Dad always compensated with money when he couldn’t compensate with time. He was not with my mother since I was a teenager, I’m now twenty four so do the math.
A year without seeing each other. A year of short calls, missed birthdays, and the same excuse: the brand was exploding, new stores in Asia, investors who needed his face in every meeting. Derek Voss, forty-three years old, looked thirty-five, owned a sportswear label that had gone from garage start-up to global, and still somehow found a way to make me feel like an afterthought he remembered once the numbers looked good.
This time the compensation came with a first-class ticket to Dubai.
“Business and a little father-son time,” he said on the phone, voice easy, almost playful.
“I got a suite with two bedrooms. You’ll have your own space. We can hit the gym, maybe the beach, infinity pool, shopping sprees, whatever you want.”
I almost said no.
Then I said yes, he was not a bad person, just a bad father.
The flight left at eleven at night. First class was nearly empty—just us and two other passengers at the far end of the cabin. The lights were already dimmed. Soft blue glow along the floor. Wide leather seats that reclined almost flat. A privacy divider between us that neither of us had closed.
Dad looked unfairly good for a man who’d spent the last twelve hours in meetings.
He was the kind of man who looked intelligent before he ever opened his mouth. In his early forties, he had neatly brushed-back light brown hair, parted naturally to one side, with a few strands refusing to stay perfectly in place. His light green eyes were sharp but calm, framed by dark, rectangular tortoiseshell glasses with softly rounded corners and a subtle gold detail near the hinges. They gave him an unmistakably academic look, polished, sophisticated, and just a little nerdy.
A short, neatly trimmed beard covered his jaw and upper lip, softening the otherwise defined lines of his face. He had tanned skin from running outdoors, high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong jaw that gave him a quiet masculinity. His expression was usually serious, almost reserved, as though his mind were constantly somewhere several steps ahead of everyone else.
He wasn’t particularly muscular, but he had a lean, naturally athletic build that showed beneath his expensive polos. he kind of body that came from actually intense training instead of just posing for his campaign photos with fake photoshop editing. There was nothing flashy about him. His appeal came from the details—the intelligent eyes behind the glasses, the careful way he carried himself, and that understated combination of handsome, slightly rugged, and undeniably intelligent. He wore a white polo and beige chinos that sat perfectly on his hips. The expensive smartwatch on his wrist caught the low light every time he moved.
We’d already had two glasses of champagne on the ground and another once we were in the air. The alcohol sat warm in my stomach. I was still wearing the soft black sweater and slim trousers I’d chosen because I knew he liked when I looked put-together. Dance instructor habits. Clean lines. Nothing too loud.
Dad ordered whiskey. I matched him but asked mine with coke, I’m not a fan of the sour taste.
For a while we talked about nothing important—my classes, a new show I was working on, some investor dinner he had in Dubai. He was charming the way he always was when he decided to show up. Laughing easy. Touching my shoulder when he made a joke. Looking at me like he actually saw me.
Then the cabin got quieter.
The other passengers had headphones on. The flight attendants disappeared behind the curtain. The only light left was the soft glow from the windows and the small reading lights people hadn’t turned off.
I glanced over.
Dad’s phone was tilted just enough that the screen wasn’t visible from the aisle, but from my seat I could see the edge of it. The volume was muted. His face was carefully neutral. His right hand rested on his thigh, fingers occasionally adjusting something.
I shifted in my seat and looked lower.
The front of his chinos was tented. Hard. Thick. The fabric stretched tight over a clear, heavy outline that ran down the left side of his thigh. He was fully hard and trying to be discreet about it.
My mouth went dry.
I watched him for another thirty seconds. The way his thumb moved across the screen. The way his jaw tightened every few moments. The way his cock twitched once under the beige fabric, unmistakable.
I leaned a little closer, voice low.
“You don’t have a girlfriend right now?”
Dad’s eyes flicked to me, kinda confused and startle, then looked back to the phone. He didn’t lock the screen fast enough. I caught a flash of two female bodies, skin, the unmistakable fast rhythm of porn movies.
He cleared his throat.
“Nah.” A short, dry laugh. “The last few… they were real bitches, only wanted the money, the status, the trips, the access. I’m done with that shit for a while.”
I kept my voice soft. “So you just… take care of it yourself?”
His jaw flexed. He didn’t answer right away. He just hid the phone.
The cabin hummed around us. Somewhere far forward a flight attendant laughed quietly.
I reached across the small space between our seats.
“Sorry, flying makes me horny. I kinda forget you were there…”
My hand settled on his strong thigh, just above the knee, then slid higher until my palm covered the thick, hard shape of him through the chinos. He went completely still, body super tense. The phone screen stayed lit in his other hand. I felt him throb under my touch.
“Saint… what the fuck are you doing?” His voice was low, warning, but he didn’t move my hand away.
I pressed harder, rubbing slowly along the length of him. The fabric was warm. He was bigger than I’d imagined in the rare moments I’d let myself think about it. Long. Thick. Curved slightly to the left.
“You’re so hard… rock hard.” I whispered.
Dad’s breathing changed. He stared at the phone like it might save him, but his hips shifted forward a fraction, pushing into my hand.
“This is a bad idea,” he muttered.
I didn’t stop. I found the zipper and pulled it down carefully. The sound was soft but it felt loud in the quiet cabin. His cock sprang free—heavy, flushed dark, the head already wet. It curved upward, longer than I expected, the shaft thick enough that my fingers didn’t fully close around it.
Dad exhaled hard through his nose.
“Fuck…”
I wrapped my hand around him properly and stroked once, slow, from base to tip. He twitched hard in my grip. A clear bead of precum welled up and I spread it with my thumb.
“Keep watching the chick porn.” I said.
He didn’t lock the phone. The muted porn kept playing. Two guys using a blonde girl. Rough. Hardcore. Dad’s eyes stayed on the screen while I started jerking him in earnest—tight, steady strokes, twisting a little at the head the way I liked done to myself. His free hand gripped the armrest so hard the leather creaked.
“Fuck, Saint, your hand is soft.”
“Shhh, dad, watch the girl get fucked hard, let me take care of you.”
I leaned closer, shoulder against the side of his seat, and worked him harder. The wet sound of precum and spit (I licked my palm once when it started to drag) filled the small space between us. His cock was burning hot in my hand. Every time I stroked upward the curve of it made the head slap lightly against my fingers. He was leaking steadily now, the slick noise getting filthier.
Dad’s hips started moving. Small, involuntary thrusts into my fist. His breathing had gone ragged. The phone trembled slightly in his other hand.
“If you keep doing that, you’re gonna make me nut real fast, boy.” he muttered, almost angry about it.
“That’s the point, dad.” I replied low with a teasing tone.
I tightened my grip and sped up. Hard, almost rough strokes that made his thighs tense. The head of his cock was all wet, shiny with precum. I could feel him getting closer in the way the shaft thickened even more, in the way his stomach flexed under the white shirt.
“Look at the screen,” I whispered. “Don’t stop watching. Image it’s you banging that bitch.”
He didn’t. His eyes stayed locked on the porn while I jacked him harder, faster, the wet sound of it now unmistakable. My wrist was starting to ache. I didn’t care. I wanted to feel him lose it.
Dad’s free hand suddenly shot down and covered mine, not stopping me—just adding pressure, showing me exactly how tight he needed it. We stroked him together for a few seconds, his bigger hand guiding mine, and then he let go and gripped the armrest again.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m close, don’t stop, don’t stop.”
I leaned in and whispered right against his ear.
“Cum for me, dad.”
His whole body locked up.
“I’m gonna fucking nut, boy!!!”
The first pulse shot so hard and powerful it hit the back of the seat in front of us with a thick, wet sound. The second and third followed immediately, heavy ropes of cum striping the seat and dripping down. I kept stroking him through it, milking every spurt while his hips jerked and a low, broken groan tore out of his throat. He tried his best to not make sounds that could make people look in our direction. He came a lot, more than I expected, sticky white cum coating the seat in front and leaving thick strings across my knuckles.
I slowed only when the last weak pulses faded.
Dad was breathing hard, head tipped back against the seat, phone still lit in his hand, cock still twitching in my grip. Cum dripped from my fingers onto his open chinos.
I lifted my hand, looked at the mess, and slowly licked my fingers clean while he watched. The taste of him was bitter from
the alcohol and heavy. I made sure he saw every drag of my tongue.
For a long moment neither of us spoke.
The cabin stayed quiet. The porn was still playing on his phone, forgotten.
Dad finally locked the screen and set it face-down on his thigh. He looked at me in the low light—flushed, still half-hard, cum cooling on the seat in front of us—and something complicated moved behind his eyes.
“We’re not talking about this,” he said, voice rough. “Never. This was a really serious mistake.”
I wiped the last of him from my lower lip with my thumb and sat back in my own seat.
“Okay.”
The rest of the flight passed in silence. I watched “Obsession” on the media player from the plane.
Dad eventually cleaned the seat with a handful of first-class napkins and tucked himself away. Sometimes I stared out the window at the black sky and the occasional scatter of city lights far below, the taste of my father’s cum still thick on my tongue.
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