The day I fucked my girlfriend's father (3,000 words) is a character study inspired by a novel I'm writing. (M/M) all characters are over 18.
If there is interest I can continue this little side story.
It had been a few weeks since I came to live with my best friend's family (by that I just mean her estranged father who heroically swooped in, to our rescue.) Despite being separated for most of her life, her father had been more than kind and accommodating, allowing a disabled veteran and his 18-year-old son to move into the furnished basement of his newly purchased McMansion. For that, I would be forever grateful.
I had made myself a workstation, sitting just under the vent. This was so I could craft my projects without leaving my father's side, while also taking in the fresh air of Upstate New York. This, unfortunately, gave me a front-row seat to my childhood friend offering herself like a buffet to a bunch of older guys. (I could hear five distinct voices.) They called her all manner of names, but she just laughed like a teen girl trying to act cool to a bunch of frat boys.
I quickly turned away, attempting to focus on my project. I managed to locate some scrap materials and a set of tools.
A little while later I could hear her tapping on the metal grate. "Hi, Marcus."
"Hi, Becca."
"What'cha doing?" Becca said in her best Harley Quinn impression. She was still the same wise-ass tomboy who used to protect me from bullies at the orphanage.
"Just making something." I could hear her fidgeting with something in her hand; cigarettes, paper money, maybe even drugs.
"What are you making?"
My mind went blank for a moment. "A wheelchair."
"Your dad doesn't have a wheelchair?" she asked, taking an audible drag off her cigarette. "He's missing a leg after all."
I took a breath to steady my overboiling rage. Why the fuck was she talking like that? "We had to leave everything behind," I said calmly. she already knew my story; she knew what my father and I were fleeing.
"My dad let you use his tools?"
I froze, realizing I had not thought to ask. I had been too tired from foraging for material; metal, plastic, rubber, anything I could use to construct a chair that would at least stand up under its own weight. "If I break anything I'll pay for it."
"Whatever," she said taking a loud drag off her cigarette. "He's rich, he doesn't care. And he likes you. You're like the child he never paid for," she chuckled. "No, wait that's me." Her hatred for him was evident. "Just don't tell him you saw me."
"I didn't." Technically she was on the other side of the vent.
"Good because I'm going to try to sell a few of my dad's medals."
"Yeah, right." Jayden Michael Lorri was an Olympic-level martial artist (six gold, two silvers, and a single bronze, all while representing his home country of Ireland.) He made his impressive fortune as a champion MMA fighter, living and working all around the globe. This was why Becca only met him in person a little over a year ago.
"Yeah, I am right," she replied in a mocking tone. "There's a scrap metal kiosk at the mall, one of those cash for gold places. I figure if I can smash the medals against a rock, or something, it should be all good."
"Right, good luck with that." Becca's behavior was disgusting. Her father just wanted to have a relationship with her, but she saw him as the bad guy. It wasn't his fault her alcoholic American-born mother never told him he had a daughter.
"Whatever." Becca scoffed and walked off into the distance. I just had to hope she would do the right thing and not get us kicked out.
Emotionally exhausted, I gave up on my project for the time being. My father was asleep in the living room turned bedroom, and it had been well over an hour since I'd checked on him.
I washed my hands with a nearby garden hose. When I returned to my father's room, Jay was already there. From the open doorway, he appeared to be naked, holding my father in his arms. With his tan, post-workout body, and black hair worn in a fauxhawk, Jay could pass for a personal trainer or a really cool physical therapist.
"I'm just going to help you stretch a bit," the man said in his thick Irish accent. "Just tell me if it becomes too painful."
My father nodded. His thick blonde facial hair was in need of a trim, but his blue eyes made him look angelic. The image reminded me of the famous statue of Mary holding the limp body of Jesus after he was removed from the cross. "Have you seen my boy?"
Jay looked up, his eyes meeting mine. "He just stepped out, I'm sure he'll be back shortly."
My father nodded, unable to hide the tears in his eyes. "You're a good man, you've done far more than even God ever requires," he swallowed hard, choking down what little moisture he had in his throat. "Please take care of my son. Help him become a strong, compassionate person, someone who can live up to their potential." He closed his eyes. "I don't know what I'm saying, this is just the ramblings of a dying man. I guess," my father paused, blinking tears from his eyes. "Don't let the world break his spirit."
"I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to tell him yourself." There was something comforting about his accent. Becca always said he sounded like an angry drunken stereotype, but I had never even seen him take a sip of alcohol. To me, he seemed kind, like a regal knight or a maybe even a priest.
"I doubt he'd take advice from me. Not after all that's happened. I failed him as a father, as a man."
"Hello, Mr. Lorri," I said, somewhat nervously. Would it have been more polite to leave and come back later? "I thought you were upstairs in the gym? I mean not that you can't come down here, it's your house after all." I ended my awkward statement with a forced laugh.
"As I feared, your father has a touch of fever," Jay said.
"You came down to check on us?" I asked. This would have been the ideal time to ask about the tools, but I lost my nerve before I got the chance.
"Yes, Marcus," Jay said, his voice attempting to wash away the bizarre drama of what he just heard. "I'm going to see if I have anything I can give him for the pain."
"Thank you, that's very kind." When Jay left the bed, I took a moment to hold my father's hand, just to let him know I was still there. he still had the bruises from what my mother had done; what no person has the right to do to any human being.
Jay patted my shoulder, then reclined my father's body on the bed. He sighed, as he took a step towards me. "Why don't we take a walk." Jay put his arm around my shoulder like an older brother.
"Yeah, sure." I walked with him out of the bedroom, into the hallway.
Jay paused, allowing me to catch up. "I'll make sure he gets the treatment he needs; you have my word."
I silently nodded a thank you, as he was just trying to be kind, but my lips spoke my inner truth. "There's no treatment that will stop the seizures, or undue all the shit my mother did to him."
Jay looked at me with compassion and empathy. "If that's the case, we'll keep trying until we find what works."
Jay walked up the stairs to the main floor. I followed, making sure to stand in his shadow. "Have you seen Becca?"
"Not for a while," he said while stretching his arm across his muscular chest. "She usually escapes into the countryside, but that's to be expected for a teenage girl."
"Yeah, I guess so." As he lowered his arms I could see a yellow rose with the words, `Rebecca Marie' tattooed on his upper-ribs (along with what I assumed was my friend's birthdate.) Part of me wanted to say something, instead I followed him into his bedroom, taking a seat on his massive bed while he went towards the bathroom.
With the door open, he looked through his cabinet, where he located a bottle of pills. "This will help him get a bit of sleep. Wait here I'll be back in a moment and we can talk about my lovely daughter's new hobbies."
I forced a chuckle as he left me alone in the room. I did as he asked and stayed seated, but soon boredom got the better of me. Looking through his nightstand I found all manner of condoms and lube, and other battery-operated toys meant for internal pleasure. Becca always told me he was a slut, a man-whore who could never devote himself to one partner.
Did that give her the right to sell herself for cigarette money? I guess so. I mean, why not? It's her life.
Jay came back moments later, just in time to catch me slamming a drawer shut.
"I'm sorry. I was just looking. I wasn't going to steal anything."
"Nothing to steal in there." Jay put his arms around me, allowing me to bury my face in his shoulder. "You're a good kid, Marcus."
It was all I could do not to cry. "Thank you, sir."
Jay patted my back. "Don't let the cruelties of this world break your spirit, son. You're too good for that."
I could take in his scent; a soothing mix of sweat and the sweet, bitter oil he used on his skin. My lips parted and for whatever reason, my tongue slipped out just enough to take a taste.
He could have stopped me, but he didn't. Jay's only goal seemed to be to comfort me.
I turned his head to face mine, glancing into his dark eyes. For a moment time stopped. I stared at him trying to get a read on his mental state.
Jay stroked my cheek, down my jaw. "It's ok."
My lips brushed against his.
Jay was already half-naked, dressed only in his workout gear. he paused for breath, his mouth hovering over mine, as he held my hand. I had never questioned my sexuality. Well, maybe I did. Women seemed to be born to hurt people; to cause pain in the name of empowerment. Not Jay. He was strong, powerful, and he was hard.
I could feel his erection pressed against the fabric of his boxers. There was just a thin layer of fabric between me and him. All I wanted was someone to hold me.
He could have pushed me off, I wouldn't have blamed him, but he chose not to.
Jay laid back, letting me touch him; down his chest to his stomach. The older man's body was strong in a way that felt superhuman. I could feel the heartbeat of every muscle, every cell, just begging for a release.
I lowered the waistband of his boxers, freeing the magnificent creature within. He was bigger than I imagined; a nine-inch shaft with an uncircumcised tip that was already covered in precum. And, of course, he was shaved, making his abs and hips look even more chiseled.
I traced my finger, studying the v-shaped muscle of his lower stomach. His sculpted body was a road map with all paths leading to his throbbing cock. "You're so beautiful."
I could feel his body tense. I walked my fingers down his stomach, tracing his perfect abs. Everything about Becca's dad was perfect. I kissed the side of his shaft, letting my saliva lube his foreskin. He tasted the way I always thought he would; masculine, powerful, clean.
I had never taken a cock in my mouth. (As far as I knew I was doing it wrong.) But Jay was kind. He was someone I could finally trust. With that in mind, I dove right in, letting him fuck my throat.
Jay gripped my hair. His strong hands; hands that punched their way to victory, those same hands massaged my scalp with gentle pressure. He was holding me just firmly enough to let me know he wanted me right where I was.
Jay was moaning, grunting, making sounds I'd only ever heard in porn. With his leg bent at the knee I could get a full breath of his scent; his ass, his balls. Did the sweat taste different, the deeper I went between his legs? Only one way to find out. I removed my mouth from his well-lubed cock. To maintain the momentum, I started to jerk him off with my hands, making sure to rub the tip. And then I gave his thick, sweaty balls a nice slow lick.
Jay leaned his head back, his hand gripping the blankets. "Oh fuck." Jay reached for a pillow, holding it over his face, he was close to orgasm.
I wanted him inside me; to fuck me, to own me, to love me. But I was weak, I wasn't ready. Instead, I returned my lips to his cock, pumping his shaft with one hand while massaging his balls with the other.
Jay blew his load all over my mouth. I tried to hold his entire length inside my throat, but his raw, intense power was more than I could swallow. His cum was all over my lips, my chin, oozing down my neck. And he wasn't done yet. I let the last of it fall onto his stomach, along with his limp, exhausted cock.
Jay removed the pillow from his face, stretching his neck with a look of pure bliss and relaxation. "That was nice."
I turned, getting a good look at his unique features. His black hair, tan skin and dark blue eyes. I had never been to Ireland, (or anywhere outside the United States) but he did not look like a typical northern European.
"Are you black Irish?" I asked. I'd heard the term but wasn't entirely certain of its meaning.
Jay ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. "You mean, is there Spanish in my blood?"
"Is that what that term means?" My voice dropped to a whisper. "I actually don't know."
"Well, that makes two of us," he replied with a friendly smirk.
"You don't know what `Black Irish' means?"
"No. I'm certain I know what it means. The word refers to people with dark hair and fair skin; the folks who look like ghosts walking among the living," he laughed even harder. "Only kidding, mate."
"Oh, um ok." I forced a chuckle, just to appear as if I understood his sense of humor.
"My parents were grade school sweethearts, she had nothing but good things to say about him, but unfortunately no pictures or mementos of the like."
"He passed away?" I assumed, since if they were divorced, she would have certainly had something nasty to say about her former partner.
"Yes, bio dad died before I was born. According to my nan he was away on holiday with his family someplace overseas. The man could have been Spanish, Arab even American. All I know is that when I was ten, my mother followed my bastard of a stepfather to London. I survived for a few years, then she got knocked up with my half-sister and I was sent to live with my grandparents in Dublin.
"I'm sorry."
Jay chuckled. "You have nothing to be sorry for. The moment my mum put me on that plane was the moment my life changed for the better.
He reached for my hand. That felt nice. If that was all he had done, I could have gladly stayed in that bed for the rest of the day. Then he placed his hand (and by extension mine as well) under my filthy t-shirt.
I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he wanted me to touch myself and he was just going to watch. Yeah, that had to be it.
"You're not into it?"
Apparently, my lack of an erection gave me away. "It's not that."
"You don't have to be nervous; I just like to blow off some steam, God gave us sex as a way to own our bodies, find our strength."
I'd never thought of it like that before."
The year I won my first gold, I fucked my way through the Olympic village." Jay touched my stomach, resting just above the zipper of my jeans. "There's something about human sexuality that connects people."
This caused my muscles to clench. My breath was caught in my throat. He wanted to be with me, and I had to go and ruin it with my stupid fucking PTSD. "I'm sorry. I'm a virgin." That was easier than the truth.
I expected him to say something mean or cruel, but that was not his nature. Instead, he moved his hand to my leg giving a comforting pat to my clothed thigh.
"You don't need to be sorry, son. Like I said, you have nothing to be sorry for." Jay reached for my hand, giving my fingers a tender squeeze, as he sat up.
I blinked tears from my eyes. "Yeah, sure. I guess."
"We can do this again sometime. Right now, I think we should go check on your dad."
"Ok." I sat up, ready to face him.
Jay placed his finger to my chin, pausing as if trying to think up the right words to say. "I know what happened to you, and what your father endured to save you from that Hell. I can't ask you to trust me, or even have faith in my character." He leaned forward, and kissed my forehead, down my nose to my lips; his mouth was gentle, soft, and above all Jay had never hurt me.
How sad was that? My heart was so weak, the best I could do was to love someone who'd never caused me physical or emotional harm. (At least not yet, anyway.)