Date: Tue, 15 Apr 2003 02:54:53 EDT
From: KissAndCuddleGem@aol.com
Subject: Dad's Just Desserts (Installment 1)(by KissAndCuddleGem)

This story is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons
living or dead, or to events that may have occurred, is purely
coincidental.  Moreover, none of the actions of the characters in this
story is presented with the intent to condone, approve, or sanction their
behavior.  All questions and/or comments are welcome; and, if you wish to
contact me, please feel free to email me at: KissAndCuddleGem@AOL.COM; and
I will most definitely respond to email, as appropriate.


The pungent aroma of freshly-baked apple pie permeated every crevice of a
rather cluttered but sizable kitchen.  Jake had just opened the oven door,
yet he was engrossed in thought, his mind very much elsewhere and far
removed from the pastry he had before him: The events of the day had
included a stressful trial in a highly intensive custody battle where no
one would like surface as a winner, most certainly not the child; and the
same were playing out in his mind over and over like a video cassette tape
where the VCR had malfunctioned.  As the oven door slammed shut, the
grandfatherly-looking figure was visualizing his gavel plunging down while
he was presiding and a predictable "Order in the court!" being barked out
in simultaneous rhythm.

Jake took a deep breath, released it quickly, paused, and shuddered.
Secretly, he was afraid that his secret would come out: that this arrogant,
intimidating, and egotistical man of seemingly great power was really
nothing more than a quiet, subdued man who often cried himself to sleep at
night and lied still in bed on many weekend mornings, with his arms aching
for the lady who was no longer there and had somewhat mysteriously
vanished.  He reassured himself that he had fooled all once again.  He
hurriedly composed himself, as he knew that soon Ronnie would be home from
school.  He knew on an intellectual level that it was not unmanly to show
emotion.  Still, he could not overcome the obsession in his mind that he
was weak and felt that least of all his own son should ever gaze upon his
weakness and see as being pathetic, a loser in effect.

Ronnie was a baby-faced teen, just having turned fourteen barely two weeks
ago.  Red hair, freckles, and a bright, engaging smile recently corrected
with braces.  He had a small frame, was 5'3" and about 130 pounds with
bulging rock-hard pecs, an otherwise smooth chest with a trail of hair
leading down from the center of his upper chest to a tight, narrow, and
seductive waist.

Ronnie virtually skipped through the rear door and into the kitchen,
chirping about some highlight of his day: "Dad, I made the wrestling team!
Isn't that wonderful?  There were five other jocks, yet I clinched it!"

At least Jake recalled it as wrestling, it could have been swimming, he was
only half-listening.  Frankly, he was at this juncture simply relieved his
pounding heart had once again resumed its normal rhythm.

"That's wonderful, Ronnie, I am so proud of you, son."

Ronnie, however, felt unnerved inside.  The smell of the apple pie, his
childhood favorite, was a painful reminder to him that this evening would
in all likelihood be no exception to the usual evening "routine".  On any
other day, it would be okay with him.  On this day, however, he just wanted
some run-of-the-mill father-son bonding and attention and a low-key
celebration of his triumph: something that would appear to have been taken
straight out of "Father Knows Best" or "Leave It to Beaver".  With Ronnie
and Jake, the communication had over time become constricted at best and at
times virtually non-existent.  Besides, Ronnie did not have the courage to
express something so personal to his father: He felt intimidated, with the
intimidation further compounded by Jake being an imposing figure of a gent
indeed, a stocky broad-shouldered man of close to six feet in height and
with a bearing still slightly reminiscent of his college football heyday.
So, ultimately, this day would in all likelihood be like any other similar
"dessert and then..."-day.

Ronnie's best option, he mused, would be to keep his father's attentions
elsewhere and stretch out the evening until his father was simply exhausted
and gave in to sleep.

Their usual Thursday dinner, a vegetarian and pasta medley, seemed to have
been served and eaten in a mechanical slow motion style.  Jake alternated
between smiling and forcing a smile, at times laughing half-heartedly at
Ronnie's earnest attempts at humor.  Ronnie's anecdotes, intended to
distract his father from certain lusty thoughts, had ironically had quite
the opposite effect.  Ronnie's tales reminded him of how he spent countless
afternoons out fishing with his own dad and of his concerted efforts to
entertain his father, especially when it became more than readily apparent
that their efforts were in vain.  Then, while thinking of the fishing and
reliving these days through flashback, the images became blurry: Hushed
voices, whispers, freshly creased white linen sheets, the pressing of flesh
against flesh.  He crossed his legs in a rather futile attempt to disguise
the pulsing bulge in his boxers.

Globs of apple pie being delicately placed on a fork and hungrily devoured.
Spoonfuls of ice cream being placed on each mound as if crowning the
Christmas tree.  It was like a dieter's fantasy come to life.  Jake was not
really in tune with Ronnie this eve, he was unaware that Ronnie was
savoring every single morsel of the palatable pastry as if it were the last
of the earth's bounty and looking to stretch out what should take no more
than half an hour at best to hours on end.

The Betty Crocker scene ended quickly enough.  The grandfather clock in
their foyer, filled to the max with family photos, had ominously struck
ten.  Ronnie was lying on his back with his summer-style quilt tightly
pulled up to his chin and he was breathing in and out in an even pace, very
much awake and yet pretending to be soundly asleep.

The door had been purposefully left slightly ajar, as Ronnie believed that
if he deviated from the usual in this his father might come in overly-tense
and who knows what consequences this could bring.  His mind kept racing,
repeating over and over and over to himself this: "Usual, normal,
routine.", "Usual, normal, routine," "Usual, normal routine"....  Then,
suddenly, a rather unexpected thought intervened: Was any of this normal?
Well, Ronnie knew he had little time to dwell on this one, as fate was
about to intervene.

A slight gentle caress of his right hip through the multi-colored pastel
patchwork of his quilt stirred him from his "slumber".  Ronnie had not even
heard Jake enter the room, no rapping of footsteps and no squeak from a
shifting door.  Ronnie looked up into his dad's eyes and, his lids having
been until a moment earlier tightly closed, was adjusting his eyes to the
light coming from the corner of his bedroom.  Jake had put on the desk lamp
this time; and he was smiling, with something approaching an impish grin
heightening the already unsettling effect of that spark in his verdant
eyes.

Ronnie sat upright as if preparing to go to war.  "Shhhhhh, it's okay,
really, I want to look nice for you, I want you to see how nice I look:
Relax, that's all it is, it is just me, my dear."  This sounded odd.  Had
his father finally lost it?  Ronnie did not know what to make out of this.
Then, Jake, as if in response, slowly pulled down his boxers to just above
the knees, really taking his time as if he were doing a striptease.  Jake
glided over closer to Ronnie and proudly thrust his hips forward to display
his thick, semi-hard cock and his low-hangers.  Ronnie tried not to look
too obviously, but he could not help from viewing the spectacle; and made
note to himself for the umpteenth time that his father, while far from
"hung", so to speak, was still quite ample in that department.

Jake stepped out of the underwear and hastily kicked his plaid garment
aside.  He grabbed a corner of the quilt and got into bed with his scion in
as casual a manner as imaginable, acting as if he had simply just stepped
into the shower.  He felt his son sliding away from him on the satin
sheets.

"Please, I love you, don't...", Jake throatily warned his squirming son.

"But today was really special dad, really special, and I just thought...."
But before he could say anything more, his father gently had covered his
still open mouth.  Licking his lips and vaguely recalling from their taste
enjoying them smacking on the much-pleasurable apple-filled tantalizingly
tasty tart, he took his index finger to his lips: This was the father's way
of calling for complete silence at moments he thought it best.  Then he
chimed in: "Oh, I promise it will be special for you, really, really
special, my beloved, as you have been restored to me, so I will definitely
make it such!"

"Restored!?  Beloved!?", Ronnie thought to himself; and was greatly
confused by all of this nonsense.  He did not have time to think, not even
a moment to plan a survival strategy.  Jake grasped Ronnie's cheeks and
gently pulled him towards a hairy chest tinged with grey.  He pressed his
pecs against Ron's silky chest and passionately kissed him, licking
Ronnie's lips in a teasing way as the kiss concluded.

Ronnie's pallor was subsiding, gradually subsiding, but it was evident to
Jake that he was indeed coming around.  Jake was there, very much there, in
the moment, at least at times he was so.  Jake was thinking to himself:
"Action, decision, now was the time for action and decision."  In an abrupt
motion, as if the gavel in his mind earlier had once again been pounded
down, he straddled his son's slender waist and caressed his son's manly
chest.  He alternated between fingertips and palms and kissed and licked,
even at one point sucked on, Ronnie's tender, now-erect nipples.

There was a rosy glow on Ronnie's cheeks now, seeing this pleased Jake.
But then, upon seeing his son's innocent dimples, he was reminded of his
wife, his beloved.  His eyes became misty and his expression wistful.
Ronnie's timing saved things here, as he was now moaning in pleasure at his
father's tongue-bathing of his upper body: "Oh!  Oh!  Aaah!  Yes, yeah,
oh...oh...yeah!"

It was as if a hummingbird on his window sill had now awakened him from a
deep slumber: Jake, jolted back into reality by the blissful cries of his
son, again was in full swing and very much in the moment.  He stretched out
his body full length over the beautiful, silky adolescent body of his son;
and hastily pulled down the precum-soaked burgundy silk bikini briefs,
virtually ripping them off Ronnie.  He grinded his now-throbbing, thick,
almost-fully hard cock into the small-bush pubes and average-sized member
and sac of his son, sort of rotating his hips in a circular motion all the
while.  He pressed his cock against the rock-hard abs of his heir.  Within
a few moments, he felt his low-hangers pulse with a force that took him
very much by surprise.  He embraced his son tightly, telling him that he
loved him and that he could not hold out much longer.

Ronnie, in turn, responded: "I love you, too, Dad".  Still, the words came
difficult for the young man: This was not just because of the emotion that
clenched his very essence within his bosom, but also as a result of the
father's steadfast grasp, which virtually cut off his air supply.  Jake
loosened his grip a bit as he slid one of the hands under Ronnie to
Ronnie's left bun: He greatly enjoyed the tender softness and smoothness of
Ronnie's cheek, though it was only for the briefest of intervals.

Jake could not slow down the momentum, though he was very much grappling
with the surging force within him; and even, briefly, dug his nails into
the slippery sheets.

Ronnie does not remember that much of anything now, though he recalls this:
a creak at the door and the shadowy silhouette of a graceful figure
entering the room and most ominous, especially while still at the doorway.
A memory that he still savors to this day is of lying on top of the
now-completely cum-drenched sheets.  The rest is a blur: the shouting and
screaming, often to the point of absurdity, the clothing being thrown
everywhere, the insults and barbs, and the general pandemonium surrounding
the teenager as he literally felt frozen and only silently observing the
scene from way above.

For Jake, one thing was for certain: His long-absent wife's reappearance
could not have happened at a more inopportune time.  For Ronnie, well, he
viewed things a bit differently: Ronnie believed that while he enjoyed the
intimacy and the affection in the relations with his father, he never
wished for such relations to continue indefinitely as he neared being a
young man and approached adulthood.  He did not have all of the answers
most certainly, but knew this much: that he wanted very much to find a
partner with which to share the good elements of what he shared with his
father.  Yet, he was also very much aware that he was still uncertain as to
his sexuality.

The aftermath, though somewhat predictable perhaps, was a jumbled mess at
best: The emotional rantings of a mother and, depending upon whom you
beleive, possibly a woman seriously betrayed.  The highlight of proceedings
more appropriate to a circus arena than fitting of the austere decorum of a
grand courtroom was this: the confrontation of a father by a trembling
still very young son greatly vulnerable to the emotional manipulations of
his mother.

Jake relied upon connections from his high-status days of societal fawning
to obtain the benefit of an abbreviated sentence, one much briefer than
that strongly recommended by the jury.  He passed the time in the poke in
large part by conjuring up mental images of the pastries he prepared in his
days as a free individual.  He was unable to suppress the now-haunting
memories of his impish combining of sweets with his idea of "being sweet".
Still, he found great solace by immercing himself in mental imagery of a
seemingly endless supply of his favorite meal-enders: blueberry pies,
cherry pies, apple pies, and even that secret family recipe-derived apple
strudel, the one that his saintly grandmother genuinely enjoyed baking and
would lovingly top generously with cinnamon when in his youth.

Upon his release, Jake gradually came to the realization that for all
intents and purposes he had done nothing less than having literally flushed
his legal career down the toilet.  His wife had remarried during his
incarceration; and she had forgave him repeatedly for his trangressions,
imploring him in countless letters to seek forgiveness through religion.
Oddly enough, he now found that he felt no connection whatsoever to his
beloved, though at one time he would have gladly scaled the world's highest
peak if that would have restored her to his loving arms.  Similarly, he was
awakening to the grimness of his reality: that his friends and colleagues,
those he held to be loyal and greatly trusted, all of them in fact, had
totally abandoned him.

Yet, he defiantly would convince himself that none of this mattered; and,
to anyone within earshot, he would angrily mutter under his breath: "To
heck with all of it!  The whole lot!"

Ultimately, a few days into freedom, a call from his halfway house and made
with trembling hands and a series of related curt phone conversations
thereafter confirmed his greatest fear: that he had lost the one thing he
held to be truly precious to him: the love and admiration of his son.
Until his dying day, he did everything he could think of in an attempt to
regain what he had indeed lost, but it was all to no avail: Nothing worked,
not even a resourceful effort to coax Ronnie into a partnership arrangement
with his own dad in Jake's new business enterprise, a bakery.

Those who Ronnie presently holds dear are frequently heard to exclaim in
strikingly mocking tones when Jake's name comes up in conversation: "Looks
like he did indeed in the end get his just desserts!"