Date: Mon, 9 Sep 2019 20:07:04 -0400 From: RJ Subject: Common Law - Ch. 5 Common Law by RJ This piece of fiction is about a teenager who finds himself co-parenting his son with his father. If you are offended by themes of incest and adult/youth, 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. A list of my works, including links and descriptions, can be found here: https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI. If you would like to be added to a mailing list for this story (or all stories) and receive emails about any updates, let me know. Please also consider donating to Nifty if you can: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html ~ Chapter 5 ~ Much like last night, I feel someone shaking me out of sleep, but this time, it's not the sure, strong grip of my father: it's something much smaller and more timid. Then, I hear Mason's little voice coaxing me out of sleep: "Daddy? Daaaddy. Wake up!" I grumble, my eyes slowly opening and turning towards my son. I don't feel that irritation I felt last night when I thought he was rousing me from sleep. Hearing that boyish whine in his voice unlocks that instinctive thought: my son needs me. When I open my eyes and glance over, Mason's standing at the edge of a bed -- Dad's bed. He's peering at me with a slight pout, still just in his briefs, Pandy hanging from his grip. "Mace?" I ask. "You weren't in bed," Mason says, clearly hurt that I abandoned him. "I'm sorry, buddy," I say sleepily, slowly waking up a little more. "I was... uh..." Was what? Making out with your grandpa? Grinding my hard cock against his? Accepting his thick, paternal load onto my body? "Papa needed company," I settle with, talking quietly. Dad's still asleep behind me. Somehow, we ended up spooning in the middle of the night, and I can feel his warm breath against the back of my neck, making regular time with the rise and fall of his chest. We're still naked, completely exposed on top of the covers. I guess he never turned down the heat last night, because I'm still quite toasty -- though I'm sure he won't be happy about how much that'll cost. "Oh," Mason says, blinking a bit as he stands on his tip-toes to try to get a look at his Papa Joel. He seems to respond well to the idea that my dad needed me, but I can tell he's still not okay with waking up alone. So, I act quickly, eager to make it up to him. "C'mere, little man," I say, patting the spot in front of me. Instantly, Mason's face splits into a happy grin, and he tosses Pandy onto the bed before climbing up himself. He slides up close me so that we're face to face, with his panda bear situated between us. One big happy family. I can't help but smile at him, at this moment -- and he takes notice. "You look happy," he says. I laugh softly, resting a hand on his hip. I must be smiling pretty fucking widely for him to comment on that. "I am," I tell him. "Did you have a good dream?" I smile softly, soaking in the feeling of Dad's nude form pressed up against me, a strong arm loosely draped over my torso. Thank fucking God it wasn't a dream. "The best," I say with a little grin. Mason giggles and reaches over to trace my smile with his fingertips. I playfully nip at them when they touch my bottom lip, and he lets out a little squeal before snatching his fingers back. "I had a good dream too." "Oh yeah?" I ask softly. "What about?" "I was swimming in an *ocean* of Cookie Crisp," he says, and I snort a little at the dreamy look in his eye. "It was delicious." "It's not swimming if you eat your way through, mister," I tease, tickling his tummy lazily. He laughs, grabbing hold of my hand to keep from distracting him. "I can eat and swim too!" he says defiantly. "I'm *amazing*." I try not to laugh too loudly and wake Dad, but this kid, my fucking boy, is too precious. "That you are, baby," I say, leaning forward and kissing his forehead. I let my lips linger so that he understands the sincerity. He smiles happily at the kiss, his face flushed with that little glow that being appreciated brings. I can tell he feels it, and that warms my heart. But he's quick to switch gears. "Can we make cereal?" he asks. "We don't have Cookie Crisp," I remind him. "That's okay. I just want cereal." "Right now?" I ask, somewhat hesitant to get up. I'm too comfortable. "What time is it?" "Early," he says simply. I sigh through my nose and force myself to half-sit up, glancing at the clock on Dad's nightstand: 6:42 AM. Goddamn, Mason. Such an early bird today. "You really want cereal right now?" I ask, wishing the cabinets weren't so tall so he could just get it himself. He nods. "Pretty please?" he asks, opening his eyes wider, pursing his lips purposefully. There's no way I'm saying no after he gives me *that* look -- and I'm sure he knows it by now, the little fucker. I just groan a bit before nodding. "Alright. Fine." "Yay!" he says excitedly, a hair too loud, but I quickly tell him to be quiet. "Papa's still sleeping, alright?" I whisper, holding his arm. "Keep it down." "Oops," he says, blushing before he very quietly whispers an apology to his sleeping grandfather. I just smile, tousling his hair before patting his bare thigh. "Alright. Let's go," I say. Grabbing his panda bear, he hops off the bed with a burst of youthful energy and sprints out of the room, giggling to himself. I smile a bit before I reluctantly slide away from Dad. I hear him mumble in his sleep, and when I turn back, I watch him shift onto his stomach and then expel a long, peaceful sigh. Fuck, he's so handsome: the muscled back, the bulging biceps, the shapely ass. The power he exudes is so attractive, but the tenderness I see in him (especially when he sleeps) is the sexiest part. I turn to look at the floor, at our scattered clothes: two shirts, a pair of pajama pants, and my boxers, all in slightly different locations. Seeing them now makes my stomach flip a bit, makes my face feel warm, makes me bite my lip. As I pick up the clothes I intended to sleep in and pull them on, the same question that came to me after that kiss at the bar starts pestering me: Now what? I head out of my Dad's room, messing with my hair as I head into the kitchen where Mason already has his lucky spoon picked out (a member of the basic set that has a bend in the handle) and the carton of milk situated on the kitchen table. I smile at him as he waits for me to reach up into the cabinets to pull out a bowl and a box of Honey Comb. I don't make him wait too long, considering he's practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. I pour him a large helping of cereal before handing him the bowl, and he squeaks and murmurs a quick "Thank you, boyfriend," before running to the table, pouring his milk, and diving in, Pandy resting in his lap. "Make sure you brush your teeth as soon as you're done," I tell him, "since you didn't last night." "I will," he chirps. I smile and decide to join him at the table, fixing a bowl of cereal for myself. Before I sit next to him, I start up the coffee machine so that Dad can get his morning fix whenever he wakes up. Then, I run my fingers through Mason's hair, and he gives me a smile mid-chew as I sit down, some of the milk slipping out of his mouth and dripping down his chin. I laugh softly. "Don't make a mess, kiddo." He swallows before giggling and saying "Sorry." I give him a napkin to wipe his face, and he gives himself one quick swipe before continuing to devour his breakfast. "Slow down or you'll choke," I warn him, amused as I take slower bites of my own cereal. "But I'm hung-ee," Mason slurs with his mouth full. "Yeah, well, I prefer you alive," I tease, reaching over to nudge his chin affectionately with my fist. He just smiles gently as he chews, blushing but slowing down like I asked. We take a few more minutes to each eat our breakfast before Mason graciously takes our bowls and rinses them off in the sink. I smile at the sight of him in his little briefs, using the step-stool to reach the faucet, being all responsible without me even asking. As he washes the bowls with soap and a sponge, he asks me if I want to play that drawing game again. His friends at school have been playing a cute little art game on their downtime, where each person takes a turn drawing one element of a picture to create something special (or, more often than not, funny). While he's washing the dishes, I grab a blank piece of paper and a pencil from the supplies drawer before sitting back at the table. What to draw, what to draw... I tap the eraser against my lip a few times in thought. Why not a person? So, I start with the head, making a general outline of a square-jawed face before I wait for Mason to return. He smiles when he comes back to the table and sees that I've started something up. I worry that he won't realize it's supposed to be a human, but quickly, he snatches up the pencil and draws on some crazy, spiked hair. I laugh, using my turn to add the neck with a little arrow-through-the-heart tattoo on it. Back and forth we go, slowly building this man's body piece by piece before we get to the clothes. Just then, I hear someone walk in: Dad. He pauses when he enters the kitchen, and after what feels like a mini-staring contest between the two of us, Dad smiles gently. "Hey." That soft, deep timbre of his voice wakes me up in more ways than one. "Hey," I say back, just as softly. I try my best not to eye him, but he's only wearing his pajama pants. The lack of a shirt is incredibly distracting. "Morning, Papa," Mason says cheerfully. Dad sends a smile Mason's way. "Morning, buddy," he says, scratching his chest before stepping into the kitchen. On his way past the table, he ruffles Mason's hair, and I'm momentarily jealous until I realize Mason was within reach and I wasn't. What if I had been sitting where my son is? Would Dad have tousled my hair too? Or, better yet, would he have intimately combed his fingers through? What about a soft caress from the top of my shoulder to the back of my neck, as if to say "I remember"? Dad's voice distracts me from my little fantasy daydreaming. "You made me coffee?" "What?" I look over and laugh, seeing him peer at the coffee machine in mild confusion. "Oh. Yeah. You're welcome," I tease. He smiles gently before pulling the pot out of the machine. "Thanks, kid," he says, carrying the hot coffee to the cabinet so he can grab a mug. Unsurprisingly, he grabs one of the *many* mugs we have featuring Mason and myself. For every birthday, Father's Day, and Christmas, I take Mason to the mall to get a silly picture of us printed on a mug for Dad -- and now we have quite the collection. "What's the plan for today?" I ask vaguely, soaking in the sight of his nude back. "To try and relax," he says with a sigh, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of coffee. I smile when I see the bracelet Mason and I made for him is still on his wrist. "I have a couple contracts to sort out, though. Might do all that this morning. And I gotta grocery shop later." "I left a list on the counter," I say, and he concurs with a nod. Mason slides the paper towards me, and when I look down, I laugh. In contrast to the normal-looking shirt I gave our caped-superhero, Mason gave him what are clearly supposed to be undies. He made them striped, somewhat reminiscent of those old-school inmate outfits. "What about you?" Dad asks. "Just the yard work I've neglected," I say as I give our creation glasses. Mason chuckles, taking back the paper and deciding what to draw next. "Good, good," Dad says. When I look over at him, we make eye contact again. The tension is real and undeniable, but it's far different from yesterday's. The ride home from Olly's felt stressful and, in a way, dangerous -- like we were walking on thin ice, barefoot, with shards of glass sprinkled across the surface. This tension feels lighter because we allowed ourselves to take the plunge last night. This morning, the connection between us only feels tense because we're too far apart from each other. I want to be nearer to him, in his arms, on his lips, skin-to-skin, with nothing in between us. "Well I'll leave you two to it, then," he says, coming over to the table to stand between our chairs. "I'll be upstairs if you need me." He first puts a hand on Mason's shoulder as he leans in, and automatically, Mason knows to lean back and tilt his head in order to accept a little smooch from Papa Joel. The moment is so fluid and organic that I smile gently to myself. Then, Dad turns to me, his eyes on my lips. He seems to hesitate for a moment before deciding to lean in and give me a kiss too -- right on my lips. It's quick and tender, like the one he gave Mason, but I smile right up against his mouth and kiss him back before he pulls away. "Bye, Dad," I murmur softly, just for him. He smiles back tenderly. "Bye, son." He turns and heads out of the kitchen, and I bite my lip as I watch him disappear around the corner. Fucking sexy motherfucker. God, why am I hard just from that little kiss? I hear Mason giggling softly, and when I glance at him, his eyes are pointed towards me. "What's so funny?" I ask. "You kiss Papa now, too?" I blink. "Um... Yeah, I guess," I say before laughing slightly. Then I give him a teasing grin. "Is that okay with you, smoochy?" Mason giggles a little louder before nodding. "Super okay." It's just me and my son all morning. After we finish our silly superhero creation, we stick that piece of paper onto the fridge and smile proudly at it: a buff man in briefs with wonky eyes, mismatched limbs, and electrified hair, but we made him together and had fun doing it. That's what's important. Then, in the interest of being lazy, the two of us (along with Pandy) retire to the living room and spend the remainder of our morning watching a two of Mason's favorite movies back-to-back: The Emperor's New Groove and WALL-E. I find WALL-E to be especially riveting, considering how it blends important, "adult" themes with fun animations palatable for a kid Mason's age. Of all the movies Mason is especially into lately, this one might be my favorite. But before I can really settle into it, I hear Dad's voice calling for me from upstairs: "Mitch! Can you, uh, come up here a sec?" Immediately, I grin. Fuck the movie. Dad wants me. I can hear it in his tone: slightly unsure, but with a clear sensual edge. My heart immediately starts racing, pumping blood right to my cock, already imagining him waiting for me. Is he in his room, pajama pants at his ankles and hard cock in his fist, already dripping for me? Maybe he'll give me the honors again and let me undo that drawstring for a second time. Goddamn, I'm gonna get dizzy from how quickly the blood is flowing to my cock. I pat Mason's hip to have him slide off my lap, and as he shifts off of me, I kiss his cheek, telling him I'll be back shortly. He barely pays any attention to me, though. His eyes are totally focused on the TV screen. I just smile. I guess that works. The more privacy he gives me and his Papa, the better. I practically run up the stairs, feeling the fresh weight of my cock swinging around in my boxers, slapping against my inner thighs as I skip steps. "Dad?" I call out, wondering which room he's in. "In here," I hear him call out from down the hallway. He's in his office. I lick my lips. That can be sexy. Maybe I can sit in his lap in his chair and grind against him while we deep-kiss. Maybe he can lay me down on the desk and stroke me off to a spectacular climax. Maybe more will happen this time around... As soon as I enter his office, I see him standing in front of his desk, still shirtless, still irritatingly attractive, just wearing those pajama pants of his and his reading glasses. He's holding a few files in his hand, organizing them in piles on his desk -- files that would look sexy pushed to the floor in a rush of romantic passion. My eyes go right for the drawstring. One easy pull and they'd be around his ankles. I feel that tug in my loins and in my stomach, my mouth watering at the sight of him, my heart drumming in anticipation. I want him, and I want him *badly*. He turns his head towards me when he senses me in the doorway. "Hey," he says, taking off his reading glasses and setting down the sheets of paper he's clutching. He looks like he's about to say something. But I cut him off. I know what he wants: me. I step into his office, walk right up to him, and kiss him on the mouth. My eyes are already closed before our lips even meet, my arms are already snaking around him, my bulge pressing closer to his, and I feel a deep hum of contentment rise up from within me. He tastes of coffee, but I don't care. I'm kissing Dad. That's all that fucking matters. It doesn't last more than three seconds, though, because Dad grabs my wrists and pulls his head back. "Whoa whoa whoa, slow it down, tiger," he says with the tiniest laugh. "The hell are you doing?" "I... What?" I ask, blushing from my forehead to my fucking toes. "You told me to come up here." "Yeah...?" he says, confused but amused. "I need your help moving the filing cabinet." He cocks his head towards the wall, and when I look over, I swallow thickly. The fucking filing cabinet. It's chock full of business and personal files. He just bought a second cabinet on Wednesday since the amount of files he's accumulating is growing by the day, what with all his orders, blueprints and plans, and employee records. I understand why he needs my help: moving the already-full cabinet is a two-man job. "Oh my God," I murmur, embarrassed, looking down. Why the hell did I think that was code or something? Why didn't I assume he *actually* needed my help? Why was my dick doing all the thinking? "I'm sorry." "It's okay," Dad says with another little laugh, letting go of my wrists. He licks his bottom lip before clearing his throat. "Let's just move this out of the way, yeah?" It's a quick job that doesn't last more than two minutes. All we do is rearrange some of the furniture in here to make room for the filing cabinets, and between the two of us, sliding the cabinet over a few feet is a cinch. Once everything looks like it's in its proper place and the two cabinets are standing tall side-by-side, I step back and nod. "That all?" I ask, still a bit embarrassed by that whole encounter. "Yeah," he says, nodding as he studies the cabinets as if scrutinizing their layout. "Thanks, Mitch." Then, I turn to leave the room, eager to wallow in my shame and get back downstairs and finish WALL-E with Mason. But Dad stops me. "Hey, wait," he says when I get to the doorway, and when I turn to look him, he adds something that's both exciting and nerve-racking: "We should talk." Oh, those dreadful three words. Down the rabbit hole I go, I guess. I bite my lip a bit and step back into his office, fully aware of the very-serious look on his face. "Okay," I say gently, and he nods in response before gesturing to his desk chair. I hesitantly take the seat, somewhat intimidated by the fact that he's still standing in front of me, just within arm's reach. As if to make matters more tense, he leans against his desk a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. Then, he just stares. No words, no questions -- just eyes on mine. I expected him to start, so I simply ask "What?" He lets the question hang in the air for a moment before speaking. "Anything you wanna ask me?" I almost snort with laughter. "You're the one who said we should talk." "There's plenty I could say," he says calmly, "but I want to know where you're at." "I'm..." I pause. Where *am* I at? "I'm good, if that's what you're asking," I say slowly. "So... What happened last night," he starts to say, still looking at me hard, "you're okay with?" Better than okay, Dad... *Way* better than okay. But he was right to think I'd have something to ask, because there's one pressing question on my mind, one that would help get me answers on his side of things: "Why?" His eyes squint ever so slightly. "Why what?" Why what, indeed? I almost laugh again, but I keep it together. Let's backtrack a bit. "Why'd you kiss me?" I ask. "At Olly's." He takes a long time to think -- a very long time. I can see clearly in those green eyes of his that he's ruminating, processing, reflecting about something, probably formulating sentences in his head, or (at the very least) figuring out where he wants to start. But even though he takes goddamn forever to respond, I appreciate the confidence in his voice. "I've wanted to for a while, Mitch." I'll admit, that's not *really* what I expected to hear. I'd be quick to nod in understanding if he said something like "I drank a little extra last night" or "I've been so lonely lately and you being there made my head all fuzzy." But this? This is going to take me a moment. He keeps going. "When you said you liked being with me," he says, "I felt... a shift, I guess. Something clicked. Maybe it was your tone." He shrugs, seeming momentarily unsure. "Maybe I just finally gave in." Gave in? So he really has been harboring this for a while, then. "How long?" I ask. "How long...?" "How long have you wanted to?" He chews on something in his mouth before looking away slightly and sighing through his nose. "A long damn time, Mitch." I stare at him for a while, mostly to see if he's just fucking with me. He's got to be. He's just saying that because he noticed I've been pining for him since I was old enough to pine for anyone. There's no way he's been harboring secret feelings for me. Right? But that steely look in his eyes says otherwise. He's telling the truth. "Jesus Christ," I mutter, putting my hands in my face. "What?" "I've wanted you for so fucking long," I mutter, dragging my palms across my cheeks. "Language--" "Don't fucking start, Dad," I say, my head whipping up to face him, irritated that he's really about to call me out for cussing right now. He's smiling ever so slightly though, one corner of his lips lifting. "Don't get mad," he says. "I'm not mad," I say irritably, "I'm just frustrated." "Why?" "Because!" I say, throwing my hands up as if it's obvious. "All this time, we could've been... y'know..." Somehow it seems crazy to say it aloud, like it's still just a fantasy I'd dare not speak of to anyone. But it's true. All this time, I could have been getting what I wanted. I could have had my feelings validated. "So you feel like it's wasted time." "Yes," I say, but then I change my mind. "Well, no." I shake my head, unsure. "I mean... I don't know. It's just... I've been trying to fight those feelings practically my whole life and now you're telling me..." Telling me what? That my feelings are reciprocated, and have been for "a long damn time"? "I get why you'd be mad," he says after a moment. "I'm not mad," I say quickly again, but he just smiles. "I can tell you're mad, Mitch," he says, and he's probably somewhat right. I feel a little heated, so it's probably showing on my face. "I'd be reacting the same way if the roles were reversed, but..." He sighs through his nose again. "Just know you're not the only one who's been fighting those feelings." I wonder if there were clear signs that I've missed, a bright green light somewhere that could have been my signal to strike or to otherwise be ushered closer to my father by the hands of fucking God himself. There must have been *something*. And then, I remember: our first kiss, shortly after Mason moved in, that hot summer night where things got slightly out-of-hand between us. It was a short kiss, but it wasn't innocent. It was more. Maybe that was that first break in Dad's façade, a brief glimpse into the *real* him, a small tease of what he wanted us to be. "Did you know?" I ask. He knew I was gay before I came out to him, after all. This would have been, I'm sure, just the next step in his thinking. This time, he knows exactly what I'm referring to. "I had my suspicions." Fucking hell. For years, he's "had his suspicions" that I've had feelings for him in at least *some* capacity. "Why didn't you say anything?" I ask. "Or... *do* anything?" He smiles sadly. "I thought I was doing the right thing," he says. "I was trying to be a good dad." I sigh heavily, slumping in my chair. "You *were* a good dad," I tell him. "You still are." But I get what he's saying. Pushing something onto me could easily compromise his position as a father. Whereas I've been struggling to bury simple desires to get romantic with my dad, he's probably been grappling with ethics and the whole "right versus wrong" argument on top of everything else. I have to recognize that. I just look up at him, seeing the tenderness in his gaze just behind that tough (and sexy) exterior. I guess there's one major question left for right now: "What does this mean, then?" "For us?" I nod. "Like, where do we go from here?" He licks his lips slightly before standing up straighter. "Where do *you* want to go?" He's completely putting the ball in my court. Having that sort of power is almost exhilarating, both in positive *and* negative ways. What *do* I want? Every time I fantasized about a moment like this, I always pictured me jumping at the possibility of love and intimacy, of sex and romance. But now that it's actually within my grasp, I'm almost in disbelief, reconsidering all I've imagined. Is this even possible? Can we really just give the middle finger to what everyone tells us is wrong about what a father and son can be? I know I'm in love with my father. I have been for a long, long time. If I haven't gotten over him by now, there's surely no going back at this point. But am I really being granted the opportunity to express that love without most of that shame weighing me down, now that he's opening his arms to me? Is that what he's asking me? "I mean... It'd be nice to... continue," I say, my heart thudding almost violently against my chest from admitting that aloud. He smiles a little wider. "I figured you'd say something like that." "Well why'd you ask, then?" I moan. He chuckles softly. "I needed to hear you say it." I stare up at him before laughing slightly, shaking my head. "I can't believe this," I murmur to myself. Dad just looks at me for a moment before offering his hand. "C'mere," he says, and I take it before he pulls me up to my feet. Then, he guides my hand to his bare chest, the left-side, right over his heart. "Feel that?" I nod. "Yeah," I say quietly, my hand visibly twitching every time his heart beats. It's thumping as intensely as mine is. "I'm just as scared as you are," he says softly. Maybe that's what it is: fear, from all sorts of angles. I'm actually afraid that I'll get what I've wanted for so long, and I'm afraid that the rug will be pulled from under my feet right before it happens, and I'm afraid that it won't be everything I've built it up to be, and I'm afraid that this will change our entire family dynamic for the worst, and I'm afraid that it'll be perfect, absolutely fucking perfect. But I look up into his eyes and immediately feel calmer. We're in this boat together. "But if you're sure--" "I'm sure," I say, cutting him off quickly enough for him to laugh softly. He keeps holding my hand over his chest before I feel his free hand sliding over to my hip. I bite my lip as my dad's eyes search my face -- but not in a calculating way this time. I can't help but feel like he's looking at me in awe. Then, he takes my face in his hands, his thumbs rubbing my cheeks softly. His expression is one of the softest I've ever seen on him, with his eyebrows raised in the middle, the corners of his lips slightly upturned, a bright tenderness in his eyes. He almost looks like he could cry. But his voice is the clincher. The way they utter two little words nearly leaves me breathless: "My boy." I feel the air get caught in my throat, transfixed by this moment, by being held so preciously by my father. My knees feel weak and my stomach feels warm and I hold onto his furred torso for support. All I want to do is kiss him. All I want to do is get lost in his lips, in his body. He leans in, tilting my head down a bit so he can plant a long kiss on my forehead. But when he's done, I quickly move my face to meet his, our lips a mere inch from each other. After a moment's hesitation, he leans in slowly, gradually pushing his lips against mine. There's nothing like kissing Dad. Granted, I don't have a lot of experience in that department, since my one and only relationship was the one that resulted in a pregnancy when I was thirteen. But kissing Dad... There's a magic to it. There's an internal pull that draws me closer to him, a quiet fire that causes our kisses to naturally deepen. It's organic. It's beautiful. When our lips separate, he stays close, the side of his nose gently nudging mine. I smile softly, slightly digging my fingertips into his skin. "I keep thinking about that kiss," I say, almost whispering. "You remember that?" He smiles, his lips brushing mine in the process. "Which one?" I laugh. "When we... you know, jerked off together that first time," I say, swallowing spit. "The first week I brought Mason home." "Ah, yeah," he says, chuckling. "'Course I do." He slides his arms around me now, that tiny grin on his lips still. "And I distinctly remember how seeing you with little Mason just... made my heart swell, kid." Maybe Mason was the catalyst for all of this -- which means I have to remember to thank the boy. I smile softly, wrapping my arms around him more. "I wish it was just the three of us from the beginning," I tell him. He chuckles a bit. "It all still worked out," he affirms. "It's still always been just us." I often have this fantasy that Dad and I are both the biological parents and had raised Mason as true co-parents from day one. It's mostly a response to when I think about how Mason is more or less 50% a girl I've completely cut ties with, a girl who still wants nothing to do with him, a girl who doesn't love him. I love Mason plenty enough for the both of us, but with Michelle, there was all that unneeded stress from the beginning: me faking my way through a relationship, figuring out how to deal with a pregnancy at a young age, seeing how much she shied away from the idea of being a mother by the time Mason was born. But Dad's right. It all panned out. If there was no Michelle, there'd be no Mason, the light of my life. And thankfully, Michelle left early on in the game, ensuring that it really has just been me and my father all this time. "Even with all your secret girlfriends?" I tease, grinning. "My girlfriends?" "Jack always tells you're the heartbreaker of the bunch." He rolls his eyes. "You're kidding." "Maybe the word was 'ladykiller'," I say with a playful sneer. "You both are bastards," he murmurs, and as he leans in to kiss my neck, I laugh. "I think it's hot," I whisper, and he hums against my neck, sucking on the skin a little harder. But suddenly, that sparks a thought. I lean in a little more, a sultrier edge to my voice. "You ever think about me when you're with those women?" I ask, lightly digging my fingers into his back. "Shut up," he mutters, kissing my neck even deeper, sure to leave a hickey. I feel his hands drift lower, just above the curve of my ass. I grin. "You *do*, don't you?" I ask, tilting my head back to look at him. He just gives me a hard look. "Don't be crass." "It's a little late for that, Daddy," I say boyishly, and he immediately softens. The effect would almost be comical if it didn't turn me on so much. I run my hands up and down his chest before attempting to ask him another question. "Speaking of women..." "Ugh, no more talking about women, Mitchy," he groans. "I'm just curious about something," I say, somewhat amused. He just sighs through his nose, looking at me. "What?" "Does this mean you're bi?" He looks almost confused by the question before shrugging it off. "I haven't really given it much thought." I blink. "How have you not given it much thought?" "It's not important," he says simply. "But it's part of who you are," I tell him. Clearly Dad disagrees. "Is it?" he asks skeptically. "I don't think it is." He must see that surprised look on my face, because he holds onto me a little tighter, broad arms pulling me against his body. "I am who I am, and I like who I like." He seals that fact with a quick peck on my lips. I just roll my eyes a bit. "Still would've been nice to know that you like guys too," I mutter. We could have bonded over our similarly-marginalized sexualities when I came out to him. As supportive as he was, that would have meant everything. "But I *don't* like guys," he insists. "Not really." I stare at him for a moment before I shake my head. "That makes no sense," I say, trying to wrap my head around that statement. "You slept with me, and you sleep with women all the--" "That's just sex, Mitch," he says. "With them, it's just an easy way to get off. Nothing intimate." He shifts his head a bit to make sure I'm holding his gaze. "And I don't care about other guys. I am, first and foremost, a family man." Something about those implications makes my heart (and my cock) swell. A family man, huh? It's like a separate branch of sexuality. Maybe that's how I really identify: not simply as gay, but as a familial lover. That's how Dad sees it, anyway. Physically, he may be attracted to women, but emotionally, he only has eyes for me. That turns me on so fucking much. I smile slightly before roping him into a kiss, making it passionate and heated right off the bat. He breathes in deeply through his nose as he wraps his arms around me, keeping me close as we lock lips. I feel dizzy from how hungry for him I am, from how hungry he seems to be, too. Our lips shift and our noses bump and the dampness of each kiss is made apparent by how loud they are. "We shouldn't," he murmurs against my lips, but even as he says those words, he's pressing insistently against my mouth. That must just be some residual resistance creeping back up, trying to interfere. "I know," I say back, but my bodily responses tell him that I want to do it anyway. There's no denying how right this feels. Maybe, simply because of that notion, we *should*. We should give in to our nature. We should love if we want to, and how we want to. Fuck everything else. I can feel him getting hard. I don't think he's wearing underwear, because his manhood feels somehow more present just through those thin pajama pants. Just as I feel his tongue part my lips, my hands find their way home: wrapped around his cock, right inside his PJ's. He grunts against my lips before turning up the heat ten-fold, our kisses getting sloppier, wetter, tongues going wild as if we can't taste enough of each other. Eventually, I need to breathe, though. I pull back, positively panting, my lips and chin damp with saliva, both hands still gripping my father's hard-on. I almost feel light-headed. At first, I think it's the lack of oxygen that was making me dizzy, but I realize it's something else entirely: his scent. I lean into his neck, inhaling as he tugs the hair on the back of my head. I drag my tongue across his skin, moaning softly. God, he smells and tastes divine. I don't know what it is about his pheromones, but they're working hard on me. I find myself kissing across his shoulder, starting to move to his chest, inhaling deeply as I go. "I still haven't showered yet," Dad says, keeping a grip on my hair. "Good," I mutter, moving to his armpit. "Mitch--" "I like how you smell," I tell him, nuzzling into his pit. He doesn't lift his arm for me, but I get a good whiff. He doesn't smell rank. He's not even sweaty. It's just his natural musk coming through, with no deodorant to mask that daddy scent. God, I'm fucking high off it. He pulls my hair harder, tugging my head back just as his other hand swoops up to grip my chin. Then, he kisses me tongue-first, kissing me so deeply I nearly stumble. My grip on his cock is the only thing that's anchoring me right now, both hands planted inside his thin flannel pants, each trying to get as much skin-on-skin contact as possible. It's like he's trying to devour me -- and I'm more than willing to let that happen. He murmurs something, but I'm too distracted by his kisses to hear what he said, so I ask him to repeat himself. "Let's go to my room," he says more clearly. My own cock nods in response. "Okay," I say softly, breathing heavily against his lips. Neither of us move for several moments though. He's still got my jaw in his fingers, and I've still got both hands down his pants. Our eyes scan each other's faces for any sign that we should stop, any sign that we should cut loose before things get *too* out of hand. But it's so beyond evident that we only want one thing: each other. We pull away from each other long enough to leave the room and make our way to his bedroom. I glance down the hallway towards the stairs, happy to hear that Mason's movie is still playing. Hopefully he's occupied long enough for Dad and me to... what? What are we going to do this time? Is it going to be a repeat of last night, or anything more? "Shut the door," Dad says when we step into his bedroom -- a bedroom that has the same allure that it did last night, since the cloudy weather outside gives the room a sleepy, dimly-lit haze. I swallow as I shut the door behind me, feeling my loins twitch when I hear it shut. I look over at Dad just as he's undoing the drawstring of his pajama pants. He's staring right at me as he does it. Things seem to move in slow-motion as he undoes the knot with a simple tug and then gently pushes his pants off of his hips. They fall to the floor silently, and my eyes home in on that impossibly hard cock that's staring right at me. I feel my mouth watering. I take a moment to soak in the absolute maleness of him: the well-kempt bush his manhood is jutting out from, those large family jewels hanging lowly below, the thick thighs and able core and lightly-bulging pecs and muscled upper arms all scattered with fur... He exudes sex appeal. He reaches down to grope himself a bit, giving his cock a firm tug before he lifts his other hand and beckons me over with a finger. My heart starts beating more rapidly as I step forward, licking my lips as I get closer. He reaches out to grip my shirt and tug me into him the last few steps, and I stumble into his body, right up against his lips. I hum softly as we kiss, letting him hold me, stroke my back, comb his fingers through my hair, press his cock against me. My hands find their way around him, fingertips digging into his back with need. Slowly, he starts turning us around, not once breaking or slowing the rhythm of his lips. He shifts me towards the bed, and we climb on, ensuring our lips stay in contact. We end up on our sides, Dad naked and me still in boxers and a long-sleeved shirt that he slides his hand under. I moan at his touch, feeling those rough hands sliding over my skin. Goosebumps erupt all over my body, and my body automatically arches into his hand, asking for more. He grips my side as I reach between us to wrap my fingers around his cock, amazed by the heat of it, the strength, the power. I want it. I break the kiss, and he grunts in disapproval when I pull my lips away from his. "Can I?" I murmur softly, giving his cock a few tugs. He opens his eyes, looking into mine -- and I can tell he knows exactly what I'm referring to. "You want to?" he asks me. I nod twice. "Yes," I say, just to emphasize that fact. He smiles slightly before nodding and then giving me a quick "Go ahead" kiss. I smile back before looking down and swallowing thickly. Fuck. Here goes. I lean in to kiss his neck, drawing out the kisses I send down his body. One reason is to appreciate each part of him: his neck, his hairy armpit, his collarbone, his strong chest and the stiff nipple peeking out from soft wisps of hair, the thicker patch of fur between his pecs, and the fuzzy stomach that reminds me how hungry I am for my father. The other reason is to give me time to think, to come up with a game plan. I don't know what I'm doing. I *like* to think that hours and hours of avid porn-watching has given me at least some tips on sucking cock, but really, how thoroughly can I really prepare for blowing my own father? I'll just have to do what comes naturally. The closer I get to his groin, the more I can smell that intoxicating scent of his. I even sense his heat more intently, practically radiating against my jaw as I send kisses below his belly button. When his cock-flesh hits my chin, I gasp slightly before reaching up to wrap my fingers around his balls and study his package up close. Fucking hell, there it all is, in my grip: home. It's where I came from. Is that what this is? Homecoming? I give his nuts a gentle fondle and am rewarded to the sight of clear, glistening precum starting to ooze from the tip of his cock. I capture it on my tongue, teasing it right against the slit before licking my lips as I relish the taste. Jesus Christ, he tastes good. There's almost a sweetness to him. I feel his hand on my head, and I take that as a signal to get on with it. So, I do. I take a deep breath before pressing my lips to the head of his cock and parting my lips as I lean forward. In he goes. I feel his cock, the skin seemingly so hard and soft at the same time, filling up my mouth more than I expected it to. My jaw aches in protest initially, but I press on. I want this. I want him in my mouth, with my tongue dancing around his head and my lips snug around his warm shaft. I actually moan, my eyes fluttering closed. Am I dreaming? I trust my instincts and bob back and forth slowly, careful with my teeth and focused with my tongue. I hear Dad groan softly, holding my hair tightly but letting me work at my own pace. I almost laugh. The first time I'm sucking dick, and it's the cock that made me -- a son's lips to his father's manhood. This is insane. This is *wonderful*. I pull off a few times just to look at it up-close again, to soak in the sight of this straight-as-an-arrow appendage, to see how my saliva mixed with his precum has coated his cock with a sheen. It's the most beautiful dick I've ever seen -- the only one I want. It makes me salivate even more, and I guide him back into my mouth, humming as I go. With one grip on the base of his cock, I focus my mouth on the upper half, slowly tilting my head at various angles. I try to envision myself from a different vantage point, like I'm watching a porno of myself blowing some hunky dude. Not to be narcissistic, but our video is the type of video I'd get off to: a smooth, teen jock-type going down on a hairy, fit biker, both of which look familiar enough to make a convincing father and son. But the thing is, this is *real* incest. *Real* family love. I feel Dad tug on my hair to pull me off his cock, and he simultaneously pushes his hips back so that his dick pops from my lips along with a stream of drool. I slurp and swallow, gasping for breath as he beckons me back up to him. I rest on my side facing him again and I'm treated to a deep, sensual kiss as his hands start tugging at the hem of my shirt. We only separate long enough for him to completely remove my top. Then, as our impassioned lips return to each other, I feel his fingers slip into my boxers, hooking around the waistband and pushing my underwear off my hips. He wants me naked too -- and I happily oblige, lifting a hip to help him push my boxers down my legs. I nudge them down to my ankles before kicking them off to the floor and getting my nude body as close to my father's as I can. Fuck, this feels so right: lips on lips, my hand on his chest, his hand grazing my hip and my side, cock-to-cock. I could lie here for the rest of my life. Then I feel his hand snake around to my ass, giving one cheek an ample grope. I push back against his hand, enjoying the touch. He squeezes multiple times, his tongue searching deeper into my mouth the more he feels me up. What surprises me, though, is when his fingers start trekking further -- to dip into the valley. Slowly, they creep deeper, and once I feel his fingertip graze against my hole, I moan. It's like he did it just to gauge my response, because that's all he needed to hear for him to be more direct with his movements. Instead of a soft graze, I feel him rubbing with intent, and I swear he smiles against my lips as I start rutting my hips against him. He pulls back altogether, and I whine a bit, which just makes him chuckle. "Where are you going?" I ask as he sits up. "Just wait a sec," he says with an amused smile as he leans over to grab something from his nightstand. He pulls the drawer open, reaches inside, and extracts a little bottle of clear liquid: lube. Still half-grinning, he returns to his original position, takes my leg, and drapes it over his hip. His hand slides across the back of my thigh, trailing slowly back up to my ass. He looks at my face as his fingers find my hole again. "Don't be scared," he tells me soothingly. Do I look scared? "I'm not," I say, but I'm suddenly aware that my eyebrows are upturned, probably giving me a nervous expression. Granted, I am a little nervous. This is new territory for me, having another person's fingers inside me, a man's fingers, my father's fingers. But I know he'll take care of me. And that notion is confirmed by three little words: "Daddy's got you," he murmurs, kissing me. Instantly, my whole body relaxes, partly in submission and partly in acceptance. I'm giving myself into the moment. He lubes up a few of his fingers before lifting my leg so that his hand can get between my thighs. I swallow thickly as I feel his now-icy fingers touching my hole. I hiss a bit, recoiling. "Jesus, that's cold," I mutter. He laughs. "Sorry," he says, rubbing his finger in slow circles. It feels good though, having him apply this light but fluid pressure to my outer ring. I bite my lip a bit, finding it hard to make eye contact with him in this moment, but he's staring right at my face, observing every shift in expression -- like the one I give him when he slowly starts to push his middle finger into me. My lips part but no sound comes out. Instead, I inhale in surprise and hold my breath. Fuck, why do his fingers feel so much thicker than mine? Better, even? My eyes meet his as he slowly rocks his finger back and forth, testing me out. "You okay?" he asks me. I nod slowly. He glances down as he slowly sinks his entire finger into my hole, and I moan very softly, my body feeling like it's on fire. I can't believe Dad has his fucking finger inside of me. It's so intimate of a moment that I almost want to start crying. Is shedding tears while fooling around with my dad going to become a habit of mine? "You ever do this before?" he asks me, leaning in a bit but not kissing me. We just breathe on each other as he slowly moves his finger in and out, back and forth. "Yeah," I admit, my cheeks getting warm. "Mmm," he hums, his eyes on mine. Then, he leans in even more, brushing his lips against mine. "You ever think of me when you do it?" Just as he asks that question, he adds a second finger, stretching me out before working them into me -- right against that magic fucking button. My eyes roll back and I let out an involuntary moan, clutching onto him tighter. "Shhh, baby," he whispers in my ear, his voice low, deep, and laden with eroticism. I try to keep it quiet, but God, I feel so fucking good -- both in mind and body. Not only am I being sexually pleasured, but I'm learning more about my father. He's a tender lover, apparently, which is surprising considering how gruff and stoic he can be otherwise. It's like I'm seeing a whole different side of him, *feeling* a whole different side of him -- one that coos and coddles and fingers me to high heaven. "Feel that, baby boy?" he murmurs in my ear, the pads of his fingers massaging my prostate and making my cock throb and leak against his. I nod and whimper, face absolutely flushed, body both loose and tense at the same time. I don't know what to feel besides what he's doing to me. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and nibbles slightly, tugging gently. "Just remember, Mitchy," he starts to say, "that, no matter what happens between us, no matter how I touch you, no matter how I let you touch me, I'm still your father." I groan from his words, my cock practically spitting out precum, my hole clamping down on his fingers. "But," he continues, his lips up against my ear as he speaks, "your daddy's different from the others. You know why, kiddo?" I gulp. I bet I could answer that question for him, but God, do I want to hear him say it. "Why, Daddy?" I chirp softly. "Because I love you with every" -- here, he kisses my ear -- "goddamn" -- and then my cheek -- "inch of me." He finishes with my mouth, planting a soft, wet peck on my lip. Simultaneously, he sandwiches me between his hips and his hand. He gets his fingers as deep as he can while pressing his groin more into mine so I can really feel how hard he is. I'm weak. I'm so fucking weak, and he feels so strong, holding me close, loving me, touching me in places even I haven't reached. This is so wrong... So why does the taboo nature of it make this so much more erotic? He tells me to jerk us off while he takes care of me, so I reach a hand between us and eagerly try to wrap my fingers around both our girths. I keep them pressed together in my fist, his cock feeling hot and alive up against mine. Both of us have been leaking enough for me to add slick strokes, to glide my fist up and down slowly without any resistance. Our natural fluids mix together in the best way, giving us shared pleasure. "Dad," I murmur, my breathing getting a little more labored. He looks at me. "Hm?" "I'm close." "Close to what?" he asks, playing dumb. When he sees me blushing, he grins slightly. "Close to what, Mitch?" he asks again. "To cumming," I mutter. "Yeah?" he asks, his fingers now totally focused on my magic button. "You gonna cum for Daddy, little man?" God, his words and his tone are going to drive me so hard over the edge that I'm worried I won't recover. "Yeah," I say, my voice getting slightly higher in pitch. He growls softly, brushing his lips against mine. "Say it," he gently demands, breathing me in. "Use your words, boy." "I'm gonna cum," I say. Jesus, why does my voice sound so... young right now? "For whom?" "For Daddy," I say, my face hotter than the rest of my body. "That's right, baby boy," he says soothingly, rewarding me with a kiss. "Cum for me." I stroke us faster while he massages my prostate and mutters sexy, alluring encouragements in my ear. My eyes roll back as my cock throbs, and throbs, and throbs, until finally, I hit climax -- a mind-shattering climax, at that. I feel it all over: my extremities twitch, my hole clamps down on his fingers, my legs curl into him, and my cock feels like it's not even part of my body for a few moments. This orgasm is so strong that I'm not even cognizant of the cum spilling from the tip. It quite literally leaves me breathless, and I press my face into my father's shoulder, consciously telling myself over and over to breathe. Inhale, exhale. As I'm coming down from the high, Dad's kissing my neck tenderly as he slowly extracts his fingers from my hole. I feel his hand rest on the side of my upper thigh, lightly stroking the skin with his thumb. "That's my boy," he says softly. "Little stud." I smile into his shoulder, giving the spot a little kiss before I realize I'm still holding onto our cocks -- and he's still rock solid, presumably eager to cum. I acknowledge it by letting go of my cock and wrapping my fingers fully around his as I brush my thumb across the head. He grunts softly, closing his eyes before I even lean in for a kiss. I press my lips against him quickly before speaking to him. "Do you want me to?" I ask. He smirks again. "Do I want you to what?" I swallow. He's going to make me say it, isn't he? "Make you cum," I mutter. God, that's so thrilling, so *dirty*, to say aloud. He licks his lips. "How you gonna make me cum, boy?" he asks me softly. Instead of responding with words, I take his hand, guide his un-lubed fingers to my mouth, and wrap my lips around his ring finger. I'm aware that he's watching intently, and even though I'm blushing, somehow this is preferable than uttering the words "I wanna suck the cum out of your cock, Daddy." He follows in my stead by not speaking, and after rocking his finger suggestively back and forth in my mouth, he pulls me in for a quick kiss. Then, he puts a hand on my shoulder, adding pressure. Time for me to slide back down. I swallow the saliva that has accumulated in my mouth, licking my lips as I get back to his cock. Now it's not just about blowing him for the first time: it's about finishing him off. I almost smile as I wrap my lips around his cock, closing my eyes, humming when he pets my head. I keep a sure grip on the base of his manhood and rock back and forth at a steady pace. I grunt, moan, and gag when it hits the back of my throat, but he's gentle with me, letting me find my rhythm, allowing me to learn. I try my best to sort through all the things I'm feeling (silly, horny, embarrassed, confident, eager, wanting), but one thing matters right now, and that's making my father cum. He rewards me with deep, satisfied-sounding groans and thick fingers combing through my hair as I bob back and forth. Soon, his grunts get deeper. I hear him swear under his breath (and, like whenever he cusses, I feel that need to call him out on it), and I know he's getting close. My heart starts racing in anticipation, and my mouth starts watering profusely. This is it: a moment I've imagined countless times, a flavor I've contemplated nearly every night since I tasted myself for the first time. My questions are about to be answered. I feel his fingers grip my hair tighter and his hips push forward more, the head of his cock slipping right into my throat. I choke a bit, coughing around his cock and pulling back just as the head of his cock flares and shoots out that first rope on my tongue. It's a powerful shot that almost makes me recoil, but I hold, feeling his cum splatter the roof of my mouth and close to the back of my throat -- almost making me choke again. I breathe in through my nose, keeping my lips snug around the head of his cock and finding my mouth filling rapidly. Fuck, I have to swallow or I'm going to make a mess, so I quickly gulp it down as I receive it. My eyes roll back even though they're closed, his cum *far* more delicious than mine has ever been. It's his essence. It's what made me. It's precious, and I savor every drop that he gives me. I don't pull off for a while. I'm busy nursing on his cock while catches his breath, and he's the one that has me stop. I feel him tug at my hair tenderly, pulling me back up until he can put his lips back on mine. During that thick, tender lip-lock, he smoothly slides a hand down to my side, pulling me close. "I fuckin' love you, kid," he murmurs against my lips. There he goes cursing again, but it makes me smile widely enough for him to be just kissing my teeth. "Love you too, Dad," I say. Just saying "Dad" in this context is almost making me stiff again. He lets out a little laugh via a short burst of air through his nose before he nuzzles into me still, gently peppering my face with post-orgasm kisses. "We should probably get up," he says lowly -- though his hand snaking around to the small of my back says otherwise. I start responding with those same soft, almost playful kisses, starting with his jaw and moving to his neck. "What if I don't wanna?" I ask, kissing across his shoulder. I make my way lower, dipping my nose under his arm and nudging it. He gets the message, lifting his arm for me and letting me bury my face in his hairy pit before I drag my tongue across it. Dad grunts in response before tugging my hair again with his other hand. He brings his arm back down, grabs my chin, and kisses me hard enough to force a moan out of me. He holds the kiss for several seconds before pulling away, leaving me momentarily breathless. "You're pure temptation, you know that?" I bite my lip, trying not to smile. "Sorry." He just gives me a tiny grin before pecking my lips and then pulling away from me. My body revolts, already missing his warmth as he sits up. "I should shower," he says, patting my thigh and looking down at me. "Okay," I say -- though all I really want to do now is cuddle and kiss and maybe talk some more. "You wanna come?" he asks me. I raise my eyebrows. Shower with Dad? Fuck, that sounds nice. Maybe we can cuddle and kiss and talk under the warm spray. But... "No," I say, resisting with a sigh. "I still gotta rake the lawn and clean the gutters, remember?" No point in showering if I'm going to get dirty again later. Dad nods approvingly. "Good boy," he says, stroking my thigh before swinging his leg away from him so that he can stand up. Without even grabbing spare clothes, he just heads right out of his room, leaving me naked on his bed. I lie there on the bed for a while, thinking, feeling the wet spot in the sheets from my cum. All I hear is the sound of him next door, starting the shower, and I clothes my eyes, imagining that body I just loved up on getting soaped up by his big, paternal hands. Once again, I'm feeling a sense of disbelief, having to reattach myself to reality. That is happening, Mitch. This is your life, now. Smiling, I slide myself out of bed, eyeing his dresser. What if I just... I bite my lip as I open the top right drawer and see all his underwear, folded neatly into piles. I grab the pair that's at the top: a solid pair of black, short-leg boxer briefs. Grinning to myself, I slip them on, tucking my cock into the pouch and sighing once the waistband snaps over my hips. I can't resist cupping my bulge a bit, wondering how often he's worn this pair. This is where his cock and balls rest all day -- and now I'm taking a turn. I scoop up my shirt and boxers and head into my room to get dressed for yard work, donning an old pair of jeans and a crewneck. On my way out to the yard, I stop by the living room to check on Mason, who's positively enraptured by a film he's seen maybe a dozen times already. I smile, merely kissing his cheek and telling him I'll be outside if he needs anything before I head out to the front yard. Raking the leaves is always the worst part of autumn. Normally, I find this job to be incredibly tedious and boring, but I'm totally distracted by the man on my mind and the moments we've shared within the past twenty-four hours. I keep replaying those moments of discovery in my mind, rewinding his admission of feelings in his office. It makes me feel positively giddy. The fact that I'm wearing his underwear doesn't help bring my smile down. Often, if I shift a certain way, I'll suddenly reminded of the boxer briefs I'm wearing and of whom they belong to -- and it makes my cock twitch every time. Once I have the majority of the scattered leaves in piles, Dad comes out of the house. I look over at the sound of keys jangling and smile when I see him walking over to me. My cock, already in a semi-hard state simply from wearing his underwear, completely responds to his masculine form being hugged by a tight white t-shirt and snug jeans. Goddamn, Daddy... "Gonna go shopping," he says. "Got the list?" I ask, licking my lips discreetly at the sight of him. "Yup. But, uh, what the hell does this say?" he asks, pulling the folded list of groceries I left for him out of his back pocket. When he's close enough, he hands me the paper, pointing to the third-to-last item. I peer at the item before saying "Teddy Grahams." "Seriously?" he says, taking the list back and scrutinizing the page before adding "Your handwriting is awful, kid." "Well, sorry you're not wearing your glasses, old man," I tease back, nudging him with the handle of the rake. "Yeah yeah," he says, pocketing the list. "You give Mason too many snacks. I thought I *just* bought a whole family-pack of those." "I eat them too," I say defensively. He looks at me with amusement. "Really?" "What?" I say, blushing slightly under that gaze. "They're good." He just stares at me for a moment. Then: "Such a little kid," he mutters playfully, grinning at me as I flush even more. "Anyway, I'm gonna go," he says, and without any sort of hesitation, he takes the back of my head and gives me a quick kiss on the lips that guarantees me a hard-on. When our lips separate, I have to hold back a moan. "I'll be back shortly." I'm almost dazed, considering how soft and natural that kiss felt, how *public* it was, like we're an actual couple sharing a kiss in the front yard before he's off to run some errands. "O-okay," I say, trying not to smile like a goon while my heart pounds away. Did anyone see? He just smiles at me, looking me up and down once before turning away and leaving me only wanting more. Once the gutters are cleared of leaves and twigs, I stow the ladder back in the garage before heading inside with a sigh. I don't know about Mason, but I'm desperate for a bath, so I'll have to drag his reluctant little ass in whether he wants to or not. What gives me pause, though, is when I enter the living room to find that Mason is still on the couch. He's put in another movie, but he's not watching it. In fact, he's not even facing the television. All his focus is on Pandy. I stare in surprise as I watch my brief-clad little boy mounting his stuffed animal, humping it like a horny dog. After the shock wears off, I start laughing, and Mason looks up at me mid-thrust, biting his tongue in concentration. "What are you doing, buddy?" I ask. His face flushes and then he stops, slumping a bit and sitting back against his heels with Pandy between his knees. "Nothin'," he says shyly. "Nothin', huh?" I say, grinning. "Doesn't look like nothin' to me." When he sees that I'm not angry, he just smiles slightly before giggling. "I was just playing around." "Uh huh," I say, chuckling before beckoning him to me. "C'mon, stud. Leave Pandy alone. You have a bath to take." "But my movie's not done," he says, pointing to the TV screen. "We both know you weren't watching the movie," I say, laughing before being more insistent with my beckoning. "C'mon, buddy, I need to clean up. And so do you." He whines a little but does as I say, leaving his panda bear on its belly as he hops down and comes over to take my outstretched hand. I lead him upstairs to the bathroom where we fill the tub, add in the bubble bath, and have Mason strip out of his undies. I notice how stiff he still is as he climbs into the tub, and I can't help but laugh gently to myself at the image of him humping his stuffed animal. Guess he's just following that natural male rhythm, the instinctual need to fuck. But damn, it's still funny. I'm sure Dad will find that comical. Just as I'm starting to strip out of my clothes and join my boy in the tub, I feel my phone buzzing away in my pocket. I pull it out and smirk at the contact. Think of the devil too, I guess. I bring the phone to my ear after I answer the call. "Yo." Dad's voice enters my ears. "What kind of ice cream do you guys want?" I grin at Mason. "Papa wants to know what kind of ice cream we want." Mason's eyes go wide as he holds onto the edge of the tub. "Cookies and cream!" he shouts, putting a cute little inflection on the latter word. I chuckle lightly. "Did you hear that?" "Yep," Dad says, and I can feel him smiling. "Cookies 'n cream it is. What about you? Want anything special?" "Oh, I get special treatment now?" I ask. "My boy always gets special treatment." I blush slightly, feeling that tingly warmth ripple through my chest and neck. That sly tone in his voice isn't familiar to me yet, so I'm guaranteed to have a reaction every time he adopts it. "I'm okay with what Mason wants," I say, not wanting him to spend unnecessary money on me -- though the sentiment is appreciated. "Alright. Call me if you change your mind." "Will do," I say, and a moment later, he hangs up. I pocket my phone before pulling my shirt off and tossing it to the floor. "Why doesn't Papa take baths with us?" Mason asks me. I look at him as he peers up at me inquisitively. "Papa doesn't like baths," I tell him. Even when he bathed Mason growing up, he always (gently) refused to join in. I know I bathed with my dad when I was little, but I distinctly remember a point where, out of nowhere, things stopped. No more joint baths. Dad would stay out of the water, fully-clothed while making quick work of soaping me up and rinsing me off. I don't remember how old I was exactly, but when I asked him why he wasn't coming in, he just told me I was too old for bath-time company. "He likes showers," Mason comments. I laugh, undoing my belt. "That he does, little man," I say before pausing. Mason and I make eye contact, and I take in the moment to soak in the light that sweet little smile of his shines my way. Then, ignoring my belt for now, I kneel down in front of the tub so that we're face-to-face. "Hey." Mason giggles at the shift in my tone. "Hey," he says back, murmuring softly with me like we're sharing something private. I rest my forearms against the edge of the tub, establishing an intimate conversational space. "I just wanna thank you," I say. "Me?" "Yeah, you." He looks confused. "For what, Daddy?" "Just for being you, baby," I say. "For being my son. Thank you." He blushes so tenderly, biting his lip as a shy response before giggling. "*And* your boyfriend," he adds as he puts his hands on my arms. I just laugh. "That, too." "And best friend," he adds with a particularly adorable smile. It's less playful and more boyishly sincere. "Yeah, Mace?" I ask, feeling tender. "Am I your best friend?" He nods. "In the whole world." "Oof," I say, chuckling. "The world's a pretty big place, you know." "I don't care," he says defiantly. I smile and reach over to comb my fingers through his hair, at which he closes his eyes, soothed by the touch. "I'll let you in on a secret," I say before leaning in as I pull him closer. "You're my best friend, too." Mason giggles a bit before searching my eyes as if looking for honestly there. That's all he'll find. As silly as it may feel to admit, I'm not as close to anybody in my life as I am with my father and my son. Why can't my little guy be my best friend, especially if my man is becoming more of a (dare I say) lover? I think Mason feels that I'm being earnest, because he smiles a little more widely before leaning in and giving me a sweet little peck on the lips. I sigh in perfect contentment when the acoustics in the bathroom make our kiss echo off the walls and the floor tiles. I'm so happy. I'm so so so happy, and grateful, and loved. That's the power Mason and my father have. Considering the lightness in my chest, I'm starting to wonder if there's any joy greater than being, as Dad called it, a family man -- and somehow, I seriously doubt that there is. - End of Chapter 5 -