Rabbit Hole

CHAPTER ONE Getting Dressed

By Quentin Collins (hauptwerk88@gmail.com)

BJB Conglomerated Media

 

This story is fictitious and takes place in a fantastic realm where inconvenient physical, biological, medical, legal, and moral strictures don't exist. It is intended only for the entertainment of those who are legally permitted to access and read it.

This work was originally intended to be a prologue to another story, but somehow blossomed into more than twenty chapters. It is my first attempt, so please be gentle in your criticism, lest you make me cry.

 

It's 9:18 a.m., Saturday, July 22, 2017: my 29th birthday. It is also my son Channing's 15th birthday. We are getting ready for the busy day ahead of us.

I'm in my bedroom, dressing my 177-pound, 6-foot frame: Tom Ford worsted Navy slim-fit suit (an unjustifiable indulgence), brown wingtips shined to a rich luster, white dress shirt with French cuffs; simple pale gold cufflinks with my initials engraved on them: AT. Andrew Tarnow. Andrew Konrad Tarnow.

Now, which necktie? I have limited myself to three choices. Virtually everything that we're taking with us is already packed and in the moving van.

Focus, Drew. Focus.

I hold up the ties as I examine myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door, absentmindedly flicking strands of my almost shoulder-length blond hair away from my face.

Maybe I should have gotten it trimmed? Maybe I should tie it back? I just recently decided to let it grow longer. I like it loose and barely controlled. It connotes untamed sensuality. At least in my mind, it does. Others might think I'm just a slob.

Necktie, Drew. Choose a damned necktie.

Red? Too aggressive. Pale blue jacquard? It matches my eyes but looks like I'm trying too hard. Pale yellow satin? Wait a second: blue and yellow were our colors at Cool Springs Regional High. People will like that. Yellow it is.

I tie a classic half Windsor and conduct a final assessment. I may be conceited, but, damn, I look fine. I'd do me. I smile at the notion, but my smile quickly fades.

I hate dressing for funerals. I hate attending funerals on my birthday. I just hate funerals. I hate Annika for dying. I hate Annika for drinking and snorting herself to death.

Correction: I don't hate her. I won't hate her. She was stubbornly self-destructive. Nothing and nobody were going to stop her. Several people tried, but her addictions trumped their best efforts.

How could I hate the woman who gave me my beautiful, magical son? How could I hate a woman I hadn't seen in almost a decade?

My son, Channing, is in the other bedroom, preparing to bury the ashes of his mother, whom he met twice in his 15 years. I walk over to his room to check on his progress.

There isn't any progress.

Chan is standing naked in his room, staring out the window while absentmindedly stroking Mr. Bunny, a stuffed rabbit that he can't seem to part with. His new suit his only suit is still encased in the garment bag on his unused bed. The bed is among numerous pieces of furniture we had decided to leave behind.

He hears me enter his room and turns as I walk over, kiss Mr. Bunny's head, and pull my son close to me. His thick, curly, light blond hair is slightly damp, and I catch a whiff of our shampoo. As I hold him, I feel his arms wrap around me, and he buries his face in my neck.

Channing is an anomaly. He is 15 today but is preternaturally well-muscled and mature. He maintains an air of calm control in almost any situation. Even more, he is an air of calm for others and tensions seem to evaporate in his wake. His charm is seductive. He could pass for 18. Some of it has to do with his carriage and confidence, things he gets from his mother ... got from his mother. Much of it is just the magic of Channing.

I work out five days a week. I have done so since before I was his age, but I don't gain muscle mass, though I would like to. The muscles I have are very well defined, and I am proud of my slim physique. I was once mistaken for Steven Dehler in the gym shower. I was on cloud nine for days.

I am proud of Chan's physique too. He works hard, and the results are unmistakable. I feel the muscles in his incredible back and shoulders, made bigger in the past few months by his new love of rowing. But he also loves rugby. He loves javelin. He loves everything.

I love him with everything that I am.

He is easy to love

"Chan, my sweet baby, we have to get going. I know that neither of us wants to do this. But we'll get through it ... together."

I rubbed his back lightly and pressed him into me even tighter.

"There are a lot of people who want to see you and tell you they love you. It's probably going to be a while before you see many of them again since we're leaving for South Carolina right afterward. Okay, sweet baby?"

I felt my beautiful naked son huff out a small laugh.

"Why do you call me a baby," he asks barely above a whisper.

"You know I'm almost as tall as you and I weigh fifteen pounds more than you. My dick's bigger than yours too, little man."

He arched back a bit from my embrace to gauge the reaction on my face, leaving our abdomens and crotches pressed tightly against each other. I smile at him and kiss both cheeks, realizing that soon I am likely to have to tilt my head up to do so.

"I didn't call you `a baby,' I called you `my baby.' That will never change no matter your height, weight or the size of your penis. Besides, we are about the same length, although I concede yours is thicker than mine. It will probably end up being longer too by the time you stop growing, my beautiful sweet baby."

Chan rolled his eyes at me, resigned to go through life as my beautiful sweet baby. We both know he cherishes being my baby. He presents Mr. Bunny to me so we can rub noses, and then places the stuffed animal on his bed. He is a gentle soul, but he is also an imp and can be a smartass. I think he gets that from me. He has never once in his life been cruel to anyone.

I kissed him on the mouth, allowing my tongue to enter him. We had only recently escalated our level of intimacy. I wanted to be sure my son truly desired and could handle whatever we did.

Chan was minty fresh. More importantly, he was in need of a reminder of how much I love him. I felt a surge of, what? Passion? Love? Desire? It felt almost as if he were transmitting to me the love I have for him. His kiss is indescribably profound and undeniably transformative. He had a gentle calming effect on me as I tried to calm him.

We visited each other's mouths. There was no aggression, only a desire to share and support. I sucked on his tongue for a moment, and we reluctantly pulled apart. Nobody else affects me so.

I reached down and played his solid round ass like bongos, then grabbed each smooth cheek and chided, "Now put on your suit and let's get going. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves by arriving late."

We broke our embrace, and I went to his bed to get the suit ready.

"Dad, I think it's stupid we have to wear clothes."

Not this again.

"I'm with you, sweet baby," using the pet name to irritate him. He growled as he pulled on black dress socks. I couldn't help but admire his grace and flexibility as he raised his left knee almost to shoulder height while balancing on his right foot. He took his time sliding the sock onto his foot and adjusting it just so. I would have probably fallen on my face before I got the sock over my toes.

"I'd go further and say it's a crime to cover up your beautiful body, but the silly people around us say it's a crime not to cover up. So, we are stuck."

Chan had on only his socks, and I held up his shirt, a white one with French cuffs like mine, only his was a size 18 compared to my 16-1/2. It fit him a tad snugly, thanks to last night's custom tailoring session, so his slightly downward-facing nipples were protruding from the prominent slabs of his pectorals.

I handed him the pants of his black suit, and he slid them on, adjusting his nearly four-inch flaccid penis to rest against his left thigh. We decided against a belt.

I looked him over once he fastened the figure-hugging pants. There was a subtle bulge from his penis, but the pants weren't tight enough to tell that he is circumcised.

Although there was no need, I ran the palms of my hands over his ass and around his thighs to check the fit, squeezing his cock in the process.

I stepped behind him and slipped my hand into the left front pants "pocket" where we had the lining removed so it wouldn't be visible through the suit fabric. I felt his thigh and rubbed his sparse, closely-trimmed silky blond pubic hair. I lingered for a moment and then slid down to his root and along his beautiful penis, caressing its length several times, and unnecessarily helping him by making sure it was properly placed.

"Are you comfortable in there, my love?"

"No, but I don't have a choice, do I?"

I removed my hand and kissed his cheek.

"Sorry, Bunny."

I picked up a medium grey silk tie and stood behind him to tie it. There was no use trying to teach him how to do it on his own today.

Then I helped him with his plain silver cufflinks and held the size 48 jacket as he spun into it.

He looked stunning.

"You know what, sweet baby? Maybe clothes aren't so bad from time to time. You are gorgeous."

"Shut up dad."

I adjusted his blond curls with my fingers. His hair was lighter than mine and loosely curled while mine was just wavy. In the right light, his hair appeared almost strawberry blond.

A couple tousles fell across his forehead, ending just above the brow. I looked at him and admired his perfect complexion. His face seems to have a radiance whether he was in full sun or candlelight. I kissed his nose. He scrunched up his face.

He put a hand on my shoulder as he slipped into his size 11 Cole-Hahn low-cut boots. We were eye-to-eye now.

"I'm going to burn these shoes. How can anyone wear stuff like this?"

I laughed.

"Well, Channing, baby, you have worn them only twice, so they are not broken in. But they're not made primarily for comfort. They are made for looks.

"Well, you can look while I burn them," he retorted.

My boy is definitely a smartass. I had hoped it would skip a generation.

"You are certainly not going to burn $300 shoes, young man. If you seriously think you'll never wear them again, I'll donate them to a thrift shop or charity sale. Now let's vamoose."

He did look stunning. Our session last night at the tailor shop was time well spent, for many reasons.