He came to me in the night. It was always in the night. In the daylight we both pretended that there was no nightly visitation. But he was highly sexed, and since my mom died, he came to me often at night. He waited until I'd turned eighteen, but after that, he came for me.
"Dad . . ." I murmured, still only half awake.
"Shush. Take this."
I was on my back and he was straddling my chest with his knees and leaning over me, holding my arms out and above my head with strong fists encasing my wrists. I felt the tip of his erect cock at my lips and I opened to him, and we both moaned quietly in the dark as he stroked his cock in and out of my mouth, hardening it and arousing him further—and slicking up his tool for what he'd do later.
When he was sufficiently aroused, he moved his knees and lips down my chest and belly and swallowed my balls as his hand went to my cock. His hand went to join the other to cup and raise and separate my butt cheeks as his mouth went to my entrance. His hand on my cock was replaced by one of my own, and I lay there, looking dumbly toward the window, watching the wind sway the branches of the willow tree, and stroking myself. For a moment I had the sensation of someone being there, watching us, but I had shut my systems down. I didn't care and my senses weren't on alert. I was trying to transport myself to someplace else altogether.
He pulled my sleeping shorts—all that I was wearing—off my legs.
"Turn on your belly." The voice was low, raspy, needy.
"Dad . . ." I murmured again. It was all I could manage, and I knew it had no effect.
"Turn on your belly, son."
With a sigh of resignation, I did as he commanded. I always did as he commanded, whether day or night.
A heavily muscled arm went under my lower belly and lifted me to my knees, while a palm between my shoulder blades pushed my chest down on the cool sheet. He was crouched over me from behind, his thighs encasing mine. I felt the stretch and filling of the entry. But no pain. There hadn't been pain, really, for months. My channel was fit to his cock now. He just slid up into me as I gasped slightly and groaned the almost nightly possession by him.
One of his fists went to the wrist of my left arm and pinned it to the bed above my head. He let me have the use of my right hand—he'd done so for nearly two months now—and I moved it to my cock and began stroking it again to the rhythm of his fucking cock.
He moved his other hand between gripping my waist and pinching my nipple and turning my head toward his face when he brought it down to my head. When he did that, we kissed, deeply, his tongue invading and searching my mouth cavity. This was something else that had only entered the ritual in the last month or so.
My lips freed, I once more turned my head and gazed at the window—and once more had the sensation of someone or something pulling away from it out there as I turned my head. Then I closed my eyes and concentrated again on not being there.
The nature of pretending I wasn't really involved in what was happening to me in the night had changed in the last month or too also—and it scared me. In the initial months, I had zoned out to deny it was happening. Now I was zoning out because I was beginning to need it—to look forward to it each night.
Of course he really wasn't my dad—not my biological dad—and nothing that he was doing was something I could report him for, something I could stop, short of fighting him, which, considering our differing sizes and physical power, was a comical notion. And leaving was something I couldn't do, at least not yet.
My real dad had died when I was eleven, and Tyler had been with us for six years now, arriving a little more than a year after Mom was widowed. I say us, but he really was only with "us" for a bit more than five years. My mom died six months ago. She had been sick for some time before she died, and I think she understood Tyler's interest in me before she went. But by then she was too far gone to do anything about it. She seemed to be hanging on mostly to be there until I got old enough to leave the house and go on my own.
My real dad's death and her own quick decline there at the end had bollixed up that idea, though. I'd worshipped my real dad, and his death had been a real blow to me. I just shut my life down for nearly a full year though—and that included school work. So, I was set back a grade. And, so, when mom died, I was no more than a week past eighteen, but I had a year and a half more to go in high school. And what were almost Mom's last words to me stuck.
"Stick it out until you graduate high school, Chris," she'd said. "Promise me you'll get your high school. Then go in the service for a while or something. Get away from this. But promise me you'll get your high school in first. A man can't do much of anything without that diploma."
And so, I promised.
And the way it worked out with Tyler wasn't wham bang, either. It was gradual. He worked me. He seduced me. And he was smart. He waited until I was eighteen. And when he finally had me, there I was, an adult, and not able even to claim rape. And the longer I stayed, the less anyone would care what I let happen to me. They would have asked, "Why didn't you just walk?"
Well, I didn't walk, because I promised my mom I'd get in that last year and half of school, and I didn't have any other good options. I had no living family left, and I had no means really to live out on my own. I didn't mind the idea of signing up for the military—I was leaning toward the Navy—but it stuck in my mind that one thing my mom had asked me to promise to do was to get that high school diploma before leaving.
And, as I've said. Tyler was clever. And he took it slow so that by the time I really was over the edge, it was done.
It had started the day after I turned eighteen. Mom was in the other room, dying. She'd been to the hospital and was back, under Hospice care, to die at home. I was keyed up and confused and into self-denial and wanting to make it all go away—transport myself to some fantasy land—and because I was a teenager with raging hormones, that meant a flashlight and dirty magazine and beating myself off in the middle of the night.
Which was all fine, but Tyler found me that night, right after my eighteenth birthday. I was terrified and paralyzed in place when he found me. But he came into the room and was calm and sat down on the side of the bed and told me all sorts of mumbo-jumbo over how it was normal and understandable under the circumstances. And while he was talking and holding my attention, he had his hand on my cock. When I noticed and flinched and began to object, he shushed me, reminding me that Mom was just in the other bedroom and that, although what I was doing was normal and understandable, it wasn't something we wanted to worry her about.
"So, just lay back, and I'll take care of it."
And so I did. And he did. And I was surprised at how much different and better it felt when someone else did it.
Three days later, the night before Mom died, Tyler was back and sweet talked me into letting him take care of my fears and tensions again. And this time he ran his other hand over my body as he was slowly jacking my cock off.
When we came home from Mom's funeral, I was a basket case, and Tyler sent me to my room and told me to try to get some sleep. But I couldn't and I couldn't stop crying. And Tyler came into my room and sat on the bed and hugged me close and soothed me with his calm, soft voice—which was really something coming from such a big, muscular man—and with his hands patting and stroking me here and there. He had my cock out of the fly of my sleeping shorts before I knew it. And I was in such a state that I didn't care—in fact it was comforting. And this time he didn't relieve me with his hand. He did it with his mouth.
Mom was dead now and there was only Tyler. And he'd already given me a blow job. And I was already eighteen and had promised my mom I'd stick it out through high school. And not only wasn't I thinking too straight, but I was a teen with raging hormones and Tyler was giving me release and pleasure that, though I knew it was evil and not right, was overwhelmingly hard to resist.
Everything was fine during the day. Tyler was a coping single-parent dad by day. Fitting in getting me to school and being there during my ball games and other activities while still holding down his job. I took up more of the cleaning and cooking duties, but Tyler was hanging in there on those as well. And we said nothing during the day of what was happening at night. The dark covered all of our sins.
But he was coming to me more often at night now. And he cajoled me into taking head, and one night he introduced a dildo into the ritual as he was sucking my cock. The first time I just thought it was his thumb, which he had started strumming rim of my hole with while sucking me, but it wasn't—it was a dildo. And the second time I knew it wasn't a thumb—and that it hadn't stayed at the entrance. By the time he fucked me with his cock, he had me asking for it. And I was over eighteen, and with nowhere else to go.
And now it was four months later.
Tyler had just been to visit me the night before. But he was here, at the door, tonight, as well. I'd heard it. He'd had a video on out in the living room. A male porn film. He was standing at the door, breathing heavily and giving me a scary stare. He was stark naked and had a raging hard on. I was sitting on the floor, on the thick cushion I'd taken off the overstuffed chair in my room; my back to the bed; earphones in, with the music set to something I liked to listen to before I went to bed; and doing my last-minute homework. I already was in my sleeping shorts.
Tyler was on me like a flash, grabbing my wrists with his hands and pushing my arms back on the bed. His cock was assaulting my mouth, pushing my head back on the bed as well. And I was gagging and gasping as he face-fucked me.
Then he pulled me up on my feet and kicked the cushion out into the middle of room as he was stripping off my sleeping shorts. He pushed me down on my shoulder blades on the cushion and grabbed my hips in his hands, and pulled my pelvis up into his crotch and my hole onto his cock, and started fucking down into me with long, deep strokes, thrusting down with his cock, while he pulled my pelvis up into him. Pushing me down as he moved his hips back and then pulling me in again as he thrust forward.
He was fucking me with a fury as he'd never done before, and I hooked my legs on top of the flare of his butt and hung on for dear life, my soothing "go-to-bed" music still playing in my ear from the earphones.
Above the sound of the music, I could hear the sound of the sex. Grunting and groaning and moaning in harmony, but above that, a plaintive cry of "Oh, shit, oh yes, oh gawd yessss, Fuck ME!"
