Luckily, my father was there to save the day of my wedding. That's a strange thing to say, considering how much I hated him in that moment.
My name is Edward. I'm twenty-five years old, and in about two hours, I'm supposed to marry Gabriella.
Gabriella was everything I ever dreamed of in a girl—beautiful, with long dark hair that falls in waves past her shoulders, big brown eyes that could melt steel, a body that's both athletic and impossibly feminine.
We met in high school. I was the quarterback—the golden boy, the one every girl wanted to date. And I took advantage of that. I fucked dozens of girls, lost count after a while. Blowjobs in the back of my car after games, quick fucks in empty classrooms, sometimes two girls in one weekend. I was a heartbreaker, and I didn't care. I was young, I was hot, and I was invincible.
But then I saw Gabriella on the cheerleading squad, and something changed. She was the captain, leading the cheers with that perfect smile, her ponytail swinging as she did her routines. I watched her for weeks before I worked up the nerve to talk to her. Me, Edward, who had never been nervous around a girl in my life. But she was different.
I asked her to be my girlfriend at prom. She said yes, and that night we were crowned prom king and queen. The perfect couple. The fairy tale.
Six years later, I proposed, and she said yes again. It was romantic—candlelight dinner, a ring I'd saved for months to buy, down on one knee in the restaurant where we had our first date. She cried, I cried, everyone applauded. And now, one year after that proposal, here we are on our wedding day.
But I haven't had an easy life. Not really.
My mother died when I was five. I don't remember much about her—just the smell of her perfume, the sound of her laughter. She was gone, and then it was just me and my dad. James. Fifty-one years old, a sports teacher at another school, still built like the athlete he used to be. Broad shoulders, strong arms, that stubborn jaw that I inherited.
For years, it was just the two of us. He raised me, taught me how to throw a football, how to shave, how to be a man. I worshipped him. Then, when I was twelve, he met a woman. She became my stepmother for five years, until they split when I was seventeen. After that, he didn't get into another serious relationship. He'd fuck women sometimes—I'd hear them through the walls, hear the bed squeaking, hear him grunting. And recently, I found out he's been fucking men too. I don't know how I know, I just do. Maybe it's the way he looks at certain guys, or something in his voice when he talks about his "buddies" from the gym.
But our relationship has been strained since I got serious with Gabriella. He doesn't like her. Thinks she's hiding something, that she's not good for me. He's been making comments for months, little digs that I tried to ignore. But the closer the wedding got, the worse it became.
Yesterday was the breaking point.
We were in my apartment, the stress of the wedding hanging over everything. My dad was helping me with some last-minute arrangements, but he couldn't stop himself. He started again, saying how he had a bad feeling about Gabriella, how she was too perfect, how there must be some dark secret she was keeping.
I told him to drop it. He didn't.
"She's a fucking whore, Edward!," he said, his voice cold. "I've seen the way she looks at other men. She's going to make a fool of you."
I was stunned. I couldn't believe he'd said that. "DON’T YOU DARE CALL HER THAT," I warned, my voice rising.
"SHE’S A FUCKING SLUT," he repeated, louder now. "And you're a blind idiot for marrying her."
That's when I lost it. I threw myself at him, fists swinging. I caught him on the jaw, and he stumbled back, but then he was on me. We hit the floor, rolling and punching, grunting and swearing. He's fifty-one, but he's still strong. He pinned me down, his weight on top of me, his face red with rage.
And then I felt it.
His crotch pressed against mine. Through the fabric of our pants, I could feel his cock. It was hard. Not fully, but starting to stiffen. And as we struggled, as I tried to throw him off, I felt it rubbing against my own dick. A slow, grinding friction that sent a jolt through my body.
I stopped fighting.
I didn't mean to. I just froze. And then, without thinking, I started moving my hips. Just a little. Just enough to feel that pressure again. My own cock started to respond, swelling against my jeans, pressing back against his. He didn't seem to notice—he was too busy yelling, too angry to feel what I was doing. But I felt it. I felt every inch of him, hard and thick, grinding against me.
I was getting hard. Harder than I'd been in a long time. My breath caught in my throat, and I could feel the heat spreading through my groin. I wanted to keep going. I wanted to rub against him until I came. I wanted to see his face, to see if he would notice.
But I didn't. I pushed him off, told him to get out, and he left, slamming the door.
I sat there on the floor, my cock still hard, my heart pounding. I was confused, disgusted, and incredibly turned on. I thought about what had just happened. About the feel of his dick against mine. About the way I'd moved my hips, seeking that friction.
I've never been with a man. I've never even thought about it. But now, I can't stop thinking about it. Not about my father, of course—that's wrong. That's sick. But about another man. A stranger. Someone I could explore with.
And then the thought came, unbidden: Gabriella and me and another man. The three of us together. I imagine her between us, taking us both, or maybe me taking her while he takes me. I imagine her beautiful face, her perfect body, and another man's hands on her, on me.
I don't know what it means. I don't know if it's just a fantasy or something I actually want. But I can't shake it. It's there, in the back of my mind, as I get ready to marry the woman I love.
——
The ceremony was about to start. Walking down the aisle, my arm locked with my father’s, felt like a forced march to the gallows. The words “I do” were supposed to be the happiest of my life, but they sat heavy and foreign on my tongue.
I reached the altar. The priest nodded. The guests settled into their pews, a sea of pastels and dark suits, all eyes on me. I kept glancing at the heavy oak doors at the back of the church, waiting for them to swing open and reveal my bride in her white dress.
I waited.
The organist played through the processional twice. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. I wiped my sweaty palms on my trousers. My father, standing beside me as my best man, shot me a look. Not one of triumph, but of grim concern.
Five minutes. Ten.
Sandra, Gabriella’s mother, pulled out her cell phone. She stepped into the side aisle, pressing it to her ear. I watched her lips move. I watched her face drain of every ounce of color. She lowered the phone. Her hand trembled. She looked at me, and I saw the apology in her eyes before I even heard the words.
“She’s not coming,” Sandra choked out, her voice cracking. “Gabriella… she’s been seeing another man. For months. She says she can’t go through with it.”
The gasp that went through the church was like a physical blow. I didn’t hear the rest. The world narrowed to a tunnel of red-hot rage and crushing humiliation. A scream tore from my throat—not a word, just raw, animal anguish.
I ripped my arm away from the priest and ran. I tore through the doorway, through the vestry, slamming every door I could find. I didn’t stop until I found a small, forgotten room—a storage closet or a priest’s study. I collapsed against the stone wall, slid to the floor, and wept.
I don’t know how long I lay there, shaking, my beautiful tuxedo wrinkled and stained with tears. I was a cliché. The jilted groom. The king who lost his queen.
Then, I heard the door open.
I looked up through blurry eyes. It was my father. James. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. He didn’t say a word. He just walked over and lowered himself to the floor beside me.
I whispered, my voice bitter and broken. “You were right about her.”
He didn’t gloat. He didn’t say ‘I told you so’. He just reached out and put his hand on the back of my head, his fingers threading into my hair.
“Shhhh Daddy’s here,” he said softly. The words hit me like a wave. I broke down again.
I didn’t fight it. I let myself slump, laying my head in his lap, the way I hadn’t done since I was a child. I let him hold me. I felt his hand stroking my hair, slow and steady.
“I’m right here, baby boy,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. Let it out. Let it all out.”
His fingers moved from my hair to my face, brushing the tears from my cheeks. His thumb traced the line of my jaw. I looked up at him, my face a mess of shame and sorrow.
He smiled. A tender, heartbreaking smile.
He leaned down. His lips grazed my cheek. A whisper of a kiss right where a tear had fallen. I froze. My breath hitched.
Then another kiss on my other cheek. Just as gentle.
He alternated, placing soft, deliberate pecks on my cheeks, my closed eyelids, my forehead. Each kiss was laced with a whispered phrase. “I love you.” “You’re safe.” “Let me take care of you.”
The anger drained out of me, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. I felt like a little boy again, protected.
A fresh tear slid down my cheek. He saw it. His smile softened. He leaned in again, but this time, instead of kissing me, he opened his mouth.
His tongue came out, slow and wet. He dragged it up the path of my tear, licking the salt from my skin. The sensation was electric. It shot straight through my chest, coiling deep in my gut, settling with a heavy throb in my groin.
I stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Don’t worry Daddy’s gonna take care of you” he whispered, his voice husky.
He licked the other cheek. Then he licked the corner of my mouth.
I should have pulled away. I should have been horrified. But I was three months celibate. Three months of perfect abstinence for a perfect honeymoon that was never going to happen. My balls ached. My cock was a desperate, furious knot of need. At that moment, I would have killed for an orgasm.
I didn’t pull away. I leaned into him.
I lifted my head from his lap and turned to face him. He was so close. I could smell his cologne, the faint spice of his sweat. His eyes were dark, hungry.
He licked my cheek again. But this time it was rougher. His tongue dragged across my skin, leaving a thick, warm trail of saliva. He pulled back, and a string of his spit connected his lower lip to my cheek.
A moan escaped my throat. It was low, pathetic, full of want.
I leaned forward and licked his cheek. The taste of his skin—salty, masculine. I heard him inhale sharply. I felt his hand tighten on my thigh.
I moved my tongue up, tracing the shell of his ear. He let out a little groan, a sound that sent a thrill through me. At the same time, he buried his face in my neck. His tongue laved the sensitive skin of my throat, tasting my sweat. I moaned openly, my head falling back against the wall.
His hand dropped from my thigh to my crotch. He cupped me through the fabric of my suit pants. I was painfully hard, my cock straining against the zipper. He squeezed, feeling the thick outline of me.
My hips bucked involuntarily into his palm.
Our faces met again. We were breathing heavily, mouths open, only inches apart. Our tongues touched. Just the tips. Sliding against each other, tasting each other. It was slow, filthy.
I licked his lower lip. He licked mine. We circled each other like wary predators, our tongues dancing, a thread of mixed saliva stretching between them.
He broke the pattern. He opened his mouth wide and violently sucked my tongue into his mouth. The suction was powerful, desperate. He devoured it, lashing it with his own, pulling me deeper.
"Ohhhhwwww gowwwwwddd Dad!"I groaned into his mouth. The sound was muffled by the wet, frantic noises of our kiss.
He pulled back. A thick, glistening rope of drool stretched between our lips, strung like a bridge. It hung there for a moment before breaking.
We locked eyes. The mask of father and son was gone. What stared back at me was pure, animalistic hunger.
We lunged at the same time.
Forgetting about the incest that we were committed, our mouths crashed together. It wasn’t a kiss—it was a fight. Our teeth clicked. He bit my lower lip, tugging it into his mouth, sucking hard. I groaned and shoved my tongue back into his. He bit it gently, then sucked it deeper.
My hand found his crotch. He was just as hard as me, a thick, heavy shaft straining against his pants. I squeezed him, tracing the outline of his cock. He moaned into my mouth, a deep, guttural sound, and crushed his mouth harder against mine.
"Owww kiss me baby kiss Daddy on the mouth" he said .
We kissed like animals. Sloppy, furious, obscene. Saliva overflowed from our mouths, running down our chins. I could taste my tears on his lips, the coffee from this morning, the primal musk of his skin. The room filled with the wet, sucking sounds of our mouths.
He bit my tongue and pulled it back into his mouth, fucking my face with his tongue. I let him, moaning like a bitch in heat. My hips pumped against his hand as he rubbed the length of my cock through the trousers.
His tongue tangled with mine. I sucked his bottom lip, biting it, pulling it. He groaned my name into my mouth.
“Ohhhhh baby… fuck…”
I shoved my hand deeper into his pants, wrapping my fingers around the bare skin of his cock. He was thick, hot, leaking pre-cum. I stroked him, and he bucked into my fist.
We were rutting against each other, rolling over on the dusty floor of the little church room, our mouths fused together in a violent, consuming kiss. Every time we broke for air, we instantly dove back in, tongues stabbing, teeth scraping, groaning and whimpering into each other’s throats.
The kiss was pure chaos. Pure desperation. A devouring.
When we finally slowed, we were panting, our foreheads pressed together, a massive string of spit and saliva still bridging our mouths. He looked at me, his eyes dark and shining.
“I’ve got you, son,” he breathed against my lips. “Daddy’s got you.”
My father's hand cupped the back of my neck, fingers threading through the hair I'd gelled perfectly just hours ago for the wedding that never happened. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, and I melted into his touch like I always had—but this time, there was something else. Something electric and wrong and so goddamn right.
"Daddy," I whispered, the word catching in my throat. It was a word I hadn't used since I was twelve, but it felt right now. Desperate. Raw. "I need you. I need you to... to make me forget this bitch. To make me feel something else."
His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and I could see the battle raging behind them. The father who wanted to protect me, and the man who wanted to claim me.
"Owww tel me what you need, baby." His voice was gravel and sensual, and it vibrated through my chest.
I swallowed hard, my hands fisting in the fabric of his suit jacket. The same suit he'd bought for the wedding. The same suit that smelled like his cologne, sandalwood and cedar, the scent of every hug he'd ever given me.
"I need you to fuck me," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Right here. In the church. I want you to fuck me like I'm yours, because I am. I've always been yours, Daddy."
The silence stretched for a heartbeat, two. Then his mouth crashed against mine.
This wasn't the gentle, reassuring kiss from before. This was a claiming. His tongue pushed past my lips, and I opened for him like I'd been waiting my whole life to do exactly that. I gasped against his mouth, tasting coffee and mint and something uniquely him. My hands slid up his chest, fumbling with his tie, and he laughed against my lips—a low, rough sound that went straight to my cock.
"Eager," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at me. "You've never done this before, have you? With a man?"
I shook my head, my cheeks burning. "No. Never. But I want it to be you. I want you to be my first."
He groaned, pressing his forehead to mine. "Fuck, son. You're going to kill me."
"Then let's die together," I whispered, and I meant it.
His hands moved to the buttons of my shirt, working them open with practiced ease. I'd never noticed how beautiful his hands were before—strong, calloused from years of working on the house, with veins that ran along the backs. They were the hands that had taught me to throw a baseball, that had held me steady when I learned to drive, that had wiped away every tear I'd ever shed.
Now they were undressing me.
The shirt fell to the floor, and his fingers traced the line of my collarbone, down my chest, across my stomach. I shivered, my skin prickling under his touch.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "My beautiful boy."
I reached for his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. He let it fall, then pulled his own shirt over his head, and I let out a shaky breath. I'd seen him shirtless a thousand times—at the pool, in the backyard, when he was fixing the car. But this was different. This time I was allowed to look. To want.
His chest was broad, dusted with salt-and-pepper hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared into his trousers. His arms were thick, muscles defined from years of manual labor. And his nipples—dark, hard nubs that I wanted to taste.
I leaned forward, and he watched me with hooded eyes as I pressed my lips to his chest. My tongue darted out, tracing the line of his pectoral, and he hissed in a breath. His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, guiding me, encouraging me.
"Daddy," I murmured against his skin, and that word was becoming a prayer. "I want to taste you. All of you."
He groaned, his grip tightening in my hair. "Kneel for me, son."
I dropped to my knees without hesitation, the carpet rough against my dress pants. My hands went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle until he pushed my fingers aside and did it himself. The zipper sounded deafening in the quiet room, and then his trousers were pooling around his ankles, and his cock was springing free, thick and hard and already leaking.
I'd never seen another man's cock up close before. Amanda's vibrator didn't count. This was real, and it was his, and I wanted it in my mouth so badly I could taste it.
"Open," he said softly, and I did.
He guided the head to my lips, and I parted them, letting him slip inside. The taste hit me first—salt and musk and something primal. I closed my eyes, focusing on the weight of him on my tongue, the way his hand trembled slightly in my hair.
"Just like that," he breathed. "Take me deeper, baby. You can do it."
I tried, relaxing my throat as he pushed forward. I gagged, and he pulled back immediately, stroking my cheek. It was incredible! Better than Gabriella and her old pussy.
"Easy. We've got time. Take it slow."
But I didn't want slow. I wanted him to use me, to claim me, to make me forget every single thing that had happened today. I took him again, deeper this time, and when I gagged, I forced myself to stay. His moan was reward enough.
"Fuck, son. Your mouth is incredible."
I hollowed my cheeks, sucking as I pulled back, then taking him again. My hand came up to stroke the base of his shaft, the part I couldn't reach with my lips. Pre-cum coated my tongue, and I swallowed it greedily.
After a few minutes, he pulled me off, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his cock. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving.
"Get up," he said, his voice rough. "I need to taste you."
I stood, and he pushed me backward until my legs hit the desk. He lifted me onto it, spreading my legs as he worked on my pants. He pulled them down, along with my boxers, and I lay back on the polished wood, exposed and vulnerable and so fucking turned on.
His eyes roamed over my body, lingering on my cock, which was aching and red and dripping onto my stomach. He leaned down, and I felt his breath on my skin before his tongue touched me.
He started at my navel, licking a slow, wet path up my chest. His tongue circled my nipple, and I arched into him, a whimper escaping my lips. He sucked, hard, and I cried out, my hands fisting in his hair.
"Owwwwhhhj Daddy, please—"
"Please what?" He moved to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment. "Tell me what you want baby."
"I want you to fuck me. I want your cock inside me. I want to feel you for days."
He pulled back, a dark smile playing on his lips. "You're going to get exactly what you want."
He slicked his fingers, then knelt between my legs. His first finger circled my hole, and I tensed, my body not knowing what to expect.
"Relax, baby. Breathe. Daddy’y gonna take care of you."
I forced myself to breathe, and he pushed the first finger in. The sensation was strange—full, invasive, but not painful. He worked it slowly, stretching me, and when I relaxed enough, he added a second.
"FUCK," I gasped. "That's... that's so much."
"You'll take more," he promised. "You'll take all of me."
His fingers curled, searching, and then he hit something inside me that made my vision go white. I screamed, my hips bucking against his hand.
"There it is," he said, his voice smug. "Found your spot."
He stroked it again, and again, and I was babbling, begging, tears streaming down my face. I didn't care that I was crying. I didn't care about anything except his fingers inside me.
"Please, Daddy, please, I need you, I need your cock, please—"
He pulled his fingers out, and I whimpered at the emptiness. But then he was standing, positioning himself between my legs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"Look at me," he said. I did. His eyes were dark, intense, full of love and lust and something ancient. "You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours, Daddy. I've always been yours. Its so much better than all the girls I’ve fucked."
He pushed in.
The stretch was incredible, a burn that bordered on pain but was so much more. I cried out, my nails digging into the wood of the desk, and he stopped, giving me time to adjust.
"So tight," he groaned. "So perfect."
"Move," I begged. "Please, move."
He started slowly, a gentle rhythm that built with each thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he moaned, his head falling forward.
"Fuck, son. You feel amazing."
I reached down, grabbing his ass, pulling him into me harder. "OHHHH FASTER, DADDY FUCK ME FASTER."
He obeyed, his pace increasing, the desk creaking beneath us. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with our moans and grunts and the occasional cry of "Daddy" that escaped my lips.
He leaned down, capturing my mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his cock. I bit his lower lip, drawing blood, and he groaned, thrusting deeper.
"You like that?" he growled. "You like being a dirty little slut for your daddy in the church?"
"OHHHH FUCKING GOD YES YES YES—"
He reached between us, his hand wrapping around my cock, stroking me in time with his thrusts. I was close, so close, the pressure building in my gut like a wave about to crash.
"Cum for me, son. Let go. I've got you."
That was all I needed. I came with a scream, my body arching off the desk, my cum spraying across my stomach and his hand. The contractions of my ass sent him over the edge, and he buried his face in my neck as he spilled inside me, hot and deep.
We stayed like that for a long moment, panting, trembling, connected. He pulled out slowly, and I felt his cum leaking out of me, running down my thighs.
"Stay there," he said, his voice soft now. He grabbed his shirt, using it to clean me up, pressing kisses to my stomach, my chest, my lips.
"I love you, son," he whispered. "I've always loved you."
"I know, Daddy," I said, pulling him close. "I know."
Outside, the church bells rang, marking the hour. The wedding was supposed to have started by now. But I didn't care. I had everything I needed right here, in my father's arms.
And I knew, deep in my soul, that this was only the beginning.
——
The beginning was in that church study. But what came after was the real story.
We dressed in silence. My fingers trembled as I buttoned my shirt, and he came up behind me, his hands covering mine, finishing the job for me.
“Let me,” he said softly, his breath warm against my neck.
I let him. He straightened my tie, smoothed my lapels, brushed a piece of lint from my shoulder. I could feel his cum still leaking out of me, soaking into my boxers. Every step I took was a reminder of what we had done, what we were.
“Ready, son?”
I took his hand. “Ready, Daddy.”
We walked into the main hall of the church. The guests were scattered, confused, murmuring. My father cleared his throat and the room fell silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice steady and commanding, “I thank you for your presence and your support. We ask for your understanding and your discretion as we handle this private matter.”
Gasps. Whispers. A few people rushed toward me with pity in their eyes, but my father held up his hand. “He needs space. We all do.”
He guided me out of the church, his hand on the small of my back, his ring pressing into my skin through the fabric. We didn't look back.
——
The next morning, he woke me before dawn.
“Pack your bags, son. The tickets are non-refundable.”
I blinked. “We're going to Paris?”
“She doesn't get to have Paris. We do.”
We barely spoke on the plane. He held my hand under the blanket. When we landed, the city was gray and beautiful, and I didn't care about any of it. I only cared about the hotel room.
We made it through the door. Then our clothes were gone.
I had never seen him like this. Feral. Hungry. He threw me onto the bed, climbed over me, and took me like an animal claiming his mate. There was no tenderness in the first round. Only teeth and grunts and the wet sound of skin slapping.
“OHHH DADDY YEEEEEES,” I screamed, my voice raw. "GOOOOOD DADDY FUCK ME DESTROY MY HOLE"
He did.
He bent me over the window, the Eiffel Tower glittering in the distance, my hands pressed against the glass. He fucked me so hard my knees buckled. He pulled my hair, bit my shoulder, called me his little bitch, his perfect boy, his son.
We fucked on every surface. The bed, the floor, the bathtub, the balcony. We were wild. We were free.
——
Three days in, the walls came down completely.
I woke up with my mouth on him, kissing down his chest, his stomach, his thighs. I bypassed his cock. I wanted something else.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.
“Worshiping you.”
I knelt at the foot of the bed. His feet were beautiful—broad and strong, the veins running along the arch, the toes long and straight. I started with his ankles, pressing soft kisses against the skin. Then I licked the top of his foot, tasting the salt of him.
He groaned, his eyes closing.
I parted his toes with my tongue, sliding between each one, sucking the tips until they were slick. I took his big toe into my mouth, hollowing my cheeks, sucking it like I sucked his cock.
“Fuck, son,” he gasped. “That mouth. That beautiful mouth.”
I bit softly at the pad of his foot, then licked the arch, tracing the curve with my tongue. I kissed his heel, his sole. I made him come without him touching himself once, just from the worship of his feet, his cum shooting across his stomach as I sealed my lips around his big toe.
Afterward, he pulled me into the shower.
The water was hot, but what came next was hotter.
He stood over me, his cock aimed at my chest. “Open your fucking mouth.”
I did.
The stream hit my tongue first—warm, slightly bitter, undeniably him. I let it fill my mouth, and I swallowed. He watched me, his eyes dark and possessive.
“Good boy. Drink your daddy.”
He moved the stream down my chest, over my stomach. He turned me around and let it run down my back, over my ass. Then he knelt behind me, spread my cheeks, and pissed directly into my hole.
I screamed.
The sensation was electric—hot and filthy and so fucking intimate. He pushed his cock into me immediately, fucking me while his own piss dripped out of me, lubing us both.
“You are mine,” he growled into my ear. “Marked from the inside out. Every part of you belongs to me.”
I came without touching myself, my cum mixing with the water at our feet.
We took turns. I knelt and drank from him. He knelt and drank from me. We branded each other with the most primal act of ownership.
——
At a bar near the Seine, we found Antoine.
He had dark eyes, stubble, a dancer's build. He looked at us and saw exactly what we were. Lovers. He didn't flinch.
“You are very handsome together,” he said, his accent thick.
My father smiled. “Thank you.”
We invited him back to the room. Antoine stripped and knelt between us. I watched my father fuck him first, his thick cock sliding deep, Antoine moaning against the sheets. Then my father fucked me while Antoine took me into his mouth.
It was a triangle of pleasure. But my eyes never left my father's.
“I love you,” I said.
He leaned over Antoine's back and kissed me, deep and possessive. “I love you too, baby. Now and always.”
When Antoine left in the morning, we didn't feel empty. We felt full. We didn't need anyone else. We only needed each other.
——
Back in the United States, the house felt different. It felt like ours.
I watched him in the garden, his hands covered in dirt, planting roses. I watched him make coffee in the morning, his body warm and soft. I watched him read on the couch, his reading glasses perched on his nose, and my heart swelled until I thought it would burst.
The realization hit me like a wave of grace.
My father was the only person in the world who had ever truly, selflessly, unconditionally wanted my happiness. Amanda had wanted a husband. My friends had wanted a party. But my father? He had wanted me. In every way. In all ways.
I was in love with him. Not just as a son loves a father. I was in love with him. Deeply, romantically, eternally.
——
I bought a ring. A simple silver band. Nothing flashy. Just a circle of metal that meant forever.
One evening, he was on the couch, reading a book. I knelt before him.
He looked up, confused. “Son? What are you doing?”
My hands were shaking. I pulled the ring from my pocket.
“Daddy,” I said, my voice breaking, “I know the law says we can't do this. I know the world says it's wrong. But my soul knows the truth. You are my home. You are my heart. You are my husband in every single way that matters.”
Tears were streaming down his face before I finished.
“I know you feel it too. I see it in your eyes every morning. I feel it in your touch every night. Will you marry me, Daddy? Will you be mine forever?”
He shattered. He sobbed. He took the ring from my hand and slid it onto his finger.
“Yes,” he whispered, pulling me into his arms. “A thousand times, yes. I am yours. I have always been yours.”
We held each other and wept. Not from sadness. From the overwhelming relief of being fully, completely seen and chosen.
We never had a ceremony. We didn't need witnesses.
We exchanged our vows in the garden, under the roses he had planted. We kissed in the kitchen. We made love in the bed we shared.
Now, he sleeps beside me every night. I wake up to his scent on the pillows. We fight over the remote. We laugh at bad movies. He still calls me “son” when he's tender, and “baby boy” when he's deep inside me.
We live as lovers.
And every day, I thank whatever twisted, beautiful fate brought me to that altar in the church, where my father held me and said, “I've got you, son. Daddy's got you.”
He was right. He always was.
This is our life now. Illegal in the eyes of the law. Sinful in the eyes of the church. But in our eyes? In our home?
It's perfect. It's sacred. It's ours.
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