This is a demented tale created in an unbalanced mind. However, it is just that, a tale. A Fictional Story, wrong and sick as it may be, it's still only fiction!
Not one single person was hurt in the production of this story. This story contains Dark Themes. Slavery and Rape among others. If this isn't your cup of tea, then Don't Fucking Read It!!! (Don't you people look at the tags when you choose a story to read?) There's plenty of plain-vanilla lovey-dovey stories out there for you!
Don't fill-up my inbox with a bunch of messages telling me what a sick pervert I am.
I already know that! I also know the difference between Reality and Fiction! Do you? That being said, if you're as depraved and twisted as I am, go ahead and read on. I hope you enjoy. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!! Yours Fictionally, RogueRambler ***************************************** I had a normal childhood I guess.
I mean, it was just Dad and me (and Greta, our housekeeper). My mother died giving birth, which I just somehow always knew, even if no one ever talked about it.
At least they didn't talk about it around me. And I guess I always did think that there were lots of things that they didn't talk about around me, but. My life was all I knew, and I've always said that I had a great childhood. I had a great adolescence too. Yet even back then, I knew that my life was anything but normal.
But I sure as hell wasn't going to complain, like I said, it was great, if not a somewhat strange. It all started one night at dinner, a few weeks before my twelfth birthday. We were sitting at the table, Dad, Greta and I, talking about our day, when Greta says, "I watched Adam here." that's me by the way, Adam Stone, I took a bite of potatoes, curious about what our housekeeper saw.
She gestured my way, though it was clear that she was speaking to my father, ".down on his knees, sucking that boy, Billy's dick like a two-bit whore." I was horrified. I thought sure I'd locked my bedroom door. "Tommy," (Greta was the only person I'd ever heard call my father Tommy, rather than Tom) " I'll tell ya, he didn't spill a drop, or that Billy boy don't pop a real big load yet, but which ever way it was, your boy sure did love drinking down whatever he got." I wanted to die.
I couldn't believe it. Nothing could have been worse. I stared at Greta, in shock, and even though everything inside me was telling me to look at my father, to see what his reaction was, but I just couldn't look at him. There was a moment of silence.
I finally did tear my eyes off Greta, but I looked down into my lap rather than at Dad.
It was my dad's voice that broke the silence. "Greta," he said and by his tone, he meant business, "go to your room until I come and get you." I could remember very few times when I heard Dad speak to our housekeeper in such a tone.
And I'd never heard him order her to her room. He'd asked her to leave the room a few times, but never treated her so child-like, by sending her to her room. It took her a moment to stand, but she finally did with a, "Humph!" I knew was full of meaning. Then, just before she left the dining room, she turned back and said, "His exact words were, 'Oh my god, Billy, your sperm tastes so good, I can't believe it.
If I keep sucking it, will you give me more?'" She was right. I said those exact words a little over three hours previously. I prayed for a bolt of lightning to strike me, right then and there.
Then Greta let out a big laugh and under her laughter she said, "Your little stud's a cock-sucking fruit.
How's that for irony. And I hope he got-off too, so I don't have to wash another wet dream out of his shorts and sheets." My did said three words, and if I'd ever heard his voice sound so scary, I don't remember. He said, "Greta, go, now!" and I heard his chair push back and knew that he'd gotten to his feet. I had to look up. I'd never heard my dad talk to her in such a manner. He was pointing to the door, and she moved quicker than I'd ever seen, leaving me alone with my father, and Greta's report of my cock-sucking hanging over us like a swarm of locusts.
I looked toward my dad, but couldn't look him in the eye.
There was another moment of silence, when finally he said, "Adam, lets go down to my office and talk." I wasn't allowed in his office. I'd never even seen inside it. The door was always locked. The room took-up half of the basement (or so I thought), the other half was used for storage and there was also a large laundry and utility area for Greta. Sometimes I knew Dad had spent the whole night down in his office, when he would come upstairs in the morning, wearing the same clothes he had on the night before.
I used to play down there occasionally when I was young, but the older I got and started exploring outside a bit more, I didn't have a reason to go to the basement much. Dad's office seemed small when I first walked in. There was a desk and chair, a television on a table, a couple book-shelves and filing-cabinets, a long couch on one wall, and that was it.
Well, except for the big door on the back wall, with a key-pad next to it, like in some high-security building. Dad pointed to the couch and told me to have a seat. I did as told.
Dad then took the chair from behind the desk and put in down just a few feet from where I sat. "Son," he said, I could feel him looking at me, but I couldn't look back, "you know I love you, don't you?" Well, I might not have even been twelve-years-old, but I knew that an opening like that meant that the rest wasn't going to be so pleasant.
I nodded. I did know that my dad loved me. He was never shy about telling me, or even showing me with a big hug. But I was still sure that this wasn't going to be a happy conversation. And his next question confirmed my fear (or so I thought).
"Adam, you have to be completely honest with me now. I need to know if you think you're gay." There it was. I knew it. He was going to send me away now. I just knew it. Just before I began to sob, I managed to eke out, "I don't know." And it seemed like before the first tear hit my shirt, I was enveloped in my father's arms.
"Adam," he cooed, "I'm so sorry it had to happen like this. Greta's gonna wish she never. Well, never mind about that. And maybe I should have asked a different way." Then his hands were on my head and he forced me to look him in the eye, "Adam, do you like girls too?" Well, I did. Maybe not quite as well as I liked other boys, but once in a while I thought about girls when I masturbated.
"I think so," I responded, between sobs. "But, you like boys too?" I didn't speak, but nodded.
My dad exhaled deeply and I could see relief on his face. "Have you ever done anything with a girl." I shook my head to say, "No." "But you would like to sometime?" I couldn't believe I was having this discussion with my father.
I nodded. The inquisition continued. "When you jack-off at night, do you usually think about boys or girls?" How the hell did he know what I did to myself at night? "Both," I responded, which was a bit of a lie.
I did fantasize about boys a bit more often than girls. "Good," Dad said, and pulled me back into his embrace. A few minutes later, Dad stood and took his chair back behind the desk and sat down.
"Son," he said, "You've been making sperm for almost a year now, and masturbating for about nine months, right?" How the hell did he know. I nodded, feeling the tears start flowing again. "Have you ever messed around with any other boys, besides Billy?" I shook my head. "What all have you and Billy done together?" I told him, with tears flowing down my face, that my friend and I had started masturbating together a couple months before, then we started stroking each other's dicks, and only in the last couple weeks did we start sucking each other's dicks.
We sat in silence for a moment, Dad deep in thought, me still scared shitless. "Ok, Adam," he said finally. "Don't worry, you're not in trouble or anything. And I'm happy that you can be honest with me. There's nothing wrong with liking to do stuff with other boys. Hell, I've sucked a dick or two in my time." That shocked me. I mean, it shocked me. "But as long as you like girls too, there isn't any problem." I thought that statement was a bit strange, but in an evening full of strangeness, what the hell did I know.
He stood, came to me and gave me another big hug, telling me again that he loved me, then said that maybe I should go finish my homework and get ready for bed. It was early, but I wasn't going to make any waves. But before we left, he went into one of the filing-cabinets and pulled out a couple magazines. "Here, son," he said handing them to me. I looked down and realized that he'd just given me a small stack of dirty-magazines.
"Take these upstairs with you, and when you're done with your homework, take a look at them. And over the next week, I want you to jack-off whenever you feel like it. And I'll make sure that Greta stays out of your room, so you don't have to worry about being interrupted." I nodded, amazed that my dad had just supplied me with porn and given me free reign to masturbate whenever I wanted.
He continued, "And I don't think Billy should come over, at least not until after your birthday. Tell him that I've grounded you, if you want, and don't tell him that I found-out what you've been doing." Then he took a deep breath and paused before going on, "But now, I have to ask you for an almost impossible favor." I had no idea what to expect.
But not what came out, "Adam, after next Sunday, I going to ask that you don't jack-off, nor play-around with Billy." Again, shock. "I know it will be hard, but it's just for a week. From next Sunday until your birthday, the following Saturday.
Now, I remember what it was like to be your age, shit, I used to get myself off half-a-dozen times a day. And if you absolutely can't stand it anymore, go ahead, but try not to do it that much, especially later in the week. I promise you that in the end, it will be well worth it." Well, I had a week to do whatever and however I wanted, before I would have to cease and resist.
So I agreed. Fuck the homework. The instant I was in my room (with the door locked, regardless of his promise to see to it that I wasn't disturbed) I stripped naked and hopped on my bed with the magazines. One was all women, some solos, and a few spreads (so to speak) of girl-on-girl action. That one didn't do much for me. There were a couple with guys and girls together, hardcore stuff, I'd never seen anything like it before.
In one of those, I noticed that both the guys and girls seemed quite young, barely older than myself. I set that one aside and, when I saw the cover on the last mag in the stack, I couldn't believe my eyes.
On the cover there were two guys, one standing and naked, the other (also naked) on his knees and sucking cock. I fell asleep covered in cum, drained and exhausted. And did the same each night for the next week. Billy was a bit miffed that he couldn't come over after school, and he bought my story about breaking one of Dad's stereo and being grounded.
And all that week, Greta seemed a bit distant and I noticed she barely spoke to my father. Sunday night, my dad knocked on my bedroom door and asked me to give him the magazines, "I'll give them back after your birthday," he promised with a wry grin, "If you want them." The next week was hell. I thought that my problem with spontaneous erections was bad before. I managed not to get-off, however, I couldn't resist playing with myself a little.
Wednesday night I had a wet-dream. It was the first one I'd had since I figured-out how to make myself come. Saturday morning I woke with a hard-on so painful I thought I was going to die, but it did finally go down enough for me to pee, then got hard again when I was in the shower. Then my dad took me and all my friends out to a movie, then for pizza and cake and ice-cream. We were home from dropping everyone off by five o'clock.
Dad told me that it was time for him to give me my gift from him. He had a big smile on his face, and had been hinting around for the last couple weeks that I was going to love it. For the second time in my life, Dad took me down to his office in the basement.