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.
Everything changed when I turned 40. The day before my birthday, I was at Buddies, my local leather bar, drinking a glass of scotch while a pup serviced my boots. I’d always been dominant, the one in control, the one calling the shots.
What a difference a day makes.
I set my empty glass down on the bar and felt a hand grip my shoulder, the friction causing my leather jacket to creak. “Hey, dad,” I heard someone say.
I turned around to see a guy, maybe six or seven years younger than I am, smiling at me. I couldn’t help but chuckle when I noticed his gear. It looked like he’d purchased My First Leather kit off a cheap Chinese website. Points for effort, but like my Recon profile says, “If you’re over 30 and don’t have some real gear of your own, don’t message me.”
“Thanks for the attention,” I said, already turning back toward the bar. “But I’m not your daddy.”
“I didn’t say ‘daddy,’ I said ‘dad.’ And are you sure?” he said. The hand he’d parked on my shoulder was now slowly massaging my muscle. I won’t lie, it felt nice, but something about this guy just rubbed me the wrong way.
“I’m sure,” I said. “I’m flattered but I’m not interested.”
He took a step back, his gloved hand slipping off my shoulder. I noticed his other hand was shoved down the front of his cheap leather pants, making his crotch bulge out unnaturally.
“Too bad, dad,” he said. As I turned around and slid my glass forward to order another scotch, I felt a hand swiftly cover my mouth and nose. I was more startled than anything, and I struggled for a split second until I inhaled.
My eyes crossed. My mouth watered. The bulge in my crotch got uncomfortably tight. The scent was overwhelming, and every thought in my head vanished as I breathed in deeply, filling my lungs with the sexiest musk I’d ever smelled. I felt the heat of a nearby body radiating against me and sandpapery stubble against my ear as the most erotic and most devastating words I’d ever heard were whispered into my ear.
“Maybe some other time, dad.”
He removed his gloved hand from my mouth and nose, and I instinctively licked my lips, hoping to taste the scent I’d been breathing in. I suddenly felt––empty. I needed it in my nostrils, my lungs, my brain. I needed it. I would do anything for it.
I whirled around in my barstool, but the guy with the musky leather gloves was nowhere to be seen. I chastised myself for missing the opportunity, quickly paid my tab, and rushed out of the bar to try and find him.
I didn’t have to look far. He was waiting for me on the pavement outside.
“Change your mind, dad?”
I nodded as my mouth filled with saliva. As sexy as this man smelled, he looked a million times sexier. I can’t believe I’d written him off just because of his cheap, ill-fitting leather. That could easily be fixed. I’d dress him in my leather. I’d measure his body and order him some custom gear. I’d pay for it myself. I’d do anything to just smell him again.
“Say it,” he said.
“I’ve changed my mind, S-Sir” I stammered.
“Son,” He corrected. I instinctively bowed my head and clasped my gloved hands behind my back.
“I’ve changed my mind, Son,” I said with a reverence I’d never felt before but which was totally natural and right. “I need to smell You, Son. I need to smell Your musk.”
He pointed to His boots. Like the rest of His gear, they were cheap and costume-y, but that didn’t matter anymore. It was my duty to ensure my Son had the finest gear that money could buy. I knelt down and had to swallow to keep from drooling.
“Please, Son,” I said, not daring to look Him in the eye. “May I service Your boots?”
That’s how I ended one day as a 39-year-old Leather Sir and started the next as a 40-year-old submissive dad. The next day, I dropped a grand on some brand new leather gear for my hot, controlling Son, and within a month of my birthday, He had a new wardrobe full of sexy, expensive gear. I buy Him anything and everything He wants. In return, I get a glove full of that overwhelming, mind-altering musk and a boot for my tongue to get to work on.
My 40s will be my best decade yet.
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