Yasha's Visit
Yasha's dad gets horny for him in his sleep. What could possibly go wrong?
I told Dad he didn't have to come pick me up at the airport--I'm a big boy now and I've been doing more than well enough to afford a cab to his place--but he was excited enough for my arrival that he came anyway, the older tiger greeting me at the entrance of the baggage claim holding a tablet reading "Yasha".
It'd been five years since I'd seen him, at my graduation. Not that I'd been avoiding him or anything--we'd been keeping in touch online and all--but I was closer to Mom, she'd always had holiday plans, and of course Dad was never invited.
Now, well...
"I was so sorry to hear about your mother," he said. "You know I never stopped--well, we needn't dwell on such things."
It was no secret that he'd still loved her. He was looking at me, I thought, like he hoped to see a part of her in me, but I took too strongly after him, even down to the chevronny pattern of our forehead stripes.
He still drove the same pickup truck he'd had since Mom got the car in the divorce, and it didn't look like it'd been cared for in all that time. Driving back to his place through the dark of a winter afternoon, we talked about my job, my husband, the lioness we were dating...
"You're not going to make a grandfather out of your poor old man, are you?"
I laughed. "Not for a couple of years at least. We'd need a bigger place, given she's a breeder and all. But none of us are in any rush. But what about you? Any new love in your life?"
"Yasha, I haven't--"
He stopped himself, seeing a space on the curb, and began to parallel park.
"No," he went on. "Your old man...does not get out much anymore."
We walked two blocks to a gray brick building with a florist's shop on the ground floor, and up three flights of creaking metal stairs to his apartment.
It could only be described as a dump. A small studio with yellowing kitchen and bathroom fixtures from the '70s and books piled against one wall, where a pillow lay on a stack of rumpled blankets on the floor surrounded by discarded clothes. The whole place stank of tobacco.
He sat on the blankets, which were clearly serving as his bed. As there was no other furniture, I joined him there.
"Dad, this place is..."
The tiger looked at me with such an old sadness in his eyes that I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before. "Yasha, I'm sorry."
"Dad..."
"I wanted to... I wanted to get furniture. A table and chairs at least, for you to sit at while you were here. I couldn't move myself to do that."
"You didn't have to--"
"I wanted to at least clean up so my son could at least see me living tidy, if Spartan. But I couldn't do that either. I am sorry about the trash."
"Dad..."
His eyes were glistening as if he might cry. "I wanted to make you a good dinner, to remind you of home. But I only have, maybe, leftover pizza in the boxes. I am sorry. And I am sorry that I came late to pick you up, but at least your plane was later than I was so there was no shame in it. I could not--I cannot move myself sometimes, Yasha, and I do not know why."
I knew; it was a struggle I recognized, which apparently ran in the family. "We can get you help, Dad. I..."
He grunted. "No. No more doctors, no more drugs."
It was the tone of voice I'd heard from him many times before: it meant that was that.
We didn't eat leftover pizza; I took him out instead. Nothing too fancy for him--"I don't feel like dressing up, Yasha"--just the little gyro shop on the corner, where I talked about home and made sure he had enough baklava to smile a little, though that smile faded after we came back to the apartment and he realized he didn't have any place for me to sleep the night.
"We can share your bed--space," I said. "Don't worry about it, dad."
The radiator was struggling to keep the place warm, so we went to sleep huddled together under a pile of blankets.
I woke up in the middle of the night to my father talking in his sleep.
"Oh, Mayra..." he murmured.
The sound of my mother's name made me shiver a bit, even though I was warm with my father's arm around me.
"You grew such a strong and good boy. So much better than I could have."
He started stroking my side, and my worry that I might be the surrogate for the body he was holding in his dream only deepened when he ground against me, a stiff bulge in his boxers pressing under my tail.
I ought to wake him up, I thought. It would only embarrass him, though.
"Yasha, I love you." The words were spoken as a low, throaty rumble in my ear.
"Dad?!"
His only answer was a soft snore that told me he was still asleep, though he continued grinding on me slowly.
What kind of dream is he having? I thought.
"Such strong arms." His hands slid down the biceps I'd spent so much time in the gym working on.
Not all dreams are wish fulfillment, I knew. But what if he really thinks about me like this?
"To feel those arms holding me, taking care of me...sharing this manly strength, this virility..."
The bulge grinding against me grew wet as his arousal increased.
"Dad! Stop!"
I tried to push his arm aside, but it was heavy with sleep. The older tiger showed no signs of waking, only holding me and mumbling "Yasha, Yasha..."
Do I keep trying to wake him, or do I...or do I let him?
My dad's hands moved down my body, over the little bit of belly I had that wouldn't go away, and settled at the waistband of my underpants, where my own arousal already had a bulge of its own.
He's my dad, I thought. But...we're grown adults now, right? There's certainly no power imbalance anymore; we're hardly even part of each other's lives.
The old tiger who was too weak of will to clean house for a guest slid his paw into my briefs, taking hold of my barbed cock.
He's asleep. Isn't that r--
I cancelled the thought.
Isn't that taking advantage of him? But...he's taking the initiative? If I were still asleep, it'd be him taking advantage of me...somehow...
"Yasha, son, you're so thick..."
You tried to get him to stop, said the part of me that desperately wanted to give in. Who would fault you for him mounting you after you tried more than once to get him to stop?
I felt my father's cock bare now; it had slipped through the opening of his boxers and was being ground urgently against my rump. I tried to shut out of my mind all thought of which of us might really be violating the other.
It took effort not to reach down to guide him in--to feel that warmth in my paw and not just under my tail. I had to stay passive, not to use him, only for him to use me...
He'd said I was thick, but I must've gotten it from him; as that barbed head slid into my hole, it felt bigger than my husband's--maybe it was just that I had nothing but his precum for lube, though there was plenty of it.
I whimpered out in pain as he sank in, but the older tiger heard none of it beyond the veil of sleep. "Oh, Yasha..." That soft whisper in my ear as my father enjoyed the depth of my rump had my own cock twitching in his grasp, already close to climax just from the thought of what we were doing.
My ass tensed and tightened around the cock that had begotten me, which only encouraged the sleeping tiger further--he ground hard into me, making me feel every inch of him as he started to thrust, mixing his motions with low, murmured growls of what a good son I was, how proud I made him...
I gasped as his thrusts forced an orgasm out of me and I flooded my briefs and his paw with my pent-up load. He pounded into me a good half-minute longer before he started getting close, demolishing my ass with the intensity of a man who can't hear your struggle.
He clamped his jaw on my shoulder to stifle a soft roar, slamming in one last time before he flooded my ass with his cum.
I lay there--with my father's irregular breathing on my neck, my father's cummy paw at my crotch, and my father's cock sheathed in my ass--and tried to get back to sleep. He had no such trouble; apparently his climax had released him from his horny dream, and his breathing soon devolved into ordinary snoring.
I lay there--with my father snoring in my ear, his paw at my crotch covered in my drying cum, his cock softening till it slowly slid out of my ass--and eventually managed to fall asleep.
The high-pitched squeak of a shower knob being turned and the rush of water that followed woke me. The apartment was small enough that without getting up I could see into the bathroom area, which of course didn't have a shower curtain in place.
I watched my dad slowly waking up under the flow of water.
I watched my dad working to scrub my dried cum out of the fur of his left paw.
I watched my dad trying to wash the stink of my ass off his cock.
And then he glanced at me with such a lost, despairing look on his face that only sank even further when he saw I was watching him. He turned away with a sob, and I scrambled out of the pile of blankets to embrace him under the water.
"I'm a terrible father, Yasha," he said, voice breaking. He was staring down at his paws, claws out, like he might scratch out his own face. "How could I...my own boy..."
"Dad," I said, still holding him, despising my thoughtlessness, my rationalizations. "I...I was awake. I let you. I wanted it."
"No! You're only saying that, like I did when my brother..."
Uncle Kostya? "You are not him. This is not that. You haven't hurt me. I hurt you. I'm sorry."
"Yasha..."
I held my sobbing father till the shower started running cold, and took the opportunity to invite him back and dry off in front of the radiator.
I was never able to make things right with Dad again after that night. He didn't blame me--at least, he said he didn't--but he never stopped blaming himself, and did his best to avoid me without making it look like he was avoiding me, if you know what I mean.
But when I called him and asked outright if he wanted to come live with us--stay free in a suite of his own in our new place, help raise all the grandkids that were on the way--he declined.
"I shouldn't--" he started. "Yasha... I'm so tired."
He hung up.
I took the hint, and didn't ask again. I still worry about him, though. And I can't help but be mad that, while I'm lying in bed with my partners and thinking about how hard it must be for him, alone and broken in that crummy little apartment, my thoughts keep straying to how he mounted me in his sleep that night, loving words on his lips.