This story inspired by @inyourdadsdms.bsky.social - thanks Buddy.
1.
Dom’s fresh from scrubbing off the day’s grime from the garage as the bathtub drains, the suds spiraling down the drain.This time after work, with the house quiet, is his ritual, his time for himself. He pads to his bedroom, bathrobe open.
A man likes to air dry, to let the cool air hit his still-damp balls and feel his heavy dick sway, after a day taking orders and kissing ass. What the hell, there’s no one to see him—even if there were, it’s just his wife, who has seen it all, and Josh, who is a boy, after all. He’s got nothing to hide.
He pads to his dresser for his moisturizer—the heavy duty stuff, unscented, not like Carol's. It sits on his dresser top, for his use only, with his chunky watch and high school athletic trophies gleaming with the name "Dominic Rossi"—older than his kid, but testaments to his own past glories.
Catching sight of his strong jaw and thick dark hair in the mirror, the dense muscles in his shoulders and chest, the dark fur on his pecs, the firm cut of his abs beneath the hair—a familiar flicker of pride. He still has it, he has to admit, as he scoops the buttery lotion and smears it into his knuckles, roughened by wrenches and engine grease, expertly working it into his face and neck.
He drops to the edge of the bed to rub moisturizer into his thick legs, pushing into the knots in the dense muscle.His heavy forearms, slick with lotion, flex with the effort, the dark hair on them plastered to his skin. He sits back to let his heavy balls air dry—a last little freedom before stuffing them into his snug boxers.
Carol won’t be home for at least an hour, and Josh is out with his bros. They live parallel lives in the same house now, leaving Dom to his own devices, alone in his sanctuary. Sometimes, in these quiet moments, he'll rub one out, a quick release, purely for himself.
He scratches at his thigh, lets his hand drift a little further, just to feel the weight of himself. He leaves the blinds open, not caring—maybe even wanting someone to see, just for the jolt.
Killing time, he leans back against the pillows and opens his laptop. He reaches for his glasses, sliding them onto his nose, the world sharpening slightly through the lenses as he types. There's something he's been meaning to check out.
It started when he spotted a notification on Josh’s phone—$400 from “Strokr, Inc.” He said nothing at the time—it was nothing, probably. Maybe a payout from some gaming app. But the word stuck in his head. Strokr. He’d never heard of it before.
Ever since Josh turned 18 back in December, he'd been more distant. But he was making money—buying himself nice things—expensive new sneakers, the latest gaming console. No job Dom knows of.
So Dom looks up Strokr, expecting a referral service or some other scam. Instead, he funds a brand-new subscription site—like OnlyFans, but smaller, a little more scrappy, barely six months old, all dark colors and bold text.
He scrolls the trending page. His eyes, magnified slightly behind his glasses, scan the provocative thumbnails. Not a lot of profiles yet, but all young guys, crap usernames—JakeThunder, RainCityRed… BuddyStrokes.
Buddy. The name hit him in the gut. His old nickname for Josh. He clicked before he could think better of it.
His hand, almost unconsciously, reaches for the gold crucifix that rests against his chest. He turns it, pushing it over his shoulder, a superstitious gesture, as if to ward off what he’s about to see, or perhaps to simply get it out of the way.
He, finally, clicks on the profile.
2.
He types in a ridiculous alias, Green_ShortsGuy—looking over at the shorts on his chair—and creates a burner account. He subscribes. The initial shock of its existence is nothing compared to what he sees as he scrolls through the previews. Image sets with suggestive poses, short video clips that leave little to the imagination—it is undeniably pornographic.
You’ve been very busy, Buddy.
He selects the most popular video, titled "My First Time," promising an "intimate reveal." The video begins to play, filling the screen with Josh. He’s in what looks like his own bedroom, wearing a baggy t-shirt and loose sweatpants.
He begins to undress, slowly, deliberately, the camera a silent voyeur. He pulls the t-shirt over his head, revealing his fit body, defined abs and cut pecs like his own, but softer, on a younger, leaner frame. Smoother too—without Dom’s thick, dark fur.
Josh pulls down his sweatpants, letting them fall to his ankles, then steps out of them, now just in tight boxer briefs. He sits on the edge of the bed, then leans back on one arm. There’s a faint blue vein in his bicep. And then he spreads his legs slightly. His thighs are carved from his wrestling, powerful, but so smooth, entirely hairless. They dip where they meet in the tight box of his pelvis.
He looks like a tough boy from the wrestling mat or the football field, but the way he holds himself, the calculated sensuality in his movements, the heavy-lidded direct gaze into the lens—it makes him look like he's selling like a whore.
These odd dichotomies are unsettling for Dom: his boy, but also this confident, almost brazen man; the broad, athletic shoulders like his own, but the hips so tight, so compact, hinting at a different kind of power.
Dom’s pulse quickens and his cock responds, a heavy, throbbing weight that bobs and grows against his own thigh. Josh’s hand, so familiar and yet so alien in this context, goes to his briefs, slipping inside, teasing.
“Oh Buddy.” Dom’s whisper is a strange mix of hope that the thing he knows is coming won’t and a twisted eagerness that it will. There’s a knot in his gut, and beneath it a rising tide of arousal.
On screen, Josh takes his cock out of his briefs, a healthy, eager size. Not bad, Buddy, Dom thinks, a bizarre assessment but true. Josh begins to stroke it. He looks down at it, then up to the camera, still leaning back on one arm, biting his bottom lip, a subtle invitation in his eyes.
Without conscious thought, Dom’s heavy cock, already thickened, pushes up from his hips, rising and lengthening. It swells to fill his big rough hand, the head throbbing against his palm as he begins to stroke, slow and tentative at first, matching Josh’s rhythm. It’s a dry, friction-filled stroke—the rough skin on skin of his mechanic’s hand a stark contrast to the slick, effortless movements of his son on screen.
As the video progresses, Josh’s teasing turns to full-on, masterful masturbation. Dom’s dry friction becomes unbearable. He grabs the same tub of moisturizer he’d just used on his face, squeezing a generous dollop into his palm. The wet, slick schlorp of it, as he works it into his erection, is strangely loud in the quiet room.
Just beyond his cock, he can see Josh on screen, sitting further back in his bed, working his cock harder now. Getting ready to blow, by Dom’s read of his face, his cheeks reddening, his body language, legs spread wider, the subtle flexes in his chest and thighs flashing.
Josh in his bed, Dom in his, their slick strokes, though unseen by each other, fall into uncanny sync.
He can see it almost before Josh does when climaxes on screen—the arc of his cum a raw expulsion of his athletic young body. Jesus Christ. The sight, the sound, the sheer intensity of Buddy's release immediately triggers Dom's own. His body shudders and quakes as he shoots a hot splatter that spreads on his firm, hairy belly.
A faint sheen of sweat covers Josh's face as he nears the camera, his cheeks flushed, his lip swollen from biting. He looks directly into the camera, his voice breathy, "This is Buddy. See you again soon." The screen goes dark.
3.
The next night Dom’s back. Just to see the scope of what Josh has done here.
He finds a video titled "Morning Stretch," where Josh, still sleepy-eyed, stretches nude in front of a window, his muscles flexing in the morning light before he sits to pleasure himself.
Dom finds himself joining the JO session. His bathrobe is open already, the moisturizer nearby. The crucifix necklace is already turned, draped over his shoulder, an unspoken acknowledgment of the ritual. His motions are more certain as he helps himself to the scoop of cool relief, the familiar schlorp quickly following as he begins to stroke himself.
The immediate, raw shock of the first night has dulled, replaced by a strange, compelling fascination. He doesn’t think a thing of it when he cums, in sync with Josh—Buddy. His strokes are certain, and he takes his time drawing out the last of his load, dropping onto the fur of his taut belly.
In an unplanned way it becomes his new ritual. Each afternoon, as he gets home before Carol or John, Dom is drawn back to the screen in his bedroom sanctuary. The earlier hesitation fades entirely. Now it’s automatic.
He opens his bathrobe, admiring his own body in the dim glow, comfortable in his bulk, the thick hair on his chest, the way his muscles ripple beneath his skin. The moisturizer is a given, its presence on his dresser a silent accomplice; the familiar schlorp and slap-slap-slap part of his solitary act. He sometimes grabs one of the beers from the fridge on his way to his room, settling in with a cold can beside him.
There are so many videos of Josh, his athletic body, jerking off with such natural ease. In one, Josh, the beefy little fucker, sits in his gaming chair, his big cock already rock-hard in his hand. He talks to the camera, his voice low and suggestive. "I’ve been thinking about you," he murmurs, his eyes piercing the lens.
He eases up, letting his hand still, then spreads his legs wider, his hips raising to give a better view of his pink, puckering hole. "Just for you," he whispers, before he starts pumping his load onto his chest. Dom gets a peek at his armpit, dark hair still faint there, nothing like the dense mats under Dom's own arms.
It again pricks at Dom—the tough boy jock facade combined with the blatant display of his sexuality. He's so muscular and male, but his skin is so smooth, hairless, almost like a girl, another disorienting contradiction that keeps Dom staring, mesmerized.
He finds some where Josh is more playful, teasing with slow grinds, his fingers playing at his fucker. Others are harder, faster, sweatier, showcasing his raw stamina, his face contorted, veins popping in his neck as he pushes for every drop. Dom watches him experiment with angles, getting better in each at the blatant display of his sexuality.
Raking in bucks just for a look at his body. What a little stud.
With each climax, a hot splatter lands on his firm, hairy belly, each a punctuation mark in the story of hours lost in this private, the mounting pleasure he finds in his son's explicit performances.
He pictures the other men watching, scrolling through Josh's feed—they seeing what he's seeing? Are they thinking what a tight body Josh has, how he works that cock? Dom imagines them, alone in their own lonely rooms, jerking off, probably wishing they had a body half as good as Josh's.
If they had this Strokr OnlyFans shit when I was that age, with this build and this cock, I’d be a millionaire.
4.
As the days go on, the thought of Josh's Strokr doesn't just stay in Dom's bedroom. It follows him.
At the dinner table—on the evenings when Josh is home for them—Dom looks at him with new eyes. It’s impossible to see him sitting there without noticing his body in different ways. The subtle swell of his muscles growing subtle—with his fancy gym membership. The movement of his jaw as he chews.
There's a new swagger in Josh's step, a cockiness that’s a little more Buddy, a little less Josh. Impossible to not see him stroking his cock, the now familiar way he builds up to his nut, the sharp intake of breath. And the breathy, ”This is Buddy. See you again soon.”
Even after his own load, it leaves Dom sometimes shifting in his seat, his green shorts binding. "Hey, Buddy," Dom hears himself say one evening, a nickname he hasn't used in years. Josh glances up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, before offering a cool, "Yeah, Dad?" The small interaction leaves Dom with a strange sense of power, a new layer to their parallel existence.
At work, elbow-deep in the greasy guts of an engine at the garage, Dom, the car mechanic, finds his mind drifting. He pictures Josh in that "Morning Stretch" video, the smooth, hairless expanse of his thighs, the easy way he spreads his legs. He feels a familiar warmth spread through him, and the crotch of his jumpsuit swells.
He’s so deep in this forbidden daydream that when a wrench, dropped by a co-worker, hits the concrete floor with a loud metal clank!, Dom almost startles out of his skin, his heart leaping into his throat. He clears it, gruffly, trying to shake off the mental images and focus on the sputtering transmission before him.
But the thought of Josh, of Buddy, sticks like grease on his hands. He wonders about the other men, the subscribers. Middle-aged men, probably, with bellies and thinning hair, looking for something young and hard. He pictures them drooling, picturing what they'd do with a boy like Josh. Bend him over, grab those tight hips, fuck his chute—drive it in as he begged for more. He scoffs, thinking of his own dense bulk, his still-hard pecs beneath the jumpsuit. They wouldn’t know real power if it stood naked in front of them.
Later, as the workday grabs him by the collar and grinds to a close, an anticipation builds in him: the thought of getting home, grabbing a cold beer, and settling in for another show , a relief he’s come to depend on.
Finally washing with industrial soaps, the creamy, white lather coats his meaty hands. He rubs them together—the wet, slick squelch is a dead ringer for sex, filling his mind with images of hard bodies, older and denser on younger, grunting, sweating, plunging, almost dizzying him with their force.
He pulls into the driveway, the Seattle evening settling in around him. His wife’s car is there, but no sign of Josh. Good. He heads straight for the fridge, cracks open a beer, and makes his way to his bedroom—skipping the bath. The laptop is on his bedside table, waiting.
He sheds his work clothes, tossing them carelessly, then drops his boxers letting his thick cock spring free. He’s comfortable in his nakedness, spreading his thick legs wide on the bed as he logs into Green_ShortsGuy. He scoops the moisturizer from the bedside tub—where it lives now—smearing it, the familiar schlorp preceding his first strokes.
What do you have for me today, Buddy?
He scrolls through the new content. There's a new post, highlighted at the top. A locked video. $50. “My hottest video yet,” the description boldly proclaims. “Just filmed this week.”
Fifty bucks. To look at his own kid on a laptop screen? Fuck that. But the promise of something new, something even hotter, is too strong to resist. His cock surges a stream of precum as he confirms the purchase and hits play.
The loading circle spins. Dom’s hand is slick, his heart pounding in his chest. He’s so hard he aches. Every second waiting feels like torture.
5.
The video begins to play, and Dom’s catches in his throat. The face is the same—Josh, Buddy—but the setting has changed. The worn, blue comforter. The mismatched bedside tables. The specific pattern of the wallpaper. That’s his bed. His son, Josh, is in Dom’s own room, wearing nothing—but on his flat belly is Dom’s own faded green shorts—his eyes dart to his desk chair, where the same green shorts, freshly laundered and folded, waiting.
In the video, Josh’s voice, low and suggestive, cuts through the strained silence of Dom’s bedroom. “I have something special for my real supporters,” Buddy says, his cock already rock hard. He winks, a private, knowing gesture directed right into the lens. "You know who you are, don’t you, Daddy?”
This isn't just about the physical act anymore; it's the disorienting intimacy of Josh on his bed. Saying Daddy.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says, in his tough guy voice. His gaze is direct, piercing straight through the screen. “Sometimes, I just sit there in the car when you drive—stealing looks at you, you know? Your big arms... all that dark hair on your chest. And when you reach up, I get a peek under your arms, too. Especially when I'm right here in your space, leaving a little something behind for you.”
Josh stretches out on the bed, leaning back against Dom's pillows, his legs spreading wide—a tough boy from the wrestling mat, not feminine but inviting just the same.
He pulls the green shorts even closer to his face, burying his nose in them, inhaling deeply. A shudder runs through his body, smooth muscles tensing. His free hand works his cock, his eyes closing, lost in the scent. He's all consumed now, in his own world. “I see you looking too, Daddy. At dinner, the way you chew and stare, like you’re hungry for something more than food. Do you want to fuck me Daddy? It's okay. I want it too.”
Dom’s guts churn, but then a sneer twists his lips. He pictures the marks out there, the pathetic men out there, each thinking Buddy’s words are just for them. Suckers. Imagining bending Josh over in this very bed, shoving his tough-talking mouth into a pillow, then ramming into his slicked hole with a thick schlorp. Their rough hands on that smooth muscled body, fucking him until he breaks. They have no idea what real hunger looks like. They don’t know what they’re seeing, not really.
Dom’s hand, now well trained, matches Buddy’s strokes. His cock so heavy in his hand now, the rhythmic meaty thwack of it in his hand, the wet squelch, intensify as his hips thrust forward, mirroring the movements on screen, fucking his own fist.
On screen, Josh slides the shorts down to his belly, his breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. His body tenses, muscles quivering, as his strokes turn frantic. Dom watches him contort with pleasure, the sharp intake of breath—Josh gasps out loud and spurts, a thick, white arc of cum exploding from him, splattering onto the faded fabric of Dom’s green shorts and onto his smooth, hairless belly.
Dom's own body gives an involuntary shudder. His thick forearm pumps furiously, the schlorp-slap of his hand building and with a full body shudder he shoots hot, thick ropes that pool in the cum gutters of his belly. The most surprising and intense shot he’s blown, leaving him momentarily stunned by its sheer force.
When he looks up, Buddy’s face is in the camera. Flush faced, bottom lip inflamed. "This is Buddy. See you again soon." The screen goes dark.
The immediate aftermath is a blur—the intensity of his orgasm, a surge of guilt—a need to act, to do SOMETHING to erase what he’d just done. He impulsively clicks the $300 tip button. He exhales, already feeling a first wave of relief.
But then, a small notification pops up. A private message from Josh’s account. Thanks, Daddy!
The words are like a hook in his gut. The shock makes his heart pound and the semi in his hand rise, hard again even as it streams his last load.
Buddy knows. Or maybe not? Daddy—part of the role-play for his viewers? He re-reads the message, searching for a hint, a clue. There’s none. Just Thanks Daddy.
Without warning he gasps as his body finds and pushes over another, second edge. He sees his own cock buck, a convulsion that shakes him to his core as every muscle in his body contracts and releases to milk out a second, almost painful second, groaning load.
When his eyes open he sees the wet, sticky streaks clinging to the dark fur of his abs, his thick prick stiff in his fist. And then a third surge—a swelling pride at its raw power—how quickly it’s ready for more even after such a gut-wrenching shot. A low chuckle rumbles in his meaty chest. Jesus Christ, what a fucking engine.
Then, a flicker of something, a brief, sharp memory of the "Thanks, Daddy!" message, cutting through the haze. But it's gone as quickly as it came, already filed away, ignored. Josh can’t really think it was him. The whole video was to some imaginary daddy. It’s just business. He could almost laugh as he thinks of Josh, that little thug raking in money off low-lifes just to look at him.
He finally clicks off the laptop, the screen going black. He shuffles out of his room, his naked body still slick, to grab another beer and maybe see what’s for dinner. Carol will be home. Soon she’ll be online gabbing with her friends, Dom watching TV, Josh is likely in his room. Just another Tuesday night. Just parallel lives in the same house.
END
