This is a repost from a Tumblr series that I called “My perfect dad.” I’m preserving these older stories and continuing to write new ones available on this site first.
I put down my phone and pinched the bridge of my nose. Well, damn. This was going to completely derail my day, but I had no choice. I threw on my suit jacket, grabbed my briefcase, and headed out of my office.
“Something has come up,” I said to my executive assistant as I locked my office door. “I’ll need you to clear the rest of my day.”
My assistant, a normally easygoing Australian in her mid twenties, looked concerned. “But M-Mr. Carter,” she stammered uncharacteristically, “the representatives from VarnaCorp will be here in an hour.”
I sighed. This was going to cost me in the long run, but my body was on autopilot and I was already halfway to the elevator. “It couldn’t be helped,” I said.
There was a throbbing in my groin that I knew would turn painful in a matter of minutes. I stepped into the elevator and fished my phone out of my pocket, re-reading the text one more time.
Hey dad. The GameStop gang want lunch. Bring it to Us in 30 minutes.
Below the text was a list of eight lunch orders from a place I’d never heard of. Hopefully it was on the way; 30 minutes to get from downtown to a strip mall in the suburbs with takeout was cutting it close. I sent a text back as quickly as I could. I didn’t want a penalty for unresponsiveness.
Yes, Son. Right away, Son.
As I walked through the parking garage, my phone vibrated in my pocket, which made my groin pulse again in pleasure and pain. There was no one around, so I could safely adjust myself again. There was no sensation from it; the thick metal barrier between my hands and my privates made sure that I felt nothing from making any contact.
Don’t forget to change clothes first.
Damn. Of course. Here at the office, I was Martin Carter, corporate CFO. But with Sir’s friends and coworkers, I was “Kyle’s dad,” a dumb, middle-aged underachiever. Sir always made sure I looked the part when showing me off. No tailored suits in front of Sir’s friends. Only sport polos, cheap khakis, and New Balance sneakers.
I pulled out of the parking garage and sped onto the freeway. There was no way I was going to make it in time, but I had to try. Already I was thinking what penalty Sir would levy for my being late. Would He charge me money? Take away my privileges? Force me to do more chores?
No. He would probably humiliate me in public. Ever since Sir started showing me off as His dad, He’d been relentless about dragging me into crowded places and making me spill food on myself or shout out loud in a packed restaurant how proud I was of my Son.
The scary thing was with every little task, every humiliation, every time I submissively complied with His orders, I felt it take hold in my head. I was starting to forget He was Sir. Most of the time, I thought of Him as Son first. My Son. My Dominant Master Son.
And it was time to deliver my Son and His friends at GameStop some lunch.
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