1; Locker Room Fun with my Hung Dad
A doting, dutiful daughter, devoted to my Daddy’s deviancy, depravity and debauched desires was what I was compelled to be. Regardless of my accident of birth as his son, and in defiance of the constraints of conformity condemning my incestuous impulses.
I am who I am. Not me any more, but his. I was always meant to be his babydoll.
This is my story. It starts when I knew before I understood. The slow discovery of me as I explored and then accepted my nature and my role in life, as his. To be the submissive sissy babydoll to my magnificent father.
Born a boy, but in my heart I always knew I was different. But I suppressed my soul in those dark days of fear and loathing. So I acted out being an athletic, sporty lad. Then married, masquerading as a man. Then divorced as a dutiful, doting dad. It was only in my early-forties I fully embraced the submissive, simpering Sissy I needed to be. Not me, but my Dad’s babydoll, his doting daughter, dutiful wife and wanton whore.
I needed to emerge from the cloying chrysalis of conformity and emerge into the glories of submission…
*****
Growing up was tough for an overly sensitive boy. I had a strange, tingling need to dress and be seen as girly. I knew it was naughty. But I was different, much as wished otherwise.
We lived in a small house with no privacy in those far less tolerant times. Puberty roiled my soul and confused me with my compulsions. I couldn’t help but overhear the passionate vigour and virility of my parents. When old enough to be left alone, I started sneaking into my parents room. Trembling with excitement, I tried on some of bra and panties. But even turned on by that, I didn’t get erections like other boys boasted.
I loved ogling myself in the mirror, dressed in the lacy undies, relishing the look and feel. Many years later I realised I had been in the grip of powerful Transvestic fetishism. I was profoundly attracted to myself when I wore mum’s lacy lingerie. It was dizzying and delightful despite the many risks of discovery and humiliation.
The intensity of my autoerotic arousal was intoxicating. It was addictive to dress up so naughtily. I hid some bra and panties in my room and wore them after showering each night. So,I was free to leer lustfully at my feminised reflection. But I never got erections. What drove my arousal was, I realised, quite different from what the other boys bragged endlessly about. I wanted to dress up like a girl, knowing I would get beaten up if the other boys ever found out.
After many times ‘borrowing’ mums fancy bra and panties, one day I found a set neatly folded in my jocks drawer. I realised Mum knew, but we neither of us said anything. Before and after school, and at bed time, I slipped them on. My cock never stirred, and I didn’t beat myself off. It was all inside my head, but seeing myself dressed as a naughty girl, all in the privacy of my bedroom, became a compulsion through my mid to late teens. Naughty, yes, but absolutely harmless to anyone else.
Mum discreetly recognised and tacitly nurtured my fantasy, without ever embarrassing me with any overt comments. Gradually she gifted me an assortment of ‘smalls’ to wear, as needed. I started to go out with them on under my clothes, loving the feel of girly undies beneath my boyish outerwear.
This continued into my late teens, Mum silently, secretly helping her Son meet his cross-dressing compulsion. I made sure I stayed lean and trim, with a nip at the waistline as similar as I could look to Mum, my idealised woman. I carefully observed Mum and her feminine mannerisms. When left home alone, I put her undies on and tried to imitate them.
As I moved into my late-teens, the weekly tennis match with Dad became a fixture. He would thrash me regardless, never going easy. I hated plying, but loved our time in the private club locker room. He behaved with utmost probity, changing in and out of the ‘whites’ without ever giving me a glance, as far as I could tell. Which was very well, as I couldn’t take my eyes off his his wonderful body, especially his majestic manhood.
Shaven smooth, his huge balls swung heavily, like a bull, down to his knees, it seemed. His persistently soft, floppy cock dangled as low, swinging freely without a moment of tumescence. How I wished to see it stiffen, certain such a monster could not enlarge further. Bit I never did, but was just left wondering how my slim mum could accommodate Dad’s mighty manhood.
I struggled to resist the urges surging through me, but resist I did, doing more than look, glad my intense arousal did not incur erections. My looks were sneaked and surreptitious, our behaviour well within the locker room rules.
At HS one day I saw an older kid get beaten up by the other guys in his team, for openly looking at the other boys and having an erection. Fortunately, I wasn’t prone to erections that would betray my interest in my Dad. But I feared I was, by their gross definition, a queer, a sissy, the lowest of the low, to be ridiculed or worse. To dodge that tag, I played into my lithe, athletic build. I lived on the fringe of the ‘sports jock’ crowd, rather than stand out as an otherwise academic faggot.
But after my eighteenth birthday, in a fury of frustration, I wore Mum’s bra and panties to our weekly tennis session. I needed to reveal my sissy-self to a man or boy. If it didn’t work with Dad, I would be off to Uni soon and get away from him. I feared Dad might ridicule me, but knew he wouldn’t beat me up, or gossip about me. My heart was racing as I stripped off in front of him. Dad gave a manly growl of appreciation, like the sports jocks did when they leered over a girlie magazine or a hottie strutting by.
“I was hoping you might wear those for me. Mum told me she let you borrow some. You are a useless Son, but show promise as a daughter.” He said, rare but precious words of approval that I craved from my father. I was thrilled to see his cock swell before he turned away.
“Does Daddy prefer me like this.” I tried to sound coquettish, turning round to display my taut butt. I had been fingering myself there, shoving all four in, hoping against hope for to be ready for him.
“I do, see.” He replied. I gasped as he revealed his a monstrous erection. How did he ever shove that into mummy, with as much virility and vigour as their volume made clear. He gained a couple inches in length and thickened a lot, so that his huge cock poked proudly perpendicular. A real man. Mine remained short, soft and pathetic. A true sissy.
He was rubbing himself full length alternately with each hand. With each stroke his heavy, hanging balls jiggled. I was so excited to be objectified by my magnificent, manly father at.
“You are so big, Daddy.” I gasped in admiration, starting to tremble with excitement. He looked so powerful, potent and the definition of masculine virility as he stood leering at his simpering sissy of a son.
“You sure look pretty as a girl.” The longed for words made me cum, in an intense, profuse ejaculation, from my flaccid, floppy cock. “And cum like a girl too, you fucking faggot.” He snarled, but I loved being denigrated by him, as his glorious, priapic potency betrayed his desire for me.
“May I be Daddy’s special little girl.” I simpered. “And attend to your special needs.” I nodded down at his potent masculinity.
“So, my useless Son is a queer after, and wants to be my pussy.” I nodded, flushed not with shame at his words, but pride and excitement. He pushed me down onto my knees. “Think you can it take all?” I stared at the eye of his cock, revealed as his foreskin stretched back over his glorious glans. He was so much bigger than the banana’s I had experimented with to,practice sucking him off.
“Make me, Daddy.” I whispered, staring at his pulsing prick I opened my mouth, in invitation.
“I will, bitch.” Dad snarled, grabbing the back of my head with one hand he guided his cock into my gaping mouth. “Take all of me bitch.” With both hands now free, he jammed my head hard into his crotch. My chin slapped against his scrotum, his heavy balls down by my neck. His cock rammed into the back of my throat. I needed to gag but he forced himself through and down my throat, regardless of my spluttering and discomfort.
As I retched from his violation, my heart surged with joy. I had craved to give myself to Dad, endured years of denial. Gripping my head he slammed me back and forth, sliding my mouth the full length of his cock. He kept up a stream of vile invective belittling his useless a son. It all made my heart sing to stir such visceral reactions in my Daddy. I was in constant orgasm, cum dribbling out my flaccid phallus. I had always craved to be all those derogatory things he called me, and today, at last, I was.
Our eyes locked as my Dad fucked my face. Then his eyes flickered, his body started to tremble as he slammed my face into his crotch. He let out a possessive roar as his balls tightened a little, then released their mighty load into my gullet.
I gazed up devotedly at my father as he held my head jammed into his groin, pulsing out another spurt of cum. He was panting in ecstasy, eyes rolled back. He gradually recovered, easing his grip and letting his glorious cock slide out of my mouth. I noticed a last drop of ejaculate oozing from its eye, and dabbed it up with my tongue, desperately eager to please him.
“Fuck yes, you really let me do it to you.” He said, it was rare for him to offer me admiration and I felt myself smile with joy. “Fucking deep throat, your mum could never take all of me like that.”
“Anything for you, Daddy.” I gushed.
“You want to be my secret, special little daughter?” There was still some pleasurable surprise in his voice. “You have been useless as a son, so want to be Daddy’s favourite little girl?”
“Yes, oh yes, Daddy.” I assured him as he pulled me to my feet. I imagined my life on his arm, dressed in ribbons and bows by day, naked and impaled on his cock by night.
“I hope so, you pass as a sassy little bitch well enough. But I need more from you if you really want to be Daddy’s doting little girl.” He spun me around.
“I do.” I assured him, with a chuckle he slapped my ass and slid a finger into my butt crack. “Think your pussy can take Daddy.” I shivered nervously, uncertain if my frantic, exploratory fingering was enough preparation.
“Make it, Daddy.” I turned my head, imploring him to ravage my sissy ass.
“After the match. I will fuck you properly and make you mine.” He gave my butt another hard slap, which made me yelp. The match wasn’t close as he thrashed me again. Wasn’t watching the match ball, I visualised him running around, naked, his glorious masculinity bobbing and bouncing. Towards the end his tight tennis shorts stretched over his engorged cock, making clear his incestuous intent.
Back in the locker room he watched me strip, then ostentatiously did so in front of me. My cock was still soft, despite my intense anticipation, such arousal never gave me erections.
He told me to wash him down as we showered. I started to soap and grope his butt. I explored more of my Dad’s manly body. But he never made any effort to wash me, or attend to any pleasure of mine. But I didn’t mind, now I could feel as well as see him. Trembling, I dared to cup his balls and stroke his virile tumescence. God, he was huge when erect, long, yes, but it was his girth that impressed. And the vigour of his erection, hard like iron, a real man unlike my soft, sissy-cock.
“In my bag, the baby oil, you will need it.” He ordered. I hurried off for it, returning to the shower, he spun me round. Dad’s soapy fingers spread my butt cheeks so he could squirt oil into my anus.
“You want Daddy to fuck your faggot ass hard, don’t you, bitch.” He growled in my ear.
“Yes, daddy!” I gushed, he tossed the bottle aside and guided his cock up to my butthole.
“Time to be Daddy’s girl.” He growled, splaying my anus with his fingers as his cock head probed my tight, virgin sphincter. I had been four fingers stretching myself but wasn’t sure I was ready to be sodomised. But I had no choice now.
“Take it, pussy boy.” Dad snapped as he thrust forward, driving his prick into my pussy. I let out a squeal, intermixed of pain and ecstasy. “Shut up bitch!” He snarled, slapping my butt. God, it seemed like he was ripping me asunder. And it was glorious. I had repeated analgasms spitting cum for my soft, dinky little dick. My enraptured mind a awhirl with the exquisite ecstasy or my violent violation. “You cum like a girl.” He snarled. “I like that.” He added.
Looking down I could see my abdomen distend as he skewered me, my groin rippling with each thrust. Then his body convulsed, and he sighed as he filled me with his seed. He slowed, not stopped, squirting his thick cum out my asshole as he pumped it.
As he withdrew, with a bubbling, sloppy fart, I crumpled to my knees. Dad stood over me, his softening cock dripping the last of his fecundity.
“You won’t tell Mummy will you.” He snapped. I shook my head and he didn’t say another word as he turned to dress. I deferred Uni after that, so that the weekly tennis buggery could continue. Not once did I get an erection or any affectionate touch or display of interest in me. But I was blissfully fulfilled, as a compersion I was well sated. It was a joy giving myself to be ravished by my magnificent, rutting stag of a Dad. It was wonderfully, joyfully incestuous and intense.
A few months before my nineteenth birthday, Dad was offered an incredible job overseas, leaving me bereft soon after. It was a few months before I finally went to Uni. Mum stayed with me before joining him. Dad and I wouldn’t be naked together again for many years.
After the wonder and joy of the tennis club fun, it felt less risky to express my true self more openly with my stylish, elegant Mum. We both had lots of free time, so went out to chat and giggle over ‘shakes and coffee. Dad was very successful and funding a remarkable lifestyle for us. One day, she suggested I go with her to shop for some new outfits for her trip, and, she added with a twinkle, perhaps leave some old ones with me.
Mum and I were a lot alike, in our looks and build. If we dressed the same, we could pass for sisters or, the other way, as brothers. Mum was gamine, tall, slim, athletic, not lightly built. It was hard to imagine her body could accommodate Dad’s huge cock, but I was living proof she had. She told me she had been aware of her ‘boyish’ body and had been bullied in HS. I understood that for sure, as I had to fight to suppress my nature throughout HS, a pretence of a sport jock masking the simpering sissy within.
We loved going clothes shopping together. I wore my best girly lingerie, Dad’s favourite. Mum would hold frilly groans up on me and then in the changing room suggested I try dresses on. We would both strip to our undies or less. As beautiful as Mum was, it wasn’t her naked, that turned me on. I never had an erection, or looked at her body with desire. Seeing my beautiful Mum naked didn’t interest me, so unlike my Dads body, that filled many fantasies as I buggered myself with hairbrushes. But by fuck, was I aroused at being dressed girly in front of her.
Being openly dressed cross-dressed for my mum was such a thrill. Seeing myself and, even better, Mum seeing me in frillies and gowns got me intensely hot, horny. I had learnt some control over my impulsive ejaculations, but I couldn’t stop all of them. Mum would seem often me spurt at first, then oozing ejaculate from my autogynephilia orgasms.
Mum couldn’t help but notice my spontaneous and recurrent flaccid ejaculations. She said nothing, just passed me some wipes. After I soiled the panties the first time, Mum bought spare pairs to change into, then gave me period pads to absorb the mess.
I noticed the large damp patch on her panties. Or when she got naked, that her shaved snatch was plump and glistening. It made me realise how she could, after all, be receptive to my majestic father. I knew she was getting aroused by this as well, without me ever fully rationalising her sexuality.
I yearned to tell Mum I craved to dress like her all the time. But a Cross Dressing, teenage CD, was still taboo. From giving me her bra and panties and changing room try-on’s, she clearly supported my obsession. But I didn’t ever push her for more, for fear she might not after all be as accepting as I wished, and it might spoil our sordid, secret fun.
When I left for University Mum travelled out to join Dad. I had hoped to experiment more with CD there, but was crushed by conformity. There was little privacy in the shared accommodation and, still, a unrelenting pressure to be straight. When I went to look at or buy some girly frillies and gowns, the shops were mostly attended by girls I recognised from Campus, so I backed out. Without the cover of my Mum by my side, I lacked the confidence to browse the Ladies section, let alone take gowns into the changing rooms.
So I played it straight, which I was good at, and tried to enjoyed it. But it didn’t offer the same illicit thrill as my variety of twisted kinks, and never got me near an uncontrollable orgasm. So when I had privacy, I would slip the lingerie on, and let my autoerotic impulses play out. Lusting and leering at myself, I could attain orgasms without needing beat my floppy cock.
Out of Uni I got a well-paid job overseas for a few years, somewhere my quirk, or any kink, could get me into serious trouble. But the pay and perks were wonderful and the expat, straight, dating scene, vibrant.
So I returned home after six years, married plus two kids, to a bright, ambitious girl who had just bowled me over when we met. I had expected to be drawn to a body and soul like Mums, but short, buxom bouncing Becky stole…something, if not quite my heart. It was my life, and had to be enough. Or so I told myself as I set to bury my incestuous, CD and homoerotic cravings. Fuck it. Each one of those made me feel guilty. But I was filled with a whirl of illicit, confusing, intoxicating whirl kinks. There was a constant fear that someone would discover my sordid aberrations and ruin me.
So I settled for Becky when I wanted what I had back with Dad and Mum. By fondling myself and using cock rings, I could force an erection, by fondling myself, enough for quick, conventional vanilla sex, But fucking Becky was never as satisfying as my autoerotic orgasms, and well short of the analgasms I attained from being sodomised by Dad. The blessed recollections of which continued to drive my fantasies. I never achieved the nirvana of spontaneous orgasm with her. I settled for my forced erections, but the desultory sex tailed off after the second kid. Using my cock to fuck Becky wasn't really what I wanted, compared to the to memories of my special times with Mum and Dad, it was a distant second best.
On our return, we lived in a small house, well away from Mum and Dad. My parent's business had taken off. They had moved back home to a much bigger house. But with two lovely, lively kids of my own to raise, I suppressed my naughty, saucy kinks. There was no way if I bought, or if mum gave me, anything girly for me to wear to pass them off as Becky’s, or for me to fit in her outfits. I tried to float the idea with her as a sex-game kink and got humiliatingly shot down. And it’s not like you can buy your mum lingerie as a present.
But I never stopped craving the lascivious ogling of Dad before sodomising his sissy-boy. Or for the loving understanding of my Mum for her horny queer of a Son. It was a life I lived, not loved
