Obsession

OBSESSION
By David Mitchell
(Torso.Jan.1984)

It was summertime and I was eighteen years old.

I lived with my mother in an old two story house which was badly in need of repair. My father didn't live with us; he and mother were divorced.

Mother didn't talk about him much. If she did, it was merely to say how much she hated him; that he was an animal. Once she called him a "depraved maniac." When I asked what she meant by that, she looked at me strangely and muttered, "Never mind." So I assumed that "depraved maniac" had something to do with sex. Any time Mother said "Never mind" it was because the question or the conversation had gotten around to sex.


Sex was the worst thing in the world. It had to be. I knew it was, the way my mother and other people — neighbors, people in the church — talked about it. I was afraid that I was going to hell because I liked to play with myself. In fact, I jacked off whenever possible.

Unknowingly, my mother had added excitement to my favourite pleasure. About a month earlier, she had gotten out a couple of old boxes from the back of her closet. "Look through here,'' she suggested, "see if there's anything that fits you."

"Who's are they?"

"They were your father's," she said in that special tone reserved for the man I daydreamed of so often.

I was immediately excited. The idea of wearing something which had once been my father's, which had been around his body, was like a narcotic to my brain. I had seen old pictures of Dad, of course. He had always been my ideal. I mean, my ideal man, the one I would most like to resemble, the one who's body most appealed to me.

I tried at first to untie the knots of twine around the boxes, but found it too difficult. I was nervous, making the task almost impossible. So, pretending nonchalance, I carried my treasure to my room and cut the twine with a pocket knife.

Upending the first box upon my bed, I spread out the contents. Sifting through the clothing, my hands came to rest upon what looked like a brown, silk shirt. When I examined the label I discovered that it was, indeed, pure silk. There were stains — a slight whitening at the armpits — but knowing that they had been created by my father enhanced the shirt. I considered the marks medals he had bestowed upon me. Quickly, I pulled my tee-shirt over my head and slipped the wonderful feeling garment onto my body. If was like the touch of a lover, caressing me everywhere. Standing in front of the long mirror of Grandma's old dressing table, I saw that the seams at the shoulders hung down about an inch. The sleeves themselves were too long, but by rolling them, I could easily wear the shirt. It fit me loosely, but I figured, in time, I would grow to be my father's size; it would fit me exactly as it had him.

In the mirror, I could see that my cock was almost hard. Mother was still in her bedroom at the other end of the hall. I dared not express my need, my excitement at the occasion. However, I knew I would do it as quickly as possible.

"Anything fit?" my mother shouted from her room.

"The shirts are a bit big, but I think I can wear some of them."

"How about the pants?"

"Haven't tried them yet."

Quickly, so she wouldn't become suspicious. I selected a pair of corduroy slacks and tried them on. They were too big in the waist and a bit too long.

"No way I can wear the pants yet," I called.

"How about the jackets?"

"Just a minute."

"Oh, all right . . ."

So, I tried on a jacket. "Yes," I shouted. "I can wear the jackets." When I went back to the bed, I noticed something which I'd not seen before. It was my father's high school sweater. He had been a three letter man — three green strips on the sleeve of the white sweater. There was a black "D" on the right hand pocket, and the school emblem — a bulldog — on the back.

The bulldog brought back a vivid impression. A few days previously, I had seen the neighbour's bulldog being mated. Mr. Williams had taken the dogs into his garage to have it done but I'd been able to see everything from my window. It had been very exciting to watch and had made me so hot that I'd shot on enormous load of cum all over the window sill.

As I slipped on the sweater I imagined that Mr. Williams dog was the one on the back of my father's sweater. My cock suddenly felt twice its normal size. It was stretching so hard that it hurt; there was actual physical pain.

I heard Mother coming down the hall. Quickly, I sat on the edge of the bed and rumpled the sweater on my lap.

"That looks nice," Mother said, poking her nose into the room as I knew she would.

"It is nice," I replied. "But, I could never wear it. It's a letterman's sweater. Only lettermen can wear them."

"Oh, nonsense! It’s a warm sweater. It will be good in the cold weather."

"I won't wear it."

She looked at me coldly. "Then, freeze to death," she said.

"I'd rather," I replied.

I could see that she was about to start an argument again. But then — I don't know why — she changed her mind. "I want you to go to the store for me," she said.

"All right. I'll be down in a little while."

I listened till she was all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Slowly, I stood and walked to the mirror. My cock was rock hard. I reached down and said, "Hello." Then, with my breath accelerating, my hands got busy unzipping, undoing my belt, getting my stiff cock out of the pissing hole of my shorts. Oh, it felt so good, so alive and so big! I loved the way I looked — wearing my father's sweater with my cock hard as a rock, lifting its swollen head to brush against the scratching wool fabric. I stood sideways, so I could see the angle of my cock. I tried to imagine what my Dad's had looked like when he'd worn the sweater, when he ran on the track team, when he played basketball and baseball.

Locking my door — quickly, quietly — I stripped off everything but the sweater. I could smell my cock, could smell the thick atmosphere of my cock. I could hear my heart beating in my head. With the sweater unbuttoned, I stood in front of the mirror and jacked off for all the men in the world!

Men were beautiful, I thought. Cocks were beautiful and mine was the most beautiful cock in the whole god damned fucking world!

Taking the end of the cardigan, I placed it into my mouth, imagining it was my father kissing me. I could imagine him with me; the two of us doing this, watching each other, him touching me, holding me and fucking my mouth with his cock. Forcing me — tenderly forcing me — to kneel before him while he fucked me in my mouth with his great big, beautiful cock. I imagined him coming all over me — in my mouth, my hair, on my body and my chest; imagined him coming onto my cock; his sperm on my cock, in my pubic hair, matting and soaking it. Then I was shooting, shooting, endlessly shooting — my spurting sperm joining his, with father and son sperm surrounding my cock, blending together and tasting sweeter than icing on a cake.

Fascinated, I watched my cock. My heart beat a tattoo rhythm. More, faster, deeper, harder.

Soon it would happen. I knew that soon I would burst. Picking up the beautiful, brown silk shirt, I placed it on the palm of my hand.

Tidal waves of sperm rocked back and forth in my balls. As the dam burst — first left, then right — I gritted my teeth, trying to keep it as quiet as possible. My legs, my ass and my chest quivered — just like the buck bulldog when he had shot his hot load into that bitch in heat. Endless rockets of cum. The shirt was drenched, sticky, wonderfully matted.

Pretending the sperm had come from Dad, I tasted some and found it delicious.

"Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, man! Oh, fuck!"

Feeling a bit bewildered and ashamed, I wanted quickly to cover my body, to get away from what had just happened. But first, I'd have to wash the shirt. I could tell Mother I wanted to wear it the following day.

Slipping on my jeans, I went to the bathroom. When I had cleaned the shirt I looked at my reflection in the mirror. "I wish my father were here," I said finally, "and could talk to me about everything about sex."

As I hung the shirt to dry, I realized that I was getting hard again. Kissing the brown silk sweetly, I pretended Dad's body was inside. I kissed his chest, his tits, his navel, followed the buttons down to where his cock would be.

"Ray," my mother called from downstairs, "what on earth are you doing up there?"

"Just trying on the clothes."

"Well, finish that later. I need things from the store for supper."

"All right." I got dressed, arranged my cock in my jeans so it wouldn't show too much and went downstairs.

On my way to Jensen's market I was still thinking about my dad, about all the things he could explain. For instance — if sex were bad, as so many people claimed — did that make babies bad? Nobody in his right mind could say that a baby was a bad thing.

I wished so much that my father lived with us and could talk to me. Sure as hell, I could never ask my mother anything important. After supper that evening I went early to my room.

"Aren't you feeling well?" Mother asked.

"Oh, I'm okay. I just want to try on the rest of those clothes."

"You sure are a clothes-horse!" she laughed. "Just like your dad."

"Just like your dad," I repeated to myself as I took the stairs three at a time.

Nothing remained of interest in the first box. So I tumbled out the contents of the second. Nothing there, either; not really — just a bundle in a plastic bag.

When I dumped the contents of the dark green bag onto the bed, it was as if I had discovered a pirate's treasure. It was Dad's old gym clothes, his sweat pants and shirts, running shorts, athletic shirts, heavy wool socks . . . and jocks — several beautiful, incredibly hairy / horny / masculine jock straps. Sex jumped from my pants to my brain; my mouth immediately filled with saliva. When I picked up the first of these intimate, ball-squeezing devices, it traveled instinctively, almost of its own accord, to my mouth, finding its way into the warmth, the wetness. I could detect the aroma of cock in the room. I shoved another jock strap under my nostrils and breathed deeply. Meanwhile, my dependable right hand had already gone to work. I could hear my cock crack, crack, crack as my foreskin slipped over the head of my shaft and kissed my piss slit with that familiar pleasure. I had to — had to get my cock into the jock!

In only seconds, the door was locked. I was naked, save for the tightly-binding garment. I played with my cock through the fabric and through the side of it, imagining I was fucking my father. I imagined he was here with me, naked in our room. I had locked the door, and would not let him out until I had gotten my cock up his sweet, tight asshole. He stood, bent over, his fingers touching his toes — waiting expectantly. He wore only a jockstrap, too. I could see his hard, chiselled butt hanging from the straps of the jock, the way the band caressed the cheeks of his hard ass, the line they created over that beautiful, lean ass and the white, wide band around his waist. Bent like a pretzel, I could clearly see his hairy asshole and feel the thickly-matted, curly hair around his quivering, waiting asshole.

Picking up two more jacks, I placed them around my biceps. They dangled at my armpits. I was sweating all over — rivers of it — sweating like a pig. I placed still another jock on my head with the crotch of it stretched over my nose and mouth.

Noises everywhere. The smell of Dad's jocks, as if they had been put away unwashed. I could smell my father's cock; could taste my father's cock, as I fucked the shit out of his asshole.

In the mirror, I saw the cum shoot — like a rocket, like dolphins, like the hot steam from a locomotive, like prisoners fleeing the confines of conventional minds. I hid the plastic bag from Mother. There were things, I told myself, that were meant only for men. Only men had cocks and balls and so only men understood the beauty of them.

I would wear these things whenever possible. I would wear the shorts when I ran and the jocks, I would wear every day, feeling as if I were being secretly groped and held by my dad's friendly fingers.

In a daze, I stood for a while, looking of myself, feeling my body dressed in my dad's jock and the brown, silk shirt, feeling all the wonderful textures of manhood on a developing male body. I watched, my hard cock sticking out the side of the jockstrap, imagining my father there, imagining my right hand growing to twice the size of my left, my cock reaching my mouth in appreciation of the joy I could give myself — hour after hour, day after day.

I didn't sleep much that night — maybe not at all. By morning the pouches of the jocks were brittle with cum. They were reeking, soaked, dripping with the cum that I had imagined his cum had given me; with the cum in my balls, which had once been his; which had fucked my mother, producing me; with his cum in my cock in his jock, in my asshole; fucking Daddy with his own hard cock up his own butch bulldog asshole.

One day when I was coming home from my summer job, a beautiful stranger stopped me to ask directions. For some reason, although he only faintly resembled my father, I was almost — because I wished it to be so — convinced that he was my father.

I was so excited that I could not answer the man. I felt myself blush. There was a big lump in my throat, and another big one in my pants.

That night when I jerked off, I thought of that stranger, calling him, "Daddy, Daddy . . ."

A month or so later, I met someone else at the movies. Soon after I arrived, a very tall man sat down quietly beside me. After a few minutes I looked at him. He was fair and very distinguished looking. I had waited so long for this man, waited eighteen years for him, I was prepared for him, ready like the bitch bulldog in heat. I could easily imagine him as my father.

Very slowly, as I watched from the corner of my eye, he moved his leg in my direction. When I thought he wasn't looking. I moved my leg toward him.

Finally, with my heart beating like a tom-tom in my head, our thighs combined. When I didn't move mine away, I felt the throbbing pressure of his body. My cock throbbed up double time.

Fascinated, I watched his hand enter the picture. I studied it as it inched toward my crotch and came to rest tentatively, with his fingertips caressing my pistol hard, father-fucking cock.

When he began slowly to unbutton my jeans, I thought surely I must scream; must rid myself of a tremendous emotional hurricane. That was surely part of the excitement — the danger, the necessity of being quiet in the cool movie house when my body, my mind said, scream, scream! Let the world know!

Suddenly, I heard someone coming.

"Daddy" immediately positioned himself in front of me, but I was unnerved and unable to continue. I had to think of something. "Do you have a car?" I asked tentatively. "Could we please go somewhere?"

"Of course." He put his arm around my shoulder, which made me feel good. Also, it made me feel that I might cry and make a fool of myself.

But I managed to control myself as we went to the car. At first we didn't say anything. Then, I gave him directions. I was taking him "Down the Lane," to Grandma's house. I hadn't been there for years.

By moonlight, I saw that, although in bad repair, the house still stood. We drove past it however, to the old red barn. I remembered Mother saying that someone was working the land, so the barn had cows and hay and smelled warm, inviting and masculine.

With his arm around me, "Dad" — I didn't even know his name — directed me to climb up to the hayloft. He followed, patting my ass and putting his lips and his nose into it. Laugh-ing, I felt loved, protected and very, very desirable.

It was another world up there, a world made for the two of us. In the absolute splendor of the place, Dad and I seemed instinctively to understand one another.

I discovered, kneaded the wonderful muscles of my father's groin and played with the steel-wool stiffness of his cock hair. I loved his enormous balls; they were the size of eggs.

Suddenly, it was too much to bear. "Fuck me, Daddy. Please, fuck me!"

"You're a great whore," he said. "A wonderful, exquisite whore!"

His cock was huge. I didn't think I could do it, but I knew I must. For him — for me — for this chance of a lifetime!

I was up to it. I did manage. I don't know how, but I did. My asshole gobbled up inch after inch of him. Soon, what little pain there was at first had dissolved and I felt only pleasure. I felt fulfilled, felt twice a man.

"Beautiful, baby! Good, tight asshole."

I was so glad he liked me, so happy that I could please "my father." Opening wide, I welcomed him inside me like that bitch bulldog, making us two bulldogs in heat. Cock up front was welcomed by cock behind.

Glorious eternity — my whole existence cock / asshole / cock — I felt my Dad explode into any brain. Shooting my own load at the same instant, I knew that this was the meaning of existence. It was the best, the most beautiful experience life could offer.

I still have all those old jock straps. Fourteen years later I continue to think of my father with great excitement and longing. Whenever possible, I wear a jock or some other article of his clothing when seeking to recapture that long ago, all-encompassing feeling.

I do it, too — and well.

"Fathers" fill the boulevards of major cities. They can be found in the usual, as well as unexpected places. "Sons," also, now that I am older, sometimes come to me, whispering, "Daddy. I love you. Fuck me. Fuck me, please." My brain, my cock — my total being — combine to fill the loneliness, the pain of these unrequited, quivering lives. Comforting lonely young men, I tell them with the intensity of my passion that they are worthy of fatherly devotion. Easily, I reverse the parts of the drama which taught me originally who I am and what I desire.

Sometimes if the chemistry, the understanding of the other participant has been sharpened to brilliance by the painful lacerations of neglect, the two of us can comfort and be comforted by the joy of giving and receiving all the pent up frustrations, the violent need for acceptance that one man can give to another.