Pop Is a Bitch
Copyright 2007 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.
Please note: this story depicts oral and anal sex (primarily gay sex) between adults, and between a father and his teenage son. Also, a young child witnesses this activity, although he is never physically molested in the story. If any of this offends you or is illegal to publish in your jurisdiction, or you are under the age of 18, read no further.
The characters, locations and incidents in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
As an author, I welcome feedback on my writing. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.
.oOo.
Why the fuck did Mrs. Wertheson have to die? Everything was perfect up until then. I had my Master, I had my job, and most of all, I had my darling son Bobby who loved me and looked up to me, his "Pop." Now I only have two of those.
Until that fateful day my six year old didn't know I was a submissive. I was Bobby's hero, firmly ensconced on a pedestal with the inscription, "World's Best Pop." I could do no wrong. His ambition was to be just like his father. Now I hope he never ends up like me, but fortunately he is not going to, it seems. However I see in his formative years reminders of my own childhood.
I grew up outside of Newark. I was twelve when my father began to use me. The first night he came to my bed, he used the lame excuse that my mother's snoring was keeping him awake. He told me to scrooch over and then he lay beside me. In minutes, he had his big rough hands on my privates. "That feels good, don't it, Robert?" It felt uncomfortable but in a peculiar way it did feel good so I nodded yes. "Now you make Daddy's feel good too." He grabbed my little hands and pushed them into his pajama pants, and taught me how to pleasure him with my young fingers.
Within a few weeks, he was coming to my bed every night. And not only my fingers, but my lips and tongue were being taught to make Daddy's cock happy. He insisted I stop wearing my pajamas. He told me it was my duty to do whatever my father wanted. He even quoted scripture, "Children, obey your parents in all things: for this is well pleasing unto the Lord." Father was a deacon in the church.
By my thirteenth birthday, my father was fucking my ass, calling me his little Bitch, and making me feel like I wasn't worth dog shit. He spanked my bare ass for the least infraction of one of his many rules or for any poor grades at school. When Mom was out of the house, I had to parade around naked while he leered at me and made fun of my inadequate equipment. "Here, Bitch. See what a real cock looks like. Something you'll never have, Cunt Boy." Then of course, I'd kneel in front of him and give him an expert blow job, swallowing every rope of cum he shot.
My little Bobby, although years younger than I was, is now being indoctrinated with those same lessons, not from me of course, but from the man he has learned to call "Daddy."
When I was 14, Mom got sick and was hospitalized. A nervous breakdown they called it. That meant I was alone in the house with my father all the time. After school, I was required to come straight home, take off all my clothes and begin cleaning the house and making supper. Father never told me when he was coming home, so when he opened the door, he expected to see me doing my duty. I was then to stop whatever I was doing, go to him with a beer, and give him a welcome home blow job. Sometimes I got fucked then as well, although usually my first fuck of the day was after supper.
I was not allowed to visit friends or have them over. But Father began bringing his friends around, and I was expected to be a good hostess. They all delighted in seeing the little Bitch, the Cunt Boy, who walked around the house buck naked, bringing them beers, and making his mouth and asshole available to them.
And now Bobby watches his Pop entertaining "Daddy's" friends the same way.
Mom never did come home. Father never visited her in the nursing home, but he drove me there every Sunday afternoon to bring her flowers and talk to her while he stayed in the car and drank. After high school, I enrolled in a cosmetology course. Father decided that was an appropriate career for someone who wasn't a real man anyway.
I got my license and found a job at a local salon. I loved my work. For those few hours every day I could forget the misery that awaited me at home. I was Robert the stylist, rather than the Bitch.
Father often drove drunk, so it was no surprise when he drove into a tree one afternoon on the way home from work. The church helped me with the funeral. I sat there in my black suit in the front row as all his friends came by to pay their respects, all these men who had been to his house and had treated me like shit. Mom sat beside me but probably had no idea why she was there.
So the house was all mine. Father's insurance paid for Mom's health care, (although she died less than a year later). I began to look at myself with new eyes. I was not a Bitch. I was a damn good professional beautician, and when the salon owner decided to retire I used my inheritance to buy her out. I began to date both men and women and quickly discovered that hell my equipment wasn't so inadequate after all.
I met Mary at a bar and we had a whirlwind romance that lasted two months and ended with a trip to the justice of the peace. She moved into my house and I felt like I gained a new air of respectability. It was fun for me to go to the store with Mary and encounter some of the guys who had fucked my ass. I wanted my grin to communicate the message, "See, I ain't your fuckin Bitch no more."
In a few months Mary's belly was growing and we converted my old bedroom into a nursery. I was glad to get rid of the furniture in there, especially the bed where Father had used me and taught me the lessons of subjugation.
Bobby was born on a beautiful sunny day in April, and became the sunshine of my life. He was a cheerful baby. I raced home from the salon every day so I could bounce him on my knee, listen to his giggles, play horsey and peekaboo, give him his supper, then his nightly bath, and finally tuck him into bed and read him a story. He was no shit gorgeous, with dark chocoloate brown eyes and curly black hair. And Bobby was so fucking smart. He was talking at nine months and walking at ten. I know his first word was "Pop." He had a loud infectious laugh, and once he got started, I had to laugh with him, and that only made him laugh louder until we were both screaming joyously. How ironic, I told myself as I kissed him good night, that a father and son could share such love in the very same room where my father had abused me all those years.
Mary wasn't much of a mother. When I came home, I often found our baby in a dirty diaper. Sometimes he was sucking on a bottle with stale milk. It was up to me to attend to his diaper rash and colic. She never even played with him. She didn't seem to care. She also didn't care for cooking or housework. She ordered food delivered and allowed dust to collect everywhere. On the weekends, when I'd rather be playing with my son, I would vacuum and mop and sweep and do laundry and dishes.
Mary also wasn't showing me much affection in the bedroom. I naïvely attributed it to postpartum depression, but that bubble was burst one month after my son's first birthday. When I came home from work, Bobby was playing by himself in the living room with the new Tonka trucks I bought him.
"Where's Mommy?"
"She updare wid Doey."
"She's upstairs with Joey?" Bobby nodded. Who the fuck is Joey, I wondered, and took the stairs two at a time. There they were in our bed, both buck naked, he humping away and she moaning in orgasm. I recognized him. Joey owned the service station where we usually filled up. And what's more, he was one of Father's friends who had used my teenage asshole.
I was fuming. "Get the fuck out of my house!" He started to lift himself off her.
Mary cooed, "Stay right here, Joey. You don't have to leave."
"Looks like the lady has made her choice, Buddy." He resumed his position.
"Well, it's my house, and my wife, and I demand you leave now." I heard myself squeaking.
"Oh, my, listen to the Cunt Boy," Joey snickered. "All growed up and pretending he's a man." Mary giggled.
"Stop it, don't call me that. Bobby might hear."
"Well, maybe it's about time Bobby knew his father is a Bitch. Why don't you call him up here, so he can see how a real man pleases his mommy. No? You're not going to call him? Mary, you want to call him then?"
"Shut up, you two." I shut the door. "OK, have your fun. If that's how you want it. Just leave my son out of it."
"Well, now, that's more like it, Cunt Boy. Sure, we can keep your little secret, can't we, Mary? Now, you be a good little Bitch and take off all your clothes for us."
"The fuck I will."
Mary started to call out, "Oh, Bobby!"
"No, no. Fuck, you two. OK, OK, I'll do what you say. Just don't call the boy." I stripped as the two of them lay on the bed, watching and grinning."
"That's a good Cunt Boy." This time it was Mary using the hateful phrase.
When I was totally naked, Joey continued. "Now Bitch, you were a bad boy coming in and interrupting our lovemaking like that. You have to be punished, just like your old man, God rest his soul, used to do. Come here and lay across my lap." I gritted my teeth and obeyed. I had to protect my son at all costs. Joey spanked my ass hard with his open hand as Mary laughed. "Now Cunt Boy, you have to help me get back in the mood so I can give the lady what you never could." I knelt at the side of the bed and sucked the man's cock.
He stopped me and told me to sit on the floor and watch as he proceeded to fuck my wife in my bed in my house with my son playing downstairs.
When they finished, Mary ordered me to felch his cum from her cunt. They kissed each other and laughed as I sucked the wretched fluid out of her pussy.
After that, Mary brought a string of men into our bed. Under the threat of telling my Bobby about me, I had no choice but to do what they told me. I sucked their cocks, rimmed their assholes, watched them fuck my wife, and cleaned them both up afterwards, all the while listening to them call me the same names I had as a teen. As I went around town in the weeks after that, I could hear the snickering. Everyone must have known. Everyone but Bobby. He still thought I was God himself.
I filed for a divorce. It was obvious Mary didn't want me any more. But she still made it a living nightmare for me. All I wanted out of the marriage was full custody of Bobby. I was desperate to get him away from her. One day I heard him nonchalantly mumble, "Pop is a Bitch," obviously in imitation of his mother. I pretended not to hear but doubled my efforts to end this predicament quickly. To pay for getting custody, I had to give her the house, the car, and a cash settlement that required me to sell the salon. But it was worth it.
I had no job any more, no home, and no respect from anyone in town, so there was nothing keeping me in New Jersey. I flew across the country with my son, now two, landing in San Francisco. I found a furnished apartment and within days had a job at The China Clipper Hair Salon. Mrs. Wertheson, a widow in her fifties, lived across the hall from us and was happy to take the job as baby sitter.
For the next few years, things went great. Bobby was happy. He never mentioned his mother and I certainly didn't either. Mrs. Wertheson was like a grandmother, spoiling him rotten. I worked my way up to manager at the Clipper.
Bobby was not only smart but full of enthusiasm for life. And I could be a real father. We played sports, went to amusement parks, swam in the summer and sledded in the winter. Whatever we did, we both screamed our heads off, it was so much fun. One day Mrs. Wertheson knocked on our door to find out what all the screaming was about. All we were doing was playing hide and seek, but we played it with gusto! We promised to tone it down. But I swore to Bobby that when he got older I was going to take him to Disney World, and we would scream our way down every ride. All I had to do was say the word "Disney" and we would both start screaming in excitement.
I was a devoted father. I cooked Bobby nutritious, well-balanced meals, with as many organic ingredients as possible. I made sure he got plenty of exercise. I took him to the doctor and dentist regularly. I treasured every waking minute with my boy, but made sure he got plenty of sleep. So by 8 PM, every night, Mike was in his pajamas. I tucked him into bed, read him a story, and kissed him goodnight. Then I spent the evening cleaning so my boy wouldn't be living in a messy apartment. Occasionally, I'd bring him to the Clipper to get his lovely locks trimmed. Every hairdresser there went gaga over those profuse black curls. I was reluctant to cut off too much, but couldn't have him looking like a girl.
I had been burned by my sexual experience with the female sex, so was not about to make that mistake again. I dated men, which in SF, was not difficult to do. I wanted to call myself versatile, but somehow I usually ended up as the bottom. I was much more comfortable in that role. But that was fine and I could look myself proudly in the mirror each morning. And better yet, my son adored me. I was a real man.
Then I started going out with Mike. We hit it off. The chemistry was there. He was a top and he made me feel complete. I knew my body pleased him. Mike was a talented artist who worked at home developing comic books ("graphic novels," he once corrected me). He had penetrating eyes, a devilish smirk, black hair cut to a short crew, and a fit body which was amazing given his sedentary profession and his atrocious diet. The affair developed into a relationship, and then evolved into something else so slowly, that I never saw it coming.
Mike lived in a loft with a freight elevator. We never had sex in his bedroom. Although I could see his big comfortable bed, he said he preferred to keep it only for sleeping. In fact, that room was off-limits to me. The rest of his loft was divided into a living room with a couch, a few chairs, a TV, and some low book shelf dividers, a dining area with a table and sideboard, a kitchen where the fridge and pantry were amply stocked with junk foods, and half a flight above the rest his studio with a railing overlooking the living room. He fucked my asshole in all those places. In our sex, he called all the shots. I never had to guess what he wanted, which gave me a certain security, even though he never asked me what I wanted.
When Mike saw how compliant I was, he started joking that I was a good Bitch. I laughed along with him. He asked me who my Daddy was and of course I told him he was. After all, he was the top. Soon, we stopped calling each other by our first names and were simply Daddy and the Bitch.
After a while the phone calls started. Bobby and I would be playing a game, or watching Sesame Street, or eating dinner, and my cell phone would ring. Mike told me to never let it ring more than three times. I had to stop whatever I was doing with my son and answer it. Bobby would listen to me say, "Hello, Daddy." I prayed he wouldn't hear the loud voice on the other end calling me Bitch. We would have phone sex. At least he would. I had to talk dirty to Daddy, tell him what I would do if I were there with him. And all the while, I tried not to let Bobby hear what I was saying.
"Is Daddy mean to you, Pop?" His question was so innocent.
"No, Bobby, Daddy is a nice man." I didn't want Bobby to think I spent time with people who weren't nice. And actually I was being honest. Mike treated me the way I wanted to be treated deep down. We both knew it.
Mike and I saw each other a couple times a week. I marked my calendar so I could line up Mrs. Wertheson to watch Bobby. Usually our dates started over dinner and lasted until the wee hours. But after a while, Mike began calling me over at any time of the day or night. I was expected to be on call, to make myself, in particular my ass, available to him whenever he wanted. Fortunately my angel, Mrs. Wertheson, was always available to take Bobby on short notice, whether I was called away on the weekend, in the afternoon, or even late at night.
Then Mike, that is Daddy, required me to strip in the elevator and present myself to him nude. All the while I was at his place I stayed naked, only dressing again as I left him and rode the elevator back down. I thought it was weird, but was happy to oblige. Mike usually wore a chest harness, leather chaps and leather briefs.
One Saturday, I was at the park with my son. Bobby, 4 1/2, was into T ball. It was fun watching each little future major leaguer hit the ball and run around the bases as other kids scrambled to get the ball in their awkward gloves. Bobby was having a great time, loudly screaming in joy, and I was laughing along with him on the foul line. But then my cell phone rang. I took Bobby home crying. He couldn't understand why we had to leave. Poor Mrs. Wertheson was left with the job of trying to soothe his hurt feelings; I think she made fudge. I left them and headed for Mike's.
As ordered, I stripped in the elevator and when the door opened, there was my lover, in his usual attire. But beside him was another man, wearing blue jeans and a wife beater. Mike said he felt like having a three-way. He didn't ask how I felt. The two of them spent the next three hours fucking me every way they could, propped over the kitchen counter or the bookcase or the railing, down on all fours on the floor, and spread-eagle on the couch. Most of the time I had one cock thrust in my mouth and the other shoved up my ass. Mike's friend kept saying things like "You got yourself a good little Bitch, Mike." In a perverted way, that made me proud.
On the way home, I realized I had reverted back to my submissive role. Mike had replaced my Father. He was using me and he saw no problem in having his friends use me also. I decided this was my destiny in life. I somehow felt this was where I belonged. I could live with it. Just as long as Bobby wasn't hurt in the process. I decided to confront Mike and explain how important it was to me to have time with my son.
I'll give Daddy this much credit. For a couple years, he honored my request. Mike made sure he knew my son's bedtime and called me over only after Bobby was in bed. I would then spend most of the night in his loft, giving my ass to him and all his friends. I got used to their names for me. I was the Bitch, the Cum Bucket, and even once again the Cunt Boy. My body was not my own. It was their playground. Around 5 AM I'd rush home, gently wake Mrs. Wertheson who was asleep in my bed, and then go in to get Bobby ready for Day Care before I went to work. Sometimes I could catch a few winks in the back room of the Clipper.
Things seemed to be working out. Mike was satisfied. I felt useful. Mrs. Wertheson was pleased to help out. And Bobby was a happy little boy, enjoying life to the fullest. He went to Kindergarten and the next year to First Grade. He brought home the pictures he made in school that showed his big strong Pop who was always there to protect him from all the world's problems. He was growing up fast, always outgrowing his clothes. But I loved buying him new outfits for school. He must have been the smartest looking boy in the class: button-down shirts, designer jeans, maybe an ascot.
Though I was perpetually tired, I felt on top of the world, and assumed it was a solid arrangement, but it turned out to be a house of cards. It only took one card to fall and the whole edifice came crumbling down. The card that fell was Mrs. Wertheson. One afternoon, she had a massive heart attack and died. Poor Bobby had to attend his first funeral. She was so important in his young life. I was going to miss her as well, and soon learned just how much I depended on her.
A few nights after the funeral, around 10 PM, I got the phone call from Mike. Come now! "But I can't. I haven't found anyone yet to take care of Bobby. Give me a few days, Mike."
But Mike refused to be reasonable. "Get your sorry ass over here now, Bitch! I got a friend here and we need your hole bad. No excuses, Cunt Boy! Even if you gotta bring the kid along."
"Oh, Shit," I thought after he hung up. "What have I gotten my son into? What a mess I've made of things."
I went into my boy's room and tenderly bundled him up in a blanket. "Where we going, Pop?" he mumbled, peering at me through sleepy eye slits.
"Pop has to go out, Bobby. Daddy needs me. I don't have any choice; I have to bring you with me this time. You can sleep there." I raced to Mike's loft and carried my son on to the elevator. He was half awake by then, and could stand in his pajamas and slippers, leaning on me. I knew what Mike was expecting of me, so I softly said, "Now, Pop and Daddy like to play a little game, Bobby."
"A game?"
"Yes, and to play the game, I have to take off all my clothes." Holding back my tears, I leaned my son against the elevator wall so I could undo my clothes. The darling just sucked his thumb and watched me strip naked. I picked him up, laid him against my bare chest, and waited for the door to open. Bobby seemed to be falling back asleep and I hoped I could lay him down on Mike's bed before the action got under way.
"Oh, good, the Bitch has finally arrived."
"Please don't say that," I whispered, nodding toward the tiny head on my shoulder. "Not in front of the boy."
Mike ignored me. He spoke even louder. "Greg, this is our Cunt Boy for the night. You see how nice he presents himself, totally naked. Bitch, you can start by sucking Greg. I'll take the rug rat." Before I could object, Mike took my son from me and sat him on the couch where he could watch everything.
I knelt before Greg, unzipped his jeans, pulled out his schlong and started sucking him off as Mike sat beside my boy who was waking up quickly. I knew I had to put up a brave front.
Mike put his arm around Bobby. "Do you know who I am, Son?"
"Yeah, you're Daddy."
"That's right, Son." Mike seemed to take delight in calling my boy "Son" in front of me.
Bobby, now fully awake, continued the conversation. "And you and Pop like to play a game. He told me."
"You're very smart, Son. Look at Pop over there. He's having fun, right?"
Bobby grinned and nodded, watching silently as his Pop take a strange man's cock in his mouth. Then suddenly my son spoke up, using the words he'd learned from his mother years before, "Pop is a Bitch."
Mike turned to him. "What did you say? Oh, you are such a smart boy, Son. Yes, Pop is a Bitch. A really good Bitch. Do you want to help us play the game?"
I cringed but Bobby was happily nodding his head. Mike began whispering into Bobby's ear and my boy would then call out the orders to me: "Suck the man's cock, Pop." "Lick the man's balls, Pop." "Be a good Bitch, Pop."
With my young son cheering from the sidelines, I worked away on Greg's cock until it was ready to explode. He pushed my head back away from his turgid tool and shot rope after rope of cum all over my face. Bobby laughed and clapped his hands gleefully. I had no choice; I laughed also. I couldn't let my son think I was being humiliated.
Mike stood up, unsnapped his leather briefs to free his mantool and took Greg's place in front of me, while Greg joined my son in the rooting section. Mike stuffed his cock in my mouth and then began whispering to me, "Show Bobby how happy you are, Bitch. Show him what a good cum bucket his Pop is. Let him see how much you enjoy being our Cunt Boy."
All the while, Bobby was shouting, egged on by Greg, "That's it, Pop. Eat Daddy's big sausage. You can do it, Pop. Take him deep down your throat, Pop. Like a good Bitch, Pop." Greg thought he was shaming me, but in Bobby's eyes I was playing the game like a pro. I knew he was proud of his father.
Mike pulled me up by my armpits, spun me around, leaned me over the bookcase and began ramming my ass. I had to be strong for my son, but the pounding was intense. I couldn't help it; I began to scream.
"Yeah, Pop, now I really know how much you like this game."
Daddy paused and looked at him quizzically. "How do you know that, Son?"
"Cause we always scream when we're having fun!" Oh, my sweet innocent son. He continued to sit there in his pajamas, cheering excitedly as Greg and Mike took turns using his Pop, with one cock in my mouth and one in my ass. It was all a wonderful game, and Bobby didn't want to miss any of it. After a couple hours, however, his eyes got too heavy and I saw him keel over on the couch. While Greg was taking his next turn plowing my ass, Mike carried my boy into his bedroom. He came out a minute later and continued the fucking.
Greg left around 3:30. I followed Daddy to his bedroom and saw Bobby fast asleep in his bed. Mike had tucked him in. "I'll take him now, Daddy, and we'll head home."
"Don't be a shithead, Bitch. The boy is sleeping peacefully. Why disturb him? I don't mind sleeping with him. If you want to go home, go ahead. Or you can sleep on the couch. But Bobby is staying right here in my bed." Mike took off his harness and chaps and crawled in naked beside my son. He put his big fatherly arm around him and Bobby, sleeping soundly, nestled up against Daddy's chest. Of course, I opted for the couch.
I slept fitfully, but when I got up the next morning, the two of them were already awake and in the kitchen. Bobby, still in his PJs, looked up from his sugared flakes. "Hi, Pop. Daddy made me breakfast."
"I see that. We better get going now. We have to go home, and get bathed and dressed for school."
"Aw, gee. OK." Then Bobby, such a sweetheart, turned to Mike. "Thanks, Daddy."
"Oh, that's OK, Son. It was only cereal."
"No, I mean thanks for letting me come to your game! I liked it lots. Sorry I fell asleep and didn't see how it ended. But I bet Pop was a good Bitch."
"Well, Son. Would you like to watch us play the game again?"
"Yeah, Super!" Bobby was screaming.
"That's great, Son. Because you sure helped us play last night. I loved the way you kept telling the Bitch what to do. From now on, every time I call the Bitch over here, I want him to bring you along."
"Wow! Thanks, Daddy!! Did you hear that, Pop?"
"Yes, Bobby, I heard."
I found someone in my building to watch Bobby when he came home from school until I got home from the salon. Other than that, I didn't need a sitter, because Mike expected me to bring my son when he called me over.
In the weeks that followed that first night with Mike and Greg, every time my cell phone rang, Bobby would shriek, "Yippee! Daddy wants us to play the game again. Daddy needs his Bitch." Mike didn't have to wait any more for Bobby to be asleep. He could call me any time of the day or night. Bobby didn't care if it was in the middle of his favorite TV show, or if he was about to go to bed, or if he was eating a bowl of ice cream. He'd stop whatever he was doing and shout, "Come on, Pop. Don't keep Daddy waiting." In fact, Bobby started grabbing the phone when it rang. "Hello, Daddy? Yep, I'll come right over. Yep, I'll bring the Bitch. Yep, He'll take off his clothes in the elevator. Is there anyone else there this time?" Mike gave Bobby the answer to the last question, but told him not to tell me. It was their secret. My own son was holding out on me.
Two or three nights a week, and some weekend afternoons as well, we'd make the trip over to the loft, where Bobby happily watched his Bitch Pop get nailed over and over again. My boy cheered when I sucked the men's cocks, applauded when they sprayed their cum on my face, rooted when I rimmed their asses, and laughed heartily when they farted in my face. And when they fucked the Bitch's cunt, my biggest fan screamed nearly as loud as his Pop.
Mike realized the boy was getting restless just watching from the grandstand, so he began letting him participate in the action. Bobby started by handing out condoms and tubes of KY. Once, as I was down on all fours with my ass high in the air, Mike said, "Come here, Son." Bobby hopped off the couch and stood behind me with Daddy. "I want you to spit right there on the Bitch's ass hole." I listened to my boy first giggle, then work up a dollop of phlegm in his mouth and let loose. I felt my own son's juicy gob land squarely on my sphincter. Daddy congratulated him, "That was excellent, Son. You sure know how to spit on the Bitch." Bobby then watched Daddy push his spit into me to lube me up for the fuck.
After that, Bobby was often called upon to prepare the Bitch's hole either with spit or with KY. I never allowed him to feel my shame as his tiny fingers slicked up my cunt. "You're a good Bitch, Pop," he'd say with all pride.
Another time, I was busily sucking one of Daddy's friends when I realized Mike had taken Bobby into the bedroom. What was he going to do to my boy, I wondered. I almost stopped sucking to chase after them, but was relieved when they reappeared, Bobby still wearing his clothes. They walked behind me where I couldn't see them. Then I heard my son giving me orders again at Mike's prompting. "Stick out your ass, Pop." I kept sucking but did what my boy commanded. I felt him lubing my naked asshole. "Daddy says you like this, Pop." I didn't know what he meant until I felt the dildo. Bobby was ramming a plastic cock into me. My own little boy was fucking his Pop. I screamed.
At Christmas, Mike went home to his family in Illinois. So Bobby and I had a relaxing holiday, just the two of us. We went to see Santa. We watched the Christmas show at the Civic Center. And I bought lots and lots of presents. I wanted him to see me as a regular father. One night, after reading him Moore's poem, "A Visit from St. Nicholas," Bobby leaned against my chest and softly confided, "You know, Pop, I miss Daddy. I hope he's having a good Christmas."
In January the routine resumed. Every night after supper, Bobby would put on his PJs and wait for Mike's call to bring the Bitch over. We'd hustle to his place, where Bobby helped me get out of my clothes in the elevator. For a few hours, he'd watch Daddy and his friends use the Bitch, helping them any way he could. Then he'd fall asleep, and Mike would tuck him into bed where an hour or so later he joined him for the night. Then in the morning, after breakfast, I'd bring my boy back home and get him ready for school. If Daddy didn't phone him in the evening, the look on Bobby's face betrayed his disappointment. He'd listen politely to my bedtime story and then curl up all alone in his bed and fall asleep, sucking his thumb.
One morning in February, at Mike's loft, over the usual bowl of cold cereal, Bobby announced, "Guess what, Daddy, I don't got school all next week. It's winter recess."
"Really, Son? That's great. You can stay here with me."
I tried to intervene, "I really don't think..."
"Wow, Really, Daddy? Did you hear that, Pop? I can stay here next week. Ain't that great? You can go to work, and when you come back, we can play the game every day. Wow, thanks, Daddy!"
And so it was. For nine straight days, Bobby stayed with Daddy all day long. Daddy fed him three totally non-nutritious sugar-rich meals. Daddy showed him gay porn tapes as lessons about how a Bitch should be treated. Daddy gave him piggy back rides and played tag with him, and I listened to the two of them scream ecstatically. But Bobby's favorite game was in the evening when Daddy and his friends fucked Pop the Bitch into the wee hours. Mike's friends were quickly becoming Bobby's friends too. He knew all their names and was learning each one's sexual preferences, their masturbation methods, their favorite fucking positions, and their pet names for the Bitch. Bobby changed into his PJs right after supper, so he'd be all ready to go to sleep in Daddy's bed around midnight. After the sex was over, Daddy joined him in bed, while I slept on the couch. Each morning he watched bare-assed Pop leave for work, the elevator door closing before I began to dress. And in the late ! afternoon, he watched bare-assed Pop reemerge having stripped before the door opened. Every day I would be instructed to bring over things from my own apartment, some more of Bobby's toys and clothes, until by the end of the week, I was figuring I'd need to rent a u-haul to get everything back home again.
I needn't have been concerned. On Sunday morning, the last day of the recess, I got off the couch, walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the news: "Pop, guess what! Daddy says I don't got to go back to that apartment. I can live here."
I almost lost it. "He said what?" I knew my face was red.
Mike whispered to me, "Now, Bitch, simmer down. You don't want the boy to see you make an ass of yourself." Then, speaking normally, he continued, "I figure, no actually Bobby and I we both figure it will be fuckin easier this way. You saw how well everything went this past week, Bitch. Ain't that right, Son?"
"Yeah, Pop. I like it here. There's lots more to do than in the old place. And we can make all the noise we want. Even scream. And I like my new friends too. And this way you can play the game with them every single day. I know you want to play the game, Pop. You're a good Bitch. And also, uh, well..."
"Well, what, Bobby?"
"Pop, the old place makes me think about Mrs. Wertheson. and that makes me sad, Pop." There were tears in his eyes.
I was outmaneuvered. I moved the rest of our possessions in with Daddy. I told my landlord I wouldn't be renewing my lease, and said he could go ahead and show the apartment. Daddy drove Bobby back to our old neighborhood in time for school each morning, and picked him up when school let out. In the afternoon, he started giving Bobby art lessons, teaching him to draw cartoons. Now Bobby never saw me with clothes on. And I never saw him naked because Daddy was giving him his baths and helping him get dressed. And after supper, Daddy helped him get his PJs on so he'd be all ready to root for the evening game. I began to get used to the strange situation. Some might even call it a sick situation. But Bobby was happier than he'd ever been before. And he was certainly learning a lot. And he was still proud of his Pop. So I really couldn't complain.
A couple weeks after the recess, I was getting ready to leave for work when Bobby came out of Daddy's bedroom, wearing his play clothes, sneakers, old jeans, a T shirt. "You better hurry and get dressed for school, Bobby. You don't want to keep Daddy waiting."
"I am dressed, Pop. This is how the kids dress in my new school."
"What do you mean, your new school?"
Mike interrupted, "Go get your school bag, Son. I'll explain it to him. Look, Bitch, it was stupid driving all the way across town every day. Bobby's living here, so I figured he might as well go to the local school. I enrolled him a couple days ago."
"Without asking me?" Why did I bother? Daddy never asked me about anything. He never cared what I wanted. He knew I'd do anything he asked as long as I was getting my hungry Bitch ass cunt filled regularly and as long as my Bobby was happy.
The boy came back out with his school bag. "Pop, I like my new school a lot! The teachers are nice. And the kids are great. They all live nearby and I can play with them and go to their houses. Ain't that great, Pop?"
"Yes, Bobby, that's great. I'm very happy for you." I later learned that when Mike brought Bobby in for registration, the counselor just assumed that the man Bobby kept calling "Daddy" was indeed his father. Mike signed the forms listing himself as the parent. As far as this school knew, I didn't exist.
Over supper each day, Bobby told me how Daddy walked with him the two blocks to and from school. How they often stopped to get ice cream on the way home. How Daddy went to his school play. How Daddy let him play at his new friends' homes in the afternoon.
After a couple weeks at Mike's, Bobby's hair was getting a little scraggly. "You're due for a trim, Bobby. Maybe Daddy can bring you over to the Clipper after school." But instead Mike brought him to the local barber who shaved off all those gorgeous curls, leaving my boy with a crewcut just like Daddy's.
One day when I arrived at Mike's, the elevator door opened and there was Bobby and another little boy laying on the floor playing Chutes and Ladders.
The stranger looked up and saw a naked man coming in. "Who's that?"
"That's Pop."
"He got no clothes on."
"Yup. Pop don't wear no clothes in here. Only me and Daddy wear clothes."
"Why don't he wear clothes?"
"Cause he's a Bitch." Then finally Bobby acknowledged me, "Hi, Pop. This is Henry. He's my friend. We been playing games."
Henry didn't talk to me. "Is he really a Bitch?" I'm sure the boy had heard the word, but doubted at seven years old he knew what it meant.
"Yup, Pop is a good Bitch. Ain't you, Pop?" I nodded and went into the bathroom.
After that, Bobby's friends got used to seeing the strange naked man at his house. They all referred to me as the Bitch.
As winter gave way to spring, Bobby was getting into sports again. Mike signed him up for Little League and Karate classes. Daddy attended all his practices and games. I was not allowed to go.
Eating at Mike's house was taking its toll on my physique. I was gaining weight like a pig and some of his friends started ordering me to squeal like one, much to my boy's delight. Fortunately, Bobby's high level of athletic activity burned off his extra calories. He was growing, though, just like all boys his age, and Daddy frequently took him to out to buy new clothes. The beautiful outfits I had bought him had now all been given to the Salvation Army, and Bobby's wardrobe more and more reflected Mike's fashion tastes, or lack thereof.
In April, Daddy gave Bobby a birthday party in the park. I was surprised when Daddy condescended to let me get dressed and attend the celebration. I should have known he had a new humiliation in store for me. Bobby had invited all his new young friends, from school and Little League and karate. The food was catered with plenty of hot dogs, hamburgers, soda, and of course birthday cake. Daddy organized races and ball games and scavenger hunts. After Bobby opened all the presents from his friends, I gave him mine, a new baseball mitt. I figured that though I couldn't be in the bleachers when he played, at least now he could look at his mitt and think of me. "Wow, thanks, Pop." He gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I felt so happy I was able to ignore the tittering of the little boys who recognized me, even though I was dressed, as the strange naked man in Bobby's house, the one they called the Bitch.
"Come here, Son," Mike interrupted. "Now open Daddy's present."
"Wow, super!" Bobby tore into the package and found a Mickey Mouse hat with the big ears. How lame, I thought.
"That's for you to wear when I take you to Disney World for Easter vacation." Bobby's jaw dropped. So did mine. Mike smirked at me. He had stolen my dream. Bobby grabbed Daddy around the neck and screamed "Disney!" Then he ran around with his new hat on.
In the week and a half before school let out for Easter, Bobby never took his mouse ears off. I was not really surprised when I learned I was not invited to come along. Daddy and Bobby flew to Disney World, while I stayed back with orders to repaint the whole loft, except that is for the bedroom--even in their absence, I was not allowed in Mike's and Bobby's inner sanctum. Without my boy around, I was free to cry my heart out all week. I had my catharsis and could be strong again when Bobby returned with stories of all the adventures he had with Daddy, adventures he should have had with me. He showed me photos of him and Daddy screaming their way down Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, and the Tower of Terror. I guess he never missed me.
Mike missed me, though. At least he missed my ass. Having spent a whole week with no sex, he kept me up the whole first night back, ripping into my hole over and over. In the morning, he told me to call the salon and tell them I couldn't come in. He walked Bobby to school and when he got back spent the day fucking me some more. He kept yelling in the Bitch's ear like it was my fault he couldn't fuck for a week. After school, Bobby spent the afternoon at a friend's house no doubt excitedly describing his Disney vacation. When he came home, we ate supper and Daddy said he and Bobby were tired and were going to bed. However, he invited two of his friends over to give the Bitch what I was used to, what he knew I needed and wanted. Bobby followed Daddy into the bedroom. "Have fun, Pop. Sorry I can't help you play tonight, but I am tired."
A few weeks later, when I got home,--yes, even I was now calling Daddy's loft "home,"--Mike told Bobby, "Son, go show the Bitch the picture you drew today in school."
"Yippee!" Bobby screamed and ran into their bedroom. He came back out and ordered me to sit my bare ass down on the couch beside him. "Look, Pop, I drew it in art class. The teacher said I done good. We was suppose to draw a picture of our family." I studied the picture. Bobby's drawing talent was indeed improving under Daddy's tutelage. I clearly recognized the tall handsome man in the center. On his left holding his hand was a beautiful young boy. On his right was another figure, hard to interpret. It looked like a creature crouching on the floor. It might be a human or an animal. It was clearly naked, but its gender was as ambiguous as its species.
"When the teacher looked at my picture, she ask me to tell her about each person in my family. I pointed to this one and I told her this is me."
"Yes, Bobby, I knew that. You are very handsome."
"And then I pointed to the big man. You know who he is, right, Pop?"
"Daddy?"
"Yup!" There was no question about it. The figure was drawn precisely right down to Mike's hair coloring, and clothes. Even that smirk of a smile he has. "Then she say who is this? And I tell her that is Pop. And I say Pop is a Bitch. And she say you mean dog. And she went to the next kid. So I guess she thought I said Pup instead of Pop. I'm sorry I didn't draw you better, Pop."
I kissed my boy. "No, Bobby. You did a beautiful job. Of course I knew it was me. You made Pop look like a good Bitch, Bobby. Thank you."
"Thanks, Pop, but Daddy said he's going to help me draw you better." As a matter of fact, every Saturday over the next few weeks, Bobby had a figure drawing class. I was ordered to pose and not move as Daddy helped him perfect my portraits. The best rendition showed me on all fours, my fat pig ass pointing toward the artist, my face looking back over my shoulder in anticipation, and one hand reaching to pull back my cheek and show my hungry cunt. My manhood could not be seen. The title Pop was printed neatly across the top and the picture was framed and hung in a place of prominence in the living room, next to the family portrait.
Bobby's school year ended just in time for the next milestone in my sordid tale. "Pop, guess what? We're gonna be in a parade!" At the end of June, the San Francisco gay community has their annual Pride Parade. "Daddy says you can come too, Pop! Ain't that great?" I was surprised but thrilled that I was going to be included again in one of the fun times my boy was having with Mike.
The night before the parade, Mike had a Pride party for a bunch of his friends. They all made good use of the Bitch while Bobby bounced around in his PJs, cheering them on, giving them beers, rolling condoms on to their hardons, spitting on my ass, poking his greasy fingers up my hole, and telling me what a good Bitch I was. I was still half asleep the next morning when he jumped on to my couch, "Here, Pop. This is what you're going to wear in the parade." I opened my eyes and looked. My boy was holding a black speedo.
"Well, at least I won't be naked," I smiled as I took it and kissed his forehead.
"Look at the ass, Pop!"
I turned the speedo around and there spelled out in iron-on white letters was "Pop is a Bitch."
"That was my idea, Pop. Daddy like my idea. Isn't that great?"
"Yes, Bobby. You are a very creative boy. I will be proud to wear this for you. You're the best boy in the whole world!"
"And Pop, you're the best Bitch in the whole world!"
Hearing him say that, I almost cried, I was so happy. "I can't wait to put it on." I started to slip my foot into the speedo.
"No, Pop!" he screamed. "Remember you can't put it on until you get in the elevator. That's the rule. Don't ruin the game. Daddy and me are gonna put on our costumes now." He went scampering back into the bedroom, Mike's and Bobby's bedroom.
So at 10:30 AM, there we were at Market and Beale taking our place with the other marchers. Daddy and Bobby walked hand in hand. The boy had on a little chest harness, boy-sized chaps, tiny leather briefs, black motorcycle boots and a black leather cap, all of which matched Daddy's outfit perfectly. Bobby's free hand held the end of a leash which extended back to the neck of the proud man walking a few feet behind them. I wore only the speedo that my clever son had designed for me. The blacktop in late June was frying my bare feet, but I never let my discomfort show.
Along the route, Mike's friends would occasionally rush out from the sides, shake his hand, slap his back or ass, and do the same to Mike's mini-me. They didn't acknowledge me, except to chortle when they saw the writing on my ass.
Bobby continues to sleep with Daddy every night, but I am convinced Mike will never use his sweet ass. And no one else will ever abuse the boy either. Mike does not want his son to become a Bitch like his Pop. He can protect Bobby from harm much more than I could.
When Bobby reaches puberty, I'm sure Daddy will teach him how to fuck. And I'm sure they will use me for these lessons, just as they use me for the art lessons. And I'm sure my smart boy will learn his lessons well, and become the best Daddy in the world. Some day, instead of a plastic dildo, Bobby will be stuffing his Pop's ass with his own erect manhood, and we will both be screaming, and we will both be proud.
.oOo.
I've been searching through arcane words in our language to see if there's one which describes me. Of course I am a "poltroon," a complete coward. Mike knows I would never confront him. If I left and took Bobby away, it would break my son's heart. So I continue to pretend for the his sake that I like being the good Bitch he is so proud of. I dutifully take orders from Daddy, from Daddy's friends, and of course from Bobby also.
With Mary, I was a "cuckold," a man whose wife is freely giving away her husband's rights to other men. Who knows how many guys took my place in her bed before Joey? At times the thought crossed my mind that Bobby might not even be my biological son. I try not to dwell on that idea, but it certainly looks like he didn't inherit the genes to be the Cunt Boy I am. He is much more likely to take after Daddy, and I am glad for that.
Technically, that day I saw Mary and Joey, I became a "wittol" instead of a "cuckold." A cuckold may be oblivious to what is going on, but a wittol knows his wife is being used by another, knows another guy has usurped his place in the marital bed, and just goes along with it. He willingly allows this man to take his wife, to claim all his rights as husband.
However, I don't know of an equivalent term for what I've now become. I have willingly allowed another man to take my son, to claim all my rights as father. Bobby calls another man Daddy and that man calls him Son, and I just go along with it. Maybe the language doesn't require such a word, since I am the only man on earth who stands by silently and watches this subtle kidnapping. But if a word is needed, I think it should be derived from my title. Such a man should be called a "Pop."
.oOo.
If you want to tell me how you liked this story, or if you would like a list of my other stories, please write to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.