Date: Wed, 19 Apr 2006 09:52:45 -0400
From: Miss Meehan <lilliluthor@hotmail.com>
Subject: Liam and Lane

My name is Lane Lindsay.  Yes, I am that Lane Lindsay, son of business
mogul Liam Lindsay as in Lindsay industries.  My father Liam made his first
million by the time he was twenty-nine. He always joked that he meant to do
it by twenty-five but he'd always been a late bloomer.  I was born a year
later. I had a pretty happy childhood.  My mom and dad loved each other
very much and I was loved as well.

I went to the best prep and boarding schools.  The Lindsay name made me
well sort after and popular among my peers.  Unlike other children born of
wealthy parents, I was not shoved into boarding schools to keep me out of
my parents' hair.  My mom and dad wanted me to have the best education.
When I wasn't home on the weekends, Mom, dad or both would make surprise
visits to see me.  One weekend, shortly after I'd turned fifteen, my dad
sent for me even though I had just been home the previous weekend.

When I arrived at our apartment building I could tell immediately that
something was wrong.  The doorman greeted me with a friendly but somewhat
pitying smile.  The concierge had the same look on his face.  I stepped
inside the elevator wondering what was wrong. I knew my dad was fighting a
major takeover attempt of his corporation.  I figured maybe things had gone
badly and I was being summoned to learn that we were broke and I'd have to
drop out of my school and attend public school.

I convinced myself that money or not, I still had a good family and good
friends and I could face whatever was coming my way.  By the time I stepped
of the elevator and into our penthouse apartment, my dad was in the
vestibule waiting for me.  At 46, my father hardly looked his years.  He
had wavy chin length brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard.
He stood a little over six feet tall and was long and lean.  I secretly had
a crush on him and enjoyed being in his company.  The man scarcely looked
to be in his thirties. Today this was not the case.  He had circles under
his eyes, his lids were puffy and his eyes red as if he'd been crying.

I approached him cautiously and asked him what was wrong.  I braced myself
for hearing that we were broke and had to find a flat on the lower east
side instead of living in our fabulous apartment that overlooked central
park.  It didn't matter as long as I had my family.  Instead he said words
that were far worse.  I would have given up everything not to hear those
words.

"Your mother is gone," he said, his voice trembling.

I stared at him for a moment, not comprehending what I'd just been told. I
nearly asked where she had gone but suddenly it all hit me.  My dad's face,
the pitying looks of the doorman and concierge.  It dawned on me that
someone was sobbing somewhere far off, most likely one of our house staff.
My mother was easy going and fair.  Most of our servants loved her.  The
room started to spin.  My stomach lurched and the ground came rushing
forward.  When I opened my eyes, I was on the sofa, my head in my father's
lap.  He was carding his fingers through my close cropped ginger hair and
comforting me.  I struggled to sit up and looked at him questioningly.  He
nodded as if confirming the news telepathically.  I lunged forward and
flung my arms around his neck sobbing uncontrollably.

The rest of the evening and the weeks to follow were like walking in a fog.
My mom had a brain aneurism.  She died instantly. Arrangements were made.
The funeral came and went in a blur.  I was numb. I spent every waking
moment trailing my dad for fear he would suddenly collapse and leave me
too.  I slept in his room, in their bed, his arms wrapped protectively
around me. I took leave from school and he from his company despite the
tenuous situation Lindsay Industries was in.  My mom was wealthy in her own
right and left everything she had to me and my dad.  After her will was
finalized, dad decided a trip away would do us both good.

We flew to his private island in the Caribbean.  There were just a handful
of servants and a few security on staff.  They made themselves scarce,
leaving my father and I time to grieve and recover. During the day, dad
made phone calls to New York and conducted a minimal amount of business.
In the late afternoon we'd walk along the sandy white beaches and
commiserate about mom.  After dinner we'd walk again, the fresh night
breeze doing wonders to help us sleep.

Dad allowed me into his bed without questions.  We both needed each other
very much.  We'd fall asleep with me wrapped in his warm embrace and wake a
tangle of limbs in the morning.  We returned home after a month.  I went
back to school and he back to his company.  I came home every other
weekend.  The time my father spent away with me made me love him even more.
I knew the feelings I was having were wrong and that dad would never
reciprocate them.  I also felt guilty for wanting him so much so soon after
my mom's death.  I felt like I was betraying her, so as the semester went
on, I came home less frequently, distancing myself from my dad and my
feelings.

The summer after my mom died was pure torment for me.  I was about to enter
my senior year the following fall.  My original plan was to attend a
university in New York.  I was torn between NYU, Pace and Columbia.  My mom
had attended Harvard and my dad had attended Dartmouth. Neither of my
parents every pressured me to attend their old alma mater.  The problem was
my feelings for my father had intensified.  The minute I came home that
summer and saw him dressed in tennis whites, hair flowing to the nape of
his neck, those old feelings kicked in and I couldn't trust myself anymore.
What made matters worse was when he announced that he'd had my old bedroom
redone so I could have as much privacy as I wanted.  He'd even transformed
the adjoining bedroom into a sitting room complete with entertainment
center and a private bath.  I felt it was his way of telling me I was
welcomed in his bed anymore.  I was crushed.

My mood spiraled down into a sea of depression.  I hid my feelings by
drinking way too much and partying way too often.  I got heavily involved
in the club scene and frequented gay bars and clubs on many a night.  I
rarely came home and when I did I was usually stoned out of my mind.  Dad
held his peace.  I suppose he figured it was a phase and I'd soon grow out
of it.  A month into what was turning out to be a very long summer, Liam
went on a business trip to Hong Kong and I had the place all to myself.  I
spent every night in his room, lying between his sheets, relishing the
scent of his sweat mingled with his cologne.  I'd lie on the bed and
masturbate, taking my time, stroking my thick needy cock slowly.  I didn't
want to rush the moment.  I'd close my eyes and pretend it was he who was
touching me.  I'd bend my knees, my feet flat against the mattress and
stroked firmly, bucking up into my own hand.  With my free hand I'd toy
with one nipple then the other.  I'd call his name, chanting it over and
over again.  My balls would tighten and I'd fight hard not to come just
yet.  I'd moan the word "Daddy," and explode into my clenched fist, my hot
sperm leaking between my fingers.

Drawing my sticky palm to my lips, I'd taste myself, pretending it was his
hand offering me my seed.  Then I'd weep into his pillow, turning on my
side and clutching it close to me, falling asleep, pretending it was he I
caressed.  Many a morning I thought about leaving the sheets the way they
were, letting him come home to find my scent there.  Of course I'd panic
later and gather his bed clothes and wash them personally.  I hated washing
away the mingled fragrances of his sweat and cologne and my semen.

By the time he came home for his trip, I had slipped into a funk and
nothing he did could bring me out.  He suggested counseling, wondered out
loud if this was about my mom.  In some ways it was but that was just guilt
for wanting her husband.  I had decided that staying in New York was not
such a good idea.  I would have to scramble and begin placing applications
to other colleges.  I resolved to limit my visits home even further.

By the time I entered my final year of High school, I was only coming home
for the major holidays.  I made excuses when Dad would call to see if I
were coming home on a particular weekend.  After a while, his calls stopped
and that hurt me even more. I started having affairs with a few of my
professors, older men who were poor substitutes for my father.  Dad had
managed to retain his company and it was going stronger than ever before.
But my mom's death and I suppose my self-imposed exile had driven a wedge
between us.  When Christmas break came along, I spent nights out at clubs
partying with friends and picking up older men, men that reminded me of my
dad.  I'd come home in the wee hours of the morning wasted.  When I did eat
breakfast with Liam, I was usually hung over.  Dad would watch me with a
stern look of disapproval on his face.  I wanted that look to be jealousy.

One night I pushed too far.  I brought one of my conquests home with me.
This one was way older than my father and not even half as good looking.
Before we could get down to business as it were, my father came bursting
into the room and pulled the man off of me.  He would have beaten the poor
bastard senseless if I hadn't stopped him.  I remembered screaming, "Dad
stop."

The other man looked horrified to realize I had brought him into my
father's house.  He was pleading for forgiveness and gathering his clothes
all at the same time.  When Liam had escorted him out by the scruff of his
shirt with me trailing close behind and unceremoniously tossed the rest of
his clothes out after him, he then turned his attention on me.

"If you're trying to get me attention," he shouted, "you've got it.  What
is this about?  Your mother? Are you trying to slowly destroy yourself?  Is
that it?"

The anger and disgust in his eyes tore me in two. I began to weep bitter
tears of frustration.  How could I tell him that this was not about mom but
about him?  That I was in love with my own father and I carried the guilt
and the shame of it for nearly two years.  How could I tell a man still
grieving for his wife that I wanted him to love me as he loved her?  I
wanted to replace her as his lover. I couldn't.

"Talk to me." His voice had softened and he placed a hand on my cheek.

I could barely look at him let alone talk. He fished in his robe pocket and
produce a handkerchief. He dabbed at my eyes, cupping my chin in the palm
of his hand.

"We used to be so close after your mother died. Did I do something to make
you hate me?"

The look of confusion on his face and the weariness in his voice nearly
shattered me.

"I don't hate you," I spoke barely above a whisper.  "I love you."

"I love you too," he replied innocently.

His hair was disheveled from sleep and the night's events.  I reached out
and brushed it away from his face.

"I really love you," I said again and shut my eyes, afraid to see his face
when realization came.

Instead of a solid punch square in the jaw or words of revulsion, I
received a light brush of lips against my own.  I opened my eyes, startled
by this turn of events.  His steely grey eyes met my blue ones and his eyes
crinkled at the corners in a smile of amusement.

"Is that why you've been staying away?" He murmured against my lips.

I nodded fearing words would make those lips part from mine.

He traced his tongue along the line of my mouth and it opened for him
instantly.  His hands caressed my face and pulled my 5' 10" frame close to
his.  His kissed me deeply, letting one hand fall from my face and caress
my waist.  Likewise, I ventured to let me hand caress the nape of his neck
and feel the silky curls.

When we both found it necessary to breathe, we broke the kiss, panting and
gazing at each other.  There was love and understanding in our eyes. I saw
for the first time that dad wanted me as much as I wanted him.  We'd both
let our guilt separate us. Tonight we'd come together again.  Liam took my
hand and led me through the maze of living rooms and sitting rooms back to
his bedroom.  He peeled off my shirt and undid my pants.  He squatted down
and dragged them to my ankles.  I stared down at him in awe.  His lips were
so close to my cock that I could hardly breathe.  I wanted him to taste me
right then and there the way I'd fantasized with all those other men. He
smiled up at me, a cocky little smile, a knowing smile but rose to his feet
and allowed me to kick off my shoes and step out of my clothes.

He pushed me back towards his bed until I stumbled backwards, legs splayed
open.  My cock jutted out towards him, beckoning him to come.  He smirked
and relieved himself of his robe and pajamas.  His cock was equally erect,
slightly longer than mine but thinner.  I stared at it, not believing that
all this was really happening.  He prowled over to the bed and knelt
between my legs.  Leaning down, he placed soft kisses on my inner thighs.
My legs fell open wantonly for him.  He kissed his way up to my groin,
burying his nose in my curly ginger patch before trailing kisses back down
one thigh and then repeating the same ministrations to the other.

A sigh of contentment escaped my lips and I reached between my legs and
grabbed my cock, shaking it at him.  He chuckled and looked at me with
smoldering grey eyes before giving in to my silent plea. The first touch of
his tongue to my penis nearly undid me.  I bucked so hard, he had to use
one hand on my stomach to steady me.  I rose up on my elbows just to see
what he was doing as well as feel it.  He watched me the entire time.  I
could tell he was enjoying my reactions.  His tongue lathed the tip of my
now leaking cock over and over. His rough tongue teased the ridge of my
cock and then made several trips up and down the thick vein.  He lifted my
shaft and drenched it with his saliva before placing his mouth over the tip
and taking me in.  His mouth worked my slick cock just like my hands did so
many lonely nights without him.

He released me from his lips and grasped me firmly in his fist and I fell
back nearly weeping with joy.  His upper body hovered over mine and with
each stroke came a deep kiss.  My hand was nestled in the soft wet curls at
the nape of his neck and I groaned into his mouth. He pulled back, staring
down at me for a moment. I tightened my grasp in his hair and pulled the
man forward.

"Daddy," I cried.

 He kissed me again before slowly sliding down my body and pulling my legs
up and over his shoulders, his tongue trailed over my balls and down until
it circled my opening.  When I felt the wet slickness slip inside of me I
was completed overwhelmed. My balls tightened and hot spurts of cum shot
out my cock draining me.  His tongue withdrew from inside me and lapped at
the tip of my now flaccid cock. I was so embarrassed; I collapsed back and
covered my eyes with my forearm.  I felt the bed shift and he was beside
me, pulling my arm away.

It's okay," he whispered, kissing my lips.

My seed was still on his tongue and it tasted wonderful. I groaned and he
kissed me deeper, letting his tongue circle my own. When we broke the kiss
he pulled me into his arms, turning me so my butt was spooned against his
still hard cock.

"Dad," I said, reaching behind me to touch him.

"Don't worry about me. Try to sleep."

"But..."

"Sssh," he ordered, wrapping an arm around me and toying with my now limp
cock. "We have plenty of time.  The servants are off this weekend.  We have
the place to ourselves."

He placed feathery kisses along the back of my neck and I found myself
drifting off with each one happy to be in his bed once again.