Date: Fri, 22 Oct 2021 20:06:08 +0000 (UTC)
From: Mary Ramsey <dourdan@yahoo.com>
Subject: The day I fucked my girlfriend's father

The day I fucked my girlfriend's father (3,000 words) is a character
study inspired by a novel I'm writing.
(M/M) all characters are over 18.

If there is interest I can continue this little side story.

_____

It had been a few weeks since I came to live with my best friend's family
(by that I just mean her estranged father who heroically swooped in, to
our rescue.) Despite being separated for most of her life, her father had
been more than kind and accommodating, allowing a disabled veteran and
his 18-year-old son to move into the furnished basement of his newly
purchased McMansion. For that, I would be forever grateful.

I had made myself a workstation, sitting just under the vent. This was so
I could craft my projects without leaving my father's side, while also
taking in the fresh air of Upstate New York. This, unfortunately, gave me
a front-row seat to my childhood friend offering herself like a buffet to
a bunch of older guys. (I could hear five distinct voices.) They called
her all manner of names, but she just laughed like a teen girl trying to
act cool to a bunch of frat boys.

I quickly turned away, attempting to focus on my project. I managed to
locate some scrap materials and a set of tools.

A little while later I could hear her tapping on the metal grate. "Hi,
Marcus."

"Hi, Becca."

"What'cha doing?" Becca said in her best Harley Quinn impression. She was
still the same wise-ass tomboy who used to protect me from bullies at the
orphanage.

"Just making something." I could hear her fidgeting with something in her
hand; cigarettes, paper money, maybe even drugs.

"What are you making?"

My mind went blank for a moment. "A wheelchair."

"Your dad doesn't have a wheelchair?" she asked, taking an audible drag
off her cigarette. "He's missing a leg after all."

I took a breath to steady my overboiling rage. Why the fuck was she
talking like that? "We had to leave everything behind," I said calmly.
she already knew my story; she knew what my father and I were fleeing.

"My dad let you use his tools?"

I froze, realizing I had not thought to ask. I had been too tired from
foraging for material; metal, plastic, rubber, anything I could use to
construct a chair that would at least stand up under its own weight. "If
I break anything I'll pay for it."

"Whatever," she said taking a loud drag off her cigarette. "He's rich, he
doesn't care. And he likes you. You're like the child he never paid for,"
she chuckled. "No, wait that's me."  Her hatred for him was evident.
"Just don't tell him you saw me."

"I didn't." Technically she was on the other side of the vent.

"Good because I'm going to try to sell a few of my dad's medals."

"Yeah, right." Jayden Michael Lorri was an Olympic-level martial artist
(six gold, two silvers, and a single bronze, all while representing his
home country of Ireland.) He made his impressive fortune as a champion
MMA fighter, living and working all around the globe. This was why Becca
only met him in person a little over a year ago.

"Yeah, I am right," she replied in a mocking tone. "There's a scrap
metal kiosk at the mall, one of those cash for gold places. I figure if I
can smash the medals against a rock, or something, it should be all
good."

"Right, good luck with that." Becca's behavior was disgusting. Her
father just wanted to have a relationship with her, but she saw him as
the bad guy. It wasn't his fault her alcoholic American-born mother never
told him he had a daughter.

"Whatever." Becca scoffed and walked off into the distance. I just had to
hope she would do the right thing and not get us kicked out.

Emotionally exhausted, I gave up on my project for the time being. My
father was asleep in the living room turned bedroom, and it had been well
over an hour since I'd checked on him.

I washed my hands with a nearby garden hose. When I returned to my
father's room, Jay was already there. From the open doorway, he appeared
to be naked, holding my father in his arms. With his tan, post-workout
body, and black hair worn in a fauxhawk, Jay could pass for a personal
trainer or a really cool physical therapist.

"I'm just going to help you stretch a bit," the man said in his thick
Irish accent. "Just tell me if it becomes too painful."

My father nodded. His thick blonde facial hair was in need of a trim, but
his blue eyes made him look angelic. The image reminded me of the famous
statue of Mary holding the limp body of Jesus after he was removed from
the cross. "Have you seen my boy?"

Jay looked up, his eyes meeting mine. "He just stepped out, I'm sure
he'll be back shortly."

My father nodded, unable to hide the tears in his eyes. "You're a good
man, you've done far more than even God ever requires," he swallowed
hard, choking down what little moisture he had in his throat. "Please
take care of my son. Help him become a strong, compassionate person,
someone who can live up to their potential." He closed his eyes. "I
don't know what I'm saying, this is just the ramblings of a dying man.
I guess," my father paused, blinking tears from his eyes. "Don't let
the world break his spirit."

"I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to tell him yourself."
There was something comforting about his accent. Becca always said he
sounded like an angry drunken stereotype, but I had never even seen him
take a sip of alcohol. To me, he seemed kind, like a regal knight or a
maybe even a priest.

"I doubt he'd take advice from me. Not after all that's happened. I
failed him as a father, as a man."

"Hello, Mr. Lorri," I said, somewhat nervously. Would it have been more
polite to leave and come back later? "I thought you were upstairs in the
gym? I mean not that you can't come down here, it's your house after
all." I ended my awkward statement with a forced laugh.

"As I feared, your father has a touch of fever," Jay said.

"You came down to check on us?" I asked. This would have been the ideal
time to ask about the tools, but I lost my nerve before I got the chance.

"Yes, Marcus," Jay said, his voice attempting to wash away the bizarre
drama of what he just heard. "I'm going to see if I have anything I can
give him for the pain."

"Thank you, that's very kind." When Jay left the bed, I took a moment to
hold my father's hand, just to let him know I was still there. he still
had the bruises from what my mother had done; what no person has the
right to do to any human being.

Jay patted my shoulder, then reclined my father's body on the bed. He
sighed, as he took a step towards me. "Why don't we take a walk." Jay put
his arm around my shoulder like an older brother.

"Yeah, sure." I walked with him out of the bedroom, into the hallway.

Jay paused, allowing me to catch up. "I'll make sure he gets the
treatment he needs; you have my word."

I silently nodded a thank you, as he was just trying to be kind, but my
lips spoke my inner truth. "There's no treatment that will stop the
seizures, or undue all the shit my mother did to him."

Jay looked at me with compassion and empathy. "If that's the case, we'll
keep trying until we find what works."

Jay walked up the stairs to the main floor. I followed, making sure to
stand in his shadow. "Have you seen Becca?"

"Not for a while," he said while stretching his arm across his muscular
chest. "She usually escapes into the countryside, but that's to be
expected for a teenage girl."

"Yeah, I guess so." As he lowered his arms I could see a yellow rose with
the words, `Rebecca Marie' tattooed on his upper-ribs (along with what
I assumed was my friend's birthdate.) Part of me wanted to say
something, instead I followed him into his bedroom, taking a seat on his
massive bed while he went towards the bathroom.

With the door open, he looked through his cabinet, where he located a
bottle of pills. "This will help him get a bit of sleep. Wait here I'll
be back in a moment and we can talk about my lovely daughter's new
hobbies."

I forced a chuckle as he left me alone in the room. I did as he asked and
stayed seated, but soon boredom got the better of me. Looking through his
nightstand I found all manner of condoms and lube, and other
battery-operated toys meant for internal pleasure. Becca always told me
he was a slut, a man-whore who could never devote himself to one partner.

Did that give her the right to sell herself for cigarette money? I guess
so. I mean, why not? It's her life.

Jay came back moments later, just in time to catch me slamming a drawer
shut.

"I'm sorry. I was just looking. I wasn't going to steal anything."

"Nothing to steal in there." Jay put his arms around me, allowing me to
bury my face in his shoulder. "You're a good kid, Marcus."

It was all I could do not to cry. "Thank you, sir."

Jay patted my back. "Don't let the cruelties of this world break your
spirit, son. You're too good for that."

I could take in his scent; a soothing mix of sweat and the sweet, bitter
oil he used on his skin. My lips parted and for whatever reason, my
tongue slipped out just enough to take a taste.

He could have stopped me, but he didn't. Jay's only goal seemed to be to
comfort me.

I turned his head to face mine, glancing into his dark eyes. For a moment
time stopped. I stared at him trying to get a read on his mental state.

Jay stroked my cheek, down my jaw. "It's ok."

My lips brushed against his.

Jay was already half-naked, dressed only in his workout gear. he paused
for breath, his mouth hovering over mine, as he held my hand. I had never
questioned my sexuality. Well, maybe I did. Women seemed to be born to
hurt people; to cause pain in the name of empowerment. Not Jay. He was
strong, powerful, and he was hard.

I could feel his erection pressed against the fabric of his boxers. There
was just a thin layer of fabric between me and him. All I wanted was
someone to hold me.

He could have pushed me off, I wouldn't have blamed him, but he chose not
to.

Jay laid back, letting me touch him; down his chest to his stomach. The
older man's body was strong in a way that felt superhuman. I could feel
the heartbeat of every muscle, every cell, just begging for a release.

I lowered the waistband of his boxers, freeing the magnificent creature
within. He was bigger than I imagined; a nine-inch shaft with an
uncircumcised tip that was already covered in precum. And, of course, he
was shaved, making his abs and hips look even more chiseled.

I traced my finger, studying the v-shaped muscle of his lower stomach.
His sculpted body was a road map with all paths leading to his throbbing
cock. "You're so beautiful."

I could feel his body tense. I walked my fingers down his stomach,
tracing his perfect abs. Everything about Becca's dad was perfect. I
kissed the side of his shaft, letting my saliva lube his foreskin. He
tasted the way I always thought he would; masculine, powerful, clean.

I had never taken a cock in my mouth. (As far as I knew I was doing it
wrong.) But Jay was kind. He was someone I could finally trust. With that
in mind, I dove right in, letting him fuck my throat.

Jay gripped my hair. His strong hands; hands that punched their way to
victory, those same hands massaged my scalp with gentle pressure. He was
holding me just firmly enough to let me know he wanted me right where I
was.

Jay was moaning, grunting, making sounds I'd only ever heard in porn.
With his leg bent at the knee I could get a full breath of his scent; his
ass, his balls. Did the sweat taste different, the deeper I went between
his legs? Only one way to find out. I removed my mouth from his
well-lubed cock. To maintain the momentum, I started to jerk him off with
my hands, making sure to rub the tip. And then I gave his thick, sweaty
balls a nice slow lick.

Jay leaned his head back, his hand gripping the blankets. "Oh fuck." Jay
reached for a pillow, holding it over his face, he was close to orgasm.

I wanted him inside me; to fuck me, to own me, to love me. But I was
weak, I wasn't ready. Instead, I returned my lips to his cock, pumping
his shaft with one hand while massaging his balls with the other.

Jay blew his load all over my mouth. I tried to hold his entire length
inside my throat, but his raw, intense power was more than I could
swallow. His cum was all over my lips, my chin, oozing down my neck. And
he wasn't done yet. I let the last of it fall onto his stomach, along
with his limp, exhausted cock.

Jay removed the pillow from his face, stretching his neck with a look of
pure bliss and relaxation. "That was nice."

I turned, getting a good look at his unique features. His black hair, tan
skin and dark blue eyes. I had never been to Ireland, (or anywhere
outside the United States) but he did not look like a typical northern
European.

"Are you black Irish?" I asked. I'd heard the term but wasn't entirely
certain of its meaning.

Jay ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. "You mean, is there Spanish
in my blood?"

"Is that what that term means?" My voice dropped to a whisper. "I
actually don't know."

"Well, that makes two of us," he replied with a friendly smirk.

"You don't know what `Black Irish' means?"

"No. I'm certain I know what it means. The word refers to people with
dark hair and fair skin; the folks who look like ghosts walking among the
living," he laughed even harder. "Only kidding, mate."

"Oh, um ok." I forced a chuckle, just to appear as if I understood his
sense of humor.

"My parents were grade school sweethearts, she had nothing but good
things to say about him, but unfortunately no pictures or mementos of the
like."

"He passed away?" I assumed, since if they were divorced, she would
have certainly had something nasty to say about her former partner.

"Yes, bio dad died before I was born. According to my nan he was away on
holiday with his family someplace overseas. The man could have been
Spanish, Arab even American. All I know is that when I was ten, my mother
followed my bastard of a stepfather to London. I survived for a few
years, then she got knocked up with my half-sister and I was sent to live
with my grandparents in Dublin.

"I'm sorry."

Jay chuckled. "You have nothing to be sorry for. The moment my mum put
me on that plane was the moment my life changed for the better.

He reached for my hand. That felt nice. If that was all he had done, I
could have gladly stayed in that bed for the rest of the day. Then he
placed his hand (and by extension mine as well) under my filthy t-shirt.

I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he wanted me to
touch myself and he was just going to watch. Yeah, that had to be it.

"You're not into it?"

Apparently, my lack of an erection gave me away. "It's not that."

"You don't have to be nervous; I just like to blow off some steam, God
gave us sex as a way to own our bodies, find our strength."

I'd never thought of it like that before."

The year I won my first gold, I fucked my way through the Olympic
village." Jay touched my stomach, resting just above the zipper of my
jeans. "There's something about human sexuality that connects people."

This caused my muscles to clench. My breath was caught in my throat. He
wanted to be with me, and I had to go and ruin it with my stupid fucking
PTSD. "I'm sorry. I'm a virgin." That was easier than the truth.

I expected him to say something mean or cruel, but that was not his
nature. Instead, he moved his hand to my leg giving a comforting pat to
my clothed thigh.

"You don't need to be sorry, son. Like I said, you have nothing to be
sorry for." Jay reached for my hand, giving my fingers a tender squeeze,
as he sat up.

I blinked tears from my eyes. "Yeah, sure. I guess."

"We can do this again sometime. Right now, I think we should go check on
your dad."

"Ok." I sat up, ready to face him.

Jay placed his finger to my chin, pausing as if trying to think up the
right words to say. "I know what happened to you, and what your father
endured to save you from that Hell. I can't ask you to trust me, or even
have faith in my character." He leaned forward, and kissed my forehead,
down my nose to my lips; his mouth was gentle, soft, and above all Jay
had never hurt me.

How sad was that? My heart was so weak, the best I could do was to love
someone who'd never caused me physical or emotional harm. (At least not
yet, anyway.)