The Fantasy My Father Helped Me Live

The week went back to its usual rhythm: classes, training, pending assignments, and that constant hum that comes with living in a house full of people. Things with the guys from the farm stayed the same, as if nothing had happened, though we all knew something had. We laughed, of course. We remembered the night by the fire, the extra drinks, the exact moment my hand brushed Rodrigo’s fly and he, instead of pulling away, held it there a few seconds longer than strictly necessary. Long enough for my fingers to feel the warm, dense, promising bulge pressed against the denim of his jeans.

The consensus among the others was that it had been a joke. That Rodrigo, with his well-kept fifties, that firm jaw and that body that hadn’t quite given in to time, was “quite the man.” That none of it meant anything. That aguardiente did things like that.

I wasn’t so sure.

There was something in the way he looked at me afterward. A quiet complicity, almost imperceptible. During the two days that followed at the farm, we kept being playmates in every activity, always together, always him choosing me. He smiled at me differently than he did at the others. That wasn’t the aguardiente.

Rodrigo reminded me of my father. Not in the exact features, but in the bearing. In the way they occupied a room without making a sound. In the way they spoke little and said a lot. My father, Roberto, had that same physical density, that presence that filled space without effort. And for days, every time I thought about Rodrigo, I ended up thinking about him. About his cock. About what it felt like inside.

So I made a decision.

I started moving differently around the house. I walked through the hallway in boxer briefs, letting the fabric pull tight between my ass cheeks when I passed in front of him. I sprawled on the sofa when my father was watching soccer, rested my head on his leg under the pretext of being tired, and felt his hand go to my neck, my shoulder, sometimes the edge of my waist. They were signals he understood; the two of us had known it for a long time. But this time I wanted something different. I wanted him without him being him. I wanted it to be Rodrigo.

The problem was time. Between the gym at night, work, and my brother Nicolás always hovering around, there was never a moment alone with him.

Until that Friday.

I stopped by my aunt Elena’s house in the afternoon and, in the course of a conversation over dessert, I found out my mother would be going to the gym that night with her, that Nicolás had his own training, and that my father had mentioned feeling lazy and might not go. It was the opening I needed.

When I got home, Nicolás had already left. My mother was changing in the bedroom: she put on the blue lycra outfit she loved so much, kissed each of us, and left. We were alone.

I went to my father’s room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with the gym bag beside him, looking at his phone without much conviction. I was wearing short athletic shorts that knew exactly how to distract him, with nothing underneath, and I could feel my cock moving freely with every step.

—You leaving already? —I asked from the doorway.

—I’m lazy —he said, putting the phone down on the bed—. I’m tired.

—Then don’t go. Nobody’s forcing you.

I sat down beside him. He looked at me in that way of his, appraising, and his eyes went straight to my crotch, where the fabric of the shorts was already starting to tent.

—And why didn’t you go train today?

—After class we played indoor soccer —I said—. I got a pain in here, in my adductors.

I put my right leg over his thigh and guided his hand to the inner part of my left leg, as if I needed him to examine the muscle. He didn’t pull away. His fingers pressed carefully, following the line of the muscle upward, higher than necessary for any diagnosis, until the edge of his hand brushed my balls under the fabric.

—You should’ve said that before playing —he murmured, and his voice was already different, deeper, slower.

—With you I heal faster —I replied.

I took his hand and brought it where I wanted. He closed his fingers slowly around my cock over the fabric, weighed it in his hand, squeezed it with that firm pressure I knew by heart. It was already hard, pushing against the shorts, leaving a damp stain at the tip where pre-cum had started to leak out. He looked at me, and in that look there was the usual question and the usual answer. Without stopping his grip on my dick, with his other hand he yanked my shorts down to my knees in one motion. My cock sprang free, swollen, the head shiny with clear fluid, and he watched it for a full second before leaning in.

He took me at the base with a firm grip. He stuck out his tongue and licked the tip slowly, gathering all the pre-cum with the tip of his tongue before swallowing it. Then he opened his mouth and took me all the way in with one movement, to the back, until I felt his throat tightening around the head. I let out the breath I’d been holding for half an hour.

—Dad... —I started.

He began sucking me with a technique only twenty years together could have refined: his tongue wrapping the head with every upward stroke, his hand keeping rhythm at the base, the other hand stroking my balls, squeezing them softly. He sucked me with hunger, eyes closed, swallowing with every pull back, and I listened to the wet, obscene sounds coming from his mouth every time he pulled me out and took me back in. My thighs were shaking.

—I want to ask you something —I said when I could speak, my voice broken.

He looked up without taking my cock out of his mouth. When he finally let go, a thread of saliva hung from the corner of his mouth to the tip of my glans.

—I want you to be someone else this time.

He straightened slowly, still stroking me with his right hand, with slow, deliberate movements. He didn’t say anything.

—There’s someone who’s had me crazy for weeks —I continued—. I want to live that fantasy. With you, but as if it were him.

—Tomás... —he began.

—I know what you’re going to say. But we both know this has already gone past the point where it made sense to stop. I just want this. Once.

There was a long silence. He looked at me with that seriousness of his that never quite managed to be only seriousness, never stopping his caress on my cock with his thumb on the crown, on that exact spot he knew would make me lose it.

—Who is it?

—Rodrigo. Mateo’s dad.

A pause.

—Did something happen with him at the farm?

—No. I wish. But no.

He nodded very slowly. Then he got up and went to the closet. He pulled out a small cloth bag I hadn’t seen before. He opened it on the bed with calm, like someone laying out the tools of a trade he knew well. I saw a bottle of oil, a thick dildo the color of realistic skin, and some leather handcuffs lined on the inside.

The first thing he put on me was the blindfold.

He adjusted it carefully so not a thread of light could get in. Then I felt him take my left wrist and guide it to the bedpost at the headboard. The click of the clasp was soft but final. He repeated the operation with the right. He took off my shorts and T-shirt completely, and I ended up lying on my back, totally naked, cock pointing at the ceiling, unable to see, unable to move, not knowing exactly what would come next.

—Forget where you are —his voice said, lower than usual—. Forget who I am. Just listen and feel.

I felt the cold oil falling on my chest. It smelled like almonds. His hands started on my shoulders, moved down over my pecs, stopped to pinch my nipples until they hardened, continued over my abdomen, and when they reached my hips the path was so slow I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to say anything. He circled my cock without touching it, slid down my thighs, moved back up the inner side, and avoided it again.

—You’re in the shopping mall —he began, with a voice that was no longer quite his—. It’s six in the afternoon and you’ve just gotten out of class. And he’s there.

I closed my eyes beneath the blindfold.

—Rodrigo comes from the other side of the corridor. He sees you before you see him. He walks over slowly. He’s wearing that blue shirt that looks so good on him, the one he always wears on weekends. He greets you with that handshake that lasts a second longer than normal. And you already know how he’s looking at your mouth.

The hands kept moving. I felt the warm oil on my thighs, on the inner side, and the massage there was different: slower, more deliberate, with a pressure that knew exactly what it was doing. The fingers brushed my balls underneath, held them for a moment in his hand, squeezed them with just the right firmness.

—He invites you for something to drink. A coffee, anything, the excuse doesn’t matter. You sit at one of those tables on the second floor, overlooking the central courtyard. You talk about soccer, about the farm, about unimportant things. And then he looks at you that way.

Yes. That way. The one from the fire.

—He tells you he’s been watching you. That there’s something about you he can’t ignore. That since that night he hasn’t been able to sleep thinking about your mouth. He says it without beating around the bush, in a low voice, looking straight at you. And you feel the floor shift a little.

My hips moved on their own. At last the hand circled my cock, oiled, slick, and started pumping it with a slow rhythm, squeezing at the base, twisting the wrist at the tip.

—He has a friend with an apartment nearby. He tells you he needs to stop by for a moment, that it’s about a work thing, that it’ll take ten minutes. You know it’s not about work. And still, you go up.

The voice kept building every detail: the elevator, the half-open door, the silence of the empty apartment, the moment Rodrigo rested his hand on my thigh when he sat on the sofa. The story moved forward with the same cadence as the massage, one pressure here, one pause there, building without rush.

—Rodrigo looks at you for a moment without saying anything. Then he puts his hand on the back of your neck and pulls you closer. He kisses you slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. He slips his tongue into your mouth and you suck it the way you’ve been wanting to for weeks. His hand goes down your chest, unbuttons your pants, pulls out your cock and squeezes it. “You’re this hard for me,” he says in your ear. And you don’t do anything to stop it.

The oil reached the lowest part of my back. His hands kneaded my ass hard, spread my cheeks apart, and I felt a stream of cool air against my exposed hole. I arched my back against the mattress.

—He kneels in front of you —the voice went on—. He takes his cock out of his pants. It’s thick, thicker than you imagined, with marked veins and a swollen dark-purple head. He puts it in your hand. Then he grabs you by the nape and brings it to your mouth. “Suck it,” he tells you. And you open your mouth and take it all the way in.

An oiled finger circled my entrance, pressing without going in yet, teasing there, tracing the edge.

—You suck him off with all you’ve got. You run your tongue over the frenulum, lick his balls, take him back in to the hilt. Rodrigo grabs your hair and starts fucking your mouth. You hear him grunt. Hear him say your name.

The finger went in. One first, with plenty of oil, so slowly it almost hurt from anticipation. Then two, and my father found the exact angle, touching the prostate with the pad of his finger, matching the rhythm to every signal I gave without meaning to. I pushed my ass back against the fingers, wanting more.

—Now he lifts you up —the voice continued very close to my ear—. He turns you around against the sofa. He pulls your pants down to your ankles. He spreads your cheeks with both hands and sees your ass for the first time. “What a ass you’ve got,” he tells you. And he kneels and starts eating you out. He puts his tongue inside you, opens you with his fingers, sucks you like he’s been hungry for months.

The two fingers were moving inside me now, opening me, searching, turning. With the other hand he kept stroking my oiled cock, slow and firm, in a rhythm perfectly synced with the fingers in my ass.

—Rodrigo has you exactly where he wanted to have you since the night at the farm —the voice said, very close to my ear—. He always knew it. You knew it too. That you’d end up like this, bent over a sofa, waiting for his cock.

When I felt the dildo, I was already so deep inside the story that the line between what was being narrated and what was real had dissolved completely. The silicone head pressed at my entrance, opened me, worked its way in with inexorable calm, centimeter by centimeter, until I felt the full weight of it inside. I shouted something that wasn’t a word.

—He gets behind you —my father continued, starting to move it with a slow rhythm—. He rests the tip of his cock there. And he pushes. Slowly. Lets you feel how he’s filling you up all the way. “Take it,” he tells you, and starts fucking you.

The dildo went in and out with a rhythm that grew firmer and firmer. Every thrust ripped a gasp from me. My father handled it with brutal precision, hitting the exact spot on each stroke, alternating speeds, pulling it almost all the way out before shoving it back in to the hilt.

—He fucks you against the sofa, biting your neck, grabbing your hips —the voice went on—. He says things in your ear. He tells you you’re his, that from the fire he knew you were going to be his. He squeezes your throat with one hand while he keeps burying his cock in you. You hear the sound of his balls slapping against your ass. You hear his breathing.

I felt my father’s mouth come down and swallow my cock again, sucking me at the same rhythm the dildo was fucking me from behind, and everything became one single thing. The cock going in from the front, going in from behind, Rodrigo’s voice in the apartment, my father’s hands everywhere.

—He’s going to fill your ass with cum —the voice whispered as he was about to pull my cock out of his mouth—. Rodrigo is about to come inside you. Listen to him grunt. How he digs his fingers into your hips. He’s about to cum all the way inside you.

I got there, to the edge, with my hands clenched around the bedpost and the story still shining in my head. My father wrapped his mouth around my cock again, swallowed me to the hilt, and the dildo sank in one last time, hitting the exact spot. I let out a hoarse shout and came down his throat with a force I’d never felt before. Shot after shot, long and clean and complete, I felt him swallow every burst without stopping his motion, felt the dildo still inside me stretching me while the contractions shook me from top to bottom. The orgasm didn’t end. When it finally did, it left me empty, trembling, legs open and chest rising and falling as if I’d run for miles.

***

My father released my wrists carefully. He took the dildo out slowly, with the same patience he’d used to put it in. He removed the blindfold. The room was dim, the same as always, with the gym bag still on the floor and the noise of the neighborhood slipping in through the half-open window. His mouth was still shiny with my semen, and a drop hung from his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand and licked it off.

We didn’t talk much. There was no need.

He cleaned me with a towel, covered me with the sheet, and lay beside me for a while in silence. It was a strange kind of silence. Not awkward. Just dense, full of things the two of us knew and neither of us was going to say.

Rodrigo was still Mateo’s father, a married man in his fifties who had probably forgotten that moment by the fire long before I did. Maybe nothing would ever happen between us. Maybe everything I had read in his gaze was only what I wanted to read, and nothing more.

But that afternoon, between the almond oil and my father’s voice building every detail in the dark, Rodrigo had been there. Real and concrete and exactly as I had imagined him for weeks.

And that, for now, was more than enough.