I was eighteen, openly gay, and completely gone for my dad.
My father, Tom, was everything I wasn’t. Big. Rough. A police captain with a deep voice that could stop me cold. He had a thick hairy chest, heavy tattooed arms, and the kind of solid, powerful body that made me feel small just standing near him. I had long blond hair that fell in my face, soft cheeks that stayed round no matter how little I ate, and a body that never quite lost its softness. I was his opposite in every way. And I wanted him so badly it made me stupid.
That night I came home earlier than I was supposed to. The second I opened the front door I heard it—low, wet sounds coming from the living room, mixed with the high-pitched moaning of girls on the television. I should have turned around. I should have gone straight to my room. Instead I walked closer, heart already beating too fast.
My dad was on the couch with his pants shoved down to his thighs. His thick cock was in his fist and he was stroking it slowly while he watched lesbian cheerleader porn. The volume was low, but I could still hear the girls moaning. His head was tilted back against the cushion, jaw tight, completely lost in it.
My face went hot. I tried to step back without making a sound, but the floorboard creaked under my foot.
My dad’s eyes opened.
He didn’t look startled. He didn’t look embarrassed. He just looked at me, still slowly stroking himself, and said in that deep, calm voice:
“Scott. Come here.”
I froze. Every part of me wanted to run, but my legs carried me forward until I was standing in front of him. He didn’t stop touching himself. He just watched me with a small, dark expression that made my stomach drop.
“I—” My voice came out thin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to walk in on you.”
“But you did.” He kept stroking, unhurried. “You’ve been standing there long enough to see everything. So now you’re going to stay.”
I couldn’t look at his face and I couldn’t look at his cock, so I stared at the floor. My cheeks were burning. My own cock was already half-hard in my jeans and the shame of that made everything worse.
His voice stayed low and steady. “Look at me.”
I forced my eyes up. He was still hard, still slowly working his fist up and down. The head of his cock was flushed and shiny.
“You’ve thought about this,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Don’t lie to me.”
I swallowed. My throat felt too tight. “Dad…”
“Answer me.” He demanded.
“…Yes.”
Something in his expression shifted—darker, more satisfied. He patted the cushion beside him.
“Sit down.”
I sat. The heat of his body was right there. I could smell him—sweat and the faint scent of his cologne from earlier in the day. My hands were shaking in my lap.
For a long moment he didn’t say anything. He just kept stroking himself while I sat there, forced to watch. The only sounds were the wet slide of his fist and the girls moaning on the television. My face felt like it was on fire.
Finally he spoke again.
“Give me your hand.”
I hesitated. He waited. When I still didn’t move, his voice dropped even lower.
“Scott. Give me your hand.”
I lifted it slowly. He wrapped his much larger hand around my wrist and placed my palm on his cock. It was hot and heavy and thick. My fingers didn’t even close all the way around it. He kept his hand over mine and made me stroke him, showing me the exact pressure and speed he wanted.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. Good boy.”
I stroked him in silence, heart slamming against my ribs. Every time my hand moved over the head he let out a quiet breath. I could feel him getting harder, thicker. My own cock was fully hard now and pressing painfully against my zipper. I hated how obvious it must have been.
He didn’t rush. He made me keep going for what felt like forever—long, steady strokes while he watched my face the entire time. When his breathing finally started to change, he tightened his hand over mine and made me go faster.
“Don’t stop,” he ordered. “Look at it while you make me come.”
I did. I watched his cock pulse in my fist as he came hard, thick ropes spilling over my fingers and wrist. Some of it landed on my forearm. He kept my hand moving through every spurt until he was finished.
For a few seconds the only sound was both of us breathing.
Then he said, calm as anything:
“Clean it up.”
I stared at the cum covering my hand. “Dad—”
“Lick it off. All of it.”
My face burned so hard it hurt. I leaned down slowly and started licking his cock clean, tasting him for the first time—bitter, salty, completely him. He watched every movement. When I finished, he ran his thumb over my lower lip, wiping away a streak I’d missed, and pushed it into my mouth.
“Swallow.”
I did.
He leaned back against the couch, still half-hard, and studied me.
“You’re going to keep helping me from now on,” he said. “Whenever I tell you to. Understand?”
My voice came out barely above a whisper. “Yes, Dad.”
“Good boy.”
That was only the beginning.
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