Daddy: Nine Stories of First Time Gay Dominant Daddies

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That response is the best I can hope for, I think. Not absolution, because there is no absolution, but recognition that causing pain is wrong. My dad, on his knees in sweats, gigantic mitts at his side, had a variety of assaults, which he would announce with monstrous growls. But this was no punishment. This was a cessation. This was my death. I tried to make him see reason, to convince him that we were to be forever. I told him of our joys, our laughs and how love couldn’t be any better. I begged him not to kill his beloved and only child.

Stories 1 - Boyz and Sirs Stories 1 - Boyz and Sirs

All chapters are under 1000 words, and all but two are non-sequential/unrelated, so you can drop in anywhere. Chapter summaries/notes list additional kinks.I remember sitting on your lap all the time when I was little. I wanted to see if I could still fit.” I explained. We weren’t very physical at the time. We did not hug or kiss. I don’t think we ever touched unless accidentally. I am taking requests. Just tell me the ship and prompt and it'll be published. (If I'm comfortable with the request of course (which usually I am.)) Language: English Words: 3,311 Chapters: 2/2 Comments: 3 Kudos: 97 Bookmarks: 8 Hits: 2,708 I need you to get something for me," he said to me. I really didn't know what to think at this point. My mind was racing and I didn't know how to act. But to my dad, this is how boys play. And apparently, he’s still a boy at heart. My son would return home from visiting with my dad with his skin covered in bruises and scratches. Games of chase, of King of the Bed, even of hide-and-seek — all playing, it seemed — becomes wrestling. Which means my dad dominating a child with the immense size of his body, and turning what should be play into something sadistic.

Mr Byers And His Boy – Don’t Wake Mom - Family Dick Mr Byers And His Boy – Don’t Wake Mom - Family Dick

Because I’m Daddy’s squirrel?” The answer came in the form of a long kiss on his cheek and he giggled before hugging it close to his chest. “Thank you ~” But, especially when I was a child, physical attention from Dad meant pain. What does that do to a boy? My family ate dinner early, and when I was about 8 and my brother 4, we would beg Dad to wrestle after we cleared our plates. Most evenings he said no, choosing instead to do push-ups and sit-ups or, more often than not, watch the news. But occasionally, according to some calendar our childish minds couldn’t fathom, he agreed, and we’d take up position in the living room. My therapist tells me that in more than 20 years of practice he’s heard the same thing from many survivors of abuse — it’s just his way. That’s how those who’ve been abused normalize mistreatment. Because otherwise, what does a person do with that pain? Someone who loves them has also hurt them deeply, to the bone. Rationally, emotionally, this doesn’t compute. There was no one else either, I knew that much. My mother died while birthing me. Ever since, I had been my father’s heartbeat. And he was my breath. I never missed my mother. I never knew her, never would meet her. I would, perhaps, have liked to know her, but somehow I thank God she wasn’t with us. It would have been awkward. I don’t think I could have shared my father with any one.The most painful part of it was that I didn’t die. I felt like dying. I wanted to die. But I didn’t know how to go about it. I should have killed him too; I should have hurt him too. He looked like he was hurting, but I should have made sure. It is too painful to feel the pain of death and yet be alive. There is no pain worse than the pain of death.

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What I said was true though, those past few weeks, all those interactions had been initiated by me, not him. I felt his muscles tense up and realized my question might’ve sounded a bit naughtier than I had intended. Foot worship Language: English Words: 29,784 Chapters: 31/31 Comments: 351 Kudos: 377 Bookmarks: 36 Hits: 11,678 didn’t seem an option at the time. I kinda felt I’d gone too far, that last week of summer. Yet I still longed for his touch. While I still have a long way to go in my recovery from abuse, I have found great help and made progress mostly through opening up to others and joining support groups, both online and in person. Through connecting with others who have experienced the same thing.

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My therapist gives a name to what I witnessed and experienced with my dad growing up: abuse. Physical and mental abuse. He recommends never leaving my son alone with my dad again. How could he end something so wonderful, something so perfect? He said he still loved me, but I didn’t believe him, I couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t even look me in the eye when he said it. There must have been a reason, but I didn’t care for whatever it was. I knew it wasn’t about right or wrong, there is no love that can be wrong, especially the kind we had. It was beautiful; we were one, my father and I. Our love transcended that of a father and his daughter. It was the stuff of heaven. No, His reason wasn’t religious, not at all, my father wasn’t that sentimental. I was his sole religion, he worshiped me. Forget screaming“uncle”: with us trapped under his knees, Dad commanded we beg our mother for help. As the pressure built, we’d holler at the top of our lungs for her, the game no longer so fun. Sometimes she came to the top of the stairs, crying. “You’re hurting them!” We use to cuddle all the time and you never kiss or hug me any more.” I explained, trying to make it sound more innocent. “Even when I was naughty, at least you’d still spank me.”