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It was getting late. Empty beer bottles and pizza boxes littered the living room. The TV screensaver stopped looping and plainly asked, Are you still watching? Zach and I lay sprawled out on the couches, lethargic from too much food and even more alcohol. A pack of cards rested on the coffee table between us. It was still in the plastic, evidence of my underwhelming party-planning skills.
“Thanks for hanging out, Trev,” he murmured. “You don’t have to wait up with me until midnight.”
I looked at my watch. It was 11:53 p.m. “Not much longer to go,” I said. “Besides, I’m as curious as you are.”
Zach’s laugh was tinged with melancholy. Every man our age reconciled himself—at least outwardly—to the decade our government now required us to forfeit. When it finally came, the “AI Revolution” we were promised completely backfired, prematurely terminating the service of an entire cohort of dads. The resulting dad shortage nearly crashed the economy and plunged society into chaos.
Zach and I were lucky. We’d both been given dads on our 20th birthdays and got their entire 15 years of loyal service, mentorship, and training. Since the shortage began, however, men in some corners of the country weren’t getting their dads until they were 23 or 24, and they were lucky to keep them past 30. It didn’t seem fair. What could a man possibly learn from a dad in just six years?
Of course, correcting unfairness for them meant upsetting the system elsewhere. This was why my soon-to-be 40-year-old best friend would begin his dad service far sooner than he expected. Activating dadNET at age 40 instead of 50 left a generation of men—myself included—feeling cheated. To be fair, I had no grand designs on what I might accomplish in my forties. Still, there would be the potential for greatness, or at least moderate achievement, during that decade. Not anymore. Those ten years would now be spent in service, and it made no sense to dream about what we might accomplish. Once we became dads, our lives were no longer ours.
At least I still had a few years to go. Zach was already 39 when the rules changed six months ago.
“Do you think it’s gonna hurt?” Zach asked. “None of the training modules said anything about what it feels like.”
I couldn’t help but find Zach’s apprehension a little endearing. He was three years older, but I had always been the leading half of our friendship. This was especially true after he turned 35 and his dad retired. Instead of stepping into his mid-30s ready to assume a central role in society, Zach seemed lost and in need of direction. Although it wasn’t technically permitted, I let my dad give him the occasional lecture and pep talk to keep him motivated and productive. Last year, when my dad retired, he said I had become a true leader in our time together, comparing me positively to my perpetually meandering best friend.
Becoming a dad 10 years early was probably a blessing in disguise for a man like Zach. Finally, he would be given a purpose, and the programming would keep him from getting into trouble. I didn’t know whether the dadNET activation would be painful, but I didn’t want him to worry about something he couldn’t change. I shook my head. “Those trainings were super detailed. I’m sure they’d have mentioned it.”
Zach made a noise between a “yeah” and a grunt. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not. As the clock ticked toward midnight and we chatted about nothing, I intently studied Zach’s facial expressions and body language. In the last few months, a couple of my buddies hit the big 4-0 and became dads, but I was never there when it happened. They simply didn’t show up to work the next day, and all my text messages were returned undelivered.
I had been obsessively watching the clock for the last hour, but laughing at old inside jokes and quotes from our favorite shows made me lose track of time as those last few minutes ticked away. Midnight came and went without me realizing.
“Do you remember the look on her face,” I said between bursts of laughter, “when after all of that, I didn’t have all three stamps on the form?”
My laughter subsided. Zach wasn’t laughing at all. At first, I wondered if he had fallen asleep, but when I craned my neck to look at him, he was sitting straight on the sofa, his back straight and his legs splayed wide. His brow was furrowed, and his jaw was slack. He looked like he was stumped by the punchline of a complicated joke.
“Zach,” I said. I jostled his knee to rouse him from his stupor. “Hey, buddy, are you all right?”
He stared straight past me into the middle distance, his blue-grey eyes unfocused and glazed over. “I am fine, Trevor. It is starting. I can feel it.”
I glanced at the ID chip on his right bicep. Instead of the usual blue, denoting “citizen,” his was illuminated grey, denoting “dad.” Then I looked at my watch. It was 12:01 a.m. dadNET didn’t waste any time activating him.
“I am having difficulty remembering things. I cannot remember my name,” Zach said. His voice was placid and even like he was reading items off a shopping list.
“Try.”
“My name is dad. I am a dad.” Zach pinched the bridge of his nose. “Trevor, I did not think it would happen so fast.”
I got up off my sofa and sat next to Zach. He’d broken out into a full-body sweat, but I didn’t care. I put my arm around him. “It’s okay. Just relax.”
We sat in silence for a minute or two. Zach’s body twitched every few seconds like a machine undergoing one hard reset after another. I tried speaking to him, but he ignored me. Finally, he fell asleep—or whatever the new dad equivalent of sleep was. I waited an hour to see what would happen next, but drowsiness caught up with me, and I nodded off next to my deactivated best friend.
I woke up to the smell of bacon frying and the clattering of pots and pans. When I opened my eyes, I realized I’d been moved back to the second couch, and a blanket had been placed over me. I got up, stretched, and looked around the room. It was spotless. All the evidence of last night’s going away party for two—the beer bottles, the pizza boxes—were gone. Zach’s living room was tidier than it had been since his dad retired.
I started for the kitchen and passed by an opened box on the dining table. Inside was a bunch of discarded packing material and a dogeared flyer that read “dadNET Quick Start Guide.” Clearly, Zach had gotten an early start to the day.
“Rise and shine, Son. About time you got up, sleepyhead. Breakfast is just about ready.”
I barely recognized Zach when I saw him at the stove. He flipped an omelet with a skill I knew he didn’t possess twelve hours ago. He wore the standard black dad uniform, and the compression gear had already started transforming his physique. His chest was thicker, his hips narrower, and his thighs rounder, though he had a way to go before he matched the latest dad template.
“Zach—” I started, then remembered who I was talking to now. “Sorry, dad, but I’m not your Son.”
“Oh,” dad said matter of factly and smiled. “Thank You for the correction. Do You know where my Son is?”
I shook my head. “You were only just activated today.”
“I see. Would You be willing to deliver me to the nearest processing center? I can assure You that dadNET will compensate You for Your time and travel expenses.”
I took a seat at the table and pushed the dadNET box aside. A part of me missed the Zach I knew, but I couldn’t deny that the dad he was becoming suited him well. He looked happier than I’d seen him in months. Our friendship as we knew it was over, but I couldn’t help thinking back to when we were younger and how our dads’ friendship mirrored our own. With any luck, in three years’ time, we could be friends again, as a pair of handsome, dutiful dads ourselves.
This story was originally published on My website. Read new My Perfect Dad stories at JayHypnoWriter.com a full week before they drop here, and follow Me @JayHypnoWriter on Twitter for more updates.
Every store in the Commonwealth trotted out their old, unshifted merchandise on Black Friday. As a date on the calendar, it was a quaint holdover from the pre-Reform, back when people sold you stuff you didn’t need just because you had money, and they could convince you to spend it. It was harmless cultural theater, like those recreations of historic villages with actors churning butter and feigning shock at your zippers.
My best friend Adrian and I ventured into the old commercial sector this year for some Black Friday window shopping. Our dads tried to talk us out of it, saying it was rude to waste a shopkeeper’s time if we had no intention of buying anything. Typical dadNet programming, trying to guilt us into staying home. We went anyway and had a great time trying on boots and coloring in mood panels with hand gestures while our dads remained docked at home. We had just left a home appliances warehouse and were about to break for lunch when I saw him standing in the window.
“Dude. Stop for a sec,” I said.
“Come on, Mike,” Adrian whined. “My feet hurt. I want to get some chowder before they’re all sold out.”
I refused to budge and stared into the shop window at a display of old-style dads. They had to be 5th Generation, maybe even 4th. “Look at these guys,” I said. “They sure don’t make them like this anymore.”
People always told me I was born in the wrong decade. My tastes had always been a bit old fashioned. I still bought boots with laces, I preferred to look at the menu instead of letting the restaurant’s AI extrapolate my preferences, and I always had an affinity for dads that looked like dads.
“They give me the creeps,” Adrian shuddered. “I like the way they build them now better.”
I respectfully disagreed. About a decade before we were born, dadNet stopped designing dads with visual authenticity in mind. Gone were the simulated crows’ feet, overweight builds, and gently paternalistic cognitive subroutines. The generation of dads I grew up with were boxy, metallic, and obsessed with quoting rules from the Commonwealth Community Standards. Sure, they were decent servants and interacted well with local government on our behalf, but that was kind of the point. Somewhere along the way, the definition of dad changed to mean something else.
“Let’s go check them out,” I said, already walking into the store. Adrian protested, but when he realized I wasn’t to be deterred, he followed me in.
The store, TechTime, was full of pre- and early-Reform era electronics and positronics. It was a veritable museum of the last century of popular history. I pretended to browse around, trying not to appear too keen on anything in particular. But my eyes never left the dads in the window.
“Hey, Mike!” Adrian laughed and waved a small, rectangular piece of metal and glass in the air. “They call this stupid thing a smartphone. What the hell is a phone?”
I nodded and smiled, just enough to register a socially acceptable level of interest, then meandered back toward the window display. Three dads stood motionless and inert amidst an idealized winter scene, staring blankly out into the street. The one on the left held a shovel and the one on the right was putting on a pair of mittens. I eyed the one in the middle, which wore an old-fashioned pair of denim jeans and a flannel shirt. He stood upright with balled up fists resting on his hips. His stance reminded me of old superhero holo-comics, but his appearance was more akin to an old educational film.
“Care to take him for a spin?”
I turned to face the salesman who had sneaked up behind me. “I don’t know,” I said, wondering whether the admonishment I got from my robot dad back at home was true. “I’ve got a dad back home that works fine. I just like the way they used to build them.”
The salesman nodded and pulled a control device from his pocket. “They are durable. Handsome, too.” He held the control out and I took it. “Everything’s on sale for Black Friday. Go ahead and give him a try.”
I looked at the small metal sphere in my palm as the salesman left to wait on someone else. I barely heard his footsteps fade into the distance. I pressed the blue button on the top of the sphere and pointed it at the plaid dad in the display.
“Processing.”
He stood at attention for several seconds and then turned around. Noticing the control device in my hand, he looked at me and smiled. “Are you my Son?”
I laughed. “No, I’m not. My name’s Mike. I’m just trying you out.”
The dad stepped down from the window display and approached me. He was taller than he looked in the window. His beard and eyebrows were single pieces of flexible plastic attached to his face. When he smiled at me, they distorted slightly. He held out his right hand.
“Nice to meet you, Mike. I am 717.”
I shook his hand, surprised at the tight grip. My dad back home was such a milquetoast, but 717 was exactly the kind of dad I always wanted. Masculine, affable, and handsome.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said. “You know you’re for sale in a discount shop, right?”
717 looked around, appraising the situation. “I can see that it has been some time since I was last activated, Mike. But my programming is just as relevant today. You appear to have reached age 30. Do you have a dad?”
He placed his hand on my shoulder, and his uncanny plastic features contorted into a simulation of concern. I thought about the glorified microwave waiting for me in its docking station back home. That wasn’t a dad. This was a dad.
This story was originally published on My website. Read new My Perfect Dad stories at JayHypnoWriter.com a full week before they drop here, and follow Me @JayHypnoWriter on Twitter for more updates.
The box showed up on our doorstep a week before Thanksgiving. We were confused. It couldn’t possibly have been the prep-by-step Thanksgiving dinner we ordered. It was way too early, and the box wasn’t nearly heavy enough.
“Do you think we got scammed?” I asked my boyfriend Paul.
“What do you mean we, Mr. Subscription Delivery Service Addict?” he said with a smirk. “I’m not the one who ordered it. I told you I’d be happy with pizza and beer.”
We’d done pizza and beer for two consecutive lockdown Thanksgivings. I was ready for something special, but neither of us was a great cook. I wanted premeasured ingredients and a simple chart to follow. Thanksgiving-in-a-box was the answer, or so I thought.
Paul tore the box open, and a blast of confetti shot from it, scaring the crap out of us both. I pulled a card out of the empty box as bits of autumn-colored ticker tape fluttered to the floor.
You now have everything you need for the perfect family holiday. Happy Thanksgiving-in-a-box!
Paul was amused. I was pissed. This was a massive clean-up job, and we had absolutely nothing for Thanksgiving dinner.
“At least we have a week to pivot,” I said, coming back from the kitchen with the broom and dustpan.
“Or there’s always pizza and beer.”
I woke up the following day to the noise of cabinets banging and dishes clattering in the kitchen. It was rare for Paul to rise before me on any day, let alone on one of his days off. I ambled into the kitchen and saw him sorting what looked like a thousand dollars’ worth of groceries, covering every available surface.
“Morning, babe,” I said, interrupting his focused, somewhat manic workflow.
“Hey!” he exclaimed. “I thought I’d get the shopping done for Thanksgiving. I think I got everything we need.”
“Great,” I said. “You seem really… enthusiastic.”
Paul stopped counting potatoes and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into a tight bear hug. Of course, my boyfriend had his romantic moments, but he wasn’t typically this demonstrative.
“I know you wanted Thanksgiving to be special,” he said. “I want to make it special for you. For both of us.”
He released his grip on me and smiled. I looked at him curiously for a moment. “Did you do something different to your hair?”
“No, why?”
I blinked a few times, thinking it was just sleep making me see things. “You’ve gone kinda grey at the temples. In the mustache, too.”
Paul reached into a drawer and pulled out a giant serving spoon. He held it in front of his face as if checking his reflection. “I don’t notice anything different. Why don’t you run along and let me take care of things here?”
I laughed. “Run along?”
The next few days got weird. While we were running errands on Saturday, Paul made an impromptu detour to the thrift store. He picked out an assortment of polo shirts, khaki shorts, and white sneakers. He roused me out of bed at six-thirty on Sunday, and we spent the morning raking all the leaves in the yard. After overhearing me on a challenging work call on Monday, he sat me down for a “heart-to-heart.” He lectured me for 45 minutes about having respect for my elders.
By Tuesday, things had gotten out of hand. Paul walked into my basement office in the middle of my weekly team huddle to tell me I needed to pick up our room. I gestured for him to leave, but he wouldn’t budge. So finally, I muted myself and switched off my camera to deal with this.
“I’ll do it after my meeting ends,” I said.
“No,” Paul said sternly. “You should have done it this morning. You’ll do it now.”
“I’ve been busy,” I said, exasperated. “I didn’t have time this morning. I’ll do it later.”
“If you don’t have time to do it right, when will you have to do it over?”
The silence between us grew tense. I stared at Paul, and he stared right back at me. Then, finally, he broke the silence.
“As long as you live under my roof, you live under my rules.”
My boyfriend looked different. Older somehow, but also more… authoritative. He stood even taller and exuded a confidence I had never noticed in him before. My resistance started showing cracks. I didn’t want Paul to be mad at me. I loved him, but I wanted him to be proud of me even more.
I sat down at my desk and jumped back on the call.
“Hey guys,” I started, unsure how to articulate how I felt about what just happened. “I’ve got to take care of something quick. I’ll be right back.”
Paul folded his arms across his chest and smiled at me. “See how easy that was?”
“Yes,” I said, following him out of my office and upstairs to our bedroom.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Sir.”
I’d had enough of Paul’s weird new attitude by Wednesday night, so I called up a work buddy and managed to get invited to his Friendsgiving Eve pub crawl. Sure, I’d be the oldest guy in the group by at least a decade, but it beat staying home with Paul, my now domineering man-of-the-house boyfriend.
The pub crawl didn’t start until ten, which was my new weeknight bedtime—one of Paul’s “my roof, my rules” directives. I waited until he fell asleep in front of the TV and sneaked past the living room toward the garage. I didn’t get far.
“Evan, turn around and come here.”
Fuck. I mean, frick. I returned to the living room, where Paul was waiting for me. He was shirtless and wearing a pair of faded gym shorts. I stared at his belly. His grey hair reflected the glow from the fireplace. My cock stiffened. As much as I had wanted to avoid him these last few days, the way he looked now only made him sexier to me. The longer I spent around him, the harder it got to disobey or disagree.
“Where were you going?”
I stared at my shoes. “Nowhere.”
He pointed at the sofa. I instinctively went to sit down.
“I don’t like asking questions twice.”
I sighed. “Just out. With some friends.”
Paul dragged a chair over and sat down directly in front of me. He spread his legs to fill the space, and I could see the outline of his cock and balls in his thin shorts. “What if you’d gotten hurt while you were gone? You might be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, and I’d be up all night worrying.”
“Sorry, Sir.” Sir had become an almost automatic part of my vocabulary. I couldn’t remember exactly when. “I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”
“I know you didn’t.” Paul leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. His pecs rested on his belly, and I felt precum on the insides of my underwear. “Now, why don’t you run upstairs and get in bed. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Yes, Sir.” We stood. Paul extended his hand. I shook it. When our hands touched, something happened to us both. Dizziness and disorientation caused us to stagger, and we gripped our hands tighter to keep our balance. My double vision cleared, and I saw Paul pinching the bridge of his nose. My eyes darted down to his shorts. He was tenting.
“You all right, son?”
I looked back up at Sir. He smiled like he always did when he caught me looking. I let go of his hand, and he massaged his bulging erection.
“Yes, Sir! Thank You, Sir!”
“Good boy.” He rubbed my neck with the same hand that had touched his cock. “Now go get some shut-eye. I need my number one potato peeler rested and ready to work bright and early.”
I hugged him tightly, ensuring our bulges made contact, and then ran up the stairs to our room. I was excited for tomorrow and hoped I would fall asleep quickly. I couldn’t wait for our special family Thanksgiving.
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This story was originally published on My website. Read new My Perfect Dad stories at JayHypnoWriter.com a full week before they drop here, and follow Me @JayHypnoWriter on Twitter for more updates.
The bell above the door jingled, and the door slammed three times in rapid succession. If I weren’t so annoyed, I’d have laughed. But instead, I paid the intrusion no mind and kept shelving books. I admit it wasn’t the best customer service approach, but in this case, it was justified.
I knew who it was. The repeated slamming of the door gave it away. Emmett Vyner may have been a captain of industry and a billionaire real estate developer, but whenever he visited my humble bookshop, he was somehow stumped by the front door. His lack of skill with an industry-standard handle and hinge belied his business acumen.
“Nathan,” he called out. I rolled my eyes. He called again. When I didn’t answer a second time, he took my silence as an invitation to wander the stacks looking for me. As his clomping footsteps grew louder, I wished I could disappear into the pages of one of the books. Any of them, even a depressing one like Angela’s Ashes, would do. “Found you!”
No such luck. Emmett stared at me through a gap between two books, a sleazy smile splitting his round face. I got off my stepstool and walked into the center of my shop. The space was already thick with the smell of Emmett’s cheap aftershave.
“There’s no point in these little visits,” I said as I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m not selling.”
Emmett plodded toward me. “My offer is generous, Nathan. I’ve got plenty of strip malls you can move to.”
“No.” I’d lost count of how many times I’d refused his increasingly desperate offers to buy me out in the last year. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Emmett abandoned his faux friendliness and took an aggressive posture. “I hoped we could settle this like gentlemen. I don’t want to put you out of business, but you’re standing in the way of progress.”
This guy was used to bullying and intimidating anyone who stood in his way. If I were anyone else, it probably would have worked. By my estimation, Emmett was about fifty-five, six feet tall and thickly built, somewhere in the vicinity of 250 pounds. He looked like the kind of guy who wrestled or played football decades ago and whose brawny athleticism was concealed beneath decades of sedentary office work and drive-thru coffee and donuts. To the rest of the world, he was a corporate killer, but when I looked at Emmett Vyner, I didn’t see bullying or intimidation.
I saw a hot daddy bear.
My initial attraction to Emmett set our relationship off on affable terms. I let my dick influence my behavior and was nicer to him than I should have been. I later came to regret this as his intention to bulldoze my shop became clear. Emmett must have felt pressure to move forward with his development project because his visits to Riker’s Books had grown more frequent and hostile of late. As much as I still wanted to bury my face in his belly and run my fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, Emmett Vyner and I were enemies now.
“Tearing down a local institution like Riker’s to build some stupid condos? Doesn’t sound like progress to me. Now, unless you’re here to shop, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Emmett shook his head and handed me a folded paper from his jacket pocket. “It didn’t have to be this way. I’ve got plenty of friends at City Hall. I’m afraid you can’t win this one.”
I unfolded the paper, and my vision went white with rage when I saw the words EMINENT DOMAIN printed across the top. I looked back at Emmett, whose sleazy smile had returned and seemingly gotten bigger. He looked like a used car salesman, only a million times more dangerous.
“I’ll give you until noon tomorrow to accept my offer,” he said. “And then we’ll move forward with the other options on the table.”
I let him leave without another word. I was so angry that I didn’t even notice the door repeatedly slamming upon his exit. Emmett Vyner, the hot daddy of my dreams, was taking my business away from me by force.
Closing the shop that night felt different. I went through the motions—sweep the floors, count the cash, print the receipts, set the alarm—making deliberate memories of each step as if I might never get to do these things again. It was stupid and overly sentimental, but for the first time since I’d taken Riker’s over from my parents, I confronted the existential dread of it possibly closing on my watch.
The only person who could understand my dilemma was Ro, my next-door neighbor. Ro was the proprietor of Lotions & Potions, our town’s original metaphysical apothecary shop. Ro’s shop had been copied dozens of times as the rest of the city became trendy and gentrified, but no one could do lotions and potions like Ro. They were practically my third parent and an ever-present mentor and guide, especially in the last year since I took over the bookshop. They’d taken Vyner’s offer, and although I disagreed with their decision, I respected it. Ro was ready to pack it all in and retire. My hopelessness in the face of an eminent domain case tempted me to do the same.
“Maybe I should take the offer,” I said plaintively. I punctuated my sentence with a hearty gulp of red wine. “I could reopen Riker’s in one of Vyner’s strip malls.”
Ro waited for me to set my glass down and promptly slapped my hand. Lotions & Potions took on an almost otherworldly atmosphere after closing time, and I could barely see their face through the dim light and the wafts of incense smoke. “Stop being dramatic. You should do what I suggested all along.”
I chuckled, and the buzz from the wine prolonged it into a melancholy guffaw. “Thanks, Ro. But somehow, I don’t think one of your herbs will save my shop.”
“No, of course not,” Ro said, getting up from the velvet wingback chair. “The only person who can save your shop now is Vyner.”
I finished off my glass of wine and started pouring another. Meanwhile, Ro clamored through a chest of drawers, mumbling throughout. Whatever they were looking for, they were having trouble finding it. I was halfway through my second glass when they returned with a small pouch in hand.
“Here,” Ro said. “Just what I was looking for.”
“Tea?” I said with a smirk. “Magical tea? What’s it going to do, turn him into a pumpkin?”
“Read the instructions,” Ro said. “Carefully. If you’re clear in your intention, Vyner will be amenable to it.”
I shook my head. “I appreciate the wine and the commiseration, but tea isn’t the answer.”
“What do you have to lose? If it doesn’t work, hire a lawyer and fight Vyner in court. But it’ll be worth it if you can avoid all that trouble and expense.”
Vyner stopped by the following day just as his noontime deadline approached, and I summoned every ounce of politeness I had to invite him in and offer him something to drink. He wanted to get right down to business, but I insisted we have a chat first. He relented but looked at his watch every few seconds as I busied myself with brewing Ro’s tea.
I watched intently as he took his first sip. He must have thought I was on drugs from the intensity of my stare. I didn’t care. I couldn’t afford to take any chances. I had read the instructions on the packet a hundred times and spent an hour constructing the exact words to get what I wanted out of Vyner. Now all that remained was to let it rip.
As we chatted, both of us couching our words beneath a veil of politeness and business speak, I repeated the words I’d written silently to myself. You want to support my business. Closing down my shop is wrong. You want Riker’s Books to stay open.
I couldn’t tell if it was working. Vyner seemed his usual hotshot businessman self. His cheesy grin and the way his belly stretched the buttons of his vest threatened to distract me, but I stuck to my script.
“I’d like to help you,” he said, his voice fading into background noise as I focused on my internal monologue. “I really would. But the development deal is already done. If we didn’t proceed, millions of dollars would be lost, and people would lose their jobs.”
You want to support my business. Closing down my shop is wrong. You want Riker’s Books to stay open.
Vyner set his cup of tea down and adjusted himself. The way his palm grazed his bulge derailed my thoughts.
Fuck, daddy. I want to get a face full of that beef. God, you’re such a sexy dad.
Vyner continued to drone on. I wasn’t listening. My cock was thinking for me now, and I was happy to follow its lead.
You dressed up in that suit and tie just for me, didn’t you, daddy? Damn, this older stud is exactly my type.
At some point, Vyner stopped talking. I didn’t know how much time had passed that we sat in silence. My face flushed with embarrassment.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered.
Vyner leaned forward and placed a meaty hand on my shoulder. He looked concerned. “Is everything all right, son?”
I was confused. My head felt like it had been put in a juice press. I looked at Vyner’s hand and then back at his face. His dark green eyes stared directly into mine, and his kissable lips were slightly pouted. He moved in closer and groped my stiffening cock. I gasped with pleasure and surprise.
“I think so,” I said and then hesitated. “I think so, dad.”
My dad took his hand off my shoulder and placed it on the back of my head. He pulled me into a kiss, and his tongue explored the inside of my mouth. This was a strange new feeling, but I knew we had done it a thousand times before. I knew his body almost as well as I knew my own. Emmett Vyner was my dad.
I broke the kiss. “Get on your knees,” I said, my chest swelling with confidence. I didn’t just own the shop. I owned my dad, too.
“Yes, Son.” My dad knelt down. I could see his cock tenting his grey suit pants. My dad wanted me just as much as I wanted him. “I live to serve and obey You, Son.”
I stood and pressed his face into my crotch, moaning in pleasure as my dad’s hot mouth worshipped my cock. He started to fumble with my zipper, and I stepped back.
“Wait,” I said. “Go turn the sign to ‘Closed.’ Then we can go fuck in the stacks without being interrupted.”
My dad enthusiastically got to his feet. Shop sex was one of our favorite pastimes. Sure, it probably cost us a few sales, but it was worth it. I slipped off my sweater and unbuckled my belt as my dad scrambled to the front door. In his haste to turn the sign, he accidentally pulled the door open, and I laughed as he slammed it three times to get it to close correctly.
“Hurry up, dad,” I said. “My hard-on won’t wait forever.”
“Right away, Son,” he said. Then, finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he turned the sign. Vyner’s Books is Closed. Call Again Soon.
I waited for him to return and pulled him by his tie into the stacks. He kissed a line down My bare chest until he reached My underwear. “Go for it, dad,” I said.
“Yes, Son. Right away, Son.”
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Neil balanced his laptop on the arm of the sofa and stretched, his foot knocking a half-empty bag of potato chips onto the floor in the process. It was the middle of the afternoon, but he still wore the ratty gym shorts and faded concert T-shirt he’d slept in the night before. The TV blared. Some trashy daytime talk show host was reading out the results of a paternity test amidst raucous jeers from the studio audience. A pyramid of soda cans balanced precariously on the windowsill, and a trio of empty takeout containers sat on the coffee table.
One of the dozen browser tabs Neil had open chirped with a notification. He turned the TV down and sidled back to his laptop, quickly clicking through his social media profiles.
Your post, “I sold my first company when I was 24. What’s your excuse?” has received 127 likes.
BusinessBoss65 and six others have shared your post, “Don’t play hard if you’re not willing to work hard.”
User CSuiteBound29 has added you to their list “Corporate Inspiration.”
Nothing Neil posted on his profiles was true. He was 30, underemployed, and serially unmotivated. After graduating from college in the middle of a recession and trying for years to parlay his entry-level jobs into something more, Neil finally gave up. Eventually, he settled into a steady but go-nowhere position, where the expectations were almost as low as the pay. His professional frustrations and disappointments played out online, where he cultivated the persona of a hot-shot, successful businessman. @NeilExec was everything Neil wanted to be but wasn’t.
The newest notification was a direct message sent to his LinkedUp profile:
Dear Neil,
Thank you for being a LinkedUp user. As the #1 social media network for working professionals, we take the proper use of our platform seriously. We want you to know that we have partnered with Truth Analytics, Inc., to help us crack down on spammers, bots, and fake profiles on LinkedUp. We hope this new partnership will bring you an even more authentic experience. Happy networking!
“Good,” Neil said out loud. “About time they get rid of all the bullshit that gets posted on here.”
Neil navigated back to his profile and noticed a question mark icon next to each post. When he hovered his mouse over it, a popup appeared. Does this post contain accurate information? Click to verify.
Neil reviewed the posts, clicking to verify each of them in turn:
“Your out-of-office auto-reply might say you’re on vacation, but it’s telling me that you don’t want to be promoted.”
“Someday, when I write the check for my kid’s college tuition, he’ll understand why Daddy worked so much when he was little.”
“Work isn’t everything, but wanting to work is.”
Once verified, a checkmark replaced each question mark. While working his way down the profile, Neil delighted in his alter ego. @NeilExec was the big-shot Vice President of Global Sales. The Venn diagram of his career and his identity was a perfect circle. Even so, he couldn’t help chuckling at how extreme some of his posts were.
“Man, I kinda sound like a dick,” he mused as he verified a blog post about all the wasted productivity between Christmas and New Year’s. The further he went back on his timeline, the more his posts sounded like a caricature of a business executive, and the drowsier he began to feel.
3:45 a.m.
Neil woke up. Instantly. He’d evolved beyond the need for an alarm years ago—so in tune he was with his circadian rhythm—but he still set one for four o’clock every morning. Weekdays, weekends, holidays, it didn’t matter. Time was money, and no one ever built a successful company by sleeping eight hours. He loved waking up before his alarm. He loved how he was instantly ready to tackle the day, from the pleasantness of sleep to the zeal of wakefulness in zero seconds.
Every day was like this. Or was it? As Neil gently kissed his sleeping wife’s forehead, he felt momentarily confused. Disjointed memories and erratic mental images filled his mind. He saw himself lying on a sofa in the middle of the day, watching bad television and eating junk food. Neil didn’t typically remember his dreams, but these images felt unsettlingly vivid. At the same time, his current reality felt nebulous and ill defined. He knew the woman sharing his bed was his wife, but he couldn’t recall her face or any memories of their life together.
As he proceeded to his morning routine, Neil couldn’t shake the feeling that things were out of place. After his shower, he looked at himself in the mirror for several minutes, examining his face and body in the bright bathroom lights. His bald pate and salt-and-pepper stubble were both familiar and foreign. He looked younger than 49, but even that number struck him as wrong. Going through his routine calmed him, and he felt reassured when he knew precisely which drawers to open to find his toothbrush and razor. Thick cologne dulled his senses and quieted his mind just long enough to tear himself away from the bathroom mirror and dress.
Glancing into his children’s rooms, Neil felt somewhat envious of their carefree youth. His memory continued to play tricks on him, but even in his foggy reality, he knew little of the people they were growing up to be. There were so many hockey games, piano recitals, spelling bees, and birthdays he’d missed. “Sorry, I have to work late” might as well have been painted on a sign in their living room instead of “Live, laugh, love.”
He straightened his necktie and proceeded downstairs to the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled his senses. The tidy suburban McMansion he lived in was at odds with what Neil remembered as home. Images of a studio apartment, a pull-out sofa, and takeout containers everywhere clashed with his memories of buying this six-bedroom, five-bathroom beige and gray palace with media room and in-ground pool.
He peered out the window, and the calming darkness eased his rising anxiety. Intermediate havens of light shone as beacons from the dozen backyard lights. With coffee in hand, Neil went downstairs to his home office. Twenty-four screens erupted to life as he entered. The glow startled him, but his surprise vanished as his memories continued to jostle about in his mind.
“Hey, SmartHome,” he said. His voice sounded deeper and more commanding than he remembered. “Unroll my day.”
Neil’s packed schedule of meetings, calls, and projects populated the center screen. He immediately noticed a block from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. entitled “Family time (Feel free to schedule over).”
He sat down in his office chair and opened a web browser. One of the preset tabs was his LinkedUp profile. Confused realization hit him like a freight train.
“Fuck,” he said as two lifetimes’ worth of memories battled each other. He pinched the bridge of his nose and massaged the pain away. Finally, after a long moment, Neil reopened his eyes. A tag accompanied all the checkmarks on his timeline: Truth Analytics, Inc., has verified the authenticity of this post.
He felt the energy, the excitement, the passion. It was barely four o’clock in the morning, but the workday was already half over in EMEA. It was time to get cracking.
A new day had begun.
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Norman parked his gray SUV in front of the rundown storefront and then lifted his sunglasses to get a better look at the surroundings. A feeling of unease rose in his gut. It occurred to him that this whole thing could have been a setup, but it was impossible to tell. The building’s windows were all papered over, and aside from an old camper that looked like it had been abandoned for months, the parking lot was empty.
“Are you sure this is right, Dave?” he asked, turning to the passenger riding with him. “This place looks deserted. Check the group text again.”
Dave removed the black tactical glove from his right hand and tapped at his phone screen a few times. “Yup,” he said a moment later and then scratched his graying goatee. “This is it. Says right here, ‘Pride parade protest: Arrive at 7:30 a.m. to receive materials and training.’”
Norman looked at the dashboard clock. They were right on time. “Just seems like there’d be more guys here. Everybody was talking about it.”
“You know how it is, man,” Dave said. “Everybody talks their faces off in the group chat, but no one has the balls to show up and actually do anything.”
Norman nodded in agreement. Over the last few years, he’d watched the city’s Pride celebration grow from a disorganized cluster of tables and a few honking cars into a weekend-long, city-wide event. This year, his company even made swag and gave everyone a half-day holiday to participate. The group chat he and Dave recently joined felt like the only place they could speak with like-minded guys who had their heads screwed on straight, and it was there that a guy called Frank had proposed to organize a protest.
“Maybe everyone else got it out of their system,” Norman said. “Bitching about it in a group chat is one thing, but protesting is another. Let’s just forget about it and go get breakfast or something.”
Norman reached for the gearshift, but Dave pushed his hand away.
“No, man, this is exactly what we need to be doing today.” He craned his neck to look at the roof of the building. “Did you check for cameras?”
“I didn’t see any on street view,” Norman said and pulled his black gaiter up over the lower half of his face. “But we can’t be too careful. Let’s go.”
Dave pulled his mask on, and the two men walked across the lot. When they reached the store front, they heard the deadbolt turn, and the door creaked open before Norman could raise his hand to knock. A man about Norman and Dave’s age greeted them with a slight smile.
“Help you gentlemen?” he said.
Norman’s eyes widened when he saw how thickly built the man was and how casually he behaved, as if he was completely oblivious of his own massive body. Norman felt inadequate standing next to the wall of muscle and masculinity, and he unconsciously corrected his posture and sucked his gut in.
“We’re here for the, uh, the training,” he said, his mask muffling his voice.
Their host’s face lit up, and he waved them in. “Welcome, guys! I’m Frank,” he said as he shook their hands. “I didn’t think anybody would show up. You know how it is—most of the guys in that chat are cowards and flakes.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Dave said, casting a glance at Norman. “I was afraid we were the only two guys in town who’ve had enough of this Pride stuff. Glad to see you feel the same way, brother.”
Frank made a grunt that sounded vaguely like approval and then led them to a row of folding chairs arranged in front of an old TV. “Have a seat, guys,” he said. “We’ll wait a couple minutes to see if anyone else shows up, and then I’ll get started. I’m going to grab the stuff from my car.”
Frank disappeared through a doorway at the back of the vacant shop, leaving Norman and Dave alone. After a minute of silence, Norman looked at his friend. “Grab the stuff from his car? There weren’t any other cars in the lot.”
“Could be parked around back,” Dave said. “Do you hear that buzzing sound?”
Norman shook his head, and the two men sat in silence again. After a few minutes passed, Norman started looking around the large, empty space. “I wish we could just get started already. I kind of want to get out of here.”
“I’m glad you said it, man,” Dave said. “I’m starting to have second thoughts about this. Maybe we should just go.”
They both stood and were heading for the door when Frank returned, carrying a large cardboard box. “Sorry, guys,” he said and then lowered the box to the floor with a grunt. “Damn thing came open and spilled all my stuff out in the alley.”
Norman turned around at the sound of Frank’s voice. Woof, he thought as his eyes landed on the man’s beefy chest and belly. Wait a minute. What?
“No worries,” Dave said, sounding equally confused. “But if you don’t mind, I think we might just head home. Somehow, protesting the Pride parade just doesn’t seem as…”
“Important,” Norman interjected. “Somehow it feels like there are better things we could be doing with our time today.”
Frank crossed his arms across his chest and smirked, making Norman and Dave feel a rush of emotions they didn’t quite understand. “I get it,” he said. “But can I at least give you the full presentation? I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Two hours later, Norman and Dave stood side by side, smiling ear-to-ear. Gone were the gaiters and the camouflage jackets, replaced with black leather harnesses and cuffs, Muir caps, and tight white T-shirts that read PROUD TO BE A GAY DAD in block letters. Frank looked at them approvingly and then handed each man a matching sign.
“You’re going to be Papa Frank’s good bear boys. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Sir, Papa Frank,” the men said in unison and then shivered with pleasure.
“You’re going to have a good time at the Pride parade, aren’t you, boys?”
“Yes, Sir, Papa Frank.”
“And you’re not going to give anybody any trouble.”
“No, Sir, Papa Frank.”
Frank clapped each man on the shoulder and pushed them toward the door. “Good boys,” he said. “Now go have fun.”
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This is an excerpt from My erotic short story A Son for the Weekend, which you can buy on Kindle for $2.99 or read for free with a KindleUnlimited subscription.
The five-hour drive to Bearden’s lake house got off to an uneventful start. As soon as they piled into Ted’s SUV, Matteo put his earbuds in and leaned his seat back. The younger hunk was asleep and snoring before they even got onto the highway. As relieved as Ted had been when Matteo agreed to come along, he grew more and more anxious with each passing mile. After an hour on the road, he was even questioning the wisdom of his decision. The lie had gotten so far out of hand that Ted was bringing a stranger to a weekend at his boss’ house, and despite Matteo’s initial acceptance of Ted’s offer, there was no guarantee that he would agree to also play the role of Ted’s son for the next three days.
By the halfway point of the trip, Ted was hungry for both food and sex but settled for curing just the former as he pulled into a diner off the interstate. Matteo was initially reluctant to stop for lunch but changed his mind quickly after Ted offered to pay.
“Listen, man,” Ted said as Matteo started eating his bacon cheeseburger. “I need to tell you something about this trip.”
Matteo continued to eat in silence as Ted told him the whole story, and by the end, he was grinning slyly. “So if I refuse to go along with this, what’ll happen?”
Ted shifted uneasily in the booth. He didn’t like the way Matteo was looking at him or the way he asked his question. “I don’t really know. I just want to get through the weekend and make a good impression on my boss.”
“Interesting,” Matteo said. “You think you’ll get fired?”
“I-I don’t know,” Ted said and then changed the subject. “Are you working your way through school or something?”
Matteo waved a hand to silence Ted. “No, no, no. Let’s go back to your thing. What did you think was going to happen when we got there?”
Ted’s discomfort was evident in his expression. He wasn’t expecting Matteo to be so direct. “I guess I thought, I hoped, that I’d look good in front of my boss, you’d keep yourself entertained enough to keep a low profile, and at the end of the weekend, we’d shake hands like men and go our separate ways.”
The silence between the two was deafening, and Matteo’s sly smile widened to light up his whole face. Ted felt nervous. Matteo smiled like a man in a position of power with the intent of using it.
Matteo scratched his left pec and then shoveled a handful of French fries into his mouth. “Fair enough,” he replied with his mouth full. “What’s my name?”
“Teddy,” Ted said.
Matteo erupted in a guffaw that startled the old couple two booths over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Hey, I panicked,” Ted said, relieved that the rising tension had been broken somewhat. He could see Matteo’s abs moving up and down in time with his laughter, pushing against his tight tank top in rhythmic waves of flexing and relaxing. It was hot.
“Okay,” Matteo said. “I’m Teddy Russo. Can I go by Junior?”
“Sure.”
“Sure, what?” Matteo said, his tone shifting upward to match his cunningly arched eyebrow.
“Sure, Junior,” Ted said. Matteo smiled again, but this time he seemed genuinely pleased rather than scheming. Ted blushed as the authentic smile showcased how truly handsome Matteo was. The stirrings of arousal below Ted’s belt belied the artificial father-son dynamic forming tableside, and he found himself leaning into the charade even more. “Whatever you want, Sport.”
“Thanks, dad,” Matteo said, his smile widening further. “I think I’m in the mood for dessert. What do you say… old man?”
The unexpected role play coupled with Matteo’s sexy body and model good looks were playing havoc with Ted’s cock. It felt strange that Matteo should be arousing him while they were bandying about these nicknames for each other. Yet Ted couldn’t deny that his shaft was swelling in his briefs and creating a bigger bulge in the crotch of his jeans. He went for it again.
“Sure, Son,” Ted said, hoping the extra time for dessert would allow him to will away his growing erection. “Dessert it is. Today’s a special day.”
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As usual, when the uplink terminated at the end of the day, the first thing I heard was the shriek of data noise in my head. I looked at my surroundings. It was nighttime, and I was alone sitting on a park bench in a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. I was still wearing the printed clothes I’d received that morning—a tight white T-shirt with DAD printed in block letters on the left breast and a pair of equally snug dark shorts. My entire body was drenched in sweat, which made my clothes cling to my skin. I was also holding a leash, with a golden retriever sitting obediently at my feet at the other end.
That’s weird, I thought. If the project is over, why do I still have this dog?
True to the confidentiality agreement I’d signed earlier that day, I had absolutely zero memories of the nature of the single-day project, or even anything I’d done that day. As the data noise quieted down inside my head, I waited for confirmation that Synaptica had processed my payment and the post-assignment instructions for how to arrange transportation home.
But they didn’t arrive. My uplink was silent. I reached down and petted the dog whose leash I held and waited another few minutes. Still nothing. Finally, I decided it was time to figure out where I was and how to get home, but something strange happened when I tried to stand up.
My body wouldn’t comply. I could turn my head, move my arms, and even wiggle my toes inside the white sneakers I was wearing, but when I tried to get off the bench, it was like my body just… refused.
The golden retriever nuzzled the back of my calves, which failed to calm my rising panic. The data noise had finally stopped, but I felt differently than I usually did after these kinds of projects. I didn’t know how to describe it—almost like a fog in my mind. A data fog. Something was clearly wrong.
“Hey, dad!” an unfamiliar voice called from somewhere behind me. The dog got up and barked a few times, tugging at the leash. I held it firmly, which was all I could do in my immobile state.
“Hey, dad!” the voice called again, closer this time. A moment later, I felt a hand clap on my shoulder.
“What happened, dad? You left to walk the dog over an hour ago.”
I let my gaze follow the hand on my shoulder, up past a muscled arm, and finally to two handsome, smiling faces. They both looked about thirty, barely ten years my junior. I’d never seen these men before, and them calling me “dad” made my head swim. Even more disorienting was what happened next.
“I think I malfunctioned, Son,” I said in a voice that wasn’t mine. My shocked expression was gone, and I felt my facial muscles pull into a slight smile. “I can’t get up off this bench. Could you boys please check my uplink connection?”
One of the strangers came around the bench and took the leash out of my hands while the other disappeared behind me. I felt a pair of fingers tap against the uplink node, and once again, all my thoughts were momentarily drowned out by data noise.
My posture corrected itself. My legs spread apart, and my chest and belly stuck out. I was smiling even wider now.
I wanted to say, Get the fuck away from me. This was supposed to just be a single-day project for Synaptica. Call ThinkCorp customer service. But I was trapped, a passenger in my own body. As the data noise faded once again, I looked at both of my Sons and spoke words that would have sent a chill down my spine if not for the node’s control over me.
“I am re-establishing the uplink,” I said.
A rush of data forced itself into my head, settling in alongside all my existing memories. I knew exactly who these two men were now. Eric and Dan were not my Sons. They weren’t even brothers. They were a couple who’d engaged Synaptica to help them act out a long-held fantasy they both shared, and the “single-day project” I’d agreed to contained an option to extend—an option they’d chosen to exercise.
“Uplink re-established, Sons.”
“Great,” Eric said with a sly look in Dan’s direction. “Let’s get you back home. You’ve still got all those chores to do before bedtime.”
“Aye aye!” I said with an enthusiasm I neither possessed nor controlled and gave my “Sons” a playful salute.
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I always wanted to work for ThinkCorp because of their flashy slogan: New and Different Every Day. They weren’t kidding. No two days were alike, and I loved it that way.
Occasionally, I’d get an assignment that lasted a week or two, but ThinkCorp only put me on those out of necessity. My demographic profile and skills inventory were much better suited to single-day projects. Heh, or so I was told.
I used to get anxious about what each day’s project would be. When I first started, I would stay up late so I could be at my workstation at 3:14 a.m. precisely, when new ThinkCorp assignments were pushed out to the field. After about six months on the job, once I’d gotten the hang of things and received positive feedback on my projects, that changed. I started to enjoy the uncertainty, and the surprise of receiving my instructions each morning.
Today, like every day, I woke up before my alarm and saw a new set of freshly printed clothes sitting on my printer. Next to it was my workstation, where ThinkCorp’s logo, an old-style incandescent light bulb, rotated slowly on the screen. I swung my legs over and bounded out of bed, eager to see what the day had in store for me.
I always liked to look at the clothes before I read the assignment. I thought it was fun to try to guess what ThinkCorp had lined up for me to do. I was almost always wrong, but sometimes I managed to guess correctly, or at least something similar. Today’s clothes were surprisingly basic, though: just a white T-shirt and a pair of navy-blue shorts. I was stumped; this generic outfit could be for anything.
I lifted the clothes off the printer deck and unfolded them. On the left breast of the T-shirt, DAD was printed in block letters. I sat down at my workstation and leaned forward so the security lockout could scan my retina. There would be no guessing on this project; I needed to read the brief.
Employee 11807060 – Single-Day Project – Subcontracted to Synaptica, Ltd.
I was excited. Synaptica projects were rare, but the pay was insanely good. I quickly scrolled through the confidentiality and nondisclosure agreements and imprinted my signature at the bottom of each, then got dressed.
Synaptica assignments were top secret. They didn’t even trust you to read the instructions; they just installed them directly into your head. It had taken me months to complete the training and background clearance to be approved for Synaptica assignments. The first time I completed one, I was disappointed that I couldn’t remember anything about it afterward, but the deposit into my bank account the next morning was more than a little memory loss.
The shirt and shorts were snug against my body, and the DAD printed over my left pec made me feel silly, but I was already thinking about how I would spent the extra money I earned today. I sat back down at my workstation and clipped the uplink node behind my right ear, then agreed to Synaptica’s terms and conditions and waited for the instructions to arrive.
The first few seconds of the uplink were always a confusing mess of data, and I didn’t bother trying to make sense of it since I wouldn’t remember any of it, anyway. After a minute or so of data noise, I realized my face itched, and when I reached up to scratch it, I felt a full beard across my cheeks, jaw, and chin.
“Whoa,” I said, in a voice I didn’t recognize. I felt a thought forming in my head that I knew didn’t belong to me, and I had an irresistible urge to say it out loud. The thought pressed against my mind, almost forcing me to vocalize it.
“Hair goes nothing.”
I laughed at my own joke, then leaned back in my chair and scratched my belly while I waited for the uplink to finish.
Out in the real world, I was usually invisible. I preferred it that way. When no one is paying attention to you, there’s no one to disappoint. No one makes your life miserable just because they’re bored, and they’ve decided to make you their free entertainment. At my job, I was just another junior copywriter, one of a dozen laboring away in identical cubicles. At my favorite bookstore, I was just some brainy nerd who knew everything there was to know about the Diet of Worms. In my group of friends, I was the quiet one who always showed up on time, and who always left behind extra cash to supplement everyone else’s embarrassingly small tips. In the real world, I was ordinary and unremarkable. Maybe even forgettable.
But at home, I was Master Paul, the young, dominant owner of three hot, submissive, older men. Every morning I woke up to one of them gently kissing me awake, while another ironed my work clothes and the third prepared breakfast. Everywhere else, I was just another mild mannered twenty something with too many student loans and a goatee that never quite grew in right. But here, I am the Master and what I say goes. They’re all 20 years or more my senior, and each of them is a respected professional in their field. But at home, they’re my property.
After two years of living together, my subs and I had our weekday morning routine down pat. Shower sex, grooming and dressing, then a quick breakfast before we all went our separate ways for work. Frank, the eldest of my subs, used his military training and natural commanding presence to keep the other two, Max and Nick, on a tight schedule in the mornings so none of us would run late. Turns out it required a fair bit of logistical planning to get four grown men out the door and off to work on time.
“You’ve hardly touched your coffee, Master Paul,” Frank said one morning at breakfast, after I’d been uncharacteristically disengaged during our shower session. “Is something troubling you, Sir?”
Truth be told, something was, but I didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s nothing,” I said.
“Of course, Sir,” Frank said. “It’s not my place to pry. But if you change your mind and it’s something we can help you with, please tell us.”
“Yes, Sir,” Max and Nick chimed in. I had always tried to keep “Paul” and “Master Paul” separate. I didn’t want to muddy the waters of the amazing thing I’d created with these subs by folding in talk about my professional struggles or personal disappointments. But the way they all looked at me, genuinely concerned that I didn’t seem myself, made me change my mind.
“There’s this guy at work who’s been giving me a hard time,” I said finally.
The sound of creaking leather and boots striking the floor sent pleasant chills up my spine. All three of them stopped what they were doing—Frank making coffee, Max packing lunches, and Nick washing dishes—and closed ranks around me. Each of them wore a similar look of concern on his face.
“I don’t like the sound of that, Sir,” Max said. “What is this punk doing that’s bothering you?”
Telling my subs about it was cathartic, because I hadn’t spoken of it to anyone prior to that. I told them how one of my new coworkers, a dude bro called Andrew, had been taking credit for my work and cracking jokes about me behind my back. Things had reached a new low the day before, when I overheard Andrew telling our boss that he had fixed a bunch of errors I’d made in a document, when it was the other way around.
With each word I said, my subs’ muscles tensed and their hands clenched into balled-up fists. If I didn’t know them better, and they weren’t my obedient property, I’d have thought they were getting prepared for a fight. They stayed silent for several moments after I finished telling them all my beef with Andrew, until finally Frank spoke and broke the rising tension.
“Sir, I’d like to drive you to work this morning, if I may.”
“Me too, Sir,” said Nick.
“All of us can go,” said Max.
“No, men,” I said, using the authoritative tone that signified to my subs that the discussion is over. “I will handle this on my own, but I appreciate your support.”
“We are yours to control, Master Paul,” they recited in unison.
Things at my job got worse over the next few days, and back at home, my men could tell. True to their word, they didn’t try to force the issue or convince me to let them intercede on my behalf. On Friday, however, they did have my leather uniform laid out on the bed and a new pair of spit-shined boots resting on the floor just beside. I smiled when I saw what they’d prepared. Friday night was Bear Night at Buddies, our local bar, and my subs decided to treat me to a night out to blow off some steam.
It worked. Buddies was the exception to the rule of Paul being invisible in the real world. Everyone who came to Buddies on Bear Night knew about Master Paul and his three older subs. I don’t want to say I’m a local celebrity or anything, but when a 24-year-old guy takes on three 40-something leather men as property, word gets around. By last call, I’d almost forgotten about Andrew, the obnoxious bro who’d been giving me such a hard time at work. Until, that is, when my men and I were walking back to our car and we saw Andrew coming out of Silver House, one of a half dozen identical, anodyne bars in the neighborhood where boring straight people like to congregate. I stopped and held out a gloved hand, which signaled my subs walking behind me to stop, too, but it was too late. Despite the dim streetlights and my head-to-toe leather gear, Andrew recognized me.
“Hey guy,” he said, his attention already on the trio of big, beefy, leather clad men flanking me. His cocky smile wavered somewhat. “Having a good night?”
“We were,” I said. I don’t know what came over me, but the combination of the alcohol, the company of my subs, and the evening at Buddies where Master Paul held court for hours just went to my head. “Men, this is the guy from my job I was telling you about.”
All three of them closed in on me. Frank tilted his head upward to view Andrew from under the brim of his Muir cap. “Is that so? Looks like an overgrown frat reject to me.”
Nick grunted in agreement. “Are you enjoying cosplaying as a real man?”
“Listen,” Andrew said, “I’m not looking for any trouble.”
“Too late,” Max said, grinding leather fist into a leather palm.
Andrew tried to walk past me, but my men blocked his path. “Let me just go to my car, erm, Sir,” he said, looking uneasily at Frank.
My men laughed. “No, you don’t call me Sir,” Frank said, then clapped me on the shoulder. “You call him Sir.”
Andrew looked confused, his eyes darting back and forth between Frank and me. “Maybe if you apologize and ask him nicely,” Frank continued, “he’ll call us off.”
I felt calm and in control as Andrew looked at me one more time. I knew he would comply, just like I knew my submissive leather men would comply with my orders. For the first time, the distinction between “Paul” and “Master Paul” seemed to blur. And for the first time, I didn’t seem to care.
“P-Please, Sir,” Andrew stammered, “would you call of your men and let me go to my car?”
I leaned in close and spoke to Andrew in a voice so low, I doubted my men would hear. “It’s Master Paul and Sir from now on. We clear?”
Andrew nodded. I crooked my neck to signal my subs to let him pass, and we continued our way down the sidewalk. I was rock hard from putting my work bully in his place, and I wondered why I’d wasted so much time trying to keep “Paul” and “Master Paul” separate. As I looked at my submissive men, each of whom looked like he’d take a bullet for me if I asked him to, I decided there’d be no more double life. My men were my property, and I would show them off as I pleased.
I can’t believe it’s only been six months. There’s a part of me that is grateful you’ve changed my appearance so drastically, Son. At least I can go out in public without ex-friends and ex-colleagues noticing me. The beard and all the beef help a lot, but I hate the way you dress me up and force me to act when you take me out, Son. It’s humiliating. No one really believes I’m your dad.
But I say it, loudly and proudly wherever we go. Why does that get you off so much, Son? It’s perverted and twisted and I hate it so much. Like yesterday at the Waffle House, when I refused the menu and said, “I’ll let my hot Son order for both of us. He knows what’s best for his dumb old dad.” Why does that turn you on? And why is it starting to turn me on?
It never used to. I don’t know when it changed. It probably started when you took all the polos and sneakers out of my closet and replaced them with stupid t-shirts and boots. I felt different when I put those clothes on, Son. Older. Stronger. Sexier.
The beard was a game changer too. I never had the guts to grow one before. When you told me to quit shaving, I wanted to object, but the words just wouldn’t form. Couldn’t form. Honestly, Son, I was grateful you overrode my will the way you did. I was never going to be anything but a mild-mannered corporate drone for the rest of my life. Living vicariously through online role play seems so shallow in comparison to my life with you now. Now I get to live my life out loud as your dumb, physical dad. I hate it and I love it. I want you to stop and I never want to go back to the way I was. I’m humiliated and exhilarated.
People have started to recognize me in public. At the grocery store, at the gym, even in the drive-thru. I used to enjoy the attention, and there’s a tiny part of Me that still does, I guess. But ever since Son found out, it’s not been the same.
It started with just some short videos on Instagram of me doing work around the house. I didn’t even know Son was recording me doing chores, raking leaves, and working out in the garage. When I started gaining a following, he had me do other stuff on camera. Embarrassing stuff. The most popular video so far was of me dropping a birthday cake on the floor and then falling face-first into it. It was staged, but Son said I did a good job making it look real.
At some point, companies started sending me stuff. Son made me make all kinds of videos testing food processors and trying gluten-free snacks. The worst was when we started getting shipments of underwear to the house.
Everyone who recognizes Me has been polite and complimentary, but it’s still humiliating. When it started happening, I didn’t say anything about it to Son. I didn’t want him to find out because I knew it would only make things worse for me. And it did. Son and I were at dinner together when he saw it happen for the first time.
“Hey, you’re that dad on Instagram who makes all those funny videos!”
I chuckled nervously and looked at Son. To the casual observer, his grin might be simple amusement. But I know my Son too well by now. The gears were turning in his mind. He was already thinking about how he could use this to his advantage.
“Yeah,” I said to the couple who’d stopped in front of our table. “Thanks for watching.”
The boyfriend pointed at Son. “Is that your Son?” I nodded, and the girlfriend let out a shriek-laugh.
“Your dad is hilarious,” she said. I dared not look My son in the eye. I could guess what he was planning.
“Thanks,” Son said. “Hey, dad, why don’t you take a selfie with your fans?”
I looked at Son and smiled. Of course. This was the absolute last thing I wanted to do, but Son commands, dad obeys. Even appearing unenthusiastic about one of Son’s orders had been bred out of me a long time ago. I had been tamed. Housebroken. Controlled.
I stood up and put my arms around the young couple, who were virtually jumping out of their skin with excitement. You’d think they’d just met a celebrity.
“Hey, dad, say your catchphrase!” Son helpfully suggested, sending my humiliation out into orbit. My smile never wavered and I made a double thumbs up.
“I can’t get anything right, I’m just a dumb ole dad.”
When I returned to full awareness, I was on my knees. This part was not uncommon. Son often switched me off when he had some new programming to install in my head. Sometimes, I would wake up hours, even days later, in a different location, wearing different clothes. There was always a moment of disorientation before Son’s programming activated, but in a minute or two the installation would be complete and the new information would override anything I’d previously thought or believed.
The difference this time was that there was no new programming. I knelt on the cold pavement waiting for the new thoughts to fill my head, but nothing did.
“This is My dad.” The voice of my hot Son instantly made me hard. This was programmed behavior, of course, but I totally would have anyway. He was sexy and dominant in his leather uniforms, and his voice was gruff and gravelly, just like I like it. I looked up and saw my Son approaching with Stranger. That wasn’t his name, of course, but my Son programmed me to be unable to remember anyone else’s name. I’m fine with that. Everyone but my Son is Stranger in my mind.
“What’s wrong with him?” Stranger asked.
“Nothing,” Son replied. It was obvious they were talking about me.
“Obviously something, if you don’t want him anymore,” Stranger said. “He’s a little older than he looked in the photos.”
Son sidled up to me and placed a gloved hand on the back of my head. I leaned backward into his touch, and wanted so badly to moan in pleasure. I wouldn’t dare, though, as I’d not been given permission to speak.
“He’s 43,” Son said. “And there’s nothing wrong with him. I’m moving interstate at the end of the month and I can’t take him with me. I need to find a good home for him.”
This was the first I’d heard that Son was planning to move, and my heart almost jumped out of my chest with anxiety. Son must have picked up on his, because he gently stroked the back of my leather cap. “Easy, dad,” he said. I instantly calmed down. “This nice man might adopt you.”
Stranger looked down at me and put a hand on my throat. It had been so long since someone had touched me with their bare hands. Son only ever touched me with leather gloves on. Stranger wore different leathers than Son. It was exciting to feel the warmth of his skin, and to smell him. I smiled.
“The leather cop stuff will have to go,” Stranger said. “Not my vibe.”
“That’s fine,” Son said, producing a small, worn piece of folded paper from his pocket. “My dad is programmable. Here’s his list of commands. Whatever you want him to be, he’ll be.”
Stranger took the piece of paper and unfolded it, then looked me straight in the eye and said some words I didn’t understand. I got that weird, fuzzy feeling, the feeling of new programming starting to take over. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and when I opened them, everything was different.
I had two Sons, my leather cop Son and my motorcycle stud Son. I was confused as I looked back and forth at them.
“What’s the matter, dad?” Leather cop Son said.
“I’m confused, Son,” I stammered. “Which one of you do I obey?”
Motorcycle stud Son laughed that gravelly laugh I love. I felt myself get even harder in my tight pants. “Both of us. For now.” He stepped back and crooked his finger, beckoning me to follow. “Come on, dad. We’ve got to get to know each other.”
I looked at Leather cop Dad, and he nodded slowly. I stood and followed Motorcycle stud Dad, feeling confused and disoriented with each step. I heard a voice call after Me.
“It’s been fun, dad. Be good.”
I nodded at Stranger, but I had no idea what he was talking about. Thankfully, my hot Son was waiting for me on his motorcycle. I climbed on behind him and held on tight. I loved my hot Son.
The atmosphere at Buzzwords was not what Fred was used to. Everything from the music to the menu to the uncomfortable chairs screamed too trendy. Too cool. Too youthful. Easily the oldest person in the café by two decades, Fred felt like an anachronism. He felt like everyone in the place was staring at him. Judging him. “Who’s the old guy at the corner table?” he was certain they were thinking. All he wanted to do was leave.
And yet, he remained seated at the table by the restrooms, just as he’d been instructed to. Every few seconds, Fred checked his phone, but there was no message. His breath caught in his chest as he re-read Sir’s instructions.
Today’s the day. Wait for Me at Buzzwords. Order yourself something and sit in the back somewhere. Wait for further instructions.
It was too late to back out. Fred had come this far and despite his fear and anxiety about the future, he had to see this through. His desire overwhelmed him and made everything else fade into a fog at the back of his mind.
“Why am I sweating so much?” he thought as he checked his phone one more time.
“Looking good.”
Fred turned around. Sir stood behind him, holding a leather dog collar and two matching leather wrist cuffs. His expression was inscrutable, made even harder to gauge by the reflective sunglasses obscuring his eyes.
“Sir,” Fred said. “I expected you to text.”
“You assumed,” Sir said. “And we all know what happens when you assume.”
Sir set the leather gear on the table, the buckles making a loud clang as they landed. Fred was certain everyone at Buzzwords was staring at him.
“Coffee money,” Sir said. “Now.”
Fred opened his wallet and pulled out a crisp $20 bill. Sir reached forward and snatched the cash out of Fred’s fingers. “Please keep the change, Sir,” Fred said.
While he waited for Sir to return, Fred eyed the emergency exit door just a few feet from where he sat. He was decently athletic. A fairly fast runner. If he wanted to, he could probably get far enough away.
But he didn’t want to. Fred had been wanting this to happen ever since he and Sir first crossed paths. He’d been Sir’s submissive. He’d been Sir’s toy. But his ownership and subjugation were just moments away from a seismic change. A change Fred desperately needed.
Son returned with his coffee and sat down across from Fred. “Awareness now,” he said.
Suddenly, Fred became aware that he was wearing a full-body rubber suit. It was blue with white sleeves and fit so tightly that he could feel it squeezing against every inch of his body.
“Sir,” Fred said between quick, shallow breaths.
“Not anymore,” Sir said. “Are you ready to become my slave dad?”
Fred nodded, then bowed his head in deep respect. “Yes, Son,” he said, his eyes cast down at the collar and cuffs on the tabletop. “I am ready, Son. Please make this slave your dad.”
The traffic light changed to yellow, and a moment later, to red. Good. I was still a hundred yards from the intersection but I lowered my foot onto the brake and allowed my mind to wander. There were no other cars out on the roads this late. Well, judging by the hint of purple-grey dawn in the eastern sky, it was early, not late.
Jealous Friend’s Wanna Say Hi was playing low enough on my car stereo that I could only hear the thumping bass. I turned it up and did a little dance, shuffling my shoulders and my arms in time to the music. I loved that song. It reminded me of my Son. My hot Son.
Son was right. I used to be super uptight. I was a joyless workaholic whose only happiness came during his two weeks off every July. I remember Son telling me that I was too sexy for such a dreary, workaday life, and that all my “hot dadness” was wasted on the corporate world.
Son was right. After I met him, everything else about my life just seemed so boring, so mundane. So thinky. Thinking made me sad.
When I told Son how I felt, he told me not to worry. “I’ll take care of you, dad,” he said. “I’ll keep you out of trouble so you can go have fun and enjoy your life.”
I was so grateful for my hot Son. The first thing we did was buy dad and Son Jeeps. His was black, mine was electric yellow. I always kept the top and the doors off mine so I can show off all my “hot dadness.”
I showed off my “hot dadness” to all of Son’s friends. It quickly became one of my favorite dad duties. Every night after my shift at Foot Locker, I would drive over to one of Son’s friend’s houses and hang out. Sometimes I did chores. Sometimes I gave massages. Sometimes I got down on all fours and became a footstool for hours. I did whatever Son’s friends ask me to do, but no matter what, I was always back home in time to wake Son up at 8:00 sharp.
Funny, I can’t remember going to hang out at the same friend’s house more than once. Weird, huh? Son has a lot of friends. My wallet is always stuffed full of cash when I get home. Son takes it out when he wakes up, but sometimes he leaves me a $5 bill, so I don’t have to bother him when I go to 7-Eleven for snacks.
A horn honked behind me and jolted me out of my reverie. I turned the stereo all the way up and floored it through the intersection, bopping to the music all the way back home to Son.
My boyfriend Nick and I never agreed on how to answer the, “So how did you guys meet?” question. I preferred to give half-truths or vague retellings without detail. I usually went with, “We worked together.” It was just enough to answer the question without inviting follow-ups. Nick, on the other hand, never shied away from telling the whole truth. “Brock and I were actors together in an adult film.”
I’m a little embarrassed about my former life making the kinds of films they show in the backs of gay bars. I did it when I was in college to make some extra cash, and it was a great gig, but I never intended to make a career out of it. I certainly never expected I’d fall in love with one of my co-stars. But fall in love I did. Nick and I have been together for seven years, and in that time, I’ve settled into a comfortable and well-paying tech job, happy to leave my past in the past. Nick always used to say that the next film would be his last. Even after I started earning more than enough money to support us both, he kept signing on for “just one more film.”
So many years and so many films put pressure on our relationship. I never doubted his love for me, but our lives were on completely different trajectories. Whereas I looked forward to evenings and weekends to try a new restaurant or get out of the city, Nick was unflinching in his commitment to his diet and exercise. We were the same age, but I’d put on some cubicle weight in my sedentary early 30s, while my boyfriend was still the hardbodied “Nick Thrust” of the last decade.
“I don’t want him to be unhappy. I just wish he was willing to move into a different line of work.”
I was embarrassed to be talking to a life coach on my boyfriend’s behalf, and guilty that Nick had no idea I was doing it. Even considering what I was considering felt like a betrayal.
Jay, the life coach behind Realize Your Potential, LLC, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk.
“It’s a lot to ask. From what you’ve told me, your boyfriend doesn’t really have any other skills to fall back on.”
I shook my head. “No, not really. But I don’t mind being the breadwinner in our relationship.”
Jay cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t resent him at all? Not even a little bit?”
I considered the question. To be honest, my income far exceeded Nick’s, and he only worked a couple days a week. There were times when I’d come home to a messy house and wondered what he got up to all day while I was earning our living.
“I guess,” I said reluctantly. “Maybe just a little.”
“It sounds like you both need to redefine the parameters of your relationship a little. It won’t do either of you any good if Nick is unhappy and you’re resentful.”
Jay leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “I think I can help. Can you bring Nick along next week?”
“Son! Get in here! You gotta see this!”
I chuckled, set down My book, and got up from My chair. My dad always got a bit excited when he was trying a new recipe for the first time. He interrupted a lot—occasionally woke Me up from a dead sleep to show Me something—but I never minded it. I loved giving My dad My attention.
“What’s cooking, dad?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe and folding My arms across My chest.
My dad looked up from the flour-covered countertop and smiled. His beefy, hairy upper body was on display and a bit sweaty. He knew I liked gawking at him while he worked hard kneading dough and chopping vegetables.
“Look at this.” He held up a ball of dough in his rough hands. “Perfectly proved! These are going to be so good with dinner tonight.”
“Sounds good, dad.” He immediately went back to his recipe, the activity consuming his full concentration. I stayed in the doorway to watch him work for a bit. I loved the way My dad looked when he was engrossed in something. He was handsome, but unpredictable. He needed a strong Son to keep him busy and on a short leash. Owning My dad was a lot of responsibility, but I never resented him for a second. My dad was exactly the one I wanted.
