Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 08:09:14 -0700 (PDT)
From: Henry Brooks <hankster1430@bellsouth.net>
Subject: Not Your Typical Father (incest)

Not Your Typical Father

I can't tell you anything about my mother.  The poor lady died when I was
six months old, and my father deserves great credit.  He raised me by
himself, without any family to assist him.  He was my rock, and in many
ways, I suppose I was his rock also, saving him from a lonely existence.

My father was only sixteen when I was born.  He once let slip that my
mother was six years older than he was.  The man was always a mystery to
me.  I never knew exactly what he did for a living.  All I knew was that he
came home every evening with a friend, and they went into his bedroom.
Before he did, he paid my baby sitter, made sure that I was fed and
comfortable in my crib and in later years, in my bed.  I was always fast
asleep before the friend left.

There were times when he came home alone, and he would play with me all
evening.  He tickled me and hugged me, and told me how much he loved me,
and that he couldn't live without me.  It was music to my young ears.

He worked out a lot, and sometimes he took me to the gym with him.  He was
hard as nails and devoid of any body fat.  I asked him why he worked so
hard at the gym, and he told me that his work required that he look like a
Greek statue.  For some reason that struck him funny and he couldn't stop
laughing.  In the gym shower, I could see the other men envying his toned
and muscled body, and I was so proud.

At home, I showered with my father until I was about seven years old.  I
was always amazed at his penis.  It was uncircumcised, and mine was cut.
That confused me, but he told me that it was what my mother wanted.  His
cock was about four inches long, and quite hefty around, but sometimes when
he was soaping himself, it would plump up even more, and I thought it grew
a little longer, which fascinated me.  When I asked him about it, he told
me he would explain when I was a little older.  That was also the time that
he told me I was old enough to shower alone.  I wanted to object, but if
showering solo was what my father wanted, I had to comply.  It was my goal
in life that he always be happy.

I want to tell you now about what I call my 'awakening.'  I was somewhere
between twelve and thirteen years old when I learned the truth about how my
father provided for us.  There was an incident, and I found out that my
father was a male prostitute.  If you think I was traumatized by this new
found knowledge, think again.  It didn't bother me in the least.  I wanted
to ask him all kinds of questions, like what he did, what his clients did,
etc., but I was too chicken and I didn't want him to know that I knew?yet.

This is how it came down.  I woke up one night, not too much after I had
fallen asleep.  I needed to pee badly.  I should not have drunk that glass
of Coca Cola before going to bed.  On the way to the bathroom, I heard
noises coming from my father's bedroom.  His door was ajar, which surprised
me.  When he had a friend over, he always made sure that it was tightly
shut.  Out of sheer curiosity I peeked in.  I wasn't quite sure that I
fully comprehended what I saw, but I knew enough to make a hasty retreat.
My father was lying on his stomach, and a very portly 'friend' was riding
him like a horse.  The chubby man had his penis in my father's ass (or at
least it seemed that way to me) and he was pumping away, and mouthing
something that sounded to me like "fuck."  I peed, ran to my bed, and made
sure my door was closed.

I knew what an erection was by this time in my life, and I was surprised to
notice that I had one, and it was a hard one, at that.  I knew two things
for sure at that moment.  I could not let my father know what I had seen in
his bedroom, but I could ask him about my erection.  I needed to know if it
was good or bad, and what to do about it.  I fell asleep dreaming that my
father was riding me, and his dick was up my ass.  Very strange!

The next day at breakfast, I told my father about my erection.  He smiled
broadly, but when I asked him what I should do about it, his face clouded
over.  He seemed to be debating something in his own mind.  Finally, he
stood up and went to the fridge.  He removed a carrot from the vegetable
bin, and using that as his visual, he taught me how to masturbate.  He
tried to describe the feeling I would experience at the end, but words
failed him.  "You'll know when it happens," is all he could manage.

As I grew older, my dad would call to let me know that he was on his way
home, and I would make myself scarce in my bedroom.  By the time I was
fourteen or fifteen I'm sure my father was aware that I knew about his
profession, but neither of us had the courage to speak of it.

About the time of my fourteenth birthday, I started to work out at the gym
with him.  Dad paid for a personal trainer, who was an expert in proper
exercises for a growing body.  By the time I was sixteen my cock was fully
mature and I had all my pubic and underarm hair.  I was as muscular as my
dad and nearly as tall. He was only thirty-two, and looked twenty-two.  He
could have been mistaken for my older brother.  In fact, we made a joke of
it.  He would often introduce me as his kid brother.

One day, about half way through my sixteenth year, the inevitable happened.
My father forgot to call, and when he arrived home with a client, I was
sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework.  I was scantily dressed,
wearing only a pair of boxer shorts.  My father turned white when he saw
me, and ordered me to my bedroom.

"No," the client said.  "Let him stay."

"Why?" my father asked.

"I'll pay double for the boy."

"Get out," my father ordered.  He had turned from ashen white to rosy red.
"He's my brother, for God sakes."  He was so used to introducing me as his
brother it just slipped out.

Before anyone could react, I yelled, "Stop it both of you.  This is my
decision to make.  Just how much is double, sir?"  (Why was I being so
polite?)

"Five bills," he answered.

"I'm a virgin" I said, "that should be worth something more."

"Tell you what," the man smiled at me.  He wasn't bad looking.  "I'll pay
$750 for the pair of you."

I could see my father's jaw open to object, and before he could say
anything, I said, "It's a deal."

******

Michael David O'Leary was half past his fifteenth birthday, when he was
kicked out of his house and told never to return.  His father had caught
him doing unnatural things with an older man.  The elder O'Leary might have
been even more incensed if he knew that Mike was being well paid for his
efforts.  Furthermore, he loved what he was doing.

Mike lived in the boonies in upstate New York.  The first thing he did was
hitchhike to the nearest big city, which just happened to be Buffalo.  He
slept in back alleys, and learned all about the city's life lines.  He knew
where he could find shelter when the weather turned cold, and he knew where
he could pick up tricks to support himself.  His handsome face and body
soon earned him enough money to afford to rent a small, furnished studio
apartment.

His work zone was also used by female prostitutes.  He was on a street
corner one night, talking to a lovely twenty-two year old prostitute.  She
was wearing a tight dress and Mike could clearly see that she was pregnant.
Suddenly the girl fainted.  Mike's first impulse was to turn and run, but
he had too much compassion to turn his back on her.  He didn't work that
night.  Instead he took Rosemary home.

"I'm six months pregnant," she told him.  I worked until I showed, but now
the pickings are slim.  I don't know what I'm going to do."

Mike just smiled and said, "Don't worry.  I'll take care of you."  He took
care of her very well for the rest of her pregnancy.  She named her son
Brad (not Bradley) after her favorite movie star.  She registered his birth
using Mike's name, O'Leary.  If anyone asked, Mike was his father.  She
never wanted to brand her son as a bastard.  Two months after Brad's birth,
Rosemary announced that she was ready to return to work.

She and Mike rented a furnished two bedroom apartment in a fairly nice
neighborhood, so that they could both bring home clients.  They placed
Brad's crib in the living room, hired a woman to care for the infant when
they went to work, and let her leave when the first of them came home.

When Brad was six months old, Rosemary did not come home one night.  She
had been badly beaten by a trick, and left to bleed to death.  Mike gave
her a decent funeral, and pondered Brad's fate.  By this time, he was so
bonded to the baby that he could never give him up.  The boy already had
his name, so he simply raised him as his own son.

******

When I said, "It's a deal," my father turned white again.

"No," he said, "that won't be happening."

I turned to the client.  "Would you excuse us for a minute, sir.  I need to
talk to my brother."

"Sure," he said, "but please, call me Jim.  Make the right decision.  It'll
be fun for all of us."

I took my father's hand and led him into my bedroom.  Before he could say
anything I told him that I really wanted to do this, and contribute to our
household income.

"But you're my son," he objected.  "I could never touch you ? there?in that
way."

"We don't have to touch each other.  We'll make him happy and he can make
us happy individually.  What's the big deal anyhow?  You love me, don't
you?"

"Sure I do, but not like that.  It just isn't right."

"That's bull.  C'mon. Let's do this thing."

Reluctantly, my father agreed.  We went back to the living room, and I
repeated, "It's a deal."

"Let's see your money first," Dad said.  Jim pulled out a wad of bills.  I
marveled that he went off with a stranger, to the stranger's house, with
all that money in his pocket.  He was more trusting than I would ever be.

As he started to count the money, my father said, "Give it to my son to
count."

Jim smiled.  "Your son?  I thought the boy was your brother."  My father
was caught with mud on his face.

"I lied," he said.  "Brad's my son."

"That's even better," Jim giggled.  He counted out some more money.  "Now
it's worth a grand."

I took the money and ran into my bedroom, where I hid it.  When I got back,
Jim and Dad had already gone to my dad's bedroom and were undressing.  I
followed them in, dropped my boxers, and got into bed before they did.
God, I was so excited.  I already had reached my full erection limit of
eight inches.

Dad got into bed next, and lay beside me.  He took hold of my hand and
squeezed it.  We looked at each other and smiled.  Jim got in next.  He
straddled us, placing one knee between each of our legs.  He made no
attempt to kiss either of us.  He just started fondling my balls with one
hand and my dad's with the other.  Then he leaned over and started to suck
our cocks alternately.  It was my first time.  Dad and I made small
gurgling noises.  This Jim knew how to suck cock, and we O'Leary's couldn't
be happier.

I was the first to begin to cum, and I was unprepared for how good it felt.
I guess I expected it would be like a glorified hand job.  My balls began
to tighten and Jim pulled off.  He leaned over and started to work on my
father.  When dad's groans began to increase and he started to writhe, Jim
stopped again.

"I want the boy to fuck me now," Jim said, "and while he's doing me, I want
you to do him."

"NO! NO! NO!" my father objected vehemently.  "He's my son."

"Bullshit!  I paid you a grand.  Either do as I say or I want a refund."

"Please, Dad," I said softly, "I want you to do this.  I've dreamed about
this for years.  I love you.  I want you to make love to me."  My father
seemed defeated.  "OK," he said.  He took out condoms and lubrication from
his night stand.  He showed me how to grease Jim's ass, and how to prepare
him for my entry.  Then he handed me a condom.  He wasn't about to touch me
yet.

Jim grabbed the rubber and said, "Here, let me."  Jim put it on me and
lubed me good.  Then my father greased my ass.  I could hear him sobbing
softly.  He was kneading me with two fingers.

"Enough crap," Jim said.  "Let's get to it.  He lay on his back, raised his
legs, spread his ass, and said, "Go, Brad baby, go.  My cock was jerking
like a willow in the wind.  I didn't know what to expect so I ram-rodded
right in.  Jim screamed in excruciating pain.

"Fuck, you are supposed to go in slow.  Don't move now, until I get used to
you."

"Don't complain," my father said.  "You wanted a virgin, and he has no
experience."

"Fair enough.  Now it's your turn.  Fuck your son, ?. Daddy."

My father entered me ever so slowly.  My asshole was on fire, but I knew
the pain would pass.  Jim was already wriggling his body, begging me to
start pumping.

"Go slow," Jim said.  "I'll tell you when to thrust faster and harder.
Mike, you pump at the same pace as I set Brad going."

I started to fuck Jim's hot and tight ass.  This beat his blow job, and my
solo hand jobs, by a country mile.  I thought I was in heaven, but I soon
went higher.  When my dad started pumping, he must have begun to massage my
prostate because my soul was soaring.

"I'm sorry, Jim," I screamed out.  "I can't hold back."  I came with such
velocity, poor Jim was pushed further into the bed.  Now my father let
loose, and all I could think of was to curse the condom that held his
juice, and kept it from spurting into my bowels.

When we disengaged, I asked Jim how he would like us to get him off.

"I know how," Dad said, and he went down on Jim.  I joined him immediately,
and as soon as I did, Jim began to cum.  I pushed my father away, and took
Jim's cum into my waiting mouth.  I know I shocked my dad when I did that.

Jim and I squeezed into our small shower, and then Dad went next.  Before
he left, Jim asked if he could have a repeat performance on his next
business trip.  Dad assured him that he could.

"But Brad's not a virgin anymore.  I'll only pay $500."

Before Dad could say anything, I said, "That'll be fine, Jim."

"I have some friends who would go ape over a father-son combination.  I'm
going to recommend you," Jim said before he left.

Again my father was mute, so I said, "That's very nice of you, Jim."

After Jim left, my father collapsed on the living room sofa and began to
cry.  "I tried to shield you from all this," he lamented, "but I failed
miserably."

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked out of sheer curiosity.

"Since I was younger than you."

"Why didn't you ever try to break away?"

My dad was silent for a very long time.  I could see his mind racing for
the right words.  Finally, he looked at me, and said, "I really enjoy my
work, Brad.  It's hardly work.  I have a lot of fun, and I am well paid."

"I feel the same way, Dad.  I guess I come by it naturally." I said it
simply and walked over to my father.  I put my arms around him and began to
kiss him on the lips.  He pulled away.

"What did you mean when you said you have wanted me to fuck you for years
now?"

"Just that, Dad.  If I were to choose the perfect lover (for me) it would
be you.  I don't give a crap that we are the same blood.  Who made up that
crazy rule anyway?  Wouldn't blood relatives make the best lovers?  They
would always be looking out for each other, and making sure that nobody got
hurt."

"There's another thing I never wanted you to find out," Dad butted in.  "In
light of everything that has happened tonight, and your admission of sexual
love for me, I think that this may be the time."  His face grew serious,
and I knew that it was going to take all his courage to tell me whatever
burden he was carrying.

"I'm not your father," he began.  "I mean I'm your father in every sense of
the word, but I'm not your birth father."  He lowered his head, and I
gasped for air.  "I'm afraid we'll never know who your natural father was,
and maybe that's for the best."

As the tears ran down my cheeks, my father told me everything he could; how
he allowed an older man to have his body, how he turned to prostitution and
made money doing something he really enjoyed, how he got kicked out of his
house, how he met my mother, how he kept her safe, and finally, how she
died.  I couldn't stop crying.  Now it was his turn to put his arms around
me and try to comfort me.

"Emotionally," my father said, "I love you as a son.  I don't know if I
could ever be comfortable loving you like you want me to love you."

I embraced my father and we just held each other, rocking back and forth in
a sort of dance of comfort.  Finally, I said, "I love you as a father too,
but I love you as a lover also.  I want to share a bed with you, grow old
with you, and get buried with you."

"What about the other thing?" he asked.  "Do you think you can share
prostitution with me?"

"Absolutely!  Let's do it for as long as we are both desirable.  We'll
stash away every cent we can, and then retire.  We can live modestly."  I
started to laugh.  "We can live on our love."

"I'm sure that's a fallacy, but let's try."  Dad took my hand and led me
back to his bedroom.  We crashed naked on his bed, embraced each other and
fell fast asleep.  After all, we had to save ourselves for our clients.

At the age of sixteen, my resolve melted.  In the middle of the night, I
leaned over his magnificent body and went down on him.  He woke up
immediately, but offered no resistance.  He came rather quickly, too
quickly for me.  When we both calmed down, we began to kiss passionately,
and then he went down on me, but I stopped him.

"Maybe next time," I said, "but now, I want to fuck you and I don't want to
use a rubber."  He didn't answer me, but he got the lube, and greased us
both up well.  I did to him what he had done to me.  I unloaded far up his
bowels, and he sighed with contentment.  I could not wait for him to fuck
me again without a condom, and to feel his juices filling me up, as well.

A short time later, we embraced again and fell asleep.  All was well in the
world.