Subject: Closer than Ever Chapter 3 Closer than Ever by RJ This story is about the love been a father and his son and contains sexual activity between the two of them. If such themes offend you, do not read. If you have any questions or comments about this piece, want to know about any of my other works, or just want to reach out, please don’t hesitate to email me. As always, please support Nifty in any way you can. ***MAILING LIST***: If you would like to be added to my mailing list to receive emails when my stories are updated, let me know. ~ Chapter 3 (Son’s POV) ~ I watch his car back out of the driveway, still feeling immensely fucking embarrassed. I can’t believe he caught me. How did he know I was watching? I thought I was as quiet as possible. And he didn’t even look in my direction! Guess I wasn’t as careful as I thought. Christ. What a stupid idea to watch my dad and his boyfriend at their most intimate, but I was totally transfixed. I had never seen sex happening in front of me. In real life. Porn is one thing (amateur IS one of my favorite genres, after all), but this? I couldn’t bring myself to turn away. It wasn’t even an option. It was too hot of an opportunity to let slip. My dick was harder than it’s ever been watching him and Max go at it, and even though I didn’t see a lot of the action, it was enough. Plenty, really. But another feeling hit me besides arousal: jealousy. It was such a strange sensation, feeling so wholeheartedly jealous of Max. But I can’t say it was surprising. It’s been building for a while now, but after last night, I think it finally clicked: I’m attracted to my father. Just admitting it in my head is making my heart race and my face get heated and my knees get all wobbly. It doesn’t help that he was so cool about it. God, he makes it too easy to like him. I mean, I knew he’d have no qualms with me being “curious.” But the thing is, he doesn’t know that I’m curious about HIM. Maybe even more than curious. I lick my lips a bit and step inside, pawing at my phone in my pocket. I need to get upstairs, STAT. I’m already popping a fucking boner in my jeans anticipating looking at what I recorded last night. Max getting railed by my dad. I step into the house, half-ignoring my mom who says hello from the kitchen. All I say is “Bathroom” and I rush upstairs. I head straight to my room, shut the door, and toss my bag to the floor before climbing into my bed. It’s like I’m racing to get my dick out. Which I am. Before we left my dad’s, I told Brett that I’d be home soon. He’s coming over, so I gotta make this quick. I open the video I recorded while I fish my cock from my boxers and then I sigh once it’s out in the open. I wrap my fingers around my dick and press play. Fuck. He looks so good. So damn good. I’ve always known my dad is a stud, but holy shit. This is an entirely different level. This is so wrong. So fucked up. But I want him. Ever since I felt him up that one night, it’s all I can think about. I’ve even had sex dreams about him, where I so willingly go down on him, blow him slowly, take my time to enjoy every inch of the cock that made me. These aren’t those random, laughable sex dreams you have about your friends sometimes. They’re dreams that I wake up rock hard because of and jerk off to before I go to school. They’re fantasies. They’re desires. I’m working my dick fast, throbbing like crazy. I’m upset that I couldn’t get an angle where I could see my dad’s dick but I almost like this view better — seeing his face a bit, his concentration, his muscles flexing as he works his hips into his boyfriend. He radiates fucking sex appeal. I’m fucked. I’m so fucked. My phone dings and a message pops up at the top of the screen. It’s from Brett. “I’m here!” Fuck. I ignore the message and focus on the video. On Dad’s body. His movements. Who knew he’d be so good at fucking? What if that were me instead of Max? Would he give me the same amount of passion? Then, I hear my mom’s voice coming from downstairs. “Jonah! Brett’s here!” My heart starts racing even faster. She’s gonna send him upstairs. She always does. Fucking hurry up. I beat off even faster, tensing my legs as if it’ll help me cum. I pause the video and leave my phone on the bed, closing my eyes and focusing on my imagination. All I have to do is put myself in Max’s place and envision my dad above me, hovering, nude, pumping his cock into me… What would that feel like, I wonder? I bite my lip, slowly moving my other hand under my balls, to my taint. I don’t even get to my hole when I start to cum. I was so focused on stroking off as fast as I could that I forgot to lift my shirt. I swear under my breath as I moan, sitting up slightly as my cock unloads onto my shirt and then, when I lift the hem up, onto my body. I almost go blind for a few moments — that’s how intense my orgasm feels. I pant a bit, feeling sweaty and gross but at least lighter. Like a weight has been lifted off of me. Maybe getting off now will help me relax and not think about my fucking dad. I hear Brett’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. I swear under my breath, hastily stuffing my cock back into my pants and throwing myself off the bed. I hurriedly take my shirt off and wipe the cum off of my body before tossing it in the hamper just as Brett opens the door and waltzes into my room. “Earth to Jo,” he says. “Here,” I say, digging around my dresser for a shirt. I’m still breathing heavily but trying not to look suspicious. Relax, Jo. Breathe. “Yo, so you won’t believe what I found out,” he says, already starting to tell a story. I catch my breath and leaf through my shirts while Brett updates me on the latest town scandal. One of our teachers was caught blowing one of the dudes on the football team in her goddamn classroom (though the footballer has thus far remained nameless) just yesterday. According to Brett, they’ve been “together” for over a month, under the guise of tutoring. He says he found out something else too, but he stops mid-sentence. I pull out a shirt and turn my head. “What?” But I hear him laugh. “Were you watching porn?” he asks. I spin and almost have a fucking heart attack. Brett picks up my phone, which is still on, and glances at the paused video. I instinctively react: I lunge. I slap my phone out of his hand rather aggressively and grab my phone so it’s out of his reach. “Ow!” he says, grabbing at his wrist, both wincing and laughing. “Jesus fucking Christ, Jo.” “Sorry,” I say, clutching my phone to me. Did he see anything? Did he get a good enough look at it? “Let’s fucking relax,” he says, shaking his hand and then rubbing the spot I slapped. “It’s not that big a fucking deal.” I breathe a sigh of relief. So he didn’t REALLY see anything. Thank God. I apologize again before pocketing my phone and putting my t-shirt on. “Anyway, what were you saying?” “About what?” he says, still rubbing his wrist and giving me an irritated look. “You said you found something else out.” “Oh right,” he says smiling again. He leans in a bit as if telling a secret. “I know who the dude is.” My eyebrows arch. “Seriously?” Now I’m interested. “Who?” “Alex.” I blink, surprised. “Armentano?” “That’s the one,” Brett says, kicking his shoes off and resting on my bed a little more. “My mom knows like five cops so she pulled some strings.” “I thought he was gay,” I say. Why would a gay kid be hooking up regularly with a female teacher? “That was never confirmed,” Brett says, holding his finger up. “He admitted he was bicurious or something but that was it.” I nod slightly as both of us speculate. But I have my own thoughts. Bicurious, huh? Does that term only count if you’re straight but curious about guys? I wonder if that’s where I fall under. Or, dad-curious. We discuss the affair for a bit, but I can’t get the curiosity thing out of my head. “Question,” I say after a while, swallowing spit, “have YOU ever been, like… curious?” Brett squints slightly. “What are you saying?” Immediately I get cold feet. “I don’t know,” I say. “Never mind.” Brett looks at me weirdly, and I just avoid eye contact. Brett and I are practically brothers. We tell each other everything. Our emotions. Our dreams. Our weaknesses. We’ve even discussed porn before: what we’re into, our favorite porn stars, stuff like that. But this? My developing sexual interest in my own father? This probably isn’t something I should be discussing with him. Or anyone, for that matter. So I change the subject. “Anyway, my parents are thinking of putting me in therapy.” His strange escort kocaeli expression instantaneously disappears as if he forgot all about my curiosity comment. “Really?” he asks, intrigued. “Because of your nightmares and shit?” “Yeah,” I say, nodding. The thought terrifies me. What if I’m fixed? I mean, that’d be great. No nightmares sounds positively amazing. But… If I’m being totally honest, I’d miss sleeping in my dad’s bed. Not even just because of the fact that I now find him sexy. It’s a comfort thing. He is my main source of security. Why would I want to give that up? But Brett seems to think this is great news. “This’ll be good, man,” he says, smiling. “And then you won’t need me anymore,” he adds with a little chuckle, making me think of all the times he’s slept with me so that I could actually get some proper rest. It’s to the point where we just always sleep in the same bed whenever one of us stays over the other’s house. It helps. But Dad is just… Dad. I smirk. “Yeah, you’re right. You’ve served me well. Thanks for being my friend. Have a good life.” He just flips me off. “Fuck you,” he says, kicking my side with a laugh. My first session is awkward, to say the least. The psychologist and I go through the basics, like my day-to-day, my family history, and my own “personal health regimen.” But as the session goes on, it’s clear that she is solely adamant on figuring out the source of my PTSD. I don’t think I have PTSD at all, but she’s convinced that it’s the reason for all the sleeping problems (despite the fact that my dad also has sleep issues). She constantly drills me with questions pertaining to trauma and abuse, neither of which I’ve experienced. It doesn’t comfort me. In fact, it makes me feel stupid. Like there’s no reason for me to have nightmares. I can’t even give her a possible reason as to why my nightmares have been much more frequent lately. But one question stood out to me when we were discussing my health. “Do you smoke?” I blinked. I get this question all the time, but from my peers. Is that what she meant? “Cigarettes?” “Anything. Tobacco, recreational drugs…” The way she eyed me said it all: Do you smoke marijuana? “No,” I said honestly. Even through Brett enjoys it, I never really had an interest. She looked surprised, so I cracked a joke. “Do I look like a stoner?” She didn’t seem amused. Frankly, she’s far too clinical. “Sometimes people, especially those in your age bracket, turn to marijuana to help them sleep.” The way she said “age bracket” in such a nasty way irked me and really set the tone for the remainder of the session. But she did give me something to think about: weed. I look into it when I get home. Not that I really doubted her expertise, but it turns out she’s right. A lot of people DO turn to marijuana to help them sleep, especially those trying to avoid dreams and nightmares. There’s a studied correlation between smoking before bed and dreamlessness. Guess it disrupts the REM stage or something. The con is that if you take a break from smoking, even a day-long hiatus, you get extremely vivid or lucid dreams. Which seems like a fair gamble. I can handle a lucid dream. In fact, I welcome it. At least I’d be in control. So I reach out to Brett, basically asking if he’ll spot me some for the week for a trial run. I pay him (but at a discounted price since he’s so good to me). It takes me a few days to figure out how much my body really needs — turns out it’s not that much. I’m a tiny bit high by the time I’m ready for bed and then, nothing. I wake up groggy, but I wake up naturally, undisturbed by crazy nightmares. For an entire week! Thank you, therapy. I go to therapy once or twice a week for a month. Most of it is spent talking as she tries to determine causes. She seems convinced it has to do with my dad, which makes me tense. My dad? How? Apparently him and my mom discussed with the psychologist that my nightmares (or night terrors, apparently) are most intense when I’m sleeping over my dad’s. Which is insane to me, considering I feel the best when I’m around him. I don’t know what conclusion she’s trying to draw, but whatever it is, it irritates me. Couldn’t it be as simple as just not sleeping in my own bed? It’s not like I sleep anywhere else besides my house, Dad’s, and Brett’s. But to be fair, I haven’t had a chance to debunk her theory yet. From the time I started smoking before bed, I haven’t even slept over my dad’s. He’s been incredibly busy with work and his boyfriend, and school is kicking my ass, so our schedules haven’t exactly been aligned. We’ve seen each other plenty for dinner or hangouts during the day, and that has been great. There just haven’t been any sleepovers. Which I’ve missed terribly. But after a long planning session of juggling schedules, we finally make time for us. The plan is for me to stay over from Saturday night into Monday, since I don’t have school that day. He took off time from work and everything, so I’ve been excited. Hanging out with him is always good. There’s no awkwardness between us anymore. To be fair, most of the time I’m not even thinking about his dick, or him fucking Max, or the embarrassment of getting caught. But with the impending sleepover… I get a little nervous. And weirdly excited. I’m almost hoping I’ll get another nightmare. I could realistically just pretend like I had a nightmare and sleep with him anyway if I feel like lying. After he picks me up from the house, we stop by a diner for dinner that’s on the way to his apartment. It’s a cute place. Small, and not a lot of people are dining at the moment, so the only people we’re disturbing with our boisterous conversation are an elderly couple and a lonely construction worker. I take a big sip of my milkshake before leaning back in my seat with a sigh. “So how’s Max?” I ask. He smiles. “He’s good. Working on a book, actually.” “Of poems?” “Yup.” He takes a sip of his own shake before licking his lips. “Something he’s wanted to do for a long time, I guess.” “Is it any good?” I tease. He grins. “You can be the judge of that. Maybe I’ll invite him over. He can show you what he has so far.” “Nooo,” I say in a surprisingly whiny voice. It makes him laugh, though. “I want you to myself this weekend.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “A bit selfish of you, don’t you think?” I smile. “Oh c’mon. We need some time together. Just us.” He smiles back, nodding in agreement. “Just us, then,” he says before leaning forward. He rests his elbows on the table. “So? Tell me things!” I snort. “What things?” “I don’t know. I just wanna know what’s going on in my boy’s life.” I roll my eyes. “Dad, we talk almost every day.” “Yeah, but some stuff is better in person,” he says, shrugging. “Been meaning to ask, actually… You ‘n Brett…?” He trails off, leaving me to fill in the blank. But I know what he’s getting at. “Oh God, no,” I say, laughing. “You sure?” he says with a grin. “He’s a good guy.” “Yeah, but… No. He’s very straight.” He arches an eyebrow. “And you’re not?” Busted. I squint at him before scratching my head. “Do we have to talk about this?” He has a slightly smug grin on his lips, but he tries to pass himself off as nonchalant. “No, we don’t HAVE to,” he says. “But, you know, when you DO want to…” “I seem to remember you saying something like, ‘I don’t need you influencing my sex life’,” I say with a playful glare. He lets out a short, loud laugh. “What sex life?” “Wooow,” I say, but I can’t help laughing. “Fuck you.” “Hey,” he says, nudging me under the table. “Watch your mouth.” “So you can make a crack at me but I can’t say ‘fuck you’?” “I’m your father. I can do what I want,” he says with a cheeky grin before he looks at me. “You’re still a virgin, right?” “That’s none of your business,” I say, tossing my straw wrapper at him. “I’m just curious.” There’s that word again. Curious. “Well it’s still none of your business.” “Aww, did I upset you?” he says, teasing me. “I’m sorry, baby boy,” he adds in a mocking voice, reaching over to nudge my cheek affectionately. I slap his hand away and he laughs. I laugh too, but I kind of wish he’d reach over and stroke my cheek again. We head back to his apartment after our meal and just lounge around for a bit. In the middle of us chatting, I show him a video I made with a few classmates for our Spanish project. We designed it much like an over-the-top telenovela, so it’s as much ridiculous as it is hilarious. My dad gets a kick out of it anyway and seems sure that we’ll all get kocaeli anal yapan escort an A. He asks me how my other classes are going, which reminds me: I want him to look over my Creative Writing paper. I always print out rough drafts of my essays to see them from a different perspective (rather than on the screen). Helps me see grammar mistakes more clearly. I’ve already made notations on the six-pager, but I know my dad will find something I missed. He always does. I rummage through my bag and pull out the essay, handing it to him. While he reads it over and sips his beer, I decide to take a quick shower and then change into cozier clothes. When I come back into the living room, he’s still on the couch, reading through my essay about misinterpretation in major works. I’m surprised he’s taking so long, since it’s really not that lengthy of an essay, but whatever. I hop onto the couch and, wanting to initiate more contact between us, lie down with the back my head in his lap. He doesn’t break from reading for a second; he just moves his arm out of the way for me to lie down and then rests it on my chest almost absentmindedly. Why is he so damn comforting? I close my eyes for a moment and smile. Then I realize how close I am to his dick. Christ, it’s RIGHT there. I can feel the warmth practically radiating from it. I wonder– “So I got a call from your mother while you were in the shower,” he says, his eyes still on my essay. I blink. “Yeah?” “Yeah. Said something about finding weed in your room?” he says softly before glancing down at me. “Wanna talk to me about that?” My face instantly goes red. Fuck. Is he gonna be mad? He had his drug phase when he was a kid. He told me all about it. But he’s the parent now. He knows better. Also, why the hell was Mom snooping around in my room? It’s not like I left it out for her to find. I always keep it in my nightstand… But I guess that’s a separate issue, so I focus on what’s at hand. What should I say? That it’s not mine? I could easily blame Brett, but that’d be kind of fucked up of me to do. I should just be honest. “It’s supposed to help me sleep,” I say. He peers up towards the ceiling as if in thought before nodding. “Huh,” he says. “That’s not a bad idea.” I’m surprised. He doesn’t even seem a little bit mad. But then again, he IS a doctor. Maybe he’s heard this theory flying around before. “Does it help?” he asks, looking down at me. “A little,” I say. More like a lot. Would I sound like too much of a pothead if I said it’s the only thing that works when I’m alone? “No nightmares, at least.” He rubs my chest with his thumb, smiling slightly. “Well, that’s good to hear.” Good? I would have never expected that from him. Well… Maybe I’m exaggerating. Dad has always been fair but, for lack of a better word, “cool” about things that my mom would never be cool about. “So you’re not mad?” I ask. He laughs. “No. But your mom is,” he says, glancing back at my essay. He keeps stroking me soothingly with his thumb. “Just prepare for her wrath,” he says, and I laugh. “And don’t overdo it.” I smile, holding onto his arm. “I won’t.” “Was this a suggestion from your therapist?” he asks me. “Indirectly,” I say, which makes him look down at me with a cocked eyebrow. “She mentioned people do it, so I looked into it.” “So therapy is working, I guess,” he says with a smile. I snort. “Yeah, right.” Now he looks surprised. “Should I revise my statement?” he says with a slight smirk. “I don’t like her,” I admit. “Really? She knows her stuff.” “Yeah, but she’s kind of rude, has no personality, and makes me feel bad for not having PTSD and making her job easier. I hate it.” He laughs slightly. “You don’t have to go,” he says. Then he switches my essay to his other hand, resting that arm across my torso so that I can see what he’s pointing at. “Also, this is great. Just check your flow in this paragraph. Your sentence structure gets a little odd by the end. And you used the wrong ‘their’.” “Okay,” I say, taking the essay from him and making a note of which paragraph he was referring to. Then I look up at him. “What do you mean I don’t have to go?” “To therapy,” he says, and I feel his free hand stroking my hair. It’s something that always calms me down (and, if I’m being totally honest, turns me on a bit). I don’t know why. “If you’re not comfortable, there’s no point in going.” He makes everything sound so simple. “I guess you’re right.” “I AM right,” he says with a grin, very gently massaging his fingers into my scalp. I involuntarily hum a bit. “Don’t push it,” I tease. “It’s my job to push,” he says before patting my head. “Movie time?” I smile. He’s been dying to re-watch the Jason Bourne movies with me. “Yeah.” “Grab the remote,” he says, pointing to the coffee table. I lean forward and snatch the remote, handing it to him before I rest in his lap again. If he’s not bothered by it, then I’m not moving. “Where do you get it from?” he asks as he pulls up the movie, and when I turn my head, he clarifies by saying “Your weed.” I laugh. “Um. Seriously?” “I’m just curious,” he says with a smirk. “Is it Brett?” “Dad–” “Shhh, the movie’s starting,” he says, putting his hand over my mouth. I pry his hand away and he chuckles slightly to himself before I roll my eyes and focus on the film. I keep resting my head in his lap, and he rests his hand on my shoulder as if protecting me. We watch the movie in our typical fashion: adding unneeded commentary. The Bourne movies are pretty solid, and we both seem to always forget the plot twist(s) every time we watch the trilogy, so it’s fun to speculate what’s going to happen. After the movie, though, Dad wants to hit the hay. I don’t blame him. He had a long day at work before he got me, and we’ll have all day tomorrow anyway, so I let him head off to bed. He gives me a hug and a kiss on the top of my head before messing with my hair and then making his way down the hall. I watch him leave, biting my lip slightly. The thought of him kissing my lips instead of my head just crossed my mind. It’s something we always did when I was a kid, but I guess I grew out of it. It’d be nice to bring that back, wouldn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen him kiss Max. THAT’S what I want. Real kisses. …I blink a few times and shake my head to clear my thoughts. As I’m getting ready for bed, I realize I forgot my weed. I left it all in my nightstand, which Mom so conveniently found. Fuck. I run my fingers through my hair, starting to stress out a little bit. I haven’t missed a day yet, which means I’m probably in for some weird dreams (that are hopefully not tormenting). I briefly consider calling Brett and asking him to come over, but that’s ridiculous. It’s 11pm and I’m forty minutes away. Whatever. It’s fine. I’ll try to sleep without it. And if I wake up from a nightmare, Dad is just down the hall. Nothing to worry about. It’s one of those dreams where I know it will turn into nightmare since I’ve had this exact dream before. I know what’s about to happen, so I curl up, make myself as small as possible, shut my eyes tight, and say the same thing over and over: “Wake up.” I’m surprised that it works so quickly, but it still leaves me breathless when I wake up. I pant slightly, feeling that uncomfortable anxiety dissipate. I made it. I got out before the dream got TOO crazy. Now I’m safe in… Where am I? I rub my eyes before looking up at the ceiling. This isn’t the living room. Now that I think about it, this isn’t the couch, either. It’s Dad’s bed. How did I get in here? Maybe I waltzed in in the middle of the night and forgot. Wouldn’t be the first time that has happened. I turn over onto my side and face my dad. He’s fast asleep, partially clutching onto the pillow he’s resting on. I smile slightly. What a handsome man he is. I find myself just staring at his face for a while before my eyes trail lower. Thank God for moonlight, because I can just make out his body in the dim lighting. He’s just in his boxers again. I bite my lip as my eyes graze over the muscles in his strong arms, his tight stomach, the light hair on his torso, the pubes peeking out from his boxers. My mouth is wet, I realize, and I have to swallow the saliva as I stare at his crotch. His dick is resting against his leg — I can tell because his boxers have shifted in a way that outlines his cock. I want to see it again. It’s so strong an urge that it’s more of a need rather than a desire. I lick my lips slightly, glancing up at his face before izmit yabancı escort I slide closer to him. My fucking heart is pounding like crazy, so loudly that I’d be willing to bet he could hear it if he were awake. I breathe in and out slowly to calm myself. Take it easy, Jo. Nice and easy. I reach out slowly and nudge his cock over his boxers with my thumb once and then wait for any sort of response. Nothing. I bite my lip a bit and do it again, but adding a little more pressure. Still good to go. So I get a little more audacious. I very slowly slide my hand up the leg of his boxers. Once my fingers graze against the head of his cock, I give it a little squeeze. I bite on my lip a little harder. Why is my dick THIS fucking stiff right now? My heart almost explodes as Dad shifts in his sleep. I immediately snatch my hand away. He lets out a small grunt before rolling onto his back, grabbing at the pillow and hugging it to his chest. I stay absolutely frozen as I listen to him smack his lips slightly and then sigh heavily. He’s asleep. I let out a heavy sigh of my own before relaxing again. This is better, actually. Now I have easier access to his cock. In fact, his boxers had shifted up slightly when he moved, so now the head of his cock is sticking out of the leg. I lick my lips as I reach over and slide the leg up higher, praising him for choosing to wear such a loose fabric to bed. Once I lift it up high enough, I pause and just stare at his cock. Even soft, it’s almost… pretty. Is that the right word? It just looks nice. So often dicks are just the most bizarre things, even in porn. But Dad’s, his is shapely, proportional, and weighty even when soft. I find myself leaning forward before I even realize what I’m doing. As I get closer to his crotch, I can smell him. He didn’t shower before he went to bed, so I get that musky scent. It’s almost intoxicating. As I lean in to get a better sense of his scent, my nose nudges against his cock. I pause for a moment before daring to do more. I stick out my tongue and lick it. I’m almost shaking, that’s how nervous and excited I am right now. I reach down between my legs and grip my cock through my shorts as I lick him again. And again. And again. Until finally, I very gently lift his cock and wrap my lips around the head. Wow. This is happening. Dad’s cock is in my mouth right now. I let my tongue slowly slide around the glands, and I close my eyes. I’m totally transfixed. It’s so strange, but I can’t say I don’t enjoy it. I start to suck a little bit, really feel it out. Honestly, I just do what I’ve done in my dreams. It’s more or less the same, just more intense because this is real fucking life right now. Holy shit. I’m blowing my dad. He stays soft for a while, but very slowly, I notice he starts taking up more space in my mouth, so I pull off. I gently paw at his cock as I watch it get hard, right in front of me. It’s incredible. A beautiful sight, really. And once he gets fully hard, I’m amazed. What a man he is. Thick, imposing, masculine. I should not be this turned on right now but I am. My hand is in my shorts and I’m jerking off for all I’m worth. I tilt his cock back towards my lips and keep sucking softly, almost letting out a hum. I can feel him pulsing slightly. I can feel the heat. This is amazing. Then… I feel his hand on my head. I would have stopped everything right then and there if he hadn’t started adding pressure to the back of my head. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I hear him hum deeply. He must still be half-asleep. Or he thinks I’m Max. Oh God, he thinks I’m his fucking boyfriend. I’m so fucked. How am I gonna get out of this? Should I just quickly make a run for it? He mumbles something but I can’t understand him — my heart is thudding far too loudly in my ears. Fucking shit. He shifts a bit. Out of the corner of my eye I see the pillow being moved off of his chest and my heart sinks. This is it. I feel dizzy with anxiety. There’s a noticeable pause before he speaks. “Jo!” Then we’re both scrambling away from each other. He pushes me off of his cock and sits up against the headboard while I cower, covering my crotch. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and basically hang my head in shame as he hastily stuffing his cock back into his boxers. Then he turns his bedside lamp on. Now I’m illuminated. Great. Now he can see how fucking red I am. “The fuck are you doing?” my dad demands. I feel sick to my stomach. I should have known I’d get caught. But I was way too lost in the moment. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say quickly, my voice already wavering. Awesome. Now I’m gonna cry. “Jesus fucking Christ, Jo–” “I’m sorry!” I say insistently. “I didn’t think you’d wake up–” “WHAT?!” I wince at how he raised his voice. In hindsight, that obviously wasn’t the right thing to say. Now what does he think of me? That his son is some sort of pervert? “I didn’t… I didn’t mean… Fuck,” I say, faltering a bit and wiping my eyes with my palms. I’m trying so hard to keep the tears in. I’m fucking shaking. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life. Ever. And rightly so. I mean, honestly, how does someone recover from getting caught with their dad’s dick in their mouth? My dad keeps trying to say something but stops himself. I will myself to glance at him while I’m wiping away tears. I know that look. He doesn’t know what to do, or how he should reprimand me. He’s not one to yell, usually, though he will when he feels it necessary. But this is a special case. I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t know what to do if the tables were turned. “Please don’t hate me,” I manage to get out. God, that sounds so whiny. But it’s earnest. This could completely fuck up our relationship. Something that I constantly take for granted. Out of everyone I know, every single person, I am the closest to my father. What’s going to happen now? “I don’t…” I hear him sigh heavily. He reaches out as if to touch me but then stops himself. He looks uncomfortable and confused before he rests his head against the wall, rubbing his face with his hands. “Why–?” he starts to ask, but he cuts himself off again. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, or ask. That much is clear. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “Stop apologizing,” he snaps, but it’s in a low voice. His disappointed/angry voice. I shut up immediately, holding back my tears as best as possible. I’m overheating right now, I think. I need to step outside. Or throw myself off the fucking apartment building. “I don’t know what to do, Jo,” my dad says after an excruciatingly long pause. “Do you want me to leave?” I ask. He sighs, looking at the wall behind me. I should have specified. Initially I meant leave the room, but leaving the entire apartment sounds pretty good too. He seems to think long and hard about it before shaking his head. “It’s fine. Just… Just don’t…” He doesn’t know how to form the words, and decides on saying “It’s fine” again. In a way, I’m glad he’s letting me stay in here (which I only think he agreed to because of how broken I sound right now). It shows me that he’s not so upset with me that he wants nothing to do with me. I don’t know what to do, though. Should I move to the couch? I feel like I’d be slightly more comfortable near him than alienated in the next room. I crawl over to my side of the bed but stay close to the edge, keeping distance between us and having my back face him. I hear him shifting behind me before the light flickers off and everything goes semi-dark again. He gets under the blankets this time and then lets out another sigh (followed by some whispered mumbles) before there’s absolute silence. I thought this would be better, but it’s almost worse. I should have moved to the couch because now I want to cry. I’m afraid to move or make the tiniest noise, but the floodgates are about to bust open. I let out a tiny whimper before suddenly, I’m half-sobbing and half-holding back as best as I can. Get it together, Jonah. Stop crying. Stop shaking. Stop trembling and twitching like a fucking baby. Then Dad starts to move behind me. I hiccup a bit because I inhaled so sharply, and I’m surprised to feel him getting closer. I hear him say “Shhh” as he cuddles up against me, rubbing my arm. And that? That does me in. I start ugly crying. Let it all out. Dad just gently, soothingly rubs my arm, his chest against my back (though his hips are noticeably pulled away from me). It comforts me a bit, but not enough. Maybe he was reading my mind, because he grips my arm and says “C’mere,” trying to turn me over. I roll over onto my opposite side to face him and immediately bury my face into his chest. We both wrap our arms around each other and he rubs my back and the back of my head, just letting me cry. Yet again, Dad, you’re making it too easy to like you. Who else would ever be this good to me?