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My old man

By Patrick D. Lambert

I hate my old man. Not in the traditional way, of course. He was a good father, as far as I can tell. I had everything I needed and more, he took care of me, and he gave me good life advice--you know, the things you would expect from a responsible father. But I never had this bond with him, like the one I had with mom. I love him, I'm not gonna say I don't--and I know he loves me too. But if you ask me, well... he was just another male in my life.

This feeling aggravated as I grew older. I respect him as the fatherly figure he has been all my life, but our bond never went beyond that. He taught me all I know. But it didn't feel special. Although it wasn't cold, either. We did express some feelings--we were related, after all. But I guess I limit myself to thinking of him as my dad and nothing else. And, if you ask me, the word dad doesn't really mean a lot.

I didn't get in touch with him frequently after I graduated and moved out. His work as a father ended from the moment I became a functional adult. Aside from a not-so-regular call and his birthday, I didn't talk with him nor did he try to get in touch with me. But when he told me he needed a place to stay after he divorced Mom, of course I lent him a hand. And when he walked through that door with his suitcase, I didn't greet my dad, but a 52-year-old lion who was pretty much a stranger to me. And as a stranger, there were certain things he didn't have to worry about.

He assumed there was enough confidence for him to act as the single male he was now, after 25 years of marriage. I didn't speak out about his increasingly strange behaviors. Leaving his clothes everywhere or wearing nothing but his underwear when he was at home. I acted the same way before he arrived, what right did I have to tell him to stop? Yeah, it was strange, I must admit, but nothing harmful. And I heard from my friends that their dads acted the same way. So I went on with it.

I think that's what made things easier--if that's the right word to describe it. Because whenever I entered the living room, I always found a male lion in his fifties whose mane was turning white. And he sat there wearing nothing but his white briefs, with a beer in his right hand and the remote in the left one. His gut made him look like a lazy fat male, but that belly was hard as a rock, and those arms still packed a punch. And that's when I started to hate him. Because I saw a stranger, and not my dad, sitting on the other side of the couch.

Things began to escalate after that. I lost against the urge to take a whiff of his underwear before doing the laundry. I ogled his bulge as soon as he fell asleep on the couch. Fuck, I had to leave before he noticed my boner the night he gave me to drink from his beer. Yes, he's my dad, and that title meant nothing to me. Still, I didn't plan to go beyond that point. Whatever that fixation was, it wouldn't last.

That's why I didn't say something when he came to my study one afternoon to give me a massage. My work can be hard. God knows I need to relieve some tension now and then. And he told me he was good with his hands. How could I say no to that offer? He lighted up incense, put on some music, and those big hands began to work on my shoulders. I don't remember exactly the things he was saying. I was so relaxed that I fell asleep at some point, and when I woke up I was a completely new male. Of course I said yes when he told me to call him whenever I needed another one.

I guess I needed a lot of them. Or maybe I just enjoyed too much feeling those big hands on me. Whatever it was, by the time I realized, Dad was giving me a daily massage at 5 PM. I didn't even need to call him. He walked on his own and I was ready. Some chit talk about the day, and then those big hands did his magic. I swear the entire world disappeared as soon as his fingers began to dance over my shoulders. Everything vanished until it was only me and dad, and his sweet, soothing voice. I don't remember a single thing about what he said, but I loved listening to his voice. It made me feel so happy and relaxed. It made me feel special.

I think that fixed the bond between us. I began to feel more confident to mimic his behaviors. I started walking around in my underwear. I moved closer to him when we were watching TV. And that strange attraction stopped feeling... strange. We didn't start acting as father and son but as two male adults living together. And whenever doubts assaulted me, I just asked for another massage. He sent me to my happy place and all the bad thoughts disappeared from my head. And when he finished, I was good as new. I could continue admiring my father silently.

Now, I didn't plan to move forward with that crush, you know? I thought I would calm down eventually. But one night I had a sudden urge to take my chances and I put a hand over his knee. I don't know why. The idea appeared in my head as soon as his musk reached my nose. My hand moved on its own because my brain said "fuck it". And when he didn't put my hand away, I moved it closer to his crotch. And closer. And closer. And he didn't do anything. He kept on watching the TV while I snuck my hand inside his underwear to grope his cock. I lost control after that. It felt like a dream. The first thought that crossed my mind was "I'm holding my dad's cock". It throbbed in my hand and he didn't say a word. I couldn't say something either, not after he kissed me out of nowhere. After that, we couldn't stop.

The next morning he was laying next to me, and I knew it really happened. I went to work knowing that we had sex the night before. I felt disgusted. How could I have dared to sleep with my dad? What kind of sick bastard I was? It took me a couple of hours to gather the courage to go back home after work. And when I did, he greeted me as if nothing had ever happened.

Of course I had to talk with him about it. I felt guilty for making a move on him. I apologized for what I did. But then he stood behind me and said that we did nothing wrong. And he put his hands over my shoulders and applied some pressure as he repeated that we did nothing wrong, and I... I felt better. And he repeated that we did nothing wrong while he massaged my shoulders and I began to relax. With my mind clear, I remembered that we are two male adults living together, free to do whatever we want to.

I didn't feel bad the next time it happened. Or the one after that. Or the one after that... Dad was right when he said we were doing nothing wrong. Although I didn't put a lot of thought into it most of the time. In fact, the relationship between us remained relatively normal, even when we were alone. I did allow myself to be more affectionate with him--it's my dad, after all. It was good to have a friend around, even if it was in the shape of a 52 years old fat lion scratching his belly in my living room.

But whenever he puts both hands over my shoulder and says he wants to fool around a little... I can't control myself. Listening to that smooth voice makes me so weak. I feel dizzy and horny all out of nowhere. It's like flipping a switch or something, and I can't really do much about it because all I wanna do is follow him to our bedroom. And take off my clothes. And kneel. Dear lord, at first I thought it was strange, but now I must admit it feels so hot feeling under his absolute control.

I can't think of a single time when I didn't enjoy it. I look forward to it now. Whenever he walks into my study, my heart races and I assume it's time. Sometimes he doesn't do it, and he leaves me there with a raging boner under my desk. And then he comes out of nowhere and shuts down my brain with a massage and the next thing I know is that he's pushing his paw against my face and I can't stop from licking it. I have this voice in my head telling me to do it. To do that and more.

I should be disgusted by the things he asks me to do. I'm not. I love it. I do what he asks without thinking. I obey him blindly. And I love it. I can't understand why being treated that way, like... like a pet, why it feels so good, but I love it. I feel so dumb and stupid when he takes me to the room. I move like a doll following everything he orders me to do. And I feel so alive while I do so. He makes me lick his paws clean. Shove my nose into his sweaty pit. He pisses all over my chest. I should be disgusted by the things he does to me, but I love every one of them.

And I love that he reminds me I'm his son. Whenever he's ready to shove his cock inside me, he says "I'm proud of you, son", and it makes me feel so good. And I take him balls deep. 12 inches of thick lion meat goes in, and he sounds so satisfied when he does so. And I get so excited when I feel his belly over my back. He holds my mane and orders me to call him Dad. And I do so. He fucks me hard and fast, and I keep saying how much I love being fucked by him. The more I say so, the more dominant he becomes, until he can't control himself. It's so dirty and wrong.

He's rough. Like... very rough. He slaps my ass and pulls my mane. He bites me hard. He growls at my ear. And I can't complain. I love it. I love being used and dominated like that. I squeeze my hole to make him moan, and he fucks me harder in return. And I love feeling that fat cock stretching my insides with each thrust. My dad's cock. My master's cock.

And when he finishes and fills me with his cum, I'm so exhausted I can't even move. He takes me to the bathroom and helps me get clean, and the water washes away all my libido and I see him for who he is to me: my father. And things go back to normal. We don't talk about it. We continue living as if nothing has ever happened. Until he puts his hands over my shoulders. And I lost control of myself. And it happens again.

I love my old man.

And I think he loves me too.

In our very own twisted way.