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.

My cell phone just buzzed over on the table nearby. I’m only sitting a foot or two away, but I can’t reach over and check it. Not that I need to because I know exactly what’s going on. 

It just buzzed again. That was the sixth buzz since my Son tied me up and left me here. He told me that I needed to keep count and that there’d be a penalty if I told Him the wrong number of buzzes when He got back home. 

Another buzz. That makes seven. God, how many more will there be? Surely my Son has gotten everything He wants by now and He’s on his way back home. 

Dammit. That’s eight. The sun is going down. He can’t stay out for much longer. Wait, what day is it? Thursday? Friday? Oh, it’s Saturday. He could be out a long time. Driving my car. Wearing my clothes. 

Using my credit card. 

He set up text alerts on my phone so I’d know every single time He spent my money, and every time He comes back home from a shopping spree, He makes me guess how much He’s spent. Sometimes it’s just $50 or $60, enough for Him to take one of His friends out to lunch or go to a movie.  Sometimes, it’s more. 

A lot more. 

I used to think He’d show some restraint. “How much money could one guy spend in an evening?” I would say to myself as I struggled against the leather belts that bound me to the chair. At some point, I was sure the novelty of being my Cash Master Son would fade, or at least plateau. 

I used to think a lot of things. Nine. That’s nine buzzes. 

I used to sit here and try to add up the charges based on where I thought He was going. No matter what I’d estimated, I was always wrong. There is no logic to the way my Son spends my money. Now, I just throw out a number at random. 

Every time the phone buzzes, I get a buzz in my crotch. The pleasure I feel when my Son spends my money is the most intense, most satisfying, most embarrassing pleasure I’ve ever felt. It’s been so long since my Son has allowed me to have sex that I can’t clearly remember what it feels like. But however good it feels, I’m pretty sure that this feels better. 

Son is so handsome, so dominant.  So masterful. I’m just a pathetic old dad, an ATM for Him. The fact that He’s done this to me, tied me up and taken my credit card, proves that He deserved my money all along.  It is His, because it always was. I’m just the temporary wallet. 

Oh, damn. It buzzed again. Was that nine or ten? Ugh, I can’t remember. My Son will charge me a fine when He gets home. 

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