This was before they removed the personals on Craigslist.
I had always been obsessed with him—my own father. After the divorce, when Mom turned into a screaming, vindictive nightmare and fought dirty over money, the house, everything, I chose him without a second thought. I moved in with Dad right after turning eighteen, left her behind for good. Living under his roof felt right, safe. He was older, solid, built like a wall—broad, hairy, thick everywhere, the kind of man who carried quiet authority in every step. Deep voice that rumbled through the house, ex-con calm that made people listen. I looked up to him in every way, and somewhere that respect curdled into something filthy, obsessive. His sheer manhood consumed me—the way his body exuded raw power, the musky scent that lingered on his clothes, the casual dominance in every gesture. I'd steal glances at his bulge in those worn jeans, imagining the weight of it, the heat, the forbidden thrill of worshipping the very cock that created me.
Dad always wore those custom-made muscle shirts—tight, sleeveless tanks cut low enough to show the sides of his ribcage and the thick slabs of his hairy pecs when he moved. The fabric stretched over his gut and chest, clinging in a way that left nothing to the imagination, dark sweat stains blooming under his arms after a long day. Every time he reached up to grab something from a high shelf or leaned back on the couch, those shirts rode up just enough to expose the dense, black hair in his armpits—thick tufts that curled wetly when he was hot, trapping that heavy masculine scent mixed with his cologne. I couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop inhaling when I passed close enough, pretending it was casual while my cock twitched at the sight of those hairy pits, raw and unapologetic, so perfectly part of the man I craved. It was more than attraction; it was a deep, twisted hunger for his dominance, his essence, the taboo of surrendering to the man who made me.
We talked about her all the time—how much of a bitch she’d been. Over beers on the couch, or while fixing the truck in the garage, he’d shake his head and mutter, “Your mother was a real piece of work, kid. Never satisfied, always nagging, always wanting more.” I’d nod, agree, throw in my own stories of her screaming fits, the way she’d cut him down in front of me. It bonded us, that shared resentment. But every time he said it, my mind drifted to darker places—imagining him taking out that frustration on someone who actually wanted it, someone obedient. Someone like me. One drunken night, after too many beers, he slurred something that stuck with me: "That bitch couldn't suck a dick to save her life—always complained about the size, the taste, like it was a chore. A real woman knows how to worship a man's cock." His words lit a fire in me; I fantasized about proving him wrong, about being the one to finally satisfy him, to do what Mom never could—take his load like a champ, make him groan in ways she never did.
It started on that late-night drive home from vacation, after I turned nineteen. Gas station in the middle of nowhere, one working stall. The place was dead—no other cars, no line, no rush at all. We could’ve easily waited our turns or found another spot down the road. But Dad unzipped first anyway, pulled out that heavy, circumcised cock—thick and long even when flaccid, hanging heavy over his low-swinging balls like it owned the space. The musky scent hit me like a punch. “Come on, kid, just share it,” he grunted, no big deal to him, waving me in like it was the most natural thing.
There was no real reason to share the toilet. No urgency, no emergency. But I didn’t argue. I hesitated, bladder full but nerves buzzing harder, standing there next to him in the cramped stall, our shoulders almost touching. I shifted, dick half-hard from nerves and proximity, unable to let go right away. He noticed, glanced over with that calm, steady look.
“What’s the matter, boy?” His voice was low, reassuring, almost amused. “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, aimed, and let my stream join his. Our piss hissed together, crossing for a second, warm and wrong, mingling in the bowl. I stared at his meat the whole time—watched it swing as he shook off the last drops, the exposed head glistening slightly. My mouth went dry, then flooded. I jerked off to that memory for months—imagining dropping to my knees right there, tasting him, swallowing what came from the man who raised me, the man who’d just casually reassured me about “manhood” while his thick cock hung inches away, no hurry, no need, just because he said so.
His cock was raw power—circumcised, smooth flared head, veined shaft that thickened impressively from base to tip, always looking substantial even soft, like it could stretch anything it entered. And that bush... that beautiful, thick bush of black hair surrounding it, wild and dense, curling heavily around the root, spreading up his treasure trail and down over his heavy, low-hanging balls. Coarse, dark strands that trapped his natural scent, framing his manhood like a crown, making him look primal, dominant, exactly the father I craved to serve.
Then I found the ad. I’d been snooping on his laptop one afternoon while he was out running errands—nothing malicious at first, just curiosity, boredom, the way I sometimes did when he left it open on the kitchen table. Dad wasn’t great with technology, never had been. Four years in prison had left him even further behind; he still typed with two fingers, left tabs open forever, didn’t bother with passwords half the time. I clicked into his browser history on a whim and there it was, buried in the Craigslist casual encounters section: plain text, no picture. “Mature man seeking woman for discreet NSA oral and more. No drama, no strings. Host provides location. Be clean, be eager.”
It was unmistakably him—the short, no-nonsense sentences, the old-school phrasing, the way he didn’t waste words or try to sound slick. Seeing my own father posting for a woman to suck him off or fuck made my cock throb painfully hard. He wasn’t supposed to need that; he was supposed to be above it. But the idea of him horny and frustrated, hunting for relief after years of Mom’s bitchiness—it lit something vicious and needy in me.
I replied from a burner email, heart slamming:
I’m not a girl, but you can treat me like one. I’ll be your perfect little obedient slut—better than any bitch ever was. No attitude, no complaints. Just eager to please. Swallow everything you give me.
His response came within minutes:
You think you can handle what I need? Prove it. Hotel. Tonight. Glory hole setup. You pay for the room. No faces, no names, no talking unless I say. Swallow everything or don’t bother showing up.
My fingers shook as I typed back right away:
Room 304 at _________ Hotel. Door will be unlocked. Sheet hung in the bathroom doorway with a hole cut. I’ll be waiting on my knees at 7:30 PM sharp. Please come use me.
A minute later his reply popped up, short and filthy:
That’s my good girl. Daddy’s already hard thinking about that eager mouth. Be ready to choke on this fat cock.
Attached was a blurry close-up photo—his thick, circumcised dick filling the frame, veiny shaft gripped loosely in his big hand, the flared head shiny with a bead of pre-cum, that dense black bush framing the base like dark velvet. No face, no background, just pure, raw manhood. But what made my stomach flip with final, undeniable certainty was the faded outline of an old prison tattoo on his knuckle. It was him. No doubt left. My own father’s cock, hard and leaking for a stranger he thought was a woman. My breath caught; I’d seen it soft in the gas station, but hard and leaking it looked even more intimidating, more paternal, more mine to worship in secret.
Once inside the room, I strung a cheap blackout sheet across the bathroom doorway, tacked it tight, then cut a rough but clean hole at cock height. Dimmed the lights, knelt on the tile floor in front of the sheet, cock already leaking in my shorts, throat dry with anticipation. I’d decided I wouldn’t speak at all—not a single word. Only sounds: moans, whimpers, wet slurps. I’d practiced disguising my voice for hours, pitching it lower, rougher, stripping away anything familiar so even a stray noise wouldn’t give me away.
When he arrived, the door thudded shut, heavy boots crossed the carpet, and the air filled with his presence—clean sweat, ripe balls, and that heavy masculine cologne he always wore, woodsy and sharp, the kind that clung to his shirts and made my head spin whenever he hugged me goodbye. It hit me through the sheet like a drug.
“You the one who emailed?” His voice was low, rough, the same tone he used when he told me to mow the lawn or hand him a wrench.
I let out a low, needy “Mmm-hmm,” muffled against the fabric, throat vibrating.
He let out a low, appreciative grunt. “Good girl. Thought you might chicken out. Get those pretty lips ready, sweetheart. Daddy’s been saving up a big load and you’re gonna drink every bit of it like a good little cocksucker. This cock's been neglected too long—gonna stuff that hungry mouth full.”
He didn’t wait. The thick head pushed through the hole in the sheet—warm, already swelling, sliding heavy across my tongue. The taste exploded: salty pre-cum, tangy skin, the full-day musk of his balls mixed with traces of that cologne. I moaned around him—soft, guttural “Mmmph”—and took him deeper. He was massive—stretching my jaw wide, filling my throat until my nose mashed into that beautiful black bush. Coarse pubic hair scraped my face, trapping his scent so thick I could barely breathe. This was it—the dick that made me, the forbidden source of my existence, throbbing in my mouth like a dirty secret. The thought made my cock ache harder, pre-cum flooding my shorts; I was sucking the very manhood that created me, proving I could worship it better than anyone.
“That’s it, baby, suck it nice and slow,” he rumbled, hips rolling forward gently at first. “Show me what that mouth can do. Been too long since I had a warm, wet hole that actually wanted it. No attitude, no whining—just you taking care of Daddy like a good little bitch should. Choke on this fat daddy cock, princess—feel how thick it is? That's real manhood stretching your throat. Now get those lips down further, cock-hungry princess—Daddy wants you to worship my balls too. Suck 'em good, lick 'em like the little slut you are while you deepthroat this meat.”
Being called “princess” hit me like a drug—degrading yet oddly affectionate, the perfect mix of humiliation and possession that made my cock throb harder, leaking even more into my shorts. I answered with muffled sounds—wet, sloppy “Glk… glk…” as he thrust deeper, “Mmm… hnnng…” when he bottomed out and held. Drool poured down my chin, soaking the sheet. He started fucking my face in earnest—slow, deliberate rolls turning into steady, deep pumps. Every word twisted the knife of taboo deeper; he was degrading me like a cheap whore, never knowing it was his own son proving what Mom couldn't—giving the blowjob of his dreams, milking his cock with the devotion she never had. I took him all the way down, nose buried in his bush, throat bulging around his girth, then extended my tongue to lap at his heavy, hairy balls—salty, musky orbs swinging against my chin, the ultimate taboo act of worshipping the sack that held the seed that made me.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, voice thick with lust. “Taking it so deep already. That’s my girl. Choke on it a little—yeah, just like that. You love having a real man’s cock in your throat, don’t you? Bet you’ve been waiting for someone to use that pretty mouth good. Keep licking those balls, princess—suck 'em harder while you gag on Daddy's fat dick. You're doing what no bitch ever could, taking every inch like a proper cumdump.”
The words burned through me—Daddy talking to me like I was the obedient woman he’d posted for, never knowing it was his own son gulping him down. My cock jerked untouched inside my shorts, pre-cum soaking through the fabric in thick strings. I sucked harder, hollowing my cheeks, milking him with desperate pulls, answering every praise with needy whimpers and slurps. I was doing what Mom failed at—worshipping his cock properly, swallowing deep where she whined and quit. The thought fueled me, made the degradation hotter; I was his secret replacement, the one who could handle his manhood.
“Goddamn, you’re good at this,” he muttered, gripping the sheet edges, hips picking up speed. “Gonna feed you good, sweetheart. Gonna pump all that thick cum right down your throat. You’re gonna swallow every drop for me, aren’t you? Be a good girl and take Daddy’s load. This cock's gonna breed your mouth, fill you with the seed you crave, princess.”
He groaned low, that familiar paternal rumble turned husky and tender. “Here it comes, baby—open wide. Drink it all down.”
His balls tightened against the sheet. Then the first hot spurt slammed the back of my throat—thick, bitter, endless. Rope after thick rope flooded my mouth. I caught every single drop, sealing my lips tight around the pulsing head so nothing escaped. I held it there, tongue cradling the creamy load—Daddy’s thick, warm seed, the very cream that created me, pooling heavy and rich on my tongue. The taboo hit like lightning: this was the essence of the man who fucked me into existence, now coating my mouth, sliding over my taste buds in slow, silky waves. I savored it, rolling it around like fine wine, letting the salty-bitter heat bloom across every inch of my tongue, inhaling the musky scent of him through my nose while my cock leaked helplessly in my shorts. Then, slowly, deliberately, I swallowed—long, luxurious gulps, feeling each thick rope slide down my throat in warm, velvet pulses, marking me inside with the forbidden gift only a father could give. Every drop felt like worship, like claiming what was mine by blood, by lust, by sin.
He stayed buried deep for a long beat, letting the final pulses drip straight into me. “That’s my good girl,” he murmured, voice satisfied and almost affectionate, already pulling back. The head glistened with my spit as it withdrew through the hole in the sheet. “Might have to come back for that sweet mouth again. You know how to treat a man right.”
He stepped back, sliding his pants up with slow, deliberate care, zipper gliding, belt snapping into place with a sound I knew far too well. Years of knowing him made every click feel intimate, almost sacred, a reminder of everything we’d just shared in the dark. The door clicked shut behind him, but the heat between us refused to leave, clinging to the walls and wrapping around me, leaving the room thick with want and memory.
I stayed kneeling on the tile, throat raw, mouth still flooded with his taste and that lingering cologne scent, his cum settling heavy inside me. My cock throbbed once more inside my soaked shorts and erupted—hands-free, spurting ropes against the fabric as the reality crashed in.
I waited there, frozen, ears straining until I heard the faint ding of the elevator at the end of the hall, his heavy footsteps fading into silence. Only then did I stand on shaky legs, peeking through the hotel window just in time to watch him cross the parking lot to his old truck, broad shoulders rolling under that muscle shirt, oblivious to the eyes devouring him from above.
I’d just sucked off my own dad through a sheet in a hotel bathroom. Swallowed every drop of the man who raised me, the man who’d spent years calling Mom a bitch while I secretly dreamed of replacing her in the filthiest way possible—while staring at his hairy armpits in those muscle shirts and inhaling his scent like a drug. And he had no idea it was his son on the other side—silent, disguised, choking on his cock, drinking him down with nothing but needy sounds while he praised the “good girl” on her knees. The tattoo on his knuckle in that photo had sealed it; there was no mistaking whose dick I’d just worshipped.
The shame and the high twisted together until they felt like the same thing.
I cleaned up, left the room, and went home to the man who’d just unknowingly fed me his load.
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