little secret.”
I moaned around him. My own cock was painfully hard inside my shorts.
Dad fucked my throat with steady, controlled thrusts, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room. Every time I took him all the way down he held me there for a few seconds, letting me feel the full thick length stretching my throat, before pulling back just enough for me to breathe.
“You’re gonna keep doing this whenever I want,” he said, voice rough. “Drunk or sober. Morning or night. Clear?”
I tried to nod with my mouth full.
He took that as yes and pushed deeper.
He lasted longer than usual that night. When he finally got close he locked both hands on my head and started thrusting harder, using my throat like a hole. I could barely breathe. Tears ran down my face. Spit poured onto the floor between my knees.
“Swallow it,” he ordered. “Every drop.”
He came with a deep, guttural groan, flooding my mouth with thick, hot pulses. I swallowed as fast as I could, throat working around him, but there was so much! He kept me there until he was completely finished, then slowly pulled out.
“Good boy.”
He tucked himself away, fixed his jeans, and looked down at me still on my knees, face a mess, chest rising and falling hard.
“From now on you don’t have to sneak into my room,” he said. “Just come when I tell you to. And if I bring a friend over… you’ll take care of him too. Understood?”
I nodded, still tasting him.
Dad reached down, ruffled my hair roughly, and walked out of my room like nothing unusual had just happened.
I stayed on the floor for a long time after he left, lips swollen, throat sore, cock still aching in my shorts.
That was the night everything stopped being a secret.
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