This story takes a couple chapters before we get to the real "action". If this type of erotic fiction isn't your thing, feel free to take a pass on this one. If you do go forward, we hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.
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Chapter 3
Once again, my heart was pounding. I was hyperventilating. I didn't know what was causing this reaction... the reality of being alone with this stunningly handsome daddy, or the possibility of being dragged back into my past. And the irony wasn't lost on me. A strong, authoritative father figure navigating me through the pain caused by my real father.
2 ½ days until Friday at 4PM...
It was 3:55 on Friday as I stood at the building's door contemplating if I could go through with it. Heading straight from work to the gym and now to this meeting, I had just had an intense workout and spent an unusual amount of time showering and in the sauna. I had an inexplicable desire to be squeaky clean. As I dressed at the gym for my meeting with Richard, I realized I had unknowingly packed a very sexy t-shirt and jeans for this meeting. I was making decisions without being overtly aware of what I was doing. What was driving me? I was conflicted, to say the least. I was about to subject myself to years of pain with my father. But the stronger emotion was the powerful attraction I had to the therapist named Richard whom I barely knew. I took one long, last, deep breath, reached for the buzzer, and pressed it. Almost immediately, I was buzzed in.
Upon reaching the top floor, the elevator doors opened to reveal a movie-set style loft: spare, cool, and perfectly appointed. There was a comfortable waiting area immediately outside the elevator and a clear delineation between office and residential space, although in typical loft style, there were few actual walls. The areas were outlined by rugs, furniture, and other elements. I had barely stepped off the elevator when I heard Richard call from the office area, "Make yourself comfortable, I'm just finishing up some paperwork in here."
"No worries," I replied, trying to sound casual.
After a short wait which gave me sufficient time to calm my nerves, Richard emerged from his office looking even more imposing than I remembered. He was at least 6'2" with close cropped greying hair and fully grey beard. Like me, he had broad shoulders and muscled arms that advertised his commitment to fitness. Snug yet not inappropriate jeans, and a tight, expensive looking black t-shirt that hugged his chest and biceps like Anderson Cooper and James Longman wear when reporting from war zones on TV. He strode directly to me, held out his arms and pulled me into a warm, but not inappropriate hug. I couldn't help but reciprocate and we each pulled back and said simultaneously, "So good to see you again." The comedy of the moment relieved both of our butterflies which led to another warm, albeit brief hug.
He put his arm firmly around the small of my back and led me into his office, explaining his previous client had departed, and I was his last appointment for the day, so we had plenty of time to explore wherever our conversation took us. He took a seat and motioned for me to sit in the chair across his desk, which I happily did as I didn't know if this was the type of appointment where I lay on his couch and pour my heart out.
We made appropriate small talk for a few minutes before he subtly changed his tone from friendly and warm to professional and even a little concerned. "Jarod, I'm glad you agreed to meet with me. As I mentioned, I couldn't help but notice your anxiety at the party and it seemed to elevate when the topic of your dad came up. Did I read that right? Is there something going on? If there is, please share only what you're comfortable sharing."
Damn he was good. When we met, I felt like he had x-ray vision into my brain; now I was learning he could read my mind as well. How do I respond? The story is long and complicated, but that's what I was here to do: talk about it. I sat silently for what seemed like an eternity not knowing where to start. How my father openly shamed me and destroyed my ego. How my mother and siblings didn't stand up for me. It was the first time I had given these issues real thought in years. Ultimately, I noticed there were tears running down my face. I tried to stop but that only made it worse. Finally, the dreaded ugly cry overwhelmed me which quickly turned into uncontrollable sobs.
Richard sat quietly until he had no choice but to walk around his desk, squat down next to where I was sitting, wrap his arms around my shoulders, and hold me until I stopped. His presence alone was extraordinarily calming. His embrace gave me comfort I hadn't experienced in...maybe ever. I felt foolish for melting down, but his demeanor seemed to say to me, "Don't worry, I see this all the time." This wasn't the first time I sensed we could communicate without saying a word.
After I regained control, I took three deep breaths to signal I was ok to proceed. He grabbed my hand in a handshake, pulled me out of the chair and led me to the couch. He nodded to it indicating this would be a session in which I'd lay on the couch and pour my heart out to him.
I laid down on the couch, visibly relaxed and relieved I had let go. He had seen me at my worst. Just when I was ready to start talking (although I had no idea what I'd say), his soothing voice said, "Jarod, I want you to tell me your story. Don't feel compelled to share anything that will make you uncomfortable. But the more candid you are, the more I can help you." He was walking toward me on the couch as he spoke those words and as he sat down on a stool next to me, he took my hand in his and added, "I want you to know you can trust me."
The warmth of his hand and the word "trust" opened the floodgate for a second time. Trust was exactly what was missing from my relationship with my father and now Richard seemed to hold the key to unlocking it. But the floodgate wasn't tears; the floodgate he had unlocked was the freedom to tell my story.
I gave him lots more detail, but the jest of it was this: My father always sensed I was gay. It pained him that I shied away from team sports and other typical boy stuff. When I became an adolescent, probably to prove to him I wasn't gay, I got into body building, swimming, and particularly excelled at competitive wrestling, all sports he was suspicious of. He believed body building was just an excuse for fags to hang out together, he mocked the speedos swimmers wore, and relentlessly ridiculed the paper-thin singlets worn by wrestlers. Yes, all these sports emphasized the male physique. What he didn't know (and would never know) was that I think I wanted to look like him. He routinely wore his Fruit of the Loom tighty whities around the house and when I was old enough I couldn't help but notice his male physique which was what I wanted to look like when I got older. That's where the conflict began. His taunting v. my awareness of the mature male anatomy.
The taunting peaked when I was wrestling at a well-attended state competition for first place in my weight class. I had seen my opponent at previous matches and had a huge crush on him. The way he filled out his singlet was the source of countless jack off sessions. So, I shouldn't have been surprised when, embarrassingly, I became erect during the match. After a hard-fought battle, I won the match and as the referee pulled me to my feet and raised my arm and hand to be recognized, I tried to cover my raging hard on with the other hand. It's no secret how little wrestling singlets leave little to the imagination, so as I was being awarded first place in the state, my rock-hard cock was on display for everyone to see. The embarrassment was devastating, and the look on my father's face in the front row was horrifying. In his mind, everything he believed about me had been confirmed. This was the beginning of the end of my relationship with my father. He...and once again I started choking back sobs...would openly call me "boner boy" and taunted me mercilessly. My being gay and that incident disgusted him, and he let me know it. It went on for the rest of the time I lived at home. I was beyond conflicted. On one hand he was my father; I craved his approval and affection. On the other, I disgusted him and was clearly not worthy of either.
Now fully sobbing again, I felt Richard reach down, put his arms around my shoulders, and pull me close to him. He whispered in my ear, "It's alright Jarod, it's alright. I'm here for you and you can trust me."
The feeling of that moment was almost indescribable. Richard's warmth, reassurance and unconditional trust made me feel wanted in a way I never had. I swung my legs over the side of the couch to sit up when he spontaneously stood up and pulled me into a tight embrace. My mind was spinning with the potential impropriety of this, but I didn't care. I felt wanted and loved for the first time in years.
We instinctively found ourselves forcefully kissing each other's necks, cheeks and lips, with our cocks getting closer and closer together. And not surprisingly, Boner Boy--me--had sprung a huge one that was now forcefully pressing against him. Had he become hard as well or was what simply wishful thinking on my part. I'd find out soon.
End of Chapter 3