Date: Sun, 20 Jun 2010 12:21:50 -0400
From: Josh Halaka <josh.halaka@gmail.com>
Subject: seducing-my-father

--This story is 1/3 fantasy and 2/3 reality. I'll let you decide which is
which. Usual disclaimers apply.--

It all started innocently enough. Isn't that what you're supposed to say in
these situations? "It all started innocently enough... and ended with my
father's dick in my ass." It always sounds like a cop out. I'm really not
sure how you can seduce someone "innocently". Then again, I've never tried;
every man I've found attractive enough to sleep with has experienced my
calculated, deliberate seduction.

My father and I were never great friends in my youth. He was authoritative
and distant for the majority of my developmental years; very much the
absentee father who spent all of his time out of the house but whose shadow
lingered. Saying "Cut that out or I'm going to tell your father!" was a
time-tested way for my mother to instantly quiet even my most outrageous
tantrums. In retrospect, he spent so much time at work so he could provide
for my mother and I. He felt it would be better for my development if my
mother stayed home, and he took it upon himself to make that happen.

I was a soft child, emotionally and physically. I was slim and fey and
shied away from the sun and hard labor. My father owned his own insulation
firm and spent the majority of his time on job sites outstripping men ten
years his junior. I perceived his attitude towards me to be one of scorn
and dislike; in reality he had no idea how to communicate with me. I
intellectualized and internalized while he reacted and confronted. His idea
of a son was someone who would be himself in miniature; he ended up with an
alien in a body more resembling his wife's than his own.

Despite our lack of connection, I loved him fiercely. His physical strength
and emotional fortitude were traits sorely lacking in my own character. My
respect for him was unequivocal, even before I could understand the reasons
for those feelings. I was very affectionate, and he tolerated it. I would
hug him when he came home and sit in his lap while he watched TV. I would
often fall asleep on his chest and wake up the next morning tucked into
bed.

As I approached my teens, the dynamic in our household changed
dramatically. My mother had been a drinker for as long as I had been alive,
but her addiction blossomed when I was about 11 or 12. After dinner, when
my mother would start to show signs of inebriation, my father would
distance himself from her as much as possible. Some nights she would press
him to talk to her and it would inevitably end up with my father standing
over our sink and draining her bottles of wine. My mother was (and still
is) one of the most charming, gregarious, beautiful women when she's
sober. When drunk, she lapses into spells of over dramatic affection and
sloppy kisses followed by bouts of hardness and cruelty to anyone in her
sight. My father was never able to reconcile that the woman he loved was
also the woman he was revolted by.

I started helping my dad on job sites the summer before I started high
school. A large part of it was my desire to build a closer bond with my
dad; I thought emulating him would endear him to me. Mimicry is supposed to
be the sincerest form of flattery, isn't it? Over the summer he began to
appreciate me for who I was. I may not have been a paragon of masculinity,
but I was a hard worker and never complained. I was good at breaking
tensions between his employees and making them laugh when jobs started to
get frustrating. I started to work bare-chested - both in boiler rooms and
outside - and was developing a deep tan and some hints of musculature on my
slight frame.

It was around this time I started to realize I was gay, though I wouldn't
put a label on myself for another 7 or 8 years. One of my father's
employees, John, was in his early 20s. He liked having me around (or so he
said) and would often refer to me as his "lil' bro". He was overly tactile
and would often put his hands on my waist and move me when I was in his
way.

John was about 6' tall, with a build like a rugby player. He had a strong,
solid body and typically wore only shorts on the job site. I would sneak
glances as his chest as often as I could; the hair on his chest and stomach
fascinated me. It started in the cleft between his pecs and ran in a
straight line down his abs, disappearing into his low-slung shorts. The
rest of his torso was entirely hairless. He was Greek, and had astounding
features. His hair was jet black, thick and curly, and was a perfect
length. Long enough that the curls made him seem boyish and charming, but
not so long as to appear soft or feminine. His face was strong; he had a
pronounced brow; a wide nose; thick, dark pink lips that were always
slightly open; and a wide, defined jaw with perma-stubble. Even looking at
him now, 13 or so years later, he's still one of the most gorgeous men I've
ever met.

There was always a lot of "grown-up" talk on the job site. It typically
centered around women, and John was definitely the ringleader. My dad would
rarely participate in the banter, but he didn't seem to mind my exposure to
graphic sex talk. He told me later that he thought it would prepare me well
for high school locker room situations.

John would frequently brag about his latest conquest's assets - the size of
her breasts, the fullness of her ass, the tightness of her pussy - nothing
was off the table. The talk turned me on immensely and I often found myself
boning up in my jeans. John noticed once or twice that I looked
uncomfortable and quickly figured out why. He would wink at me and ruffle
my hair, never giving me grief or calling me out on having a hard-on.

One Monday morning my father and I got to the site early. John was already
there, working quickly and deliberately. Mondays were days John would
usually get in late, having been up until 4am the night before slamming
some co-ed he met over the weekend. He was unusually quiet that morning,
and did little more than grunt a greeting to us and returned to work. My
father had to meet the foreman in another part of the building and John and
I were left alone. I began to work, supporting John by cleaning up after
him, handing him tools and pre-cut fiberglass pieces, and refilling his
coffee and water when he ran low. After a half hour or so, he turned to me
and gave me a strange look.

"Sorry for not being very talkative lil' bro."

"That's okay Mr. Baris." John groaned at my formality.

"Cut it out lil' bro. My name is John; at least when your dad isn't
around." He winked at me conspiratorially. I nodded and he continued
talking, facing the pipes and continuing to work, "Last night was
fucked. Emily and I got into it about me going out with my friends and she
just wouldn't let up! If she didn't suck dick so good I wouldn't keep her
around."

Emily was John's "steady" girlfriend. He would tell her that he was going
out with the guys and inevitably spend the night at some chic's house after
picking her up at a bar. I wasn't surprised that Emily was annoyed with how
often he was out of the house, but I didn't say anything.

"She wouldn't suck it last night though," he continued. "She was too
pissed, she said. She even kicked me out and told her not to come over
until she calls me. What the fuck is that? She's always pissed about me not
spending enough time with her and then she kicks me out? Stupid bitch."
Even at 12 I saw the problem with John's logic.

He groaned a little and looked over at me. "I've got the worst case of blue
balls lil' bro. Look." He reached down and grabbed his dick through his
shorts. It looked to me like he had a cucumber in his underwear.  "It makes
it so hard for me to get any work done with this thing distracting me." I
couldn't tear my eyes off of his dick. I wanted so badly to reach out and
touch it.

"Can I help?" As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. I
flushed crimson and dropped my eyes to the floor, sure that John was going
to yell at me for being a fag. I tried to mumble something about my how my
dad had instructed me to do anything I could to help his guys get their
jobs done faster, but it seemed like a hollow excuse even to my own ears.

I wouldn't meet John's eyes, but he finally asked, "What did you say lil'
bro?" His voice was hard to read; breathy and thick like he'd been smoking
for 40 years.

"I have to go to the bathroom!" Every part of my fight or flight instinct
was telling me that running away and pretending that I never said anything
was in my best interest. I ran out of the boiler room and down the corridor
to the bathroom. I went up to a urinal, shaking a little and willing myself
to calm down. As I was starting to feel a little more under control, the
door opened and John stepped in. I glanced over my shoulder at him and
quickly returned my eyes to the wall in front of me. I heard a lock click
and started praying that John would be quick and not punch me in the
face. He walked up next to me and unzipped his pants.

"Awful hard to pee if your dick's still in your pants," he said softly. I
looked down and realized that I hadn't taken my dick out. Before I could
respond, he leaned closer to me and quietly asked, "Would you really help
me out lil' bro? Can you take better care of me than that bitch Emily did?"

I was too terrified to move, but I saw him turn towards me out of my
peripheral vision. John was a good foot and a half taller than me, and his
dick pressed against my side. It felt like it was going to burn me through
my clothes.

"Wha-" I choked, clearing my throat. "What do I do?" He took my wrist and
guided my hand to his throbbing manhood. My hand closed around it at the
base and he gasped. I tightened my grip and he moaned, pulling back and
slipping his dick out of my hand a bit before pushing back in.

"Up and down," he mumbled, "jerk my dick." I turned towards him, less
afraid of him beating me up, and looked at his face. He was smiling, his
eyes half-lidded and he looked sexy as hell. I started moving my hand up
and down on his dick hard when he stopped me. "Too dry. Feels better when
it's wet." I spit into my hand a few times and started to slick him up. He
groaned loudly, putting one hand on my shoulder to steady himself. He
leaned down and brushed his lips against mine. It was my turn to moan.

I had to keep stopping and rewetting my hand every minute or so and was
starting to get frustrated. I would get John to a point where he was
bucking into my hand and moaning but would have to stop and wet my hands
before he would finish. I abstractly knew what would happen - thanks to the
sex talk on the job I knew that if I made him feel really good his dick
would spurt out a cream that made babies. I wanted nothing more in that
moment than to make him feel good.

I remembered him talking about Emily and how her only redeeming quality was
how well she sucked dick. I felt a surge of competitiveness with this woman
who I'd never met before. The next time my hand dried out, I decided to see
if I could outshine her.

He made a frustrated noise when I pulled my hand off his dick, but I
quickly leaned down and wrapped my lips around his head.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" John yelled. "Hoooolyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit"
His hand went to the back of my head and he forced me to take more of his
dick into his mouth. I knew from the guys talking that there was "nothing
worse than a bitch's fucking teeth on my dick" so I was very careful not to
scrape him. The angle was awkward and I dropped to my knees in front of
him.

I couldn't take all of him in my mouth, but I used my hand at the base to
keep his dick fully encased. I twisted my head as I stroked him up and down
with my mouth. He was moaning wildly and trying to shove himself deeper
into my throat. Finally he held my head in place and shoved his dick as far
into my mouth as it would go. He was much stronger than me and my fist
around the last of his shaft didn't hold. He buried his dick in my throat
up to his pubes. I tried not to gag, but felt my eyes filling with tears
from the sheer force of his thrust. He let go with a roar that reminded me
of lions on TV before they attack a gazelle and I felt his dick pulsing on
my tongue. A warm, salty taste filled my mouth and I realized I had made
him shoot his load. I felt pride like I'd never felt before.

"Holy shit," he breathed when he finally calmed down. "Lil' bro, that was
awesome. You ever done that before?" I shook my head. "Could have fooled
me! That was one of the best blowjobs I've ever gotten! We're going to have
to do that again!"

And we did. More times than I can count. Years later, John and I ended up
in a very awkward place where one of us had strong feelings for the other
that were not reciprocated. But that's not what this story is about. That
encounter was relevant because it drastically changed my perception of the
men in my life. They suddenly became objects of sexual desire, rife with
possibility. Not the least of which was my dad. From that day on, I had a
goal: I was going to taste his cum and he was going to beg me for more.

--I know this didn't have a ton of sex in it, but I thought it best to have
some kind of expositional chapter. I promise much more sex in the chapters
to come. I'd really appreciate feedback if you liked it though, or
constructive criticism if you didn't. Email me at josh.halaka@gmail.com.--