Date: Wed, 23 Oct 2019 16:39:29 -0400 From: RJ Subject: Common Law - Ch. 7 Common Law by RJ Meyers 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. ***DISCLAIMER***: If you're here purely for the romance between Joel and Mitch, you should probably stop reading this story after this chapter. It's been hinted at throughout the story, but (*spoiler alert*), as you will see by the end of the chapter, Mason will gradually start being more involved over the course of his youth. Don't read further if you're not interested. 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. 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. A list of my works, including links and descriptions, can be found here: https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI Please also consider donating to Nifty if you can: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. Any amount helps. ~ Chapter 7 ~ "I'm... not so sure about this," I mutter. Dad just grins at me while tying his bandana around his bald head. "Don't back out on me now." "Can't we just take the car?" "Why?" "'Cause I'm scared," I say with a nervous laugh. I've never ridden on his bike with him before. I've consistently refused because it has always felt a bit too daredevil for me. I know it's just a motorcycle, but I try to live my life as safely as possible, and bikes just don't fit in with that mentality. Knowing he's out there weaving through student drivers and road ragers is bad enough, and now he wants me to join him? "You don't trust me?" he asks, smiling and adjusting his jacket. "I trust you," I murmur. God, he fits the part so well, though: sexy stud in faded jeans, well-worn boots, a simple tank top, and his classic leather jacket. The burgundy-and-white bandana on his head is a nice touch, too. "So, come on," he says, pulling the helmet off the grip and handing it to me. "I won't let anything happen to you." I sigh but take the helmet from him, strap it on, and situate myself onto the back of the bike. I groan a bit as I swing my leg over, which makes Dad look at me strangely. "My thighs are still sore," I explain as I straddle the seat. He smirks. "From last night, or from the run?" I narrow my eyes at him. If he were just within arm's reach, I'd hit him. "The run, you ass," I tell him. Recently, we've added something new to our workouts: cardio. Almost every morning for the past week, we've gone on an early-bird run together. I've been able to keep up pretty easily, but goddamn, my poor thighs. Clearly I'm not stretching them out enough. "Don't cuss at me," he says, flicking my nose, and I slap his hand away before he swings his leg over the seat and sits down in front of me. "You're infuriating," I say, wrapping my arms around him. "And a hypocrite." Dad just chuckles, flicking the kill switch casually. As he pulls the clutch back and starts the bike, he says, "I'm your father," as if that fact settles all matters. Then, with surprising acceleration, we're off. Driving off into the end-of-summer afternoon is terrifying at first. I hold onto my dad tightly, my stomach lurching whenever he makes a swift turn or dodges a squirrel scuttering across the road. Still, it's a good day for a ride, and once I get over the initial nervousness, I try to enjoy the air whipping about us, the thrill of zooming through these suburban roads, and being a part of something Dad loves. This is his taste of freedom, he's always said, and only now do I understand him. It's exhilarating when it's just you and the open road -- or however open the road may be. Frankly, I'm surprised I waited until I'm nearly halfway through my twentieth year to finally agree to this. After a lengthy ride, we finally veer into the parking lot where Dad brings his bike to a halt to the side of Olly's, away from the front entrance. The whole reason we're here is to prep for some repairs. The building itself is quite old, and parts of it have a ramshackle feel to it, to the point where issues can't be ignored much longer. Jack specifically has said that the bathroom in particular needs to be completely renovated -- so, that's where Dad comes in. The noble man he is, he's planning on doing the work himself, and all the Bad Bastards are pooling together funds for any and all expenses. Today's just about taking measurements and figuring out what can be salvaged. When we step inside, there are a few members chatting amongst themselves by the bar: Jack, a gruff-looking man nicknamed Stitch, and a younger guy that I don't recognize initially. He looks familiar somehow, but Jack distracts me by looking up at the sight of new arrivals and grinning broadly as he slaps his large stomach. "Well, well, well," he says slowly, chuckling. "Look what the fuckin' cats dragged in." "No pussy's gonna drag me anywhere," Dad says with a smirk, making Jack laugh heartily. "You want a beer, big man?" he asks. Dad just shakes his head as we head over to the bar. "Nah, I'm okay. Maybe later." He nods in greeting at Stitch and the young man, giving the latter guy a proper greeting. "Patrick," he says, offering his hand. "Nice to see you again." As the two of them shake hands, Jack turns to me. "Mitch, you remember Patrick, right?" Patrick! "Oh yeah!" I say, it finally dawning on me. He's Jack's nephew, the one who gifted us the Polaroids -- and the first openly gay kid I've ever met. He looks so different now. He's abandoned his long hair for something more militant, and he has somehow developed substantial muscle tone since last I saw him. "How's it going?" I ask politely, offering my hand just like my dad did. He smirks a little, accepting the handshake. "Can't complain," he says. I could be wrong, but his voice sounds far more masculine than I remember. Hell, maybe he had a second puberty. "Just finished with some summer classes, and took some time to visit this asshole," he says, gesturing to his Uncle Jack. Jack (affectionately) smacks Patrick on the back of his head, making us all chuckle. "You go to Harvard, right?" I ask. Patrick nods. "Yup. Moving back up at the end of the week." "He's tryna be a lawyer," Jack butts in, chuckling softly. "Uh oh," Dad says, eyeing Jack with a smirk. "You been behaving around him?" "Behaving? Pffft." Jack shakes his head as if offended by my dad's insinuation, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "I'm a motherfucking angel." As my dad chuckles, Patrick turns to me with a smile. "What about you? What's your major?" "Undeclared right now," I say, scratching the back of my head. "But, uh... I'm thinking of switching to finance." This is the first time I've expressed this idea out loud, so even Dad turns to me in surprise. "Really?" he says. "Yeah," I say, blushing slightly. "Was thinking... I could help with the business." This is something I mentioned jokingly last year, prior to me even agreeing to attend college. But I've been mulling it over lately, and now that I have a year of college under my belt, it's time to start thinking about my future a little more seriously. With Dad and I being "involved," the idea of a dad-son business sounds all too appealing to pass up -- especially if I could make myself useful and take over the parts of the business that he finds distasteful. He just smiles at me. He doesn't have to say it in words, because I can see it in his eyes: he loves this idea. Jack chuckles. "Sounds like a good plan to me. You know this bastard needs all the help he can get." Dad just turns to Jack and affectionately slaps his friend's chest with the back of his hand. "Let's just get this over with." Jack, Dad, and I all wander around the property, leaving Stitch and Patrick at the bar while we take note of everything that needs to be addressed: new windows, a new floor behind the bar, a new back wall in the office to replace rot, a proper fix for various leaks in the roof, and a restored bathroom. The unisex bathroom is a hot mess, with tiles loose and broken, busted mirrors, a stall door completely missing, and one particularly stubborn toilet. It's work that has been put off for a long time, so I'm happy it's being addressed now. My dad finds particular issue with the rot, though, a sense of worry furrowing his brow. Hoping it hasn't affected the foundation, he takes it upon himself to slide into the crawl space, sliding his jacket off and handing it to me to hold onto. In exchange, I give him my phone so he can use its flashlight feature while he's down there. After he disappears, Jack and I squat down outside the entrance. "See anything?" Jack calls in. "Gimme a damn sec!" Dad calls back, and I vaguely hear him grunting. It's a tight spot for a big guy. I had offered to go in his stead, but he's the expert here. He knows what he's looking for. Jack just smirks at me. "If there's rot, we're fucked." "Can't you just... work around it?" I ask, biting my lip. Jack shrugs. "You can, I guess, but the best thing to do is to completely get rid of it before it spreads. And it's always expensive. But your dad will know what to do." Then he smacks my arm. "Maybe soon you'll know too, Mr. I-Wanna-Be-A-Part-Of-The-Family-Business." I laugh, shoving him back. "Shut up." "No, I think it's great that you wanna help him out," he says, sounding gentler and more earnest. "You two... Well, you two make a good team." I smile. "You think so?" "For sure, buddy," he says, patting my back. Then, he rests his hand on my shoulder, looking at me with an odd expression -- positive still, but I can't exactly put my finger on what he's emoting. "You know," he starts to say, "I'm really happy you guys are so close." I feel my eyebrows lifting. "Yeah?" I ask, wondering what brought this up. He nods. "Absolutely. Between you and me, I haven't seen old Joel smile and laugh this much in a long damn time," he says, eyes still on me. He beams. "Seems you two finally getting together really cheered that fucker up." I feel something sticky get caught in my throat, and I can't tell if it's something real or metaphysical. Is he saying what I think he's saying? I do my best to swallow, first attempting to deflect. "I don't know what you're--" "He told me, buddy," Jack says casually. Is my face on fire right now? That's how it feels: like it has spontaneously combusted, or is at least threatening to. "I... What?" Dad told Jack about us? "Hey, don't stress," he says as he pats my back again, looking sincere as he speaks. "I'm not trying to embarrass you, here. It's no big deal." No big deal? Dad told his best friend that he's fucking his son and he doesn't think that it's a big deal? Wouldn't anyone else? "I don't understand," I say, practically whispering. "I just wanted to *finally* tell you that I'm happy for you guys," he says, "and I'm in your corner. Joel, he needs someone, you know? Always claimed he's this lone wolf kinda guy, but you know him. You know what he needs." I can't help but stare at Jack in disbelief. "And... you're okay with it?" I ask. Of all the ways I imagined this sort of encounter would unfold, this was not one of them. "Sure, yeah," he says nonchalantly, and I can't help but trust him. He seems completely unbothered by the fact that his best friend is committing incest. "I mean, look, I get it. It's kinda crazy," he says with a little grin. "But I've been somewhat waiting for this to happen for a while." I blink. "A while?" "Oh yeah," he says, nodding. "I've known about him since the beginning, buddy. Ever since he had an inkling of feelings." Jesus Christ. I never realized he and Dad were *that* close. I want to ask him more, like if anyone else knows, but suddenly, Dad's voice comes out of the opening of the crawl space. "We're in the clear, boys!" "Thank God," Jack says, laughing. He slaps his knees before he stands up and stretches. "Let's celebrate with that fuckin' beer." Even from a distance, I can hear Dad chuckling. "Long as it's cold," Dad calls out. Soon, he emerges from the crawl space with a grunt, and I grab his hand to help him to his feet. We trade my phone for his jacket, and he gives me a little smile before the three of us head back into the building, my face still feeling warm. When we step through the threshold, Jack announces that drinks are on the house, and I barely register Stitch going, "*Fuck* yeah!" because my conversation with Jack is still on my mind. I've already settled with an answer to my own question: Jack's the only one who knows. I'd bet my life on that. But now, other questions come to mind, like "Why is he so okay with it?" I suppose if Dad prepared him ever since he first had "an inkling of feelings" (whatever the fuck that means), he's had time to come to terms with it. But that's in theory rather than in practice -- and my father and I are heavily into practice, now. Has Jack had experience with this sort of thing...? Somehow, I doubt that. Of all the years I've known Jack, I've never once attached a sexuality to him because he's never given me a reason to. He doesn't talk about sex the way most men do, and as far as I know, he's never had a partner. He's just Jack. Not gay Jack, or I-like-both-sides-of-the-fence Jack, or God-would-be-proud-of-how-straight-I-am Jack -- just Jack. Maybe I'm thinking about it too seriously. As far as I'm concerned, Jack is just a damn good friend, open-minded and at peace with Dad's decisions long as he's not hurting anyone. I stand near Patrick with a little smile on my face, appreciating Jack all the more. The big man himself takes his place behind the bar and starts grabbing bottles from the cooler before asking Patrick and me if we'd "care to partake." His nephew, who suddenly appears beside me, thinks about it for a second before glancing at me and smiling a bit. "I'll have one if you're having one," he says to me. That comment coupled with his smile strikes me as odd, but I just shrug. "Uh. Sure, why not?" Jack hands us both opened beers before getting roped into pouring something a little stronger for Stitch. While Jack teases the man for being a "no-good alcoholic," Patrick and I somehow end up separated from the group, standing at the bar together while Dad, Stitch, and Jack poke fun at each other. I smile in Patrick's direction, and he grins, lifts his bottle to mine, and says "Cheers!" before taking a decent swig. I just nod, following suit. "I meant to say earlier," Patrick says after he swallows, "but that jacket? Sick." I laugh, looking down. "It's one of my dad's old ones," I say, running my hand across the leather jacket I'm wearing. Pretty sure Dad said he got this one when he was in high school. "It's a little big on me, but--" "Nah, it's perfect," Patrick says, reaching forward to open the jacket a bit as if to peer inside. "You look good, Mitch. Hell, *great*, even." I smile, appreciating his compliment. "Well, thanks." Then I gesture to his own jacket. It's just a windbreaker, but it's got a 90s-throwback feel to it. "Your jacket's pretty cool, too." "Think so?" he asks, smiling. "Pretty sure Stitch hates it." I snort. "Stitch doesn't know shit. Look at him." Patrick laughs, eyeing Stitch's torn-up leather jacket, tattered flannel, and filthy jeans. "Still, it's not, uh... 'biker-worthy'," he says, tugging on the polyester. "Just put a leather patch on it and you'll be fine," I joke, which makes Patrick grin. "You ride?" he asks curiously. I laugh and shake my head. "Today was my first ride, actually," I say. "The whole biking thing kinda terrifies me, if I'm being honest." "Shit, me too," Patrick mutters, leaning in with a smirk as he cocks his head towards Jack. "I don't know how to tell him that I'm not into it at all." "You'll break his big ol' heart," I say with a chuckle. "Yeah, well..." He just shrugs, taking a small sip of his beer. "Maybe if we stick together it won't hurt as bad." "It might help. Jack adores me," I say, being playfully cocky. Patrick just grins, his eyes flickering up and down. "Can't imagine why he wouldn't." I look at him curiously, wondering what he's implying using that tone. And that smirk of his makes me wonder, is he... flirting with me? At the very least, he might be interested, the way he's eyeing me. "Hey, listen... Can I ask you something kinda forward?" I blink, busying myself with my drink and just nodding. "What's your deal?" "My deal?" I ask. He grins. "Yeah. You gay? Straight? Straight-but-curious?" Before I can even think of how to respond, Dad steps in. He puts an arm around me -- and when I see the way he's eyeing Patrick with distrust, I realize the gesture is more possessive than affectionate, like it's a way to show Jack's nephew that the kid is encroaching on his territory. Patrick even steps back a bit, and I can't help but smile to myself, amused, my groin twitching ever so slightly. "Everything good over here?" Dad asks, taking a sip of his own beer. I know he's addressing the question to me, but his eyes are still on Patrick. "Yup," I say, trying not to smirk too wildly. "Just chattin'." I lean against my dad a bit, looking up at him. "He likes the jacket." "Oh yeah?" He tilts his head, looking me up and down. "Bet he does," he adds softly, eyeing Patrick again. For a minute, I'm curious to know what Patrick sees. Is my father playing the part of the overprotective father well, or is it more so a jealous boyfriend? Does he at least look incredibly threatening and imposing? Probably. Lucky for him, both Jack and Stitch slide closer to us, switching the subject altogether and relieving Patrick from having to respond -- and for the next hour that we're there, Jack's nephew doesn't flirt with me. Since we only really came for the inspection and to see Jack, Dad and I are the first ones to leave. I have to pick Mason up from his friend's birthday party anyway, and if I want to make it in time, we'll have to head out. The two of us each hug Jack, and both Stitch (who I'm not particularly close with) and Patrick only get handshakes. It's mildly awkward, but it's amusing. We wish everyone farewell, and I say, "Good luck at school!" to Patrick before following my father towards the exit. As we step out of Olly's, I clear my throat. Now that we're alone, I have some questions... or concerns, rather. "So," I start to say as we get closer to his bike. He glances back at me, twirling his keys around his index finger while he keeps walking. "So?" "I didn't realize you told Jack about us." I expected him to look shocked, like I caught him breaking my trust or something. But he doesn't flinch. "Oh," he says, looking more concerned for me than anything else. "Should I not have?" "I don't know," I say, shrugging. "I guess... I guess I just assumed it was a big secret." When we get to Dad's bike, we stand next to it, keeping close as we resume conversation. "Well, he's the only one I've ever talked to about it," Dad says, adjusting my jacket for me. "We're really open with each other, Mitch. I mean, I won't tell him anything else if it bothers you. But he's a good friend." "How good of a friend?" I ask. He laughs, understanding what I'm insinuating. "It's not like that," he says. "He's just..." He pauses, looking around as he searches for the right words. "Well, I consider him a brother, you know? And he's loyal to a fault. You know that." He smiles a little. "I don't trust anyone more than I trust Jack. His word is law, and his laws are unbreakable." I just nod, smiling slightly. I guess it's fine of Dad to confide in Jack. Jack is the unofficial "keeper of secrets." I'm sure he knows plenty of terrible shit about other members of the Bad Bastards, but Jack has a reputation for having never broken someone's trust. It's quite admirable. "Alright," I say. "Do you want me to not tell him anything?" "No, it's fine," I assure him. "I just wish you told me." "I'm sorry," he says, playing with my shirt. Dad smiles at me for a moment, staring right at me for a long pause before he asks, "You gonna tell me about that boy?" "What boy?" I ask stupidly. "Patrick. He was flirting with you." I try not to grin. "He wasn't flirting with me," I say airily. "Yes he was," Dad says. "I saw how he was looking at you." "So, what, he thought I was cute?" I ask, cocking my eyebrows. "You don't think I'm cute, Daddy?" "Don't play stupid with me, boy," he says, gripping my shirt and tugging me close to him with just a hint of aggression behind the act. "You're mine," he murmurs. "You got that?" Christ, I get hard so fast I swear I get a little dizzy. "I'm yours," I say back. He stares at me as if searching for confirmation before leaning down to kiss me once. "And I'm yours, too," he says more tenderly, making me smile. I can't resist stepping closer and returning that kiss. It's a bit thrilling to be locking lips outdoors, but to be fair, it's not terribly public. No one from the road would be able to recognize what we're doing. He pulls back with a soft smile on his face, licking his lips before standing up straight. Eyes on mine, he reaches behind him to grab the helmet and then hands it to me. "Let's go, pretty boy," he teases, and I just roll my eyes as I fasten the helmet on my head and take my place on the bike behind him. Once again, we're off. After we get back to the house, I take my car and head over to Sean's. Sean has been a reliable source of entertainment for Mason this summer. They've become quite good friends, it seems -- a bond strengthened by the fact that their birthdays are a mere two days apart. Now they're both seven, and they're loving every second of it. Unlike Sean, Mason didn't want a party. He preferred to celebrate *his* birthday with just me and his Papa by doing something he's always wanted to do: visit an aquarium. On his seventh, the three of us traveled up to Boston to visit the New England Aquarium, and I don't think I've ever seen the kid so thrilled. He was awed by the shark tanks, and mesmerized by the jellyfish, and practically screamed with glee when he got to touch the back of a stingray. My favorite part, though, was watching Mason be so attentive when a veterinarian was taking care of a sick turtle. It turned into an impromptu demonstration for the kids, teaching them about the anatomy and immune systems of creatures other than humans, and in a way, I'm happy that the turtle got sick; the whole way home, Mason's one repeat-statement was, "I'm gonna be an animal doctor." I loved his word choice: he's *going* to be a vet, like he's already chosen that career path with juvenile finality -- and, as his father, I'm going to support his little dream the entire way. Maybe the best way to get the ball rolling is to get him a little turtle of his own soon... That's what's on my mind as I head over to pick Mason up. With school just around the corner, we could welcome the new year with an addition to the family. I don't know shit about taking care of turtles, but we could all learn together -- and it'd make Mason ridiculously happy, I'm sure. When I get to Sean's house, the driveway is already full of cars -- presumably belonging to all the moms who have come to collect their kids. I park by the curb, wondering if anyone will be my age. Highly doubtful, but still, I'd love to avoid all the "*You're* Mason's father?" comments and dubious or scandalized looks that I get from all of Mason's teachers. Yes, I had a kid when I was fourteen. That doesn't mean I'm not a damn good father. I swing around to the backyard where at least a dozen kids are still making use of the trampoline or gorging themselves with leftover cake. Glancing around, I don't see Mason -- and before I can inspect further, Sean's mother catches my attention. "Mitch!" Maria says, smiling brightly as she comes over. "I wasn't expecting you!" I just smile. Dad's the one who graciously offered to drop Mason off this morning, so she probably expected him to pick the boy up. Maria's a sweet woman, but I wouldn't blame her if she felt disappointed to see me. She probably was looking forward to ogling my father some more. "My dad was tired so, figured I'd swing by and grab the little guy myself." I don't know why I lie to her -- he's busy with work, which is a perfectly valid and honest excuse, but whatever. "It's alright. It's so good to see you!" she says, and I smile when I feel she's being genuine. "Where's Mason?" She looks around in the backyard, squinting slightly. "Huh..." Then, she turns to see her own son emerge from the backdoor to the house, equipped with a water gun and a juice box. "Sean?" she calls. "Sean, baby, c'mere." The little sandy-haired boy skips over to his mother, smiling at me. "Hi!" he says cheerfully. "Hey, buddy," I say, giving him a little wave. "Where's Mason?" Maria asks, playing with her son's hair. "He locked himself in the bathroom upstairs," Sean says, sipping his juice casually. Maria pauses as if she misheard him. "What?!" she demands, glancing at me apologetically. "What do you mean?" "He was upset and wanted to be alone," he says, shrugging slightly. Upset? Maria eyes me warily, obviously unsure how I'll react. But I keep a level head, merely asking her where the bathroom is. She directs me inside, and I make my way through her kitchen, up the staircase, and down a brightly-lit hallway until I find the second door on the left. Sure enough, the door is locked. "Mason?" I call out, trying to listen in. "Mason, it's me." I hear his small voice from the other side of the door. "Daddy?" "Yes, it's Daddy," I say, my hand on the knob. "Wanna open up for me?" A few seconds later, I hear something click before Mason turns the knob and opens the door for me. I look down and sigh, willing myself to not get angry -- not at Mason, of course, but I'm feeling the beginnings of that paternal fury I get whenever I hear someone's been fucking with my kid. His eyes are all red as if he's been crying, lines of dried tears streaked across his cheeks. Wanting to get to the bottom of this before we leave, I step into his makeshift safe-zone and shut the door behind me. Then, I squat down to his level, putting my hands on his arms. "What's wrong, baby?" I ask. Mason looks down at his feet for a moment. Then, all of a sudden, he bursts into tears. "Masonnn," I say, sighing and reaching forward to pull him into me. He wraps his arms around my neck and buries his face into my shoulder, shaking as he sobs. "Talk to me, baby," I say soothingly as I rub his back and stroke his hair. It takes a minute of me trying to calm him down enough for him to enunciate. Half-crying, he can barely get the words out. All I can hear is the latter portion of one of his sentences: "--fun of me because I don't have a mom." I feel a horrible pang in my chest. "Someone made fun of you for not having a mom?" Mason nods against my shoulder. It must have just happened, now that half of his peers' mothers are here to pick up them up. "He said I'm w-weird." I exhale through my nose, exercising patience. "Who said that, baby?" "Bobby." Fucking Bobby. Isn't this the kid that made fun of my son for how he dresses? I might have to figure out who this little bastard is. "Don't listen to him, Mace." But Mason just keeps crying, sliding into a fresh round of tears. I just hold him tightly. "Go ahead and cry, baby," I say to him, planting a little kiss on his neck. "Let it all out." It seems to help him release all that emotion, because after a few minutes, the crying starts to die down. Mason pulls back, rubbing his eyes with his fists, and I help him wipe away the tears while he tries his best to compose himself. "Is it true?" he asks me. "Is what true?" "Am I weird because I don't have a mom?" I smile at him sadly. "No, baby. You're not weird." I put my hands on his sides, tenderly rubbing them up and down. I've been somewhat anticipating this conversation for a while, but my dumb ass hasn't had the sense to come up with a plan on how to navigate it. Guess I'll have to wing it. "I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, alright?" I say gently. When I know I have his attention, I tell him that most marriages don't last. "R-really?" he asks, blinking the tears out of his eyes. "Really. A lot of the time, parents split up." "Why?" "Why?" I ask, fixing his hair for him. "Well, lots of reasons. Sometimes, they just don't love each other anymore. But... the real reason I'm telling you this is because there are *lots* of ways people can have families." I adjust his shirt, tugging on the hem of it. "Some kids have both a mommy and a daddy. Some kids have parents that live in separate houses. Some just have a mommy, or just a daddy. Sometimes, kids live with their grandparents. Some even have *two* mommies, or *two* daddies--" "Like me?" Mason offers. I smile, nodding. "Yeah. Like you, baby. And there's nothing wrong with that, and there's nothing wrong with you." I poke his stomach to get a smile out of him. "Bobby doesn't know shit." That makes Mason giggle finally, even through the sniffling. There's my bright, shiny boy. "He's not bullying you, is he?" I ask. Mason just shrugs. "He's fine sometimes. But he can be mean." "To you, or everyone?" "To everyone." Well, at least my son's not being targeted. If he was, I wouldn't put it past me to throw hands at that little fucker. "He's probably mean to everyone because he doesn't have a daddy that loves him sooo much," I say, scooping Mason up and swinging him around. He squeals in delight, laughing and holding onto me tightly. I feel a bit relieved that I was able to cheer him up, but I hold onto him, giving him an insistent look so that he knows this is important. "Never forget that, alright? Never forget how much I love you." He smiles and nods, flashing his teeth at me and making my heart throb. "I won't, Daddy." "My sweet boy," I say, and I give him a kiss on the lips that he accepts with a happy giggle. After letting him say goodbye to his friends and wish his buddy a happy birthday (where, Mason points out, Bobby has conveniently already been picked up), I take Mason home. He seemed to have a blast despite that little hiccup, and he excitedly tells me all about the fun little games he and his classmates came up with. When we finally get back to the house, I decide to have Mason take a bath *before* dinner, and I send him into the bathroom to get started without me while I head into Dad's office. "Knock knock," I say, tapping my knuckles on his door. Dad looks up from the computer screen and smiles, pulling a pen out of his mouth. "Hey. How was the party?" "I think he had fun overall," I say before coming over to his side of the desk. "I wanted to tell you about something, though. So gimme some room." He raises his eyebrows but chuckles, sliding his chair back enough for me to sit on his lap. He wraps his arms around me comfortably, one hand sliding up and down my thigh. "What's up, little boy?" I grin a bit before looking serious. "Something happened at the party." He immediately looks concerned. "Is Mason alright?" "No, yeah, he's fine," I say, patting his chest reassuringly. "But some dumbass kid teased him about him not having a mother and he locked himself in a bathroom for who knows how long." Dad winces slightly, looking away as he thinks. "Hm," he says, pondering before turning his gaze back to mine. "What'd you say?" I spend a minute reiterating what I told Mason, tacking on a request at the end. "I just don't want him feeling like he's a weirdo or something... so we need to keep reassuring him, you know?" He nods a bit, completely on-board with this. "He's good now, at least?" "Well, yeah, I think so," I say, scratching my head. "You think I handled that okay?" He smiles slightly. "Ah, you want parenting advice, huh?" I laugh. "Well, you're the experienced one here." "Not in this matter," he says, stroking my side. "I mean, yeah, there was that phase when you asked about your mom a lot, but... I wasn't open about it. At all. You're at least talking to him." I hope I'm not making him feel bad by bringing up up the past. I see a bit of sadness in his eyes when he looks at me. "Do you ever--?" "I don't need a mom," I tell him, knowing exactly what he's about to say. He smiles warmly, hugging me tighter. "Do you think Mason does?" "Well, *I* don't," I say earnestly. Hell, he's never even asked about who his mother is before. This is the first time the subject has ever come up. "But I still don't want him to feel like a freak. Has he said anything to you about it ever?" Dad just shakes his head before locking eyes with me. "I don't think he feels like a freak, kiddo. I mean, look," he says, "is Mason happy?" "Yeah." "And are you happy?" I smile. "Very." He grins a little and then leans up to kiss me. "Then don't worry about it. You're doing the best you can. And your best is pretty damn great." I laugh, blushing slightly. That's all I needed to hear, I guess. "Thanks, Dad," I say, kissing him back before I slide off his lap. "Mason and I are gonna hit the bath, and then I'll probably make dinner." "Alright," he says, looking at his cluttered-but-organized desk with disdain. "I'm more swamped than I thought, so I might skip eating with you guys." "I'll bring a plate up for you, then." "That'd be perfect. Hey," he adds, snatching my wrist before I walk away. He pulls me back in, putting a hand on the back of my head and kissing me deeply. I hum against his lips, melting like I do every time this happens. Locking lips with him never gets old. When he pulls back with a moist smack, he grins a bit and then playfully pats my hip. "Now you can go." I just roll my eyes and leave the room, a smile stretched across my face. The rest of the night goes by smoothly. Mason and I take a quick bath, mostly because I'm starving and eager to get dinner started. Not wanting to be alone, my son decides to help me with the spaghetti and meatballs, taking charge of forming the ground meat into individual balls and giggling at the strange, cold sensation. Once dinner is squared away, I fix a plate for Dad and have Mason deliver it upstairs along with a "big, big kiss." Then, Mason and I eat together, clean up the kitchen, and play a few of those games from Sean's birthday party before he starts to get sleepy earlier than usual. Guess the party (or maybe the crying) wore him out. He asks if we can at least watch a movie, so I agree as long as he gets ready for bed. Mason, who's always excited for what he calls "Full Family Nights" (a.k.a., one of the few nights he gets to sleep with me and his Papa), eagerly agrees. He's already dressed in his jammies, so we head up to the bathroom to brush our teeth together before he's springing into the master bedroom and climbing into the big bed. I chuckle, watching him burrow under the blankets with Pandy as I strip down to just my boxer briefs and a t-shirt, ready for some movie-cuddles with my favorite boy. Turns out there's a Marvel marathon on cable, so we switch to that channel and jump in about a quarter way into "Iron Man." Mason tugs on my arm to drape it over him, and I smile, shifting so that I can be a proper big spoon for him. He hums a happy "Thank you" before completely settling down, and I kiss his cheek before we watch the movie in silence. I don't even notice that Mason has dozed off until Dad comes into the bedroom. I hear his voice before I see him enter. "He asleep?" I glance over at my father, who's materialized by his dresser. "Uh..." I take a peek at Mason's face, and sure enough, he's out cold, his chest rhythmically rising and falling. "Looks like it," I murmur with a chuckle. "Guess the movie's not that interesting," Dad says with a grin, removing his shirt. "He's seen it a hundred times," I tell him, eyeing Dad's exposed torso. Hell, I've seen that beautiful, chiseled, furry body of his hundreds of times too, but that certainly hasn't gotten old. Dad just grunts in response before stepping out of his jeans. I forgot he was wearing briefs today: jet-black and the perfect cut to hug his goods and show off those thick thighs of his. God, I could bury my face in there for hours. I know he catches me staring because when I look up, he's smirking at me. He comes over to the bed and lifts the blanket before sliding under the covers with a sigh. "Alright," he says, beckoning me over. "My turn." I laugh. "Tryna pull me away from my boy?" "Yes," he says, rubbing his chest. "Your daddy needs some lovin' too." Smiling, I gently slide my arm out from underneath Mason to turn towards my father, who lets out a deep hum when I cozy up to him. I place my head on his chest. "Got lots of lovin' for you, big guy," I murmur, and he chuckles a bit as he wraps an arm around me. "Get a lot of work done?" "Mostly," he says, sighing. Once I'm comfortable, he places a hand on my back and gently rubs it though my t-shirt. "Planned out almost everything for Olly's, put some orders in. And the usual work." I nod a bit, my fingertips gliding across his torso. "I'm always here to help, you know." Dad gives me an affectionate squeeze. "I know, buddy." He leans in to kiss the top of my head, making me smile a bit. "Speaking of which... You don't have to do finance just to help me." "What's wrong with wanting to help you?" I ask, shifting my head to look up at him. He smiles, playing with my hair. "I don't know," he murmurs. "I want you to do something you'd like." "It's not like I haven't given this a lot of thought," I say, both amused and touched that he clearly just wants me to be happy. "Yeah, I'm sure," he says. "You're a thoughtful boy." "Don't forget smart, and handsome," I tease. Dad laughs. "Don't get cocky, now," he says, lifting my chin up with his knuckles and leaning down to plant a kiss on my lips. I hum slightly, shifting my leg over his waist just for an added bit of physical contact. As my calf slides against his bulge, Dad grunts and then reaches down to hold the back of my thigh. "Careful." "I *am* being careful," I whisper, only wanting more. I move my body on top of his so that we're torso-to-torso. As his arms snake around me, one of which is sliding up my shirt, he deepens the kisses slightly. One deep kiss turns into another, and then another, and another still, until we find that our lips stop leaving each other's. We don't want to separate, that much is clear. For both of us, slow, intimate kissing like this is a release -- even if we had a damn good day to begin with. Dad and I usually keep our foreplay to a separate, more private part of the house, but tonight, there's something in the air: an urgency for each other that supersedes our caution. I can feel it charging our bodies, heating us both up as his hands roam my backside and my fingers grip his shoulders. A soft scratch of my back here, a firm grope of my ass there... Normally, I'd be laughing through the exploratory touches and playful kisses, but tonight? It's all about purpose. I know he can feel me stiffening in my boxer briefs, because, under the covers, he strengthens his grip on my ass to pull me in even more and grant my cock increased friction. What that simple gesture says to me is: "Grind, boy." Panting slightly against his mouth, I start moving my hips back and forth, my bulge pressing insistently against his. My steady movements are rewarded with one of Dad's low groans that rumbles through me and steals all my focus. Right now, there's nothing but us, and there's nothing I want to do more than to make him moan like that again, and again, and again. Dad breaks the kiss slightly and brings two fingers up to my mouth. "Open up for me," he whispers, lightly stroking my bottom lip. I part my lips enough for his fingers to slide in -- both the middle and the index. Eyes on his, I wrap my lips around those digits and let my tongue swirl and suck softly, taking him in knuckle by knuckle. His gaze is hard, sultry, and powerful. It's the kind of look that would make me do whatever he wanted. He slowly removes his now-slick fingers from my mouth and brings them back under the covers. After lifting the waistband of my boxer briefs, he slides his hand in, damp fingers slipping between my cheeks until they get to my sweet spot. My eyes close and a soft, sensual smile appears on my lips as he rubs my hole in small circles. God, it takes everything I have not to moan too loudly. Good thing the TV is still on, drowning out most of my noises -- but still, it's risky. I lean down and kiss his bottom lip, almost sucking on it when I do. "Should we go downstairs?" I ask. "You're not getting out of this bed," he says firmly, "until I'm done with you." I gulp, my cock throbbing in the confines of my underwear when I feel the sternness in his voice. "Yes, sir," I murmur, and I see the slightest grin appear on his lips before he adds just a hint of pressure to my hole. It begs the question, though: when will he be done with me? He pushes the waistband of my underwear down, tucking it under my cheeks so that his hands have full access. Then, he brings a hand to his own mouth, locking eyes with me as he sucks on those same two fingers. Hungry, I lean in to kiss his lips until he gives me another go at those digits, and he slowly pulls them out and transfers them to my mouth. As he feeds me his spit-covered fingers, he clamps his thumb, ring finger, and pinky on my jaw, tilting my face to the side to give himself all the access he needs to my side. He glides his tongue all the way up my jaw before biting my ear, tugging on it erotically, making me gasp around his fingers and dig my nails into his shoulders in response. When he releases my earlobe, I hear him murmur something to me. I can't discern the words themselves, but the tone he uses is thick with lust, and love, and passion -- and that's all I really need to hear. He quickly shifts lower to clamp his lips on my neck, practically making me drool on his fingers. I close my mouth around them, sucking back and forth like I would his cock, and he hums encouragingly while painting a hickey against my throat. It's times like these where I wish he had hair for me to tug on, but I settle with practically clawing at his flesh with quiet desperation. I swear I feel him chuckle before he pulls his fingers away and brings them right back to my ass. With his dry hand, he pulls one cheek to the side so that he can press his wet fingers right against my pucker. A few taps and then, when he kisses me with lusty tongue, his finger becomes insistent. After adding a little more pressure, I arch my back a hitch so that he can ease it right into me. I groan, raising my ass higher for increased depth while I gently capture his tongue in my teeth. I tug before closing my lips around his muscle and slowly, sensually pulling off of it. He hits me with an open-mouthed grin before extracting his finger and then patting my hip. "Flip over," he says. I arch my eyebrow but nod, doing as he says and turning over to rest my back against his torso. Since he's right on the edge of his side of the bed, he can easily reach the nightstand and pull out our shared bottle of lube from the top drawer. The sight of it makes my breath hitch and my blood feel hot. He's not really going to finger me to high heaven with Mason right here... Is he? As he pops the cap with his thumb, he kisses my neck tenderly and says, "Take your undies off, baby." The huskiness in his voice gives me chills. "Completely?" I ask, wary. He just repeats that word back at me: "Completely," he says, but his voice has an edge that tells me he's going to get what he wants from me. I just swallow thickly, reaching under the blanket to push my boxer briefs off my hips as Dad squeezes out a bit of lube onto my favorite fingers of his. Once I'm naked waist-down, my underwear lost somewhere under the covers, Dad reaches in between my thighs to press his greased-up fingers right against my entrance. I moan out once from sheer anticipation before biting my lip, holding it all in as best as I can -- but my restraint weakens when he reaches down with his other hand to envelope my hard cock in a strong fist. My back arches, but Dad just whispers for me to relax as he kisses my neck. Relax? How can I relax when I feel that familiar pressure against my hole, or when his thickest finger eases into me up to the second knuckle? How can I relax when he holds onto my cock with such sureness, such paternal care, such generosity? He knows what his touch does to me. He knows it'll be difficult for me to just simply relax. Slowly, he works his finger back and forth, curling it just right so that there's constant stimulation to my prostate. I can't resist gentle thrusts into his fist, the tip of my cock rubbing against the soft blanket covering our lower bodies. That added friction sends electric currents through my groin. Yeah, there's no way I'm relaxing. In an attempt to hold back my moans, I just keep whimpering and whining. "You're so hard, baby," he murmurs in my ear before kissing it. He seems to confirm his observation by giving my cock another squeeze. "Fuck," I grunt, huffing and pushing up into his grip. "Don't cuss," he warns me -- and even that little reprimand makes me throb and presumably leak. I'm sure the blanket is just soaking up all the precum my cock is spitting out. "Sorry," I manage to mutter, biting hard on my bottom lip. "Hm," he says simply before pulling his hands away from my pleasure centers. I take a moment to breathe before feeling oddly fearful, tilting my head towards his. Is he seriously stopping because I swore? But he just chuckles as he adjusts himself. "Relax," he says, either reading my expression or my mind. "I'm not done with you yet." I realize he's not just adjusting himself -- he's taking his underwear off. I watch the blanket shift, imagining those black briefs being pushed down to his ankles before I'm distracted by the sight of him picking up the bottle of lube again. He offers it to me. "Wanna do the honors?" I gulp but nod, opening my legs a little wider as I take the bottle. He sits us upright a little more with his back pressed against the headboard and me in his lap, his cock jutting out between my thighs. With my free hand, I reach under the blanket to grip it. It's solid and radiating heat, completely warming my palm. Shit, it's as if the lube could almost evaporate right off of it. I shouldn't. *We* shouldn't. Fucking right next to Mason seems a bit too much and too risky... But goddamn, my cock is as hard as steel right now -- and with my father's manhood proudly erect and within my grasp, the instinct to take care of it is completely taking over. I need it. I glance over at Mason before I push the blanket down temporarily so that I can apply a healthy amount of lube to Dad's cock. Once it's slick and shining, I let go, quickly pulling the blanket up to hide what we're doing in case my son wakes up. Then, I cap the lube and toss it to the side, waiting for Dad to make the next move. But he doesn't do anything. "I'm waiting," he says after a moment. I'm fucking sweating. I reach back down, gripping Dad's cock as he grunts in my ear. As I tug on his member, he inhales slowly, running his own hands down to the insides of my thighs. He pulls them apart, making it easier for me to guide his cock in -- though technically, I'm guiding my hole onto his cock. When the tip of his dick kisses me, I whimper. Slowly, I lower myself onto him, my mouth opening wider when the head pops through. My sphincter stretches to accommodate him, and once I'm impaled, I reach lower to tug on his balls for added leverage. "That's it, baby," he says as I work more of him into me. "Fuck yourself on Daddy's cock." I close my eyes and let out a low, soft exhale as I'm filled up. Steadily, I sink down until I'm planted firmly in his lap, feeling whole, complete, alive. Instinctively, I want to ride him, so I start moving my hips and have him burrow deeper -- but he stops me. "Don't move," he says, gripping my hips. At first, I don't think I hear him correctly. "What?" "Don't move." He slides his hands up to my sides, lifting my shirt as he goes. I lean forward a hair and lift my arms so that he can strip me of my top. Then, as I lean back against him, he puts his hands back on my body. He takes his time roaming, exploring which parts of me make me squirm the most when touched, like my taint, my cock, my nipples, and my neck -- all while I just sit there half-watching "Iron Man." I'm desperate to move, desperate for friction, desperate to feel him wearing me out. I try to give myself *something*, so I grip my cock and start treating myself to tender strokes. However, when Dad notices me stroking myself under the blanket, he grabs my wrists and pulls my hands away. "Nuh uh," he says, breathing huskily in my ear. "I wanna see your hands." "You're killing me," I murmur, my hole twitching around his shaft out of pure need. It's like I'm just warming his cock. "Just enjoy it," he tells me, and he reaches up to tilt my face towards his, locking our lips together. We make out slowly while his hands traverse my torso once again, spending extra time on my chest. When I feel his fingers tweak each nipple simultaneously, I nearly bite his lip. I don't feel him all over, like I usually do. The stillness of our hips makes the pleasure feel localized and specific, contained to where his hands, lips, and cock are -- but it's intense at those points. His lips feel softer and wetter than ever, and his tongue (I'm only just now noticing) tastes vaguely minty. His fingers send shockwaves throughout my body each time he twists and tugs my nipples, coaxing out damp moans against his mouth. His manhood... Fuck, it just feels *right* inside me. It's strange to just feel his powerful cock resting, planted, the only movement being whenever my hole flutters or his cock pulses -- but I do just what he asked me to do: I enjoy it. I'm still as solid as ever, and I notice it especially when Dad lets his hands slide under the blanket to tease my cock. One palm cups my balls, and he pets my cock with just the fingertips of the other, making it twitch and jump under the covers. Apparently, I'm dripping precum like a faucet, because he brings his slick, dripping fingers up to our mouths for us to share my taste. God, I can barely take it. The flavors and sensations are so intense that it feels like I've hit my limits of pleasure. My body can't endure the teasing much longer. Finally, fucking *finally*, he lets me move. I moan out in gratitude and immediately grind on him in desperate fashion. Suddenly, all those little pools of pleasure spread throughout my body like I'm being rapidly encased in a warm, fuzzy glow. Maybe it's because he's hitting my prostate just right, or maybe its how he hugs my body to his in a moment of shared pleasure. We both moan together, his arms hooking under mine as he grips my shoulders and keeps me so deeply embedded into his lap it's like we are one body. "I fucking love you, Mitch," Dad mutters in my ear. If my face could get any warmer, it would -- but I'm at maximum temperature right now. Any hotter, and I'll die a blissful death. I just whimper as he tugs on my earlobe with his teeth, grinding insistently onto his cock, wanting him deeper, and deeper, and deeper still. "You want Daddy to cum?" he whispers. I nod, grinding a little faster and gripping anything I possibly can at this point. For now, my fingers settle with his arms. "Please." "Where, baby boy?" God, his voice feels positively damp in my ear, laden with sexual need. I know exactly what he wants to hear. "In me," I grunt out, my eyes rolling back. Somehow, he seems to be getting deeper, feeding me more cock even though I'm already full. "Do you deserve it?" Fucking hell. I whimper out, biting my lip and looking back at him hard. "It's *mine*," I whisper. "Hmm," he hums approvingly, inhaling my scent with a grin on his lips. "Then make Daddy cum, Mitch," he murmurs. "Take what's yours." I close my eyes and swallow thickly, focusing as best as I can on his cock. His heavy breath and words of encouragement in my ear help make my hole clench repeatedly around his shaft, milking him. I want to be the one to give him that sweet release, to be the recipient of his essence. I want it to fill me completely. It comes sooner than I expect it to. After a while, I hear Dad grunt before wrapping his arms fully around me, keeping me down on his cock. I can't lift myself up, only rock in circles -- but that's all he seems to need. He inhales sharply, squeezing his arms around my midriff before he becomes still, a mass of flexed muscle, held still with incredible tension. The lack of movement lets me focus on how hard his cock throbs. I can feel my sphincter stretching with each pulse of cum as he completely empties his balls inside of me. There you go, Dad. Give it all to me. Give me what I behaved for. He exhales deeply, slowly loosening his embrace and kissing the back of my neck with gentle pecks. He drags his palms over my torso again before one of them slips under the blanket, just barely touching my cock. "You're a good boy, you know that?" Dad says, kissing right behind my ear. I nod, whining when he wraps his fingers around my dick in the loosest grip possible. "Want me to take care of you?" he asks as he kisses around my neck and shoulder. I groan. "Do you even have to ask?" Dad chuckles, teasing me with a firm grope before he pulls his hand away. He has me lift myself out of his lap before rolling me onto my stomach. Confused, I fall in line, letting him call the shots -- and only when he's on top of me and beginning to kiss down my spine do I realize how he plans to "take care of me." The anticipation builds the further down he goes -- and once his lips kiss the crease above my ass, I decide to grab the pillow and bite on it so that my moans are quieted. Slowly, teasingly, his lips delve between my cheeks, and after he tenderly kisses the hole he was just inside, he outstretches his tongue and glides it across my pucker. "Fuuuck," I groan, but it's muffled by the pillow, so Dad can't chastise me for swearing. Using both hands, he pries my cheeks apart and doesn't hold back, probing me with his tongue as he kisses and sucks on my sensitive hole. I can't resist grinding into the bed, his soft cotton sheets providing the perfect texture for my cock to slide against. He encourages me, humming right against me and sending little vibrations throughout my body. I'm so turned on, so incredibly fucking overcharged that I feel like I'm right on the edge of orgasm for entire minutes. Dad just focuses on my hole, unrestrained, felching away as he squeezes and pulls each cheek. I feel his tongue deeper than I've ever felt it before. He's hungry -- and I'm amazed that I'm not screaming for joy. My cock becomes impossibly more sensitive, and I realize it's because I actually am on the edge now, teetering towards climax. "Dad," I whisper, looking down. "I can't hold it." He doesn't waste a second. One more lick and then he grabs my hips, flipping me onto my back with surprising swiftness. All I see is his head making a dent in the blanket where my crotch should me -- before all goes dark, that is. My eyes automatically shut tight when I feel his mouth almost fully engulf my manhood in one sure stride. It has an immediate effect: not even a second later does my cock start pumping its cum into its maker's mouth. I'm clenching my body so tightly I could snap, but I can't resist. It's too fucking intense. My legs tremble and I squeeze my thighs on either side of his head while I smother myself with a pillow and let it all out. What a release, to let myself groan unabashedly into the pillow while he bobs up and down my shaft slowly, getting every drop. My throat feels hoarse when I finally come down from the high, and I just exhale heavily, tossing the pillow to the side. I find myself unable to move. I just lie in a state of temporary paralysis, hearing the sounds of wet sucking just over an action sequence in "Iron Man." What a fucking ride that was. I'm sure I gave Dad a full meal just then. Curiously, I glance over at Mason to see that he's still fast asleep, and I sigh in relief. He wouldn't deserve it, but I probably would have been pissed at him if he interrupted us, enacting some sort of retribution fit for a cockblocker. Smiling to myself, I enjoy Dad lightly sucking my cock until I start to go soft. Then, tenderly, he starts kissing up my body, emerging from under the blanket. "Hey," I say. He looks up and grins, licking his lips. "Hey yourself." I reach down to cup his face and pull him on top of me so I can kiss him. But I chuckle. "You're so warm," I say, stroking his face. He laughs. "Yeah, well, it's hot down there," he says, leaning in to kiss me. We've gotten all the lust-filled, sex-driven kisses out of the way. Now they're back to sweet and familial. Still, I can taste myself heavily when his lips are on mine -- and it touches my erotic center whether or not I want it to. After a few rounds of those kisses, we switch to cuddling, separating our lips to finally let each other breathe. I stay on my back as Dad rests on his side, draping a leg over mine and an arm just under my chin in a protective embrace as one of my hands strokes his back. Somehow, both of us are focused on the TV as we talk. "I never wanna leave this bed," I murmur. Dad laughs shortly, just through his nose. "Unfortunately, you can't survive on spit and cum," he says. "I can try," I say with a smirk, and Dad just cuddles closer to me, kissing the top of my head. I rest my free hand on his forearm, holding it gingerly. "Hey Dad?" "Hm?" "Do you consider yourself a lone wolf?" He pauses for a moment. "What brought this on?" "Just something Jack said." He chuckles, patting my upper arm. "Jack gettin' in your head, huh?" "I'm just wondering," I say with a smile. "That's kinda how you've always been. Well, private, at least." "Hm," he says again, taking a few seconds to gather his thoughts. "I guess I can be. But," he adds, burying his face in my hair, "doesn't mean that's me at my happiest." I nod a little, stroking his forearm. Then: "What's you at your happiest?" I wait nearly ten seconds for a response before, all of a sudden, Dad pulls away and slips out of bed. "Where are you going?" I ask. I watch him head to his closet. With his back to me, I can't exactly see what he's rummaging around for. "I was gonna wait a bit for this," he says, just loud enough for me to hear him over the television. "Y'know, until next spring, on the anniversary of when Mason moved in." I look at him with confusion. "What are you talking about?" "It'll be seven years we've been co-parenting," he says, turning to me. He looks uncharacteristically nervous, or hesitant, or... *something*. Whatever it is, even though it's barely noticeable, there's just enough of that emotion for me to detect. I eye him curiously as he comes back over to me and sits on the edge of the bed, one of his hands in a fist. It's not until he unfurls his fingers that I start to see where this conversation is going, and I sit up, wide-eyed. "Are those--?" "My old rings? Yeah." He nudges one ring off of the other, the everchanging images on the TV accenting the glint in the gold. They're beautiful rings: simple, but with subtle patterns that differentiate them and show off the exemplary craftsmanship upon close inspection. They're rings that I recognize as his wedding bands, the ones he and my mother wore when they were married -- the ones he himself made specifically for that special day. I look up at him. "I don't understand." "I want you to have one," Dad says, the faintest bit of red on his cheeks, "in the hopes that it'll answer your question." He smiles gently at me. "This is me at my happiest... with you, and Mason. With my family." He laughs a little nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "It might seem a little silly or whatev--" But I cut him off by leaning in and kissing him hard and deep. He nearly falls off the bed but quickly snakes an arm around me, kissing me back. I feel an intense rush of affection for my father, my lover, my provider. It's nearly bringing me to tears, but when I pull back from his lips, there's an unwavering smile stretched across my face. "I love it. And I love *you*." He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I love you too, kiddo." He reaches for my left hand and slides Mom's old wedding band onto my ring finger -- but we find it's far too loose, which just makes us laugh. Guess Mom had pretty thick fingers. "We can get it resized," he says, "or throw it on a chain or something." "Let's resize it," I say, holding my hand up to watch the loose ring settle at the base of my finger. Turns out my mother wasn't a diamond kind of girl -- which doesn't surprise me. Dad is a simplistic fellow, and I can't imagine him marrying a woman who prized diamonds over all. It's not about the material, or the cost. It's about what it symbolizes. For us, this ring embodies our commitment to each other, the promise of a future in whatever capacity that may be, the deepening of a love that's already beyond what we could have hoped for. Beaming, I take his hand and dress his ring finger with his original wedding band. It fits perfectly, still, and I stroke it with my thumb, hoping to give this old ring new life. "Told you I'd marry you," I say playfully. Dad lets out a bright laugh, one that's uncharacteristic of him but clearly shows how happy he is in this moment -- and that means everything to me. He ropes me into a gentle but passionate kiss, holding my head tenderly in his hands. I can feel the cool metal of his ring against my right ear, and it gives me chills. Technically, we may not be able to ever do anything legal with these rings, but it's not about that. This is for us, and us alone -- our little take on common law, I suppose, because it's all about our intention to remain together. Hell, maybe I'll start calling him my husband... Gradually, I find that Dad is leaning in more and more, and soon, I'm on my back with Dad on top of me. Not for a second do either of us pull our lips away in the process -- but the blanket is separating us. It's evident he finds the lack of skin-to-skin contact frustrating, because he grunts and slides off the bed to lift the covers so that he can slide under with me again. But before he even moves to situate his body over mine, he grins. "What's this?" he asks, reaching under the lifted blanket and giving my cock a squeeze. Fuck. I didn't even notice I was hard again. I grunt, laughing. "Stop," I whisper, slapping his hand away. "You'll get us in trouble." I glance over at Mason, who still seems to be fast asleep, not even facing our direction. We risked it once. Going for round two seems a bit too much like tempting fate. Dad just hums in a low tone before climbing under the blanket, pushing me up onto my side, and cuddling me from behind. He spoons me, wrapping a broad arm around my body and making me sigh with contentment when he kisses my jaw lightly. "What do you think he'd say if he caught us?" Dad asks after a moment. I laugh. We're pretty good about keeping our sex life under wraps, but kissing is fair game whether or not Mason's in the room -- so the boy has been privy to *much* of that, and often gets jealous as a result. "He'd probably just be upset that he missed all the fun," I say. Dad smiles against my head at my little joke, moving his hand in slow circles on my stomach and making me close my eyes. This is the epitome of relaxation: cuddling with Dad and relishing his soothing touches. After several moments, though, he asks something that makes my eyes shoot open. "You ever think about it?" I raise my eyebrows, eyeing the back of Mason's blond head. "Think about what?" I feel Dad leaning in a little closer to my ear, shrinking our shared space so that he can speak intimately and secretly. "You know," he murmurs, and in my periphery, I see him cock his chin towards his grandson. I gulp, feeling my heart racing. Am I right to assume that I know what he's implying? And if so, how the fuck do I answer this? But my answer is automatic and defensive: "No," I say, as if he offended me for suggesting such a thing. "No?" Dad asks, a touch of surprise in his voice. "Never been curious?" Curious about *what*, exactly? What it'd be like, what it'd feel like, what it'd taste like? The honest truth is that I *have* thought about it, sometimes in unserious ways where I'm asking myself questions like, "What would it be like to fuck a kid that young?" A few times, I've ruminated on those thoughts more deeply than I'd like to admit: I've pictured what Mason would look like having an orgasm... and I've imagined what it'd feel like if I were the one responsible for it. But what to tell Dad? "I don't know," I say, my lips feeling dry from embarrassment. "Have *you*?" Dad doesn't hesitate to give me his answer. "Yes." I freeze. Every muscle is still for a second -- except for my cock. After having just started to go back down, I swear I can feel it twitching to life again. "Really?" I ask, glancing back at him. "Sure," he says. The flush that had occupied his cheeks when he was presenting the rings is gone now, replaced with his normal, quietly confident aura. Does he realize what we're talking about here? "What... What about?" I ask hesitantly. "Just... you know," he says, laughing slightly. "Wondering what it'd be like, I guess." So, I guess we're on the same page then, right? I get sudden flashbacks to times I've noticed Dad getting a boner with Mason on his lap. At first, I had thought it was just because Mason's squirming was providing just enough stimulation physically -- a normal bodily response. But now, there are slightly deeper implications. Then he adds something else: "Was curious about you, too." He must mean when I was younger. I feel my face getting hot, and I look away, my eyes once again homing in on the back of Mason's head. "Did you...?" I start to ask. "Did I what?" "Ever... act on it?" I ask, gulping. "With me?" There's an excruciatingly long pause before he finally answers me. "You really don't remember, do you?" The hell is he talking about? Did something happen? "Remember what?" "How I..." He takes a second to clear his throat, shifting a bit. "The bath." My heart's already pounding in my chest as I ask him to tell me. And so he does. He reiterates the story to me in striking detail -- not being particularly graphic or anything. Those are the details that he skates over. But everything else is painted so clearly that I can picture it as if he's reforming a lost memory in my head. After Mom left, Dad's main coping mechanism was to harbor his feelings of loneliness and heartbreak and vulnerability, feelings he tried to drown with his stock of bourbon. But he had me, his radiant little boy -- and my affectionate nature seemed to "tend to his wounds" more and more each day. It was a Tuesday. He remembers that clearly. He had more than his fair share of alcohol and had sunk deeper into that contemplative state, taking refuge on the couch. That's where I came in. I seemed to intuitively know my father was at a low point that night, because I just climbed into his lap, kissed his cheek, and hugged him tight. Then, per my suggestion, we did something that always helped Dad relax: we took a bath. It was all smiles once we were in the bathroom, playfully stripping each other bare. I helped Daddy with his belted jeans, and Dad helped me wiggle out of my little chinos and briefs that had little soccer balls printed all over them. Once we were naked and in the tub, Dad felt indescribably better. "You were so damn affectionate that night, kiddo," Dad says, pulling me closer to him. Apparently, I was all games and playful touches, doing all I could to keep my favorite man happy. At one point, I slid into his lap to pepper his face with kisses, sweet little smooches covering his chin, cheeks, forehead, and nose. When I found my way to his lips, though, that's when something shifted. We kissed, *really* kissed, for the first time. It wasn't those innocent greeting kisses, or those tender smooches whenever the mood struck. It was elongated, purposeful, a bit sensual. We kissed back and forth until the water started to go cold, and that whole time, his sudsy hands were sliding up and down my young body. That part wasn't new. Dad always bathed me because, like Mason, I much preferred my daddy making sure I was squeaky clean. Whenever he washed me, he was thorough -- and that always included my ass. Apparently, though, this night was different. As we kissed, Dad cupped my peach with one hand before letting his soapy fingers slide between them. "It's like they had a mind of their own," he says, and I sense him shaking his head. He stroked and prodded gently, as he usually did when he was giving me a thorough bath. But that night, his actions felt a little different -- like he was testing the tension before, eventually, easing a single finger into me. He chose his ring finger, the one on the right hand, and penetrated me up to the second joint -- and I let out a whimper right against his lips. That whimper is what "woke him up," so to speak. "I snapped out of it," he says, recalling how he opened his eyes, pulled away from the kiss, and took stock of what was happening. As if emerging from a haze, he found himself two-knuckle deep in my hole, tasting my lips with his tongue, rubbing my little cock with his free palm, and sporting a major hard-on between his legs. It was all too much for him to handle. The kisses were far too dynamic and erotic, and the feeling of both my lips, my tightness, and my own sudden stiffness had made him undeniably aroused. "I felt so guilty, Mitch," he whispers, sighing through his nose. "After that, I put the bourbon away for good. And... I stopped getting in the bath with you." His palm settles on my stomach for a moment, his fingers circling my belly button. "I didn't trust myself." Jesus. I must have not remembered that specific night because I didn't register it as anything other than normal. It felt like any other bath night to me: kissing Daddy, getting intimate in the soapy water, letting him wash my most private places. Nothing felt "new" -- to me, that is. That shift was something that *Dad* felt. "Tried burying those feelings after that, for the most part," he says, his fingers drifting down to the hair crowning my cock. "Couldn't stop myself from fantasizing about it, though." I gulp, getting images of Dad furiously jacking off late into the night, long after he's put me to bed. I envision him restless, unable to find sleep until he cums to the thought of his baby boy, his one and only. "You were my everything, Mitch," he says in my ear, hugging me tightly. "And it took me a long damn time to come to terms with what that meant for me." I smile slightly, toying with the hair on his arms. "So, those feelings," I start to say, wondering how to word it, "they never really went away?" He shakes his head. "Not for a second." Maybe this explains the timing of all of this. Mason's around that age I was when Dad started... what, "being interested in me"? Maybe those feelings were fully exhumed once he realized how my own son is so similar to how I was at that age. That awareness could have easily brought up all those tender emotions again, thus leading to that explosive kiss outside Olly's. "Can I tell you something?" I ask. A stupid question, really, because I know I can tell him anything now, as made clear by how open he's being with me. But this is a sensitive topic. When he nods, I utter a secret. "I've jerked off with Mason before." He sounds surprised. "*With* him?" "Yeah," I say, my face as red as if I'd been slapped. "Like, we've done it together before, back when him and I shared his room." It's happened a handful of times -- nothing as serious as when Dad and I used to plan out masturbation sessions. But still, it happened. "I always wondered..." he says softly, his voice trailing off. "But that's it," I quickly add, as if to maintain some level of innocence. He nods in understanding before resuming his slow, circular stroking of my stomach. After over ten seconds of pondering, he asks, "Do you feel for him what I felt for you?" I tense, feeling like I'm sweating without actually perspiring. It's terrifyingly thrilling to be talking about something so... well, pervy. But if it were ever to be discussed, it would be here, in our bed, behind closed doors, man-to-man. I try to focus less on the subject matter and more about unpacking that question. Do I feel similar things for Mason? I don't think about my kid the way I assume Dad is implying. Other than generally-fleeting curiosities or one-off daydream fantasies, my love for my child has been pretty innocent. But love can change, shift, metamorphosize into something deep and romantic and full -- the prime example of that being me and my own father. Could it happen across two generations? I suppose Dad's follow-up question would be: "If you had the opportunity, would you take it?" I'm so lost in trying to collect my thoughts that I take too long to respond, and Dad just clears his throat. "We probably shouldn't be talking about this," he says, almost like an afterthought. Disappointed, I just nod -- but now it's all I'm thinking about. Mason and I bathe together regularly. I know his body well, and he knows mine, and though it's not in a sexual context, there's that playful dynamic Dad and me had. What if something similar happened between us, where a kiss lingered and a touch didn't wane? What would that mean for me and my son? I'm distracted by the presence of something stiff against my ass. "You're hard," I whisper. "Yeah," he murmurs, not pulling away. Heart thudding, I take the hand that's on my stomach and guide it to my groin, letting him feel that we're in the same boat here. "I am too," I say. He seems hesitant at first to grip me, and I'm sure I know why: we both know the perverted thinking that got us in this state. But soon, his fingers wrap firmly around my cock, and I sigh with pleasure, closing my eyes. He strokes me slowly as if just testing the rigidity before he starts grinding against my backside. We keep it slow, but there's a steadiness along with it, a fresh sense of arousal, and when Dad starts kissing my neck again, I feel it, that yearning again: I want him. As I start grinding back against him, our movements become more fluid and our breathing becomes increasingly heavy. It's a gradual deepening, a slow build of urgency, until, at the height of it, I reach back to grab him. I ease my hand in between us, and he shifts his hips back enough for me to grip his manhood while his lips continue making sure I'll wake up to marks all over my throat. I let out a frustrated grunt, suddenly frantic, all too eager to have us join again. Aided by his leftover cum, Dad returns his cock to me, and I groan out as he sighs against my skin. He grabs my wrist to pull my hand out from in between us, wanting to completely close the gap between our bodies with one sure thrust. "Ah!" I moan, working my hips with his through our cuddle-fuck, inhaling sharply when he drags his nails lustfully down my torso. It feels too good to be together like this, too right. It feels illicit, beautiful, tender, powerful, a pleasure beyond what I had imagined. I know Dad feels it too -- but I wonder, did he truly believe we'd end up like this, or was it, for him, just a deeply-held but far-fetched hope? "Daddy?" Suddenly, I open my eyes, and both my father and I freeze because we realize Mason has awoken, facing us now. "Hey Mace," I say, trying not to sound so suspiciously out of breath. "Why's the bed's shaky?" he asks, rubbing his eyes. Shit. Were we really moving that much? I hadn't even noticed. "Sorry, baby, we're just..." "Getting comfortable," Dad says, finishing my sentence for me after I trail off. "It's okay," Mason says sweetly, yawning before he starts to slide closer to us. I swallow thickly as my son cozies up to me, with Pandy in between us as he presses his face into my chest. He even takes my arm and drapes it around his waist. Even though Dad hasn't moved yet, my breathing is erratic. Calm down, Mitch. Mason didn't see anything. "Sleep tight, baby," I whisper, rubbing my son's back. He just hums in response, nuzzling into my chest a little deeper. Just when I think he's settled, he moves his hand to my left pec, resting it there. "Your heart is beating so big, Daddy," he says. I swallow again, willing myself to relax. "Yeah, buddy?" "Mhm." Then, he takes my hand, guiding it to his own chest. "Can you feel mine?" I smile at him when he looks up at me. "Yeah, I feel it, baby." I rub his chest soothingly. "Big and strong," I say, leaning over to playfully cover his heart in little smooches through his shirt. He giggles happily until I pull back, stroking his hair. "Get some sleep for me, alright? I'm sorry we woke you." He nods a little. Before he settles, he leans up to snag a quick kiss on the lips before getting comfortable up against me again. "G'night, Daddy," he says. "G'night, Papa." "'Night, buddy," Dad says, reaching around me to brush his palm along the boy's arm affectionately. I exhale deeply, closing my eyes for a moment. Fuck, that was close, wasn't it? Thank God we kept the blanket over us, because otherwise, Mason would have seen too much... So why am I still rock-hard from the thought? Suddenly, Dad gives me a gentle thrust, penetrating me deep enough to force a moan out of me. He chuckles before kissing my neck. "You gonna be able to sleep?" he whispers in my ear. It's the safest decision to call it quits. It'll take Dad a little while to cum considering I just recently milked a load out of him, and Mason's leg is nudged against my balls, so there's no way I'll be able to get off without disrupting my son. Maybe it's best if we just sleep. "Yeah, I'll be fine," I whisper, knowing I'll have to focus in order to sleep. "Don't pull out though." Dad leans in and kisses my neck. "Wasn't planning on it." I smile softly to myself, closing my eyes, sandwiched between my father and my son. I feel closer to Dad than I've ever felt before, but it's the type of closeness that requires further exploration and understanding. I still have so many questions for him, as I'm sure he does for me -- and I fall asleep feeling curious to see where this newfound depth leads. - End of Chapter 7 -