Contact the author at: ishouldhavehadason (at) gmail.com
Dedication: "For Kyler. My perfect, beautiful boy."
I've had a few personal exposures to father/son sex. My actual experience with my own father, of course. From beginning to end that lasted a total of four years. A couple of others with straight guys who still liked to get fucked because their fathers and brothers and taught them. The other most direct was in Carolina at a sleep over at my friend Pete's house. He, his little brother and I shared the same bedroom room. After we'd been in bed for a while I saw his father slip in and in the half light of the cracked door I watched him bent over his younger sons bed for about 20 minutes, his back to me. It was after my father's sex with me had suddenly stopped so I guessed something like the same thing was going on between Pete's little brother and father. But, that man was doing to his son what I had done to my father. I was envious. I missed my father's attention and our time together, I was lonely for him. I wanted to ask Mr G. to come to my bed, too, but I couldn't.
My experiences are true. These are my memories of sex with my father. It's all been pieced back together, first from bits of images that have always been with me. After I cleaned up and got sober I slowly started to re-find all of this waiting in me. Once opened, still fresh.
Naturally, this is all written from my current perspective so it's extremely sexual for me now. It's exciting to finally get to tell it and, yet, it's also full of regret and longing. The erotic tone comes from how I think of all this now. I sometimes use the words I used at that age but, as I write, this is all an intense, wonderful sexual experience for me. Ad now I can feel it, too. The arousal my father was able to feel when we played I was not yet able to experience. But, I was...young. My body still worked differently and mentally I took it all in differently than him, more willingly, naturally. The things we did we did without talking. Our earlier experiences were always pleasant bits of memories that have floated on the edges of my life. Later, the end of it wounded me deeply. In one fumbled moment everything changed for the rest of my life. Having seen what happened to him after that moment, his life changed, too, I guess. Both our lives would have been so much happier and normal if his fear and lack of understanding hadn't stoped him from helping, fathering me patiently. Lots of that day stayed buried for years, just the shadow of hurt and unexplained abandonment staying with me.
Some may think this is too boring, but it isn't so much erotica as just what happened between us, how it started and how it ended with an adolescent flinch at exactly the wrong moment. It didn't have a happy ending, but for a while, the part I never fully buried, it was wonderful and I was happier than I've ever been since.
I'd still give anything to be able to reset the clock with a son of my own.
My parents were each from reasonably well to do professional families from neighboring small towns in the mountains of the southeast. My mother loved us, but was distant and formal by nature. At home my father was more rough and garrulous. Their habit of private silence and a regimented life outside thew family was deeply ingrained in them by their upbringing and that was made a part of our family lives, too. That private silence and our unquestioning obedience was what made the sex play between my father and me seem a completely natural, and, a completely unspoken experience for me.
I am the middle of three children. But, during the time of most of our sexual interaction I was the younger of two. I had an older sister. Maybe a year and a half or two into the sex between my father and me another brother was born. With Daddy's 11 brothers and sisters I was lost in a vast herd of cousins on his side of the family, but, on my mother's side I was the favorite of my grandparents. They doted on me, taught me kindly, their loving, calm attention fed my heart. Craving attention is why I slipped so naturally into becoming my father's cum buddy.
I worshiped Daddy. He was rough and fun, tall and slender, handsome and sexual. People wanted to be around him. He'd been a pilot in the military until just before I was born.
Every evening when he'd come home from the office and while my mother cooked supper I'd wait for him by the kitchen door. As soon as he walked in he'd grab me up and toss me to the ceiling, tickle me and roughly nuzzle the side of my neck while I laughed and held onto him.
At supper he and I would talk about the island we would buy one day where we would live together, alone, just us boys. We were going to live in a little thatched house by the ocean forever and fish and drink coconut milk every day. I was sure it was all going to happen and I was very serious about it.
At that age, peckers were sort of dirty, but otherwise just for peeing. I'd seen Daddy's cock when he pissed during tag alongs while he fly fished. I'd seen my little cousin's, too. During summers at the cabin my cousin and I showered together or got to take evening baths in the mountain lake, but at that age our only interest in being naked was to see whose tan had given one of us the whitest butt. A dick was still pretty much as meaningless as a toe.
Some of my earliest memories as a child are of the bubble baths Daddy made for me and my sister to share. When we got a little older she and I didn't bathe together any more but he still made baths for each of us.
I begin to remember bathing with Daddy at about the time we moved out of state for his new position. On Saturday afternoons we'd sit together in long "soaky baths." I'm sure he and I bathed together before the move, I probably even touched him then, too, but I don't remember anything until sometime after we moved to Carolina.
When we bathed together I would play in the sudsy water, he relaxed, silent, resting against the back of the tub, drinking his beer. I loved these afternoon baths. I didn't have to share his attention. He and I rarely talked during our baths, just enjoyed the quiet, the bubbles and the warm, long soak with each other. I was a jealous kid and having Daddy all to myself was just what I wanted.
I've never lost the memory of seeing him lying against the back of the tub, his head laid back, facing up, eyes closed, arms draped over the sides, can of beer in his left hand. Daddy's skin so white. His nipples were red half dollar rounds with fine black hair growing around them. There wasn't any other hair on his chest except for a fine, narrow dart that started half way down his sternum and pointed down the center of his chest ending in a point at the base of his pecs. I would sit between his long legs in the warm soapy water, my tiny ass fit perfectly between his open thighs. When I was tired of playing I would lay back against his flat, ivory stomach, my head on his chest and hum or drift or touch him.
I would reach behind my back and finger his pubic hair floating loose in the water. I wasn't excited by it, just curious about the difference in adults. I don't think it was much more to me than something to do when the bubbles lost my interest. He never said anything, never reacted in the least. For me it was just us soaking together.
On one Saturday our baths started to become a more special, secret, guy's time. Different reasons for both of us. For me it became having more, better uninterrupted attention from the best, closest friend you could have and silent permission to explore Daddy's body. For my father it began to become a gnawing, deep conflict and an addictive, frequent thrill.
Today I remember most of that particular bath almost perfectly. The lights were off, as usual, but the room was fully lit with the afternoon sun slipping through half-closed venetian blinds. There was a slight echo in the room. The floor was covered with small, octagonal white tiles. I could smell his beer. The bathroom smelled tangy from scouring powder and sweet from soap. The sink was white porcelain, thick and bulbous, sitting on a pedestal. It stood beneath the mirrored medicine cabinet where I watched him shave and comb his hair every morning before work.
At first this bath was the same as ever. While the water poured into the tub he squatted naked on the floor and thrust his open hands back and forth whipping the soapy water into mountains of suds, we got in.
He sprawled behind me, bigger than the tub so his legs folded and his knees raised above the tub rim leaving his thighs spread wide. He was laying against the back of the tub drinking beer. I was sitting up, my tiny ass fit snugly between his thighs. I played in the foam.
That day, after playing a while I lay back against Daddy and quietly reached behind me to touch. But this time instead just of finger-combing his crotch hair and feeling the floating whisps tickle my open palm I remember starting to hold his soft cock and balls. Feeling him with my back to him was a kid's way of being sly. "If I can't see you you can't tell what I'm doing." Though a little daring, kind of dangerous, it wasn't sexual for me. There was no such thing for me as "sexual" yet. It was naughty. Peckers were supposed to be dirty and that made it exciting, but it certainly didn't mean anything sexually to me. It was just something a little risky and really cool to do. I'd done all the exploring on his chest and in his pubic hair that I wanted to and now I wanted to see if I could get away with feeling around the big meat that swung between his legs and made my little pecker look like a tube of over cooked macaroni.
My father lay still. His breathing never changed. He seemed to me to be completely relaxed. At first, I suppose, he thought it was just me being curious as usual. He drank beer and rested. As I lay against him I started feeling him up more. His balls and cock half floated in the space between his crotch and my butt. I can still remember just how his cock felt to me that day. His shaft was weightless in the water, thick and puffy. I squeezed it. To me it felt like a sponge wrapped in skin. I moved my fingers to his cock head. The corona flared to a smooth, wide, round ridge where it attached to the shaft. From there to the piss slit his cock head was longish, fatter than the shaft a round helmet. It wasn't quite as spongy as the shaft, the skin was tighter, silkier. I was REALLY interested in this.
I still had my back to him. As I moved my hand along under the shaft and poked and squeezed he started getting half hard. It lost its sponginess and became dense, thicker, rounder. Big shock.
I guess I thought I might be doing something wrong, maybe a little too much and so I went back to idly pilling up foam, blowing caves into the mounds. But, I was totally absorbed in thinking about feeling his dick. And what had made it change and swell like that? Daddy was still, seemed relaxed, he was quiet. He acted like nothing had happened. Still sprawled, still lazily resting his head on the back of the tub, still drinking his beer. That meant he wasn't angry, at least. Good. I could feel his cock brushing my back in the water. And even though it seemed a little, I dunno - dangerous, like he might get mad at me or something it was so amazing and weird to have felt Daddy's dick grow longer and thicker that I was very, very interested. I didn't feel him up again that day.
In a little while he said what he always said when it was time to end something - "Time to be off like a herd of turtles." He drained the tub. Daddy smiled at me while he toweled me off. Rubbed my face gently with his towel covered hands. He said, "I love you Dink." His dick was soft again, but still longer than usual while he helped me get dressed. I went off to play.
The next week I remember he started our bath early. We usually bathed at 2 or 3 in the afternoon, but this time just a little while after lunch he said, "Ready for a soaky bath, Dink?" Otherwise it all seemed the same to me. Lot's of water, lots of suds, warm and relaxing, our quiet, private time locked in the downstairs bathroom together.
But, I was still really curious and a lot more interested in feeling his dick than playing in the suds. After we got in I just sat still between his legs, not playing, waiting. His silence the week before meant he either didn't notice or at least wasn't mad so I was pretty sure I was free to touch it again. Now, of course, I know he was pretty interested in me touching it again, too. When he seemed comfortable and relaxed I slowly reached between us and started to feel his cock. This time it was already half hard. As I gently squeezed and handled it he got completely hard. It filled until it arced up in the soapy water behind me. His dick got very hard, very long, thick, it curved up. Gobsmacked!
I was mesmerized. It was riveting, fascinating. I remember it all now. I can feel the water, smell the suds. I was leaning against him a little to the right. His cock was in my left hand. I can smell the beer, feel his flat, hard belly behind me. I squeezed and felt all of this magic, hard dick that grew out of my father's crotch. It was so unlike anything I had known. Before that day in my world, before feeling Daddy's hardon, everything on any body was always just the way it was and none of the parts ever changed. But, this was a whole new experience. His dick wasn't just big because it was a grown up's, it grew a lot more when you touched it, it got really hard and it stood up. His cock shaft was as big and hard as my wrist. It was huge to me.
And he really is hung. I finally got to see his cock again last year when he was sick and even totally soft it was bigger than mine. But that day when I was a boy in the bath, it was so big and hard it pushed against me, really pushed against my back as I rested on him wedged between his thighs. It was very cool new territory for me.
I tried to wrap my whole hand around it. It was too thick. Everything was still ok because Daddy didn't move, just sipped his beer and lay back in the warm soapy water, his arms resting on the rim of the tub. But soon he made a really soft "mmmm" sound. And after that he quietly said, "it's ok, Dink. That's ok" I hadn't done something bad. Home free.
I lay against him. He began to rub my head. He wrapped his free arm around my chest and held me to him, kissed my neck. I was so proud to have made Daddy happy and to want to hold me like that. I lay on him cradled in his arm and then he said "It's time to be off like a herd of turtles."
I remember that after that bath he rubbed a lot harder than usual when he toweled me off. That rough toweling was the first clear memory I had. That memory was the first of what eventually opened me up to remembering all of this. He buffed my back, my butt and thighs rougher, longer than before. At the time I thought he was just being funny. I hadn't felt his cum in the warm soapy water. I didn't know cum existed. But now I know he was making sure that none of his cum, sticky from the water was left glued to me for someone else to find. All I thought then was that he was happy and smiling and glad to be with me while he sat in the emptying tub and reached out to scrub me dry with the white towel. He rubbed his hand through my hair and said "Love you, Dink." I dressed and went to play. Normal day - better, happier, but just another Saturday.
After that day on Saturdays he was already hard or half hard by the time we got into the tub. I'd reach behind me, rub his cock, he'd make that exhale sound, then hold me against him and kiss my head, my neck and afterwards he'd smile and scrub me down and we'd be off like a herd of turtles. We played in the bath together most Saturday afternoons.
After a while it started to change a little. I think as it became more regular it started to seem normal to him and he began to feel involved, relaxed and comfortable, even eager for the danger and thrill of having his son make him cum. He started being more active. He'd pull the drain plug with his toe to let all the water out of the tub and we'd be left sitting in the foam. Pulling the plug with his toe while he held me tightly to him was another free floating memory that helped me bring it all back. Now I know he was making sure there was no noise from the water sloshing.
He'd sit up with me between his thighs and wrap his arms around me, pull me back and hold me tight against him and slowly, silently hump his cock up and down between my back and his belly. While he pumped slowly between us he'd nuzzle against my neck and sigh and quietly "Mmmmm" until I felt his dick pulse against my back and he'd exhale. I loved being held tight. I loved lying back on him for those long, wonderful, slippery hugs, the satisfied sounds he made and that our bath time always made him seem so relaxed, so focused on me, pleased with me.
He would also lift me up under the arms enough to catch his cock with my ass, then he'd put me down to sit with it between my butt and the floor of the empty tub. He'd hold my hips and slide me back and forth along the length of his cock. The first time he did this was the first time I ever saw his cum, the first time I knew cum existed. I was looking down watching his dick head appear and disappear between my legs. When he started to tense up and was about to cum his cock head pushed out from under my little nut sac and syrupy white ropes shot out from under me onto the tub. I touched his cum. I was warm and gooey. It smelled funny, like Grandpa's chestnut trees when they bloomed. To this day, because of my father, I still want to service straight men most. And because of seeing his cum I always want to see it when a guy cums and then feel it, smell it after. Because of that first sight of Daddy cumming, whenever I've watched porn or had sex or when I'm crouched in a gloryhole it's the money shot that matters to me. I love to watch the thick, milky gunk shoot out. I love it to run over my lips, my hand, to rub it between my fingers, taste it, smell it on me. Whenever I suck a long, thick, slightly curved cock with a silvery lavender head my eyes roll back in my head. It's just what sucking Daddy, milking him and eating his sperm would be like.
But, that's what it's left me with today. Back then, all I thought about any of this was that when Daddy's dick was hard and he rubbed it against me or slid in between my butt cheeks he was happy. That he would hold me tight, nuzzle me and his body would tense, his breathing change and his cock would pour out big puddles of thick syrup and that made me the luckiest boy ever to have these special, secret times with my father. That was happiness. I had more attention and better hugs and sweeter affection than anybody else and I loved it. I knew from our upbringing without being told that this, especially, was something we didn't talk about. But, I was jealous of his attention and I didn't want anything to come between me and the warm long hugs against his body so I would never have mentioned it, anyway.
This went on for maybe a year and a half or two. I mean the sexual, for my father anyway, the sexual part of our baths. But, other than holding me tight to his body and the murmurs and sighs and his cum, the silent closeness in our soaky baths after he'd shoot, I didn't think of it as something sexual. The concept didn't exist yet for me. It was just something that made my father happy. Nothing was different during the week - I went to school, got into trouble and got spankings. I spent as much time playing with my best friend as I could, spent the summers with my grandparents. Life was just the way it had always been.
I couldn't have known, and even if I had known wouldn't have understood that Daddy was about to be hit with the first of two big crises about our incest. This first shock was a crisis just for him. Something that would shake him very badly. To me it was just a disappointing, suddenly cancelled fishing trip. I wouldn't figure out what had happened for years. The second crisis almost two years later would ruin our whole relationship, change me and my life forever.
I didn't remember some of this first incident until many years later. I did remember the confusion and disappointment. Later it began to float back up and I began to piece together what had probably happened.
We lived three blocks from my school so from the first grade I'd always walked to and from school, but one Friday afternoon in April my father was waiting for me in the car at the front steps of the building. He was happy and excited. He said "Let's go off on a bum, Dink." Going off on a bum was going anywhere outside our routine. I don't remember what I said, but as we pulled out I remember him saying "We're going to the cabin and you and I are going trout fishing."
I loved the cabin. It was up in the mountains of Georgia on a huge, beautiful lake. It was basically a big screened porch, a huge great room with a massive river rock fireplace and a sleeping dormitory off the north, back end of the building. I loved it there. It was where I spent summers with my cousin. SO much fun. The adults were always having parties, talking and laughing. The great room always smelled strongly of hickory smoke, pine and bourbon.
When we got there it was almost dark. The side of the cabin with the sleeping dorm was still unopened, wintered in. It was early spring and though trout season had opened, up in the mountains it was still too cold to use the cabin for anything but hunting so anyone who went there slept in front of the hearth. Daddy made a big fire and we stayed together on a pallet of blankets. He said we needed to go to sleep early because we'd have to get up before daylight to start fishing. I was so excited.
Daddy had always let us take little sips of beer or sometimes a sip from the bottom of a finished cocktail so it wasn't unusual to be around it. This time, though, Daddy said I could have a real drink with him if I didn't tell. He gave me warm bourbon with milk and honey in it that he'd brought in a thermos. I remember us talking, drinking on the floor together, then lying down while he sat beside me watching the fire and then nothing until being waked up the next morning.
I was excited when he woke me. I'd never gotten to actually trout fish with him. So this was big kid stuff for me and I was ready to go.
But the sun was already up and Daddy was sullen, quiet, grim. He said we were going home and to get in the car. I was raised not to question, so even though I was confused and very disappointed I got in while he finished putting things in the trunk and we rode home in silence. No fishing. No more buddies off on a bum.
After that trip we never bathed together again. I just figured maybe I was getting too big for them or he didn't feel like it since things had become unpleasant at the office. He was unhappy a lot. Whatever the reason I was sad and hurt not to have that private time with him and I missed being his Dink.
It wasn't until many years later that I realized he had come to a fork in the road he just couldn't bring himself to take. I think he had probably begun to have romantic feelings for me or at least much deeper desires. I think he wanted to try to move beyond holding my hips and sliding me over his cock and actually wanted to slide it in me, fuck me, or maybe to have me suck him, to try to have complete sex with me. It makes sense that he gave me my first and only drink to relax me enough for him to try to fuck me. I just think when it came down to it he couldn't bring himself to do it and he was ashamed. It's the only explanation I've found that makes sense. Until that fishing trip he and I were best buddies and had played in the bath together almost every Saturday for two years, but never again.
Soon after that his work became very unpleasant and, after being compelled to head up a long, exhausting struggle that he disagreed with to block unionization at the plant he managed he resigned from that job. By late summer we were moving to a speck of a farming and fishing village near Washington, D.C. He was sent there first to lobby the locals and, if they agreed not to fight the building of a plant in their isolated and hidebound little village he would oversee its construction, do all the hiring and become one of its managing executives.
I hated the place. An ancient tidewater hamlet of 450 people. The kids were not like the kids I'd lived with before. In the city we moved from kids had been rambunctious, but in a much more reserved sort of way. The politics of life among suburban executives was imprinted on their children and we played as we were expected to...and whined a lot. These country kids were tribal and cruel. Whether they came from farmers, fishermen or old Virginia quality they were cruel to each other, played hard and rough and were always eager to pounce on weakness or hurt feelings. I hated living there.
And Daddy was gone most of the time during the startup. He stayed in Conn. for 6 weeks, home for two then back north again for all of the first year. After everything was settled and the plant was finished the trips became just once or twice a year. But, that first year I needed my father badly. These kids were more like he'd known as a boy and I needed his help. While he'd been gone I'd had to get used to handling life with the local boys alone and it had started to make me shy and introverted. Also, another year had passed for my body, too. My nerve endings were beginning to wake up. The other boys knew WAY more about adulthood than I did. I still had no real understanding of what actual sex or even what masturbation was like yet, the internet was a generation away, but they always made cracks about it and, though I was as naive as hell I had begun to find the first thrills of sensation my own way.
I had a huge drafty room all to myself upstairs. My bed was against the far wall in the corner. One night after being tucked in I snuck out of my pajamas. The idea of nakedness had now become powerfully taboo and the sensation of being naked and feeling the sheet touching all of me was mind bending. It was almost painfully intense. I was so excited I couldn't sleep for the entire night the first times I did it. It became my regular routine. Tucked in, PJ's off, so excited I couldn't breathe then wake up, slip PJ's back on for breakfast and face another day.
One late Saturday morning shortly after the plant was finished and after Daddy's last regular trip north, my baby brother, sister and mother were in Richmond shopping.
I was still in my pajamas lying on my bed. Daddy came into my room and closed the door behind him. He'd already had a few drinks. He'd been drinking more since we moved here. He walked across the wide room watching me and said "How'd you like a back rub, Dink?" I loved them. Since the fishing trip and the end of our baths Daddy's only displays of affection had been wonderful back rubs for both my sister and me. But we were always clothed or in our PJ's.
This time he unbuttoned my top and helped me off with it. I lay on my skinny stomach and and he began to rub my shoulders and back. It was the first time I had felt his hands on my bare skin since the baths and in the intervening time things had changed for me. Even though I hadn't learned about jerking off I was still beginning to experience touch the way he had when I played with his cock in the tub and now the sensations were intense and confusing.
Things were about to go terribly, forever, wrong.
I was already tuned up from sleeping naked and his hands rubbing over me and down my back made me feel like I was being licked with electricity. He had big, strong hands and they were so warm against my skin. As he slowly rubbed me he moved a little further down my back with each pass and gently let his fingers brush the loose elastic band of my pajama bottoms. I was frozen, anxious and thrilled. Each pass he made over my back ended at my butt and each time he pushed my waste band a little further down exposing my ass cheeks with his warm hands.
Then he began letting his hands run over my ass and down the sides of my butt to make the front of my pajama bottoms begin to slide out from under me, too. I was on fire. I was overwhelmed. I had never had these kinds of sensations. I had become withdrawn from living around the local boys. Daddy had been gone so much and I hadn't had him there to help me along. And on top of it all my body was beginning to mature. I was freaking out. I needed some time, something to calm me, patience, anything to let me know it was ok to feel something this intense.
After a few minutes of this back and forth of him uncovering and caressing my ass and me trying to cover it back up he exploded. He stormed across the room in a rage and panic and as he reached the door he turned and bellowed "I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG!" He was in tears. He slammed the door behind him.
I was stunned, crushed. He thought I was rejecting him. He thought I'd felt disgusted. I wasn't. I was thrilled. After so long it was just too much at once for me. I was confused. I'd missed him so much, I needed him there for me again. All I needed was some gentle communication, some help and understanding from my father and I know I'd've become his then as surely as I'd felt like I was his when we'd bathed together. But this time I could've had sensations like his. This time I could feel what he'd felt in the past.
Daddy never had much to do with me ever again. Our relationship was purely parental obligation from him and commanded respect from me. Satisfaction was never again as readily shown as disappointment. Even after I became a man we barely had polite relations. It wasn't until a couple of years ago when mom was dying that we finally began to speak naturally and become close again. But, even so, now there's nothing there but friendliness.
As a teenager,and a young adult all the choices I made, the intentional school failures, the messed up relationships, the drugs, drinking, the sex I used to make me feel attractive, they were all ultimately driven by that afternoon and that instant of missed opportunity and the waves of shame and guilt that rolled in over both of us. It's sad. I was never damaged by incest. I was damaged for want of it.
I didn't make the connection for years. I'd buried that day. Just knew nothing was right. After I cleaned up, sobered up, made myself successful I guess my head felt like it was okay to remember everything. Some things I remembered with HD clarity. Some things floated up in their own time.
I always thought that I had just wanted a son so I could give him a happier home and help him enjoy life more completely than I had, hills and valleys. It wasn't until I remembered it all, especially that last Saturday, that shitty morning, that I realized I also wanted a son to give him the chance to know what I had known early on, and should've had later, too. To lead him gently and lovingly when new feelings began to electrify his life. To talk to him, bring him up to tell me anything he needed to, to ask about anything that was going on inside himself, in his life, in our life. To let him know everything he thought and felt was open to his questions and concerns and safe and right no matter what he was feeling.
Lovers or not, I'd have taught him to trust himself and to know I'd never slam the door on him.
I said it didn't end well. I've told it as fully and completely as I've come to remember it all. Life isn't a fantasy, certainly mine wasn't ...even so I'd still give anything, I'd still do anything to have a son.
