Date: Mon, 1 Jul 2019 15:38:03 +0200 From: wise owl Subject: Watching Daddy (part three) for gay/ incest Reader Note: This is a love story pure and simple. A loving tribute to a dad from his son. If this offends you- and by that I mean male sexuality in all its fullness, if you are not of legal age, then please do not read this. If you have comments, please email me at wiseoldowl@gmx.com Please give to Nifty, your support keeps it going! **Please read all earlier parts before this section** Watching Daddy Part Three: Thank you all for your early support in my exploring of my life saga. There are so many facets to all that happened with my daddy and the ways it all unfolded. Like the art of fine wine making, it took time and lots of fortitude of willpower...mine! You can imagine the much smaller me, dad six feet tall-more or less. The way he sat in his comfy chair and had his precious size 11 feet on the footstool...so kingly and regal. I was a sworn ally to his thrown forever, my allegiance never varied or faltered. His golden red hair, his ruddy yet near perfect skin tones, that golden moustache and his twinkling blue eyes gazing down at me as I honed my craft of learning about his body bit by bit...as I said, feet first. My Adonis, my dad! As this usual after-work routine played out, dad sipping his cocktails...another helper in my games of control! I worked on his feet, massaging and drinking his aromas in. He relaxed, the cocktails having an effect and became virtually putty in my hands or anyone's hands and thus I had my work cut out for me. I learned this very early on. I had to use his enjoyment of alcohol to my advantage and learn to be a bartender of sorts...topping up his glass when needed. The little devil was at work. As the dinner call from mum approached, I rubbed his feet and went into my own private world. I had to be a very good fantasist and dreamer of dreams back then. My mind always loved to create situations using my dad as the main hero. I loved to take my favourite stories and turn them into dad's adventures. I much preferred seeing dad as the hero in my "mind versions" than the ones in the books. I had so many private daddy stories I'd amuse myself with and I know he used to wonder where my mind was at if he caught me daydreaming. And I must admit, my daydreams were very real to me and the place where I would hatch my eventual daddy "experiments" for the future. Sure, they were not very sexual early on but fascinatingly enough...they were very erotic in the way I saw my dad and how he was interacted with by other characters there in. And the high point or story peak always involved my dad being held captive or being manhandled in some exciting way...I owe much to Batman of the 1960's TV. He and Robin in their skin-tight lycra and nylon attire were always being tied up, roughed up and being put on some strange machine. Talk about early fetish imagery. Hell, my mind was alive with ideas for daddy! The inner devil smiled as I rubbed his warm socked feet and imagined a possible fantasy "cops and robbers" scene (a favourite fantasy I loved to retell in my mind's eye) with me the little bold and brassy robber and dad the big uniformed cop, so handsome and dashing: Me, gun holding and all powerful. Put your hands up. Dad obeying, his own gun vanishing like mist. The magic of dreams! Lay down, I snarl. Dad complies. I, the strong but slight robber ties dad's feet with rope that magically appears in my hands, it always did in my fantasy. The gun pocketed and me in charge by other means. Dad's shoes gone and me leering at two socked, trembling feet. Dad begging, no! Please no. I laugh and I begin. Dad's torture has begun and his laughing makes me win. Every belly laugh is the robber winning and the cop succumbing to me and my evil fingers. The smell of dad's sweaty feet making me tickle harder. Oh, I was such a little devil indeed! I tie his hands, tight...tighter. They are behind his back. He tries to roll away, he can't. He shouts and laughs from my continued assault on his sweaty socked toes. I fear discovery. I snarl at him. "Shut that mouth or I'll gag you." The voice in my head I used was deeper and fiercer than mine really was at that point. I had to sound scary to daddy. His twinkling blue eyes go wide, like saucers and he nods his head, the reddish gold hair growing messy and sweat beginning to trickle down his handsome high forehead. "Yes, sir." Daddy whimpers as I consider what to do with my prisoner. Very early on in all my daddy fairy tales, for that was what they were, I'd start with a reason for him to get captured, a need for restraints...shoes off, feet tickled and then? It was at this point my mind grew fevered, my heart racing, my breath shorter and chest tighter...what next? My stomach grew tingly and full of jumping beans as I pushed the fantasy door wider and soared to new places. Daddy is tied up, I am in charge. What do you want Tony...you little devil, what do you desire? And this was where anyone watching me daydream would think I was going mad, I'd laugh like a crazed thing and roll about on the floor full of near bursting excitement. And feeling extremely naughty and "out of control", I'd look into daddy's eyes in this "cops and robbers" fantasy and say, "I am going to take your shirt off." The imagery of topless male heroes was plentiful in the 1960's, just think how many times James Bond gets stripped off. The idea of taking dad's fancy nicely ironed dress shirt off, ripping the buttons as I tore at it...well, it felt naughty and so outrageously powerful. And in my fantasy, with daddy moaning softly for fear of me "the wicked robber", I rip away with small skilled hands and pop each button and tear my way to dad's bare, golden rusty ringlet covered chest. He lay breathing hard, his toned chest muscles tight and his nipples perky and pink...rising and falling as I stand above him and stare down at my work! The manly contours I survey are now sweat covered and glistening, his belly button quivers just near his still belted trousers...his rusty golden hairs move away in a steady line under his belt buckle and vanish. My evil hands grab at his warm fleshy chest, my fingernails catching his curly little hairs around each nipple. He stifles a cry, a yelp...his eyes grow huge. I see his furry little underarm nests, golden and sweaty...my fingers yearn to crawl up into those nest and dig away and make daddy nearly burst his seams! "Don't you yell, I said...Don't YOU YELL!" my voice firm and using a no-nonsense tone that makes daddy squirm. By now as I sat rubbing daddy's feet and dreaming this fantasy, you can understand why daddy would say, "Are you OK Tony?" He was enthralled by my trance-like state. He was sure I was somewhere else and I was...I was! I always ended the "cops and robbers" daddy fairy tale around this stage, he topless and looking very worried and me...just wanting to do more but holding back. It was a limbo-land early on. I knew there was more, much more...but it was still early on and I was working it all out. The daddy fairy tales got more delightfully involved one day when I shared one out loud (a very strange feeling) and that sort of made me "push out the boat" and really give my daddy hero a run for his money. That will come soon and I explain it fully in a future chapter. Mavis, a woman about 50 something years old, I always knew her and she looked after me from time to time when mum needed to be off somewhere and dad was yet to be home. Mum had a soft place for her in her heart and wanted to be a friend...so she gave Mavis cast off dresses, shoes...made her feel really special. And paid her to mind me from time to time. The list of men and women I was able to use in my daddy "experiments" was astounding. Mavis was just the first! Mavis in the 1960's was just considered a bit "edgy" and high strung. She drank, she smoked. Her one and only son away in university and her husband long since flew the coop for a younger piece of action. Mavis today would be called a MILF or cougar. She would be a very useful tool and so craving my dad, I mean really CRAVING him! I now look back and I see very clearly, she was So Wet for daddy! And she just got me talking one day, sharing a story I dreamt up with daddy as the hero. But that comes later! But back to the footstool, my fingers leave the arch and move to the heel. The meaty heel. So much to pummel and work. Dig in and dig in deep. The deeper I worked, the better the, "Oh, yes...yes!" Dad loved this. And I needed it! The next foot awaited and I prayed mother would not call "dinner". Not yet. Please not yet! Dad relaxes, sips more of his refreshed drink, and sighs deeply. The sound of the newspaper crinkling as he turned the pages echoes still in my head. Moving to the other foot, leaving one love for another. I connect in the same pattern as earlier. The shapely ball is my first port of call. My fingers now drenched in dad's manly aromas. The unforgettable scent curling into my nose and into soul where it always loves unto this very day! Fingers moving sliding along that silky fabric, my eyes looking and seeing that beloved foot flesh peeping thru the thin, tight covering. Knowing who and what lay inside! Early visions of my heaven, my land of bliss! The race was on. Would mum call or would dad shout for joy? The odds were fifty-fifty. And mom won out just as much as dad. When mum did call, dad dutifully pulled his socked wonders from the footstool and grabbed me playfully in a hug. We'd wander to the dining table in some sort of jumble and playfully wrestle with every step. Dad stepping proudly in those socked feet. No slippers really used. Just his feet striding through our home and christening every floor surface with his manly foot essence. To say we acted more like two naughty monkeys was an understatement. Mother was always correcting us. We sat in a group. Mum and dad topping the table ends and me plopped dead centre on one side. The game of footsy under the table is seen as an adult seduction tactic. By no means is this correct fully! It is played by many, many others! I did wear slippers. Mother insisted. I always slipped them off under the dining table. My day before dad arrived home included a bath and change into what we called, "around the house clothes". Fresh socks after my day in my world were always worn. They were not outdoor socks. They were house socks. An odd assortment of colours and always thin and father mid-calf in length. My own sense of foot to carpet was ticklish and appealing. I loved to run my socked foot along mother's various carpets. It was a sensory delight. But at mealtimes I was the little devil again and risked my mother's wrath. My socked foot always wormed its way to dad's toes nearby. Pushing, prodding, nudging and gently exploring my nearby treasures. His warm socked foot and my warm small socked foot, each secretly communing beneath my mother's nose. She blandly discussing her day, who she saw, who phoned. Boring! Dad nodded, I ate. The game of foot fun never ceased. The meals were like this and it's how I lived and how I surveyed the ups and downs of growing up. Feeling dad's warm socked large toes working against my stubby smaller ones; toe to toe combat under the table. The occasional burst of giggles from me unexplained, mother unaware and wrapped up in her daily mundane recitations. Since I was bathed, all I needed for bed was a change to PJ's. TV was on offer but I preferred a different venue of entertainment. Oh, sure, various 1960's and 70's favourites did win out from time to time. I loved enjoying all sorts of TV situations. BUT my dad's after dinner routine was constant and very much inviting. Much better than TV! Mum, dinner over, cleared away plates and loaded the dishwasher. No, she did not want help. Her dishwasher, her way! Best stay elsewhere! Dad, tired and needing rest, moved upstairs and prepared for his down time. A bath was in his future and I seemed to manage finding my way upstairs with him often. Dad, as in the morning routine, loved help and never discouraged. I was his right-hand guy. And I loved it. The two men of the family, one behind the other, trudged nightly up the carpet stairway. Daddy first, his big socked feet stepping firmly and making lovely impressions in the nape of the plus carpet. Me, much smaller footed and trying to fit in each of his warm imprints; a game I loved and never tired of. Once up dad would say, "Tony, no TV tonight?" I'd nod gravely. "No, nothing good." We'd move to the master bedroom and begin the procedure of getting him ready for bath and bed. My eyes fixed on the man I adored and feeling the role of son, helper and friend. Innocent and pure and completely non-sexual. It was just where I wanted to be and felt most at home! My dear dad was completely unashamed and did not believe in being prudish in any way. He was proud of his body and did not hide it. He was aware and yet delightfully unaware of the impact his Adonis-like appearance had on all those who gazed upon him whether fully clothed or any state less than that. I truly am at a loss for words, can a man be both innocent and yet in the know? I think my dad was a real mixture of both qualities, lucky for all of us who adored him! He was so beautiful and manly, all eyes drawn to him! The bath ritual was sacred to me. Daddy on display, my eyes open and mental notes being taken on every inch of this perfect museum worthy masterpiece. My dad! Well, dad would then begin to strip. My job was to ferry items, including his moist aromatic socks to the clothes basket. The sweaty socks were my job to pull off. Ready or not, here I come! Much more to come in each new chapter of this life saga! Feel free to write me if you enjoyed this or have read my earlier works. Thank you! Tony aka wiseoldowl@gmx.com