Date: Wed, 26 May 2021 12:45:28 -0500 From: David Ashley Subject: Finding My Father Chapter 1 Disclaimers: This is a story of incest, featuring graphic sexual content. I do not endorse such acts. If you can, please donate to Nifty at http://donate.nifty.org/ This is a small story I've been toying with for a bit, and want to explore. If you enjoy my work, please feel free to check out my other story on Nifty, Conquering My Friends' Dads. You can email me at bupdash [at] gmail.com. My virtual tip jar is $Bupdash on cash app. Finding My Father Chapter 1 It was a friend's offhand comment that made me curious. But really, maybe it was just time. It sort of felt like the right thing to do. You grow up, you go to college. You come out. You get a job in the city. You move away from home. You track down your dad. After a certain point, it just seems like the natural next step in life. I was feeling more successful than ever, too. Maybe I thought I was capable of handling it--mentally and emotionally. I didn't know what kind of drama would come with finding my father, but I was not going to him because I NEEDED him. I'd be going to my father with a good job and prospects, rather than because I needed a kidney or I was down on my luck or something. I could tell him about graduating valedictorian of my class. I could tell him about my job, and how my tech career was taking off. I would be meeting him as an equal. As a grown, complete man. Twenty-two. Successful. Newly out, but hell, if he was homophobic it'd be easier to cut him right back out. Good riddance. Of course, maybe I finally sought him out simply because I felt guilty. The idea only presented itself while unpacking in my new apartment. It wasn't a huge flat--hell, this was New York, after all--but it was in the upper east side, and I wouldn't have roommates. For a twenty-two year old college grad? I was doing very well for myself. I took a meticulous time hanging my suits. I smoothed the fronts carefully before placing them in my new closet. My buddy Joe was in the next room. He was supposed to be helping unpack my pictures, but Joe spent more time talking and lighting his bong. "Dude. Pete. This is your mom?" I had met Joe at school. He was actually from here--his parents had a place in Midtown--so when he found out I was moving to the city, I took him up on his offer to help me settle in. Still, I felt chagrined, popping my head back in the front room to see Joe staring at one of my framed photos. "Yeah," I said. "My mom and I, when we went to Rome. That wall, I have a hook already." "Dude, your mom is hot." Joe let out a stream of smoke, still ogling the picture. "She single?" "Like you're such a catch," I said. "I'd be a good stepfather, I swear," said Joe. He giggled. That's the thing about Joe: even when he's saying pervy shit, he's funny. Plus, everyone knew he was all talk. He was cute and good-natured; a big guy who had spent more time at the gym than in class, but he had been eager to teach me some basic lifting. He was also really deep in the closet. The only reason I put up with him smoking in my new apartment was because he needed to be high in order to suck my dick. "Don't be a prick," I said. "And yeah, she's single." Finished with my suits, I walked back to the front room, taking the picture from Joe to hang it myself. He sat on the floor, big legs splayed out while he leaned against my new couch. Joe frowned at nothing, then his eyes settled on me. "Wait. You've never mentioned your dad." "Don't have a dad." "I'm sorry. Did he die?" I laughed. "No. Open the window, will you? You're stinking the place up. No, I just honestly never had a dad." "Deadbeat?" Joe pulled himself up, his big body lumbering to the window. I watched his sweats cling to his very big--very shapely--ass. It made me blush a bit. I was out, sure. And beyond Joe, I had messed around a little with some of the other dudes at school. Mild stuff. Mutual jacking off, oral. Immensely thrilling for a nerdy kid just discovering his sexuality, but embarrassing, now I looked back. I had never tried anal, and doubted Joe could ever get high enough to let me. "No," I said, clearing my throat. "No, it's not like my mom even had a relationship or anything. She didn't know him." I was tempted to accept his offered bong, but shook my head. "She decided to have a kid by herself. Went to a sperm bank. Honestly, there IS no dad." "Huh." Joe considered that. He leaned against the windowsill, his high brain trying to wrap around such a concept. At last he cocked an eyebrow at me, "You never wondered?" I stared. Well, fuck. Honestly? No. And I felt a twinge of guilt. Why had I never sought out my father? Not even as a teenager. I had just accepted it as a matter of course--I didn't have a dad. It wasn't something to angst over. I didn't MISS him. That's where the guilt hit. Shit, what kind of a guy was I? What kind of man doesn't even care enough to be curious about his dad? To save face, I shrugged, and went to lay out on my couch. I removed my shirt, revealing the chest and torso Joe had helped me build--never as big, but close. I pulled down my shorts, kicking them off. "Hey," I said. "Want some cock?" Joe looked at me. Jocks, man. Hungry. He took another long hit on his bong, paused. Then, having the decency to release it from the window this time, he grinned. "Fuck yeah, Peter. Gimme that dick." Joe's question lingered longer than his pot smell--longer, even, than the sweat he worked up, bobbing his throat up and down on my cock. I was really lucky to have Joe in the city. But fuck the guy, too--I was kind of pissed that this dumbass jock had put the whole question of my father into my head. I dove into work, trying to dismiss the idea for a bit. I know my generation was supposed to hate this shit. Going to work, presenting to production heads. Wearing a suit. But hell, I kind of liked it. I liked wearing suits. I liked glancing at myself in the mirror in the evening as I undid my tie. Unbuttoned my shirt, caught a glimpse of my chest. My abs. It was nice to actually like how I looked, and suits--well--suited me. Eventually I had the balls to explore the nightlife, too. Fucking Manahattan--I loved this city. I was never far from a gay bar, and on a few bold nights I would go. It should have been easy to dismiss Joe's question. Parentage--fathers--I was determined to forget the whole thing. Who wanted to call mom--have THAT conversation? So, I said no. I would not track down my father. Stupid question, needless answer. It turned out that a gay bar was not the place to forget daddy issues. The very night I decided to forget it, while lounging against the bar, I felt a man sidle up beside me. "Buy you a drink, son?" Son. Fuck you, universe. But the man's voice was low and gravelly, and I admit I popped a boner right there. I turned. I didn't have much experience with "daddies." Well--I didn't have much experience at all. This man was a silver fox. Just under my height, white hair and beard. Handsome face. But my eyes were drawn down. He wore the tightest shirt I had ever seen, hugging his well-muscled body everywhere--except for his chest. Mr. Silver Fox had unbuttoned the front of his shirt to just below his pecs, and I got a mind-boggling eyeful of the meatiest man tits I had ever seen. He grinned, his white beard twisting up. "Like 'em?" "Jesus fuck," I said. "Love 'em." Silver Fox chuckled. "Cheers, babe. Beer?" "Sure." I had never messed around with a man older than twenty-seven. And here was this fifty-something, buying me a drink. Was I interested? I didn't know--I had never even fantasized about an older guy. But over the next twenty minutes or so, as Silver Fox flirted, my eyes kept drifting to those tits. He had a little salt-and-pepper chest hair, just enough to augment their shape. Silver Fox leaned in. "You like daddies?" "Uh." I swallowed. "I don't know. I like you." He grinned. Suddenly his hand was on my crotch. "Want these tits?" "Yes," I gasped. His thumb and forefinger found my cock head with deft precision. Through my pants he squeezed. "Come on, then." God bless this bar. An "alley," of sorts, spread along the back of the building. Still technically part of the bar, closed off at either end; a perfect spot for quickies. Silver Fox put his back against the brick, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. "Come have a taste." Okay, maybe I was new to the daddy thing. But I'm a tit man. I couldn't help it. The only thing more attractive about a man's body than his ass, in my opinion, were a pair of nice pecs. And Silver Fox's tits were perfect--muscular and heavy, with just enough of a give. I buried my face in his chest, reeling as I took his immense nipple into my mouth. White chest hair joined it. I was sucking the tits of a man who had to be over twice my age. And I was hard as a rock. "That's it, boy," said Silver Fox. "Suck on your daddy's tits." Jesus. I almost pulled off. It was like he knew what had been badgering me for weeks, and was rubbing it in my face. He felt me pause. Gently, he put his hand on my face, pulling me up to look at me. "It's okay," he said. "You can say it. I can be your daddy." I stared at him, trying to make my voice work. "D--daddy," I said, trying it on. Weird. "Good boy," said Silver Fox. He kissed me, and I felt that rough beard. Felt his tongue probe my mouth. Then he directed my head back to his chest. "Suck on daddy's tits," he said. "Make me cum." I dove in, hungry, almost furiously. The beer, the night, the heaviness of that word. Daddy. It was loaded. And his nipples tasted so, so good. Silver Fox's dick was in hand, and he stroked it furiously as I ate his tits. "That's it, boy. Oh, daddy's coming!" Silver Fox shot his load, but man I was reluctant to release his tits. I felt him shudder under me as he painted the concrete with his spunk. At long last, as he caught his breath, I straightened back up. "Where you going?" said Silver Fox. I had assumed we were done--make a college guy cum, and that's it. But he pulled me back, pushing me into the brick this time. "You don't have to--" I said. "I want to," said Silver Fox, crouching down. He unzipped my pants, eager hands pulling my cock out. "Damn boy. I REALLY want to. You're hung." Okay. Eight inches, and thick enough even Joe's big mouth struggled with my girth. I was a bit proud as this old man started to lick my shaft eagerly. "Wow," I said, as his expert lips rounded my head. "Wow--" "Remember," said Silver Fox, "call me daddy." He took me in, down to the base. Holy fuck, this man knew what he was doing. Well--he had earned it. "Suck my cock," I said. "Suck my cock, daddy." I didn't last long. With an expert cocksucker like him? And all my sexual inexperience? I lasted about a minute. Soon Silver Fox was drinking me, swallowing every shot of my cum. He stood up, giving me a kiss on the forehead. "Very nice, boy. You make your daddy proud." He left, leaving me a bit shaky and drained, still leaning against that brick alley wall. I also felt a little dirty. Daddy. Maybe it was stupid. But maybe it was a sign from the universe? Joe gave me the idea. Silver Fox didn't let it die. I called my mother. She was a very level-headed person. Had blithely accepted my coming out, had been proud but practical with my announcement I was moving to the city. "It's expensive," she had said, "but I hear it's a great place to live, if you're gay." I think you had to be a level-headed person in my mom's case. She had been approaching forty and living in Manhattan herself as a lawyer when she decided it was time to have a kid. Carefully, I told her I wanted to find my dad. "I thought you would, eventually," said Mom. "I kept all the information from the sperm bank, somewhere. I'll dig it up. There's a process involved, but over eighteen a child is able to request their donor's information." She paused, and for a moment her practicality slipped. "You sure you want to do this?" "I'm sure," I said. Mother was good as her word, and two days later my inbox received pdfs of every bit of paperwork the sperm bank had given her. This was a slog, but it gave me the name of the bank, and a number to call--and, soon enough, I at last had a name. Erik Jacob Petersen. Some twenty-three years ago, at the time of donation, he had been eighteen, with a residence in Harlem. I was not too surprised by this--most sperm donors are, from what I hear, young college-age guys who need some extra cash. Erik Peterson. Peterson. Was it ironic that my name was Peter? Fuck if that was not strange. I stared at my father's name, trying to give it form. Erik Peterson. Erik. My father, Erik. "Peterson? Yeah, I remember. Good tenant. Wait a second." I bit my lip, waiting as the sound of steps and a ruffle of papers sounded on the other end. It was the number my father had submitted when donating his sperm--a landline, it turned out. At last, the man returned. "Yeah, he lived here. Moved about five years ago. Gave me a forwarding address--who is this?" I cleared my throat. What to do--lie? I was worried he wouldn't give me his address otherwise. "Well--I'm his son." There was a pause. Then, "Huh." After a final hesitation, the landlord recited an address in the West Village. I thanked him, and hung up. Then I went to Google. "Erik Peterson West Village." Not much--or too much, as it was far from a unique name. But I stumbled on a public Facebook post. The account was otherwise private. Only the name, a profile picture, and a single post: "Reminder: walk-ins always welcome. Stop by my place in the West Village, guys!" Walk-in for what? I frowned, but there was no context. I peered at his profile picture, and felt my stomach give way. It was him. I knew it--I just did. My dad. I swear my hand shook. I came straight from work. A cab ride, a quick glance around the West Village--which I noted had some very, very cute men wandering around--and there I was. Confident as I wanted to be, standing in one of my better black suits, with my form-fitting blue shirt, I felt a stir of fear as I looked up at my father's door. Or what I thought was my father's door. It was the address his old landlord had given me, but perhaps there was a mistake, or Erik Peterson had moved since coming here? A brown brick building, sidled up between a tattoo parlor and a convenience store. I ducked into the stairwell, and saw a label on the mailbox for the second-floor apartment. Peterson. This was it. I climbed the stairs, and my shaking hand knocked. It was not until after I knocked, standing there, wondering where to look, that I noticed the slip of paper in his little window. Massage Appointments: 555-7859 Or knock! A winking face was drawn poorly underneath. I stared, but before I could process, the door opened. "Hi. You're not my next appointment, are you? You're early." I blinked. Once again, I knew: This was my father. I was staring at my biological dad. My eyes darted across his face. "Oh. Um. No, I'm not." He stood there, a polite smile on his face, carving out deep, handsome laugh lines. I was shocked to find details--deeply, achingly familiar details, details I drank up like a man dying of thirst. Details I didn't know I had craved, longed to see--waited to see, without even knowing. A strong, wide jaw--my own jaw. His chin was longer than mine, but shared the same shape, with a strong indent in the center. He had thin cheekbones and my exact nose--long and pointed, like Liam Neeson's. Only our hair was different; I had inherited my mother's dark hair, but this man had hair that looked like it had once been gold. Darkening and graying now, with white streaks over his ears. We were almost the same build--though his chest looked broader and stronger than mine. He was very fit, and his lean neck rose from his shirt like ropes; for some reason, knowing I had a dad that was in-shape gave me a sense of pride. We were also the exact same height--of this I was certain. We had to be within millimeters of each other. My eyes met his, and I looked into my future. My exact shade--bright, sky-blue. Framed by a wreath of crow's feet and kind, politely-raised brows. I felt my face go numb. "H--hi," I managed. "Are you Erik Peterson?" "I am. Come on in, I have a couple hours before my next appointment. Nice suit!" I blinked, but I stepped forward as he held open the door. "Thank you." My father's apartment. This was my father's apartment. This was his smell--he had a set of dumbbells in the corner, and dammit, the scent of what must have been his sweat hung in the air. Even that smelled like me. His little kitchenette looked hardly used, and most of his front room was empty space. But as I watched, Erik Peterson strode over to a folded table in the corner. A massage table. Erik set to work, opening this up, and fuck it--he was a strong man. Powerful arms snapped open the legs, and he flipped it standing with ease. "Did someone recommend me?" "I--what? Oh. No, I'm--I'm here because--" Why couldn't I say? I was all nerves. Easy enough. `You're my dad.' But impossible to actually vocalize. He flashed me a grin. "It's okay. I get it--no need to be nervous. I only asked because I get mostly repeat customers, so I wondered if someone passed my information along." "Oh." I swallowed. How did I tell this man that he was my DAD? "No, that's not why--I saw your Facebook post about walk-ins, and..." He nodded. "Ever had a massage before?" Then he paused, frowning at me. "Hey--you look a bit young." "I'm twenty-two," I said. The smile returned. "Perfect." "Mr. Peterson--" "Erik is fine." He smoothed the table, his hands flexing across the padding. "What's your name?" "Peter." And he was striding back over to me. I almost blushed--Erik had a knack for eye contact. He leaned, suddenly very close, and I felt his hands at my shoulders. "Nice to meet you, Peter." I felt my father's hands slide between my shirt and suit. He lifted my coat, pulling it gently from my arms. Then he winked. "Don't be nervous. Every man has their first time. I'm here to make sure you enjoy it." What did that mean? But his hands were back, heavy on my shoulders, gently feeling my arms and chest. "Wow. Do you work out, Peter?" My brain refused to work. I was on autopilot. "Yes," I said. "You have a great body. And you're very handsome. Would you like me to leave?" "What?" "While you undress," he said. "I can step out, if that makes you more comfortable." The massage. Oh. He still thought I was a customer. I still had not told him. I still COULD not tell him. Something in the back of my mind screamed that this was strange--that there was something I did not see. West Village. Massage business. Running it from his own home. Something about the way he looked-- But that smile. It was so damn reassuring, part of me warmed up to him. My dad was a bro. And, hell--I was here to get to know him. Why not give him some business while I was at it? "Okay," I said. "I mean--yes, if you don't mind. I'm shy." He grinned. "Believe me, Peter. You have no reason to be. Here's a towel--I'll be back in five." Friendly. That's what I told myself. He was so friendly. I removed my shirt and pants, folding them carefully. I hesitated before removing my boxer briefs, but at last let them drop, too. It WAS a massage. Just a massage. Why was I so nervous? But I still had to tell him. Maybe it would be easier to say it if I wasn't looking at him--with my head buried in the table. Carefully I climbed up, awkwardly ensuring the towel covered my ass. This felt so strange. Still--I had seen massages in movies and tv shows, and they always laid facedown. Feeling like an idiot, I positioned my face against the pillow-like padding that surrounded the table's hole. I did not wait long before I heard Erik pad back in. "Comfy?" he said. Now that I could not see him, I felt hyper-focused on his voice. Even his voice sounded like mine--deep, rounded, though his had a more gravel-y quality. I felt that roughness, almost a physical thing. It rippled down my spine. "Yes," I said. "And you said this was your first time?" "Yeah. Never had a massage before." That voice again, this time rumbling a low chuckle. "Well, don't worry," said Erik. "I'll go slow, and let me know if anything hurts, I'll adjust. You know, I get a few guys like you in now and then." I swallowed. You're my dad. You're my dad. You're my dad. I just needed to say it. Just say it. Through the hole in the table I saw his feet--barefoot. Strangely, I thought: what a leg. Thick. Well-muscled. He had that quality a lot of older men get on their legs, where the hair is lighter and sparse on their calves, but this only worked in his favor. Did he tan? He had a nice, even color to his skin. "Yeah?" I said, trying to focus. "Guys like me, you said?" "Oh, yeah." Suddenly, his hands. They were upon me, at the top of my shoulders. I felt him ease up to my right, felt his groin--that must be his groin--press against my bare shoulder. He wore a thin pair of shorts, and I felt what must have been his zipper. "You know," he said. "Young business guys. I have one who comes in after work, every Friday on the dot. I help release some of that tension." Okay. My dad was talented. My already numb mind vanished, as if it was trickling away, out of my ear. His hands were strong. Powerful, but they caressed my shoulders with soft, careful movements. He had oil that he rubbed into my skin, but even through the oil I could feel the calluses here and there. He pressed, heavy, and my body melted at his touch. "Of course," he said, and his voice was suddenly very low, "none of them look like you. Not nearly as handsome. Also--you're very tight," he said. "Tense. Still nervous?" "Y-yes." Handsome? I supposed it paid off, complimenting his clients. Still, it felt strange. You're my dad. You're my dad. You're my dad-- "Here. Let's see if we can work out some of those knots." Ouch. But also: Wow. His thumb drove down my spine, and he seemed drawn to my toughest, most stubborn areas. He worked my back, trading pain for warmth and pleasure as he eased each muscle. I had worked chest and back two days ago, and did not realize how much this was needed. Then, to my biceps. How should I bring this up? Down to my forearms. Maybe I should wait. Suddenly, my feet. I could not see; did he have a cold? I thought I heard a deep sniff. Up my legs. I can always tell him after. After the massage. My thighs. Those hands, wow he's strong-- My ass. I stiffened. The towel was gone, tossed aside, and Erik's enormous hands clutched each of my ass cheeks. He separated them--then pushed them back together--then again-- "Beautiful, Peter," said Erik. It clicked. Too late. Fuck. FUCK. How had I not seen this? West Village, Manhattan's gayest neighborhood--the perfect body, the massage business from home, the compliments-- Erik--my FATHER--was gay. A gay massage therapist--no, a gay sex worker, which was probably more accurate. And I was his client. His John. He was also rock hard. I felt his shorts grind into my thigh as he massaged my ass. Oh, no--he couldn't do this. I had to tell him, this was wrong-- "Erik, you're--you're my--" I gasped. Erik's had lurched forward, and suddenly, I felt his tongue. On my hole. My FATHER'S TONGUE. My dad was rimming me, lapping at my crack with a shocking amount of fervor, and I was rock-hard. This was wild--I had never been rimmed before, but WOW. Erik moaned into my ass, and I thought I was going to faint. I felt my ass grind back up--I wanted to crush him, squeeze his submissive face between my cheeks-- What was I doing? "Fuck," I said. "Erik--" "I know." I heard my dad moan into me. "This is bad business practice. I shouldn't. I don't usually rim my clients. But damn, boy--Peter, you have such an amazing body." He took another deep breath--a sniff. He was sniffing me. Smelling me. "Mmm." Then he chuckled. "I shouldn't be so worked up. I'm a professional, I swear. But I couldn't resist!" "I--we--" His tongue was back. It moved down, lapping at my balls-- "Turn around." Again, I was on autopilot. I turned. There he was. Erik Peterson was shirtless--when had that happened? He looked up at me as he perched between my legs. I felt my stomach turn. I swear, I had not come here with any incestous intention. I had not sexualized him, had refused to think of him as anything but my sperm-donor father. Sure, I had been impressed with his body, but he was my dad, and I was here to tell him-- Now, I knew I had been kidding myself. Erik Peterson was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. That incredible torso. That chest--he shaved, allowing every movement of his skin over that enormous muscle to be seen. His chest alone was a study in perfection. Staring at those pecs alone I felt my mouth water. He, too, was staring at me. I met his eyes, and I swear something was exploding between us. Hunger wrote itself over every line in his face. He blinked, and grinned at me. "Most of my clients just want a nice handjob," said Erik. "A quick happy ending. But--wow." His eyes drank me in. I was harder than I'd ever been in my life, my cock twitching painfully as it stood straight in the air. And Erik turned his hungry gaze to it, his eyes following its twitch. "Peter," he said, taking another long inhale through his nose, "fuck, you smell amazing--I really want to give you head. No extra charge, I swear." Was that the thing driving me crazy? I took my own deep sniff, inhaling the oil and sweat--and something deeply, frighteningly powerful underneath. Something I knew, just like I had KNOWN he was my dad, was his own deep, musky odor. I thought I would faint. It was intoxicating. It was unreal. I closed my eyes. I tried to block him out. I could still stop this. We had not done anything TOO wrong, not yet. I could still tell him. I could. I should. Letting an old guy suck me off in an alley while I call him `Daddy'--that was one thing. But this. I was crossing a terrible line now. This was incest. This was my biological father--and he didn't know. If I did not tell him, if I let him do this to me-- No. Fuck it. I needed him. "Suck my cock," I growled. I had never seen a man so happy. He leaned forward, and--holy shit--he took my entire length in one. I watched his mouth wrap around my cock, watched his jaw pop as he struggled with my girth--but Erik Peterson was a determined man. I had never wanted someone so badly. I gripped his hair--that beautiful, blonde-and-gray hair. My father's hair. After several turns, riding up and down my length, Erik gasped for breath. "Wow!" he said. "Peter. Kid. You have an amazing dick." "Thanks." "No, really. Jesus. I don't think--" Another sniff. "I'm so turned on." Erik took a long, endless whiff of my balls. "Never been this into a client. Fuck. You're doing something to me." Something had entered Erik's eyes, a wild fervor I had never seen in any man. It was a perfect reflection of how intensely turned on I was; I wanted to hold him, kiss him, get inside him, ruin him, love him-- His mouth was back, and dear god his tongue and lips were amazing. I squirmed as he took my whole length again, as his throat pushed around the head of my cock-- I was letting my dad suck me off. I was committing incest. Real incest. And he didn't even know. I bucked. I fucked into his throat, desperate. He didn't recoil, but grasped my hips, pulling me in-- I came. Jesus Christ I came. I yelled, unleashing the most aching and deepest orgasm of my life. I was deep, buried in his throat, my leg was hooked around my father's head, and I would not let him go-- Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. Slowly, I came to. My throat hurt from yelling. My dick twitched, sensitive, as I pulled out of his throat. As my vision returned, I saw my father's very red face, saw his throat jump as he gulped. His expression was my own: perfect, exquisite ecstasy. "I--did you--" "Oh, Peter." At last Erik released my penis, gasping for air. His hands were gone from the table. I sat up to see him clutching his own crotch. A blossom of dark wetness stained the fabric. "Did you--" He grinned at me. "I was edging most of the massage. Then your cum. I tasted you, and that did it," he said. "God damn, I was so turned on." "Just from--" "Giving head? Yeah." He stood, shaky. "Don't get me wrong, I love giving head, but that's not normal for me. I wasn't lying, you turned me on like crazy." I simply sat, unsure what to do. Unsure what to say. But Erik Peterson did not seem bothered. He was glowing. The expression of a man who had not only just had sex, but loved it. Shamelessly loved it. He kissed me. (My father) kissed me. "Come back, okay?" he said. "Please. I want to take that dick again." "O-okay." "I mean it. I loved that, Peter." His hand touched my cheek. "The massage you have to pay for. But the head, and the kiss?" He winked. "Those are free."