Where it all started...
I waited at the hotel room long after the glory hole session ended, heart pounding as I watched from the window, eyes locked on the parking lot below. I needed to be sure Dad left first—his old truck pulling out, broad shoulders rolling under that muscle shirt as he walked away, completely oblivious to the eyes devouring him from above. Only when his taillights disappeared down the road did I finally exhale, the tension easing just enough to move. I lingered a little extra, gathering my things slowly before heading down to the front lobby to check out. While standing at the desk, making casual small talk with the clerk about the weather and the long drive ahead, I pulled out my phone and texted Dad: "Hey Dad, you want anything before I head back? Snacks, drinks?" Just to make sure everything was normal, that he was home safe, that the night hadn't left any cracks in our routine. His reply came quick: "Nah, I'm good, son. Drive safe." Peace of mind settled in, even as Dad's crotch scent lingered all over my face—musky cologne, faint cigarette smoke, warm skin—still clinging to my skin, making me hard every time I inhaled. Dad had no idea where I'd really been; he thought I'd been at a friend's place all night watching movies, just like I'd told him earlier.
Once checkout was done, I grabbed the blackout sheet, folded it tight, and stuffed it into my backpack—hidden among textbooks and spare clothes—before heading home to the house Dad and I shared.
When I got back, I slipped inside quietly, backpack slung over one shoulder, and went straight to my room. I buried the sheet deep in the back of my closet under a stack of old clothes and forgotten boxes where Dad would never think to look, never have any reason to dig. My hands were still shaking as I shoved it in, pulse racing with the fear that somehow he'd find it and everything would come crashing down. I kept the sheet hidden but close, telling myself it was just in case I ever found the nerve, the courage, to set up another glory hole blowjob for him someday.
In the quiet hours after that hotel room glory hole, when Dad was asleep in his room down the hall and the house was silent, I'd lie in bed replaying the real gas station piss we shared on that vacation drive. But in my fantasies, it went further—twisted into something raw and forbidden, a secret initiation that bonded us deeper than blood. I'd stroke myself slow, the sheets already damp under my palm, imagining how it could've unfolded if I'd been bolder, if the tension had snapped right there in that dingy single-stall bathroom. The memory of his heavy cock hanging soft, the thick, animal musk flooding my nostrils the instant he unzipped, his casual grunt inviting me to share—it all morphed into this fever dream where curiosity turned to touch, and touch to worship. Here's how I fantasized it went down, every detail sharp, wet, throbbing, and inescapable in my mind...
It was that late-night drive home from vacation, after I'd turned nineteen. Gas station in the middle of nowhere, one working bathroom stall. The place was dead—no other cars, no line, no rush at all. We could've easily waited or found another spot down the road. But Dad needed to go bad, thanks to being naughty and drinking a beer during the drive, his breath carrying that faint hoppy tang mixed with cologne and cigarette smoke. So he headed inside the station, got the key from the attendant (a rusty ring with a plastic tag that clinked against his palm), and unlocked the heavy outside door with the deadbolt. The bathroom was somewhat large and vacant, a single room with the toilet at the far end in the back—no stall, just open space—and the faint sound of rock music drifting in from the station speakers outside, muffled but pulsing like a heartbeat. The air was thick—old piss, bleach, stale concrete, and the faint metallic tang of rust from the pipes—claustrophobic, intimate, pressing in on every breath.
Dad stepped in first, holding the door for me with one thick forearm. “Come on, just share it,” he grunted, no big deal to him, waving me in like it was the most natural thing. He was wearing one of his custom-cut white muscle shirts—the kind he made himself, loose and oversized, sleeveless and sliced low on the sides to expose his ribs, the edges frayed from his knife work, hanging baggy over his broad, hairy chest and gut. The fabric draped loosely, revealing glimpses of his hairy armpits every time he moved, dense tufts of straight black hair, so perfectly masculine. I couldn't stop staring at the exposed skin: the sides of his ribcage heaving with each breath, the slabs of his pecs pushing against the shirt, the dark hair peeking out from the low neckline, circling his nipples like a tease, his strong muscular arms—veined and thick, covered in a layer of coarse black hair that trailed up from his wrists to his shoulders—flexing with casual power. His arms and chest were marked with tattoos—the kind straight men who’ve been to prison and jail get: faded prison ink on his knuckles, a tribal sleeve on one arm symbolizing survival, a skull on his bicep from his wilder days. Dad was a wild man who'd committed crimes but always held a stable good job, a blue-collar hero with a rough edge. The heavy brown leather belt creaked as he unbuckled it—the large silver buckle clinking once, then twice—before he tugged the zipper down on his worn jeans with a slow, rasping sound. White brief underwear stretched tight across his hips, the fabric worn thin from years of wear, outlining the heavy bulge beneath. He hooked a thumb into the waistband and yanked the briefs down just enough, letting that heavy, circumcised cock spring free—thick and long even when flaccid, the pronounced mushroom head flared wide with a prominent ridge, slightly wider than the shaft, hanging heavy over his large, low-hanging, pendulous balls like it owned the space. The head had a smooth, glossy sheen already, deep pinkish-red contrasting against the slightly tanned shaft skin, with a noticeable upward curve hinting at its erect power, veined prominently along the top and sides—a thick dorsal vein running the length like a pulsing ridge of raw power, branching veins adding rugged, ropey texture.
There was no real reason to share the toilet. No urgency for me, no emergency. But I didn’t argue. I hesitated for a moment, bladder full but nerves buzzing harder, stepping inside as he stood over the bowl. The flickering light made everything feel unsteady, shadows licking across his broad frame, the white briefs still bunched around his thick thighs. I shifted closer, dick half-hard from nerves and proximity, unable to let go right away while he started his stream hissing strong into the water—loud, forceful, the sound echoing off the tiles like rain on metal. He noticed, glanced over with that calm, steady look, his muscular arms flexing slightly, the hairy skin on display pulling my gaze again.
“What’s the matter, boy?” His voice was low, reassuring, almost amused, echoing slightly off the tiles. “It’s just piss. We’re both men here. Nothing to be shy about. Manhood’s manhood—same equipment, same job. Go on, let it flow. No judgment.”
His words settled something in me, even as they twisted something else deeper. I finally relaxed, stepped up beside him, aimed into the same bowl, and let my stream join his. Our piss hissed together, crossing for a second, warm and wrong, mingling in the water below with a faint acrid steam rising up. But I couldn't stop staring at his meat—watched it swing slightly as he pissed, the exposed head glistening with that deep pinkish-red hue, the prominent ridge catching the flickering light, that dense black bush framing it all like a wild crown—coarse, untamed curls spreading wide, no grooming, just raw density trapping his primal scent so thick it coated the back of my throat. The hair was so thick, curling coarsely around the base, spreading down over his large, low-hanging, pendulous balls and up his treasure trail. It looked nothing like the fine strands on our heads—rougher, primal, trapping his scent in a way that made my mouth water and my cock leak a thick bead into my underwear, especially under that creepy, stuttering light. My eyes kept drifting up to his exposed skin: the sides of his ribcage heaving with each breath, the slabs of his pecs pushing against the loose shirt, the dark hair peeking out from the low neckline, his strong muscular arms flexing with every shake, the glimpse of armpit hair straight and dark and inviting.
That was the moment the fantasy truly took over. In reality, nothing more happened—we both finished pissing, shook off, zipped up, and walked out without a single flirtatious word or lingering glance. The air stayed neutral, the silence ordinary, the moment forgotten almost as soon as we hit the road again. But in my head, replaying it over and over in the years since, that's exactly where the heat began to build—where his casual reassurance cracked open the door to something darker, something I couldn't stop imagining.
He caught me looking, his eyes flicking down to where my gaze was locked, then back up to meet mine. A small smirk tugged at his lips, his voice light and goofy from the beers, a playful glint in his eye. "Caught ya peekin', huh, boy? What's got your attention down there, boy—Daddy got somethin' interesting?"
I swallowed hard, my stream faltering for a second before picking up again. The air felt thicker, charged, the flickering bulb buzzing louder like it was mocking us. "I... I was just admiring all the hair you have down there, Dad. It's... so thick and manly. Looks incredible."
He chuckled low, shaking off the last drops but not tucking himself away just yet. His cock hung there, heavy and unhurried, the flared mushroom head with its prominent ridge on full display, glossy and deep pinkish-red, the slightly tanned shaft veined with that thick dorsal line and branching ridges, the bush surrounding it—dark, wiry strands that looked soft yet rugged, curling heavily and spreading wide untamed, inviting in a way that made my pulse race under the erratic light. "Yeah? Well, that's what happens when you're a man. One day you'll be hairy like me, boy. Fills out nice, makes you feel... full-grown and ready for anything." He gave it a casual tug, adjusting, the heavy balls swinging low with a soft slap against his thigh, but his eyes stayed on me, watching my reaction, a tipsy grin playing on his lips. There was a pause, the kind that stretched with unspoken heat, our streams both done but neither of us moving to zip up or flush. His muscular arms shifted, exposing more of that hairy armpit tuft, the sight making my breath catch—dense, straight black hairs so perfectly masculine, so him.
I kept looking, determined now, my own dick twitching half-hard in my hand. I couldn't tear my eyes away from that bush—the way it curled densely and wildly, so different from my own sparse patch, coarse strands framing the root like a dark velvet throne, trailing down over the heavy, pendulous balls that hung low and full. The scent was stronger up close, musky and warm, mixed with the faint tang of piss and the stale bathroom air, coating my tongue like smoke. "It looks... different than the hair on our heads. Thicker, curlier. Can I... feel it? Just to see the texture?"
He froze for a beat, his broad frame tensing slightly in the cramped space. His eyes narrowed, searching my face, but there was no anger—just surprise, maybe a flicker of something darker, curious, honed from those four years in prison where boundaries blurred in the dark. "Feel it? What the hell, son? That's... not somethin' guys usually ask." He shifted his weight, his cock swaying a little—flared head bobbing with that glossy sheen—but he didn't pull away. The stall felt even smaller, the flickering light throwing jittery shadows across his hairy chest peeking from his shirt collar, the brown leather belt still hanging open, buckle glinting dully.
I bit my lip, cheeks burning, voice coming out soft and shaky with nerves but laced with a playful little edge. "Sorry, Dad... I don't mean to be weird, I swear. I'm just... so curious and intrigued. Fascinated, really. I've never seen a bush so full and thick like that... it's kinda... really hot. Can I just... pet it? Please?"
He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, his other still holding his jeans and briefs open. Reluctance warred in his expression, but there was a spark there too—maybe the road-weary loneliness, or the beer we'd shared earlier loosening his edges, mixed with the raw needs he'd suppressed during those four years in prison (not to mention the divorce). That time in prison had been after the divorce from Mom—he'd been locked up for distribution of meth, all to pay off child support and provide a good life for us kids, or so he said. It hardened him, made him even more the man I idolized, the better, more real masculine version of myself. I saw myself as completely inferior to him—wishing I could be half the man he was, with his strength, his hair, his raw presence. "Alright, fine. But just a quick feel, yeah?" His voice dropped lower, gruff but permissive, like he was testing the waters himself.
My heart slammed in my chest as I reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and brushed the edge of that thick, untamed bush. It was coarser than I expected—wiry yet soft at the tips, warm from his skin, with a slight spring to it, curling heavily and spreading wide across his groin. I let my fingertips sink in deeper, combing through the dense black curls around the base of his cock, admiring how it framed his manhood like a natural throne—wild, no trimming, just raw density. "Wow, Dad... it's so thick. Feels... rough but nice. Like it's protecting everything down here." My voice was hushed, reverent, as I explored, tracing the line where it met his large, pendulous balls, feeling the heavy orbs shift in their loose, wrinkled, hair-covered scrotum under my touch, hanging low and full with that pendulous weight, the coarse hairs tickling my knuckles.
I swallowed, pulse racing, and looked up at him with wide eyes. "Dad... do you ever... shave any of it?"
He let out a low, rumbling laugh, eyes half-lidded, voice dropping into something thicker, hotter. "Nah, son. Real men stay hairy. Daddy likes it full and thick—feels raw, feels right. Keeps everything heavy, musky, ready to breed. Why? You think Daddy should trim it up for ya? Sounds a little like your mom!"
My breath hitched, face burning hotter. "No... no, I like it like this. It's... perfect. Just... really fucking hot. And I don't mean to sound anything like mom."
His grin widened, dark and knowing. "Good boy. Daddy keeps it natural for a reason."
I hesitated, voice barely above a whisper, nerves and want twisting together. "Dad... can I... wrap my hand around it? Please? I want to feel how thick Daddy really is!"
He stared down at me for a long, heavy beat, eyes dark with heat, then gave a slow, deliberate nod, voice rough and thick with pride. "Go on, son. Grip Daddy's cock. Feel what a real man's cock feels like—that big, thick, white daddy dick made you. Feel how thick it is already... how you're making Daddy throb. Daddy's proud of his meat, boy. Wrap your hand around it."
My fingers closed around the base—warm, thickening, pulsing—the skin hot and velvety over the rigid core—something in him snapped. The fatherly restraint vanished. His posture shifted, shoulders rolling back, jaw tightening, eyes darkening with pure, animal hunger. He wasn't Dad anymore—not the man who'd raised me, who'd taught me to change oil and throw a punch. He was just a horny man now, four years of pent-up need roaring back to life in the flickering light, staring down at his own son like prey he'd finally cornered.
He groaned low, hips twitching forward into my grip, the upward curve of the shaft pressing harder against my palm. "That's it, son... stroke Daddy's cock nice and slow. Grip it firm—just like that. Feel how hard you're making Daddy?" His big hand landed on my shoulder, heavy, possessive, pulling me closer as I pumped him slow and firm—the shaft swelling to its full 7.5 inches of thick white daddy dick, curving noticeably upward, the veined surface throbbing with that prominent dorsal vein and branching ridges, the flared mushroom head widening even more, glossy and deep pinkish-red, a fresh bead of pre-cum welling at the slit and dripping slow down the ridge. I looked up into his eyes—same deep hazel as mine, the same flecks of gold around the pupil—and felt the twisted bond lock into place. We were mirrors in that moment, father and son, sharing the same blood, the same lust, the same filthy secret. My own cock—about 6 inches and pretty thick, already leaking—felt smaller next to his, though my balls were big too, just not as heavy and pendulous as his.
After a minute of those building strokes, his breaths ragged and hot against my face, I sank down onto the toilet seat, eye-level with his throbbing cock—that 7.5 inches of thick white daddy dick curving upward, the pronounced flared head glossy and deep pinkish-red, prominent ridge begging to stretch, framed by the wild, dense black bush spreading wide untamed, coarse curls trailing everywhere. I looked up at him, cheeks flushed, voice small and trembling but laced with shy curiosity. "Dad... it's already so strong from here... but is it okay if I smell it up close? Just... really close? I'm so curious... I wanna know what Daddy really smells like."
He stared down at me, chest rising and falling, then leaned forward just a fraction, voice dropping low and velvet-smooth, thick with invitation. "C'mere, son... bring that pretty face right in. Get your nose deep in Daddy's bush. Breathe me in slow... let Daddy's scent fill you up. No rush, boy—take all the time you need to soak in what a real man smells like."
I leaned in slowly, pressing my face right against his crotch, inhaling deeply over and over, rubbing my cheeks, nose, and lips into the thick bush and the warm skin beneath, letting the masculine mix of cologne and cigarette smoke coat me, marking myself with his scent until it clung to my skin like a second layer. "Fuck, Dad," I whispered, voice thick with need, head spinning from the heady rush, "it's... intoxicating... so rich and deep, like smoke and skin and pure man... it's flooding my head, I can't think straight, I just need more of it."
Then I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again, heart hammering. "Dad... can I... put it in my mouth? Please?"
He looked down at me for a long beat, his hazel eyes searching mine, the same gold flecks catching the flickering light. His voice came out low, rough, but steady. "You sure about this, son? If we do this... it stays between us. No one can ever know. Not your mom, not your friends, nobody. This is our secret—forever. You understand that?"
I nodded, throat tight with anticipation. "I understand. Our secret. No one ever knows."
He exhaled slowly, then gave a small nod. "Alright. Go ahead, son."
I leaned forward again, mouth watering, and took him deep—lips stretching around the thick head, tongue swirling over the veined shaft, tasting salt and pre-cum and the faint bitterness of skin. He groaned loud, then both hands came up, big palms cupping the sides of my head, fingers threading tight into my hair, the calluses rough against my scalp. He took control, holding me steady as he started to slowly fuck my face—long, deliberate thrusts that pushed the upward-curving length past my tonsils, the branching veins sliding over my tongue, stretching my throat around the substantial girth, the flared ridge catching on the back of my teeth with every pull-back. "That's it, son... take Daddy's cock deeper... just like that. You do this better than your mom ever did—she could never handle deepthroating this dick, but you take every inch of Daddy like you were made for it. How is your mouth so wet and warm? It's better than anything Daddy's felt... tighter, hungrier, pulling Daddy right in. Keep going, son... let Daddy feel you gag a little... prove you can handle Daddy all the way. Bury your face in that bush... breathe Daddy in while you suck. You're doing so good for me, son... fuck, your mouth is perfect... keep sucking Daddy, make me fill that throat with what my boy wants."
He pulled out slow, the slick cock glistening with my spit, thick strings of saliva connecting us, then rubbed it back and forth across my face—hot, heavy length dragging over my cheeks, smearing pre-cum and drool across my lips, my nose, my chin, the flared head's ridge catching on my skin, the coarse bush hairs tickling my eyelids, marking me with his scent from root to tip.
"Open up again, son," he rumbled, voice low and commanding. He guided me back down, then shifted his grip, tilting my head lower. "Now lower... get to Daddy's balls." He moved my face down to his big, low-hanging ball sack—heavy, pendulous orbs in a loose, wrinkled scrotum, covered in the same coarse black hair, hanging well below the cock base with that full-grown swing, full and virile, the skin hot and slightly tacky. The musky heat rolled off them, thick and primal, filling my lungs. I licked first—long, slow drags of my tongue along the wrinkled skin, tasting salt and the faint bitterness of skin, the coarse hairs tickling my lips and chin—then kissed them reverently, soft presses of my lips to each heavy orb, feeling them shift and roll under the pressure. Finally, I opened wide and took both into my warm mouth, gently massaging them with my tongue, rolling them carefully, feeling their pendulous weight settle against my cheeks while I sucked softly, humming around them, the coarse hairs brushing the roof of my mouth.
"Yeah... suck Daddy's balls nice and slow, son," he groaned, hips twitching, the leather belt creaking again. "Feel how heavy they are? That's all for you—full and ready for my boy. Keep them in your mouth... let Daddy feel that warmth. Goddamn, son... you're incredible at this. Nobody's ever taken Daddy like you are right now."
His hands stayed firm on my head, guiding me, the bond between us pulsing hotter with every shared breath, every filthy act, father and son lost in the same dark hunger.
As I bobbed back up to take his cock again, deeper, until my nose buried in that wild, dense black bush—coarse curls scraping my face, trapping his musk so thick I could taste it—my hands slid up under his shirt. Fingers sank into the thick mat of chest hair, coarse and damp, the strands twisting around my digits like they were claiming me. I played with the dark strands, tugged gently at the dense pelt covering his broad pecs, feeling the heat of his skin radiating through, his heart pounding harder under my palm. Then I found his nipples—hard little peaks buried in the fur, pebbled and hot under my fingertips, swollen from arousal, encircled by thick black hairs that made them even more tantalizing. I pinched them lightly, rolled them between my fingers with slow, teasing pressure, feeling him shudder above me, his cock jumping in my throat as a low growl rumbled from his chest, his body arching into my touch. "Good boy... keep playing with Daddy's chest like that. Feel how sensitive they are? You're making Daddy throb so hard." I slid my hand higher, into the dense hair of his armpit—wet and musky, the scent sharp and intoxicating, a heady mix of cologne and cigarette smoke that made my head spin, the damp straight hairs thick and matted, clinging to my skin as I buried my fingers deep. The sight and feel of that hair drove me wild—it represented pure masculinity to me, the essence of the man I'd admired for so long, always sneaking glimpses of him shirtless or naked, learning his tastes from rifling through his VHS porn collection as a kid during those lonely afternoons. I pressed my fingers deeper, combing through the straight strands, feeling the warmth and texture that made my own body ache with envy. At one point he lifted both arms up behind his head, lacing his fingers together, exposing his hairy pits fully—dense black straight hairs on display, the loose muscle shirt riding up to show more of his ribs and sides—letting me worship him completely, my hands roaming freely, fingers buried in those thick tufts while I sucked him deeper, the raw masculinity of it pushing me to the edge. Then I traced down to the gold chain that hung against his sternum, gripping it like a leash, tugging him closer so his cock throbbed harder in my mouth—that upward-curving shaft pulsing with veins, the flared head pulsing deep against the back of my throat.
His moans echoed—"That's it, son... take Daddy's cock deeper... just like that. You do this better than your mom ever did—she could never handle deepthroating this dick, but you take every inch of Daddy like you were made for it. Fuck, look at you choking on it... throat squeezing so tight around Daddy's meat. Keep sucking, boy—milk that thick white daddy dick with your hot little mouth. Daddy's gonna feed you every drop soon... you ready for it? Ready to drink what made you?"—building until his balls tightened against my chin, his grip firming, the buckle of his belt digging into my shoulder. "Gonna cum... swallow it all, son. Take every drop from Daddy's dick that made you."
He erupted with a guttural growl, hot ropes flooding my mouth—thick, bitter, endless, coating my tongue in heavy pulses that tasted of salt and iron and him. I swallowed every drop, milking him dry, savoring the essence of the man who made me, throat working visibly around the still-throbbing shaft. He pulled out slow, breathing heavy, a final string of cum and spit connecting the glossy head to my swollen lips before it broke. He tucked himself away with a satisfied sigh, the white briefs snapping back into place, the brown leather belt buckling with a slow, deliberate clink.
We zipped up in silence, the air still thick with musk, spit, and cum, flushed the toilet, and headed back out—locking the door behind us with the key before dropping it off.
In my bed, reliving it all—the hazel eyes that matched mine, my lighter hair next to his thick black strands, the chest hair under my fingers slick with sweat, the armpit hair straight and thick under my fingers, the gold chain gripped like a claim, the weight of his bigger balls heavy and hairy in my mouth, the upward curve of that 7.5-inch thick white daddy dick stretching me while my own 6-inch cock throbbed untouched—I'd cum hard to the thought, wishing it had been real, fueling the obsession that led to that Craigslist ad and beyond.
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