Disclaimer: All acts depicted here are fictional; in real life, act responsibly. In fantasy we're free to do as we please, in reality, our actions have consequences.
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Dadcraving - Chapter 1 - Revelation
It's hard for me to believe I am where I am in my relationship. Evan and I have been together for three years, and I hardly recognize myself. I'm not sure how he brought it all out of me, but he did. He has a wickedness about him, a magnetic pull that draws out people's darkest secrets. I was uptight when we met. Closed off, weird about sex. It made me nervous to even kiss in public. Now, he'll thrust his hands down the back of my pants in a bar and finger my hole while he shoves his tongue down my throat and I just melt.
He's a kinky bastard; I guess I am too now ... or I was all along, and just didn't know it. The exhibitionism is one thing; now I think nothing of him feeling me up while others watch. I used to not even piss with the door open, but now I have to ask him to even use the toilet when we're at home and I'm never allowed to close the door. More often than not, I'm up close and personal while he does his business, pissing down my throat or on my face, making me kneel before him and drink it while he sits and takes his morning shit. He'll pull me close to fart in my face and I'm expected to thank him for it.
He's taught me that I truly need and love being bullied and treated like shit, tied up, slapped around, restricted, hazed, harrassed, humiliated, subjugated ... it seems like each day he sets a goal of finding some new way to push me lower and it just makes me love and crave him more. He introduced it all slowly, bit by bit, some experimentation here and there, slowly ratcheting up the kink factor like a chef slowly boiling a frog. By the time I realized how much he'd molded me, it was too late for me to pull back. He'd shown me things I'd never been aware I craved, and it all felt so forbidden and right. It's like Stockholm Syndrome; I've fallen in love with my captor.
He's transcended being my boyfriend, my lover. He's become my Sir, my Master, my Owner, my Lord, my --
No, I've never called him my Daddy. I've instinctively shied away from it. That's one thing we've never talked about, with all the kinky shit we've done. Part of me is terrified he knows and he's just waiting for the time to spring a trap.
I've always thought of my father as the paragon of manhood. He's not movie-star gorgeous, but I've always thought he was handsome, awe-inspiring, and perfect. He's a bit taller than I am, much heavier set, solidly built and muscular. His hair used to be a rich, dark brown; it's now faded to a peppered, silvery gray. I was his shadow when I was a kid, always following him around, drinking in his scent, feeling the heat of his skin and licking the salt of his sweat off mine after we would hug or wrestle. We made a ritual of me taking off his shoes and socks and bringing him a beer in the afternoons; I'd put his shoes by the door and throw his socks in the hamper for him, but not before taking several deep lungfuls of his foot sweat, savoring the dampness of the discolored fabric against my face. It wasn't sexual at first; I always just associated that Dad smell with closeness, affection, and safety.
My Mom and Dad and older brother always called me Dad's little guy, even as I grew older. I started developing, my body started changing, and my feelings for Dad grew ... deeper. Darker. Muskier. His smell didn't just make me feel safe, it turned me on. I became obsessed. It was all I could do not to dive under his feet at the end of the day and just sniff them. When I started high school, he started taking his own socks off and dropping them in the hamper himself. That didn't stop me from sniffing them whenever I could get a moment alone, along with his underwear, his t shirts, his dirty sheets ... they all reeked of his sweat and salt, the remnants of his testosterone, the bleachy funk of is boxer briefs mixed with the tang of piss and the unmistakable funk of sweaty asshole accompanied by the dark streak between where his cheeks rubbed all day.
I'd stay up late at night, listening to the house settle, waiting for everything to get quiet in the hopes that I might hear Dad fucking Mom. Every so often, I'd be rewarded ... I'd sneak into the hall outside their room and I could hear their voices, talking low, laughing softly, trying not to make too much noise. The sounds would change and I could hear them kissing, Mom sighing, Dad grunting; their whispered voices talking dirty or murmuring endearments to one another, and then I could hear the bed moving, quietly, cautiously, but unmistakably. Dad was fucking. Dad was FUCKING. I'd hold my breath so I didn't miss a single grunt; I'd picture it in my mind and I could already see myself sneaking into their room sometime the next day so I could inspect the sheets for stains to suck and sniff.
My gut would clench and churn and my body would flush with fear, disgust, shame, and unbearable arousal. My leaking dick would fucking ache from throbbing so hard, but I wouldn't touch it, no, it was all about Dad. I only got to hear him cum a few times. More often than not, some sound made by the settling of the house would startle me, seemingly loud as a gunshot, and I'd retreat to my room to stroke my adolescent dick to a frenzied series of orgasms until my balls ached.
Eventually though, the nocturnal noises stopped, and in my junior year of high school, Mom and Dad divorced. My brother Cliff was in college, and he and Dad got another place. I stayed with Mom so I wouldn't have to switch schools, and then I was so ashamed of how obsessed I'd become, I tucked all of my perverted cravings away as best I could.
I finished high school, came out in college, and moved on. Mom, Dad, and Cliff were all cool about it. I dated and hoped to have a perfect relationship that would never break apart like my parent's marriage did.
And then I met Evan. He showed me how to love all of those deep dark cravings and accept them as part of myself.
Well. Not all of them.
He's been eyeing me lately. I can tell he knows something is up. He hates it when I hide things from him.
"Is there something you need from Me, boy?" he'll ask.
"I'm very happy with you, Sir," I reply.
And it's true. Even when he's bullying me -- hell, ESPECIALLY when he's bullying me, I feel completely safe. I feel owned. Like I've found a groove carved specifically for me. But that's not enough for him. He needs to crawl inside my skull and fuck my brains until they're swimming in his cum.
Over time, his fucking grows more demanding. This time, I'm bound tightly to the bed. None of my limbs can move; my balls are tied off and pulled taut toward the footboard. My joints are aching. He's been railing me hard for about thirty minutes. My hair is in his fist. His cock is relentless. I'm groaning, pleading, panting, begging.
"I want to know your darkest secret," he growls in my ear.
Thrust. Thrust. Every thrust jars my bound limbs, tugs at my aching balls.
"Uh, uh, Sir, I, uh, don't, have, ah, a, any, ah, secrets, ah, fuck, SIR!"
He yanks my hair back, hard. "Don't fucking lie to me, faggot," he growls, biting hard onto my earlobe. I cry out. "Tell me." Thrust. "Fucking tell me." Thrust. Thrust.
"Sir, I, oh fuck, please, ah, Sir, I don't, I don't know what you want, please!"
"I want to know the most fucked up thing you've ever wanted!" He pull my hair tighter. Tears spring to my eyes and my face flushes in shame, all the old feelings washing over me. Once again, I'm a middle schooler standing outside his parent's bedroom at night, fishing through their laundry, inspecting their sheets.
He sees it. He knows there's something.
His cock stops.
"Tell me ... or I'll never do this to you again."
Emotions grip me. Hot tears stream from my eyes, not an unusual occurrence between us in bed, but he can see this time is different. My skin is burning. My stomach is in knots. His expression changes from one of harshness to a softer curiosity, letting me see the man, Evan, not just the Sir.
"You have to tell me, boy ... I have to know."
My eyes meet his.
"I want my Dad," I whisper, and as I do, my face scrunches up and I start bawling. The enormity of my shame is too much. I cry and cry, not even aware that he's untying me, coming to my senses as he's shushing me and rocking me, holding me close, keeping me together while my emotions pour out in a flood of catharsis. It feels like a huge, sharp, jagged rock has been pulled out of my guts, something I'd forgotten was even there.
But my relief is short lived. I look at his face, searching for judgment, revulsion, disgust.
There is none. Only a tranquil serenity, with a ghost of a smirk.
"Your Dad, huh?" he says. "You WANT him?"
The lump returns to my throat. But I'm too worn down to evade him. So I swallow hard and nod my head.
He strokes my face with his sweaty, salty fingers. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. He kisses me on the forehead.
"I love you, boy," he tells me, and I cry a little more, relieved my confession hasn't pushed him away.
But then I hear the darker edge return to his voice.
"I gotta say, though ... that's fucking hot."