Date: Sat, 17 Jul 2010 15:23:46 -0400
From: Josh Halaka <josh.halaka@gmail.com>
Subject: seducing-my-father part 3

--Usual disclaimers apply. You probably shouldn't be reading this.--

My parents' marriage was quickly dissolving while I was going through my
sexual awakening. My father had started sleeping on the couch on the nights
my mom got drunk. She wasn't working, so there were very few nights when
she wasn't inebriated by the time he got home from work. He spent his
evenings in front of the TV, and she spent her time... Actually, I'm not
sure what she was doing. Probably cleaning. That was the one nice side
effect of her alcoholism - our house was spotless and neither my father nor
I had to lift a finger. She was a hyper-functional alcoholic, as long as
you never engaged her in conversation.

My father was retreating further and further into himself during this
period. He rarely spoke to either of us, embarrassed by his inability to
mend our broken family. He was stoic in the best of times and downright
immobile in the worst.

When he would pull back from us and retreat to his overstuffed recliner in
front of the TV, I would crawl into his lap and sit with him. There wasn't
anything initially sexual about it - I had been sitting with him since I
was a child and he never turned me away although he would occasionally
comment that I was getting too old to sit in his lap. I think my slight
frame made it easier for him to allow it. I was very small for 14, small
enough that he could still feel that I needed to be protected. I express
feelings in a very tactile way and I think the physical contact comforted
and grounded him. He could pull back from his family emotionally but he had
a daily physical reminder of where he was and how he was needed.

As my mother's alcoholism progressed she was often absent in the
evenings. She would typically pass out somewhere in the master suite, often
not making it to her bed before slipping into unconsciousness. My father
and I would sit together night after night, wordlessly watching TV until
one night when there was an audible thump from the direction of my mom's
bedroom. I got up off him and he went to check on her. She had passed out
in the bathroom while still on her feet and he dragged her to her bed. When
he returned, I was sitting on the couch. He got into his chair and patted
his lap, looking a bit how I imagine death row inmates look: grim,
exhausted, and ultimately resigned to his fate.

I hopped into the chair and threw my arms around him and burying my face in
his neck. He stiffened, but eventually relaxed and hugged me back, all the
while reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. After that night
the floodgates opened. He would talk to me for hours when we would sit
together. Often times I didn't have much to offer in return, but I listened
intently to him talk about his day and offer me advice about school and
friends. He was so naturally distant that I saw any forward momentum as
progress. I still was very cognizant of my desire to seduce him, but I was
beginning to realize that I would need him to come to rely on me before I
could hope of anything more happening. My attentiveness and reverence gave
him confidence that my mother's lack of attention had all but stripped
away.

We had been talking for a few weeks when the weekend phone call with the
older man heightened my desire for my father. The Monday night following
the phone call was a particularly bad one for my mother and she was well
into the blackout-stage by 7pm or so.

After she tumbled up to bed, I moved from the couch onto my father's lap. I
was wearing a long tee shirt and a pair of white briefs and he was in his
boxers and a tank top. Instead of sitting in my usual spot on his thigh, I
sat directly in his lap. When I settled in, I could feel his soft penis in
the cleft of my ass. He tried to move me, but all the wiggling was making
things more difficult for him. Eventually he stop trying to adjust and left
me where I was.

We weren't talking as much that night as he was intently focused on
ESPN. When the game he was watching ended he started flipping channels. It
was late and we were both enjoying the comfortable silence. He eventually
came to rest on a Sci-Fi movie on HBO. It turned out to be Species II, a
movie solely created to display Natasha Henstridge's ample... acting
talents. As we were watching an incredibly hot guy hooking up with sisters
(that looked absolutely nothing like each other, but whatever, I'll never
understand soft core porn), I noticed that my dad was starting to get
hard. This, despite the aforementioned incredibly hot guy sprouting
tentacles from his well-sculpted shoulders as he came. Sexual frustration
allows for a lot of things to be overlooked, I suppose. I was leaning back
against his chest and his hands were gripping the arms of the chairs so
hard that his knuckles were white. I waited until the scene was over and he
was starting to calm down before I started wiggling and squirming for all I
was worth. His dick turned diamond hard in no time.

"Stop it," he snapped. I giggled. He grabbed my thighs, hard, and started
to lift me off. I went for broke and reached behind me to grab his dick. He
forcibly threw me off of his lap and clear across the room. "Just knock it
the fuck off."

He got up from his chair and quickly went upstairs. I heard the bathroom
door slam and the overhead fan come on. Despite having been unceremoniously
chucked across the room, I felt like I had accomplished something. He was
beginning to understand how willing I was to service him and I was sure
that he was up there jacking off. I just hoped he was thinking of me and
not of Natasha Henstridge.

For the next week I completely avoided him. It took incredible control not
to try something again, but I thought that after the conversations we'd had
and the incident in the chair it was for the best. I rationalized that if
he started to miss me he'd be more susceptible to being touched once I
reinitiated contact. On day two, when he tried to start a conversation
about summer plans, I nodded politely and busied myself elsewhere. On day
five, a Saturday, he told me that he was taking me to the mall and a movie;
I told him I had other plans and that mom was going to drop me off at a
friend's house. The next morning he sat down across from me in the kitchen
while I was eating breakfast. Mom hadn't gotten up yet.

"Are you upset about the other night? I'm sorry I pushed you so hard but
you can't do stuff like that. I'm your dad." I didn't look up from my
bowl. "I thought we were doing well. I know things aren't great right now
and that you're confused-"

"I'm not confused." They were the first words I had spoken to him in almost
a week. I spoke just above a whisper and he asked me to repeat myself. "I
said that I'm not confused." I wouldn't look him in the eye. There was a
long pause, and I was starting to worry that he was going to hit me. Or
worse, that he would get up and leave.

"Okay, then maybe *I* am." His voice was sharp, and the frustration was
palpable. "You can't grab me like that. You shouldn't even be sitting in my
lap at your age, you're practically a man. I'm glad that we're getting
closer but you're making it really hard." I giggled. Come on, I was 14,
what do you expect? There was another long pause before he started
laughing. It was one of those absolutely absurd moments when a laugh takes
on a life of its own and you're just along for the ride. When we finally
stopped, my face was wet with tears and he was smiling at me. He put on a
mock solemn face and asked, "So will you go to a movie with me, or do I
have to wait another week to have a conversation with my son?" I relented.

For the next week I was my father's shadow. He still wouldn't let me crawl
into his lap, but I used every opportunity I could to touch him. When he
would enter a room, I'd brush against him; when he sat on the couch I
cuddled up next to him; when he was in my way I'd slide past him making
sure that my ass brushed his crotch. He was still taller than me, so I had
to do it on my tip-toes. I made it as obvious as I could that I would
happily serve as his sexual surrogate. I'd fix my gaze on whatever patch of
skin on his body was exposed and just smile at him when he caught me. At
first, I think he almost found it flattering and deliberately let me catch
him in just his boxers or a towel. After a few days he became increasingly
jumpy and discomposed. When he saw me coming he tensed and practically
jumped out of the way to avoid my touch. I was absolutely drunk with the
power I was able to exert over him. If I wanted him to leave a room I would
just have to stare at him until he looked my way.

The following Friday night was a game changer. My mother was first-stage
drunk (ultimately incapable of intelligent conversation but no noticeable
motor impairment) and was getting ready to go out and see a friend of
hers. When my mother would try to leave the house after 5pm, my parents
would inevitably have the same argument. My father didn't want her to drive
drunk; she retorted that if she was sober enough to argue with him then she
was sober enough to drive. Flimsy, but strangely effective. I think my
father was just too tired of it to argue. This night was a little different
as she was supposed to take me along with her so I could get my haircut on
the way. It's hard to remember exact details of the fight, but it ended
with my mom storming out of the house with an overnight bag (and without
me) and my father dumping her booze down the drain. He drank heartily from
one of the bottles before he tossed it out and went to take a shower,
mumbling about how he was going to sleep in his own damn bed for once. I
rarely saw my father drink, and I was worried. I went into my parents' room
and sat on his bed while he showered. My mother had slipped a few times in
the shower while drunk and I wanted to make sure I was close by in case he
needed me. He was in there for at least 20 minutes before I heard the water
turn off.

He emerged from the bathroom like a cross between a porn star and a Greek
god. He had a towel wrapped around his narrow waist, and the hair on his
pecs was beaded with water. His hair was disheveled, the tips dripping
water onto the floor around him. He didn't have defined abdominals, but he
was trim and the trail of hair from his chest that disappeared under the
towel was matted down and gave the appearance of an arrow pointing to a
prize. The steam from the shower seemed to cling to him, as if to blur the
background. My father was just a few years shy of 40 but had the body of a
25 year old. To this day the image of him dripping and smoldering with a
fluffy orange towel around his waist is burned into my memory. He laid eyes
on me and smiled. It was a sloppy smile, one I hadn't seen on him
before. He crashed onto the bed next to me and ruffled my hair.

"You checking up on me?" he slurred. Ah, my father was tipsy. Interesting.

"You're getting water everywhere!" I wailed.

"Oh noooooo!" The expression of mock horror on his face got me laughing,
and he took the opportunity to wrap his arms around me and rub his wet hair
on my tee shirt. The laughing fit got worse as he started tickling me and I
tried in vain to get him to stop. My father is incredibly competitive, and
in his semi-drunken state he must have taken my resistance as a
challenge. He started to toss me around the bed, laughing and pinning me.

I'm not sure how it happened. We've talked about it a few times over the
years and his memory of that night is spotty at best. Best I can make of
it, he ended up on his back with me half draped over him, my leg pressing
into his dick... his very hard, pulsing dick. He was still covered by the
towel although it had come undone and his thigh was partially exposed. I
went for broke and wrapped my hand around his towel-covered cock. He didn't
stop me.

"Fuuuuck," he sighed as I started stroking him through the towel. "It's
been soooo long." His voice was barely above a whisper.

I jacked him through the towel for what seemed like an hour, but was
probably more like 2 minutes. It really had been a long time since a hand
other than his own had touched him like that. He bucked up, moaning, and I
felt his dick pulse. His body twitched, his eyes squeezed shut and his toes
curled. For a minute he didn't move.

"Oh, god..." he moaned, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me to his
chest, "I love you so much."

Victory.

--I know, I know, I need to hurry it up. There's still about 8 years of
really good shit to get through, just be patient. Thank you -again- for all
of the really awesome emails you guys have sent. It has been an insane head
rush and I get a big dopey smile on my face every time someone says they
enjoyed my story. It's really flattering and humbling to hear people say
they like it. I know it isn't all that wank-worthy just yet, but if you're
looking for downright nasty, unapologetic smut... Just wait a little
longer.--