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It felt so good to listen to Sir's playlists the whole time I walked home from the gym–Sir takes my car to work these days. When I got home, I sat in the backyard by the pool, and a notification on my phone screen caught my attention.

Hey dad.

I was confused. I don't have any kids. But my thumbs started typing anyway, composing a message back.

Hey Son, what can I do for You?

I didn't understand why I said that. Son? Why was I calling Son Son? I mean, Sir Son? And why was I feeling this rush of pleasure in my groin?

Nothin. Just wanted to check something real quick. See you when I get home dad.

My thumbs started typing again, out of my control. My eyes were going crossed from pleasure as I hammered out the text.

Roger that, Son. I'll have dinner ready for You when You get home from work.

As soon as I hit send, an image flashed on my screen for a split second, then vanished. I stood up, feeling my entire body pulsing with pleasure as I walked into the kitchen, stripped off my shirt, and put on an apron.

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 8 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, I was Martin Carter, corporate CFO. 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 crowed 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.

In case you were wondering, I sleep at the foot of Sir's–formerly my–bed.

I'm only 9 years older than Sir, but ever since He moved in, he's also been on a campaign to change me. The beard, the artificial grey hair, the plaid shirts over white tees. Six months ago I was a corporate trainer, and now I am a blue-collar handyman doing odd jobs to make extra money for Sir.

As I hold up my phone to take the selfie for Sir, I practice making my expression the way He likes. Vacant, half-smile, befitting my new status as a dumb dad.

SNAP. SEND.

The gym workouts got pretty intense for a while. At one point, I was up to five hours of training a day, five days a week. I didn't have time for much else, except to cook my handsome guy his meals and do his laundry. It was good he convinced me to take the early retirement offer from my job. My pension has more than enough for us to live on. For a while, at least.

On New Year's Day, he gave me another new pair of glasses. When I put them on, it felt like my brain got put through a juice press. I closed my eyes and squeezed the bridge of my nose to get rid of the piercing pain. When I looked up, my handsome, 28-year-old Son, Boss, and Sir was looking back at me. That grin of his drove Me wild.

"You all right, Dad?" he asked, the corners of his mouth turning upward in that totally kissable way.

"Oh, yeah, Son," I said as I pulled him close against my muscled body. All I wanted was to protect him, to care for him, and to serve him. "Everything's all right."

After a few weeks of seeing his likes and comments, I finally DMed him to say thanks, and we got to chatting.  Turns out, he lived just a few towns over, so I invited him to my next live gig.  That night, I kept squinting out into the crowd, trying to figure out who he might be.  I can’t remember being so nervous and excited at a show before.

I was packing up my equipment after the show when I felt a hand on my shoulder.  Surprised, I whirled around and saw a guy standing behind me dressed in a crisp white collared shirt, black necktie, and black leather jacket.  He pulled his hand back and gave me a relaxed smile.

“Sorry,” he said, “didn’t mean to startle you.  Just wanted to introduce myself.  I’m Jay.”

My eyes went wide.  This was Jay?  This was my number one fan?  I don’t know what I expected him to look like, but seeing him in person set my heart beating faster.  I stumbled through an introduction, felt his firm handshake, and stammered my way through some small talk.  Everything about him–his size, his beard, his green eyes, his necktie–seemed to distract me and get my thoughts all jumbled.  To this day, I can’t remember what we talked about, but I remember how the conversation ended.

“Listen, man,” he said, “I’ve got to run, but I’d love to see you again.  Could I buy you a cup of coffee or a beer sometime?”

I wanted to say yes more than anything, but nerves and self-consciousness got the better of me.  “That’s kind of you to offer, Jay,” I said, “but I’m old enough to be your dad.”

“I know.”

He let those two words linger in silence between us for what felt like forever.  The whole time, his eyes remained locked on mine.  I don’t know why I didn’t break eye contact.  Gazing into his eyes just felt so right.  Eventually–I don’t know after how long–he ended our impromptu staring contest and handed me a card.

“That’s my number,” he said, tapping it.  “And on the back is a QR code that links to some of my music.  I’d love to know what you think.

It’s hard to remember our parting words, but I remember exactly how it felt when his hand brushed against mine.  I listened to his music in the car on my way home, and I loved it.  I can’t tell you exactly what it sounded like, but that didn’t matter.  It still doesn’t.  By the time I turned onto my street, I was practically jumping out of my skin from how much I wanted to call him.  I wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed his music.  I wanted to accept his offer for a date.

We started spending a lot of time together after that; chats over coffee, dinner and drinks after work, even making music together on the weekends.  Every time we saw each other, I felt that same combination of admiration and respect, and it only grew as we got closer.  Some nights, we’d have so much fun hanging out that we’d lose track of time.  When it was late, I always offered to let him stay the night.  Eventually, one night became two, then a week, then a month.  We had so much in common and had such a good time together, I completely forgot he was younger.  He helped me grow my YouTube channel to the point where it was actually making money!  The night I got my first big check, he clapped me on the shoulder and held his other hand out.

“Hand it over,” he said.

“My check?  Why do you want it?”

“Because I’ve got something I want to buy for you.”

That stare again.  I’d noticed it a few times, but with more and more frequency lately.  It felt like whenever Jay wanted something from me, he’d fix that gaze on me and everything would go fuzzy after that.  I started to feel it again.  Confusion made me doubt myself, but that immediately vanished.  Of course Jay knew what was best for me.  He’d done so much to help me already that it was only right for him to take the check.  I handed it over without another word.

A week later, he was watching a movie on the sofa while I stood behind him and massaged his shoulders.  I heard a package being dropped at the door.  That happened a lot; Jay liked buying new things for our house.  He got up and collected the box, then tore it open with that confident smile that drove me wild.

“I got you a present,” he said as he lifted a black leather jacket out of the box.

I looked at the jacket with desiring eyes.  It was exactly like the one Jay wore, but made to fit me.  I reached out to take it, but Jay snatched it away.

“Not so fast,” he said with a mock serious tone.  “Go upstairs and change first.”

He didn’t need to say anything else.  I hurried up the stairs into my new bedroom–Jay had moved himself into the master bedroom and gave me the spare room instead–and threw open the closet, where hung a row of identical crisp, white shirts and a dozen black neckties on hooks.  Over the last few weeks, my sweaters and t-shirts and jeans started to vanish from my wardrobe, replaced with these white collared shirts and ties, but I never paid much attention to it.  It just never seemed to matter.  Plus, I loved dressing just like Jay.  Every time I knotted my necktie snugly against my throat, I knew how proud he would be of me for dressing like a perfect gentleman.

Back downstairs, Jay slid the leather jacket over my shoulders, then turned me around and zipped it up by torso and chest.  That stare again.  It felt so damn good.

“Looks great,” he said with a cocky smile, then gestured to his own matching jacket.  “Like father, like son, eh, Dad?”

I blinked.  “What?”

“Like father, like son, right?”

My head felt strange, like I was trying to listen to two different pieces of music at the same time.  I tried to shake the feeling away, but it persisted.  Two sets of memories battled over my mind, and for a second it felt like both of them would lose.

Then, I felt my son’s hand on my shoulder.  My son?  Jay?  I looked into his eyes, his powerful, dominant eyes, and smiled.  I love my son Jay.

“I’m great, Son,” I growled with desire.  “Thank you for the gift, it’s perfect.”

“And you’re perfect, too, Dad,” he said.  Then, with a smirk, he sat back down on the sofa.  “Now get back to work.  These shoulders aren’t going to massage themselves.”

And then I met Jay. I was flattered that a guy his age would even pay attention to me, let alone ask me out on a date. He didn't fit the younger guy stereotype at all. He was clever, well-spoken, and interested in things beyond sex and video games. For a soft-spoken intellectual like me–well, like I used to be–Jay was such a breath of fresh air. I loved introducing him to my favorite things, theater and wine, and he had this amazing way of comforting me after a long, stressful day at the office.

As we developed feelings for each other, things started to change. My mind started drifting and I had trouble focusing on my research. I forgot appointments and important deadlines. I even got lost on my way home from work a couple times. Jay was always so understanding. He never made me feel stupid or old or feeble, even though I increasingly did.

The gym membership was a big deal. "Mens sana in corpore sano," Jay said. I agreed with him, even though I wasn't really sure what he meant. All I knew is that he had high expectations for me. Three days a week at first, then four, then five. I was exhausted, but Jay always seemed so impressed by my progress, that I just started getting up earlier and earlier to squeeze in another workout.

"Jay, something weird is going on," I told him one day while I was measuring out my protein powder. "It's kind of embarrassing."

From his spot at the kitchen table, Jay looked at me with a concerned expression that melted my heart. "Sounds serious. What's up, Pops?"

I chuckled at his pet name for me. At first I thought he was making fun of me for being older, but when I realized he meant it to be endearing, I warmed up to it. "I'm distracted. Lately I've been noticing my hand just wants to go..." my voice trailed off as I glanced down to the crotch of my chinos. "You know, down there. Sometimes I don't even realize I've been doing it."

Jay came over and put his arm around my now-bulky shoulder. The way it sat awkwardly against my pumped-up trapezius made me feel at once proud and confused, but Jay's voice made any confusion vanish right away.

"No worries, Pops," he said. "If you're self-conscious, we can fix that easily. Let me make some calls." I tried to tell him that his conclusion was incorrect, but I just couldn't find the words. One week later, I was at the cosmetic surgeon's for silicone injections. Now my bulge gets in the way no matter where I am or what I'm doing. It's impossible not to notice.

My Son was right. He found me a great job in the guard shack of a parking garage downtown. The uniform was a lot more comfortable and all I had to do was watch some CCTV screens and fill out a few forms each day. And the part-time hours made it easy to me to keep up with all my chores around the house. My Son always liked when I wore my police uniform at home, but now he makes me strip out of my guard gear as soon as I step through the front door.

We got out of the car and walked across the empty parking lot toward the destination. Sean's longer legs, coupled with his clear excitement, forced me to jog to keep up. He was already knocking on the glass door when I reached him.

The door creaked open and an older, bearded man waved us in. The interior space looked as rundown as the outside. Sawhorses and power tools were scattered about. My shoes kicked up clouds of sawdust with each step.

"Sean, so damn good to see you," the older man said as he pulled my boyfriend into a bear hug. Then he glanced at me. "Is this him?"

Sean put his hand on the small of my back and nudged me forward. "Yes," he said. "This is my boyfriend Adam."

The man glanced over the rim of his glasses, almost appraisingly. He grunted and slapped the back of his hand against my belly. "So, Adam," he said, his gruff voice giving me goosebumps. "You wanna be a dad?"

"Yes, Sir, I do. I want to become the dad my boyfriend deserves."

"Boyfriend?"

Sean chuckled. My face flushed. This whole dad/Son thing started off as some simple roleplay. A weird, fun, thing to spice up the bedroom. But through play, we found something real. We found ourselves.

"Son," I quickly corrected. "I want to become the dad my Son deserves."

I was only a few years older than Sean, and definitely lacked the look and attitude of a dad. But hopefully, I wouldn't for long.

"Good," the older man said, clapping me on the shoulder to punctuate his affirmation. "I'll teach you everything you need to know." Turning to Sean, he continued. "Leave him here with me for a few weeks. I'll call you when he's ready."

No.  Stop it.  Don’t lose your mind again so soon, man.  You’re smarter than this.  Stop staring at your body and focus.  He’s not your Son.  He’s some random guy you met on a business trip.  God, why didn’t I put a stop to it when I had a chance?

I know why.  I’d always been a little curious about, well, being with a man.  He flirted with me, told me I was pretty hot for an older guy.  I told him I was flattered but I had a wife and four daughters back home.

“That’s okay, daddy,” he said as he massaged my shoulder.  “No one needs to know.”  And then he said a whole bunch of things I can’t clearly recall.

I never returned from my business trip.  Who knows how long my family kept looking for me?  However long it was, it wouldn’t have mattered.  I didn’t leave my Son’s–no, damnit, call him by his name.  Do you even remember his name?  Did you ever know his real name in the first place?

I didn’t leave my Son’s house for months.  He made me work out for hours every day, listening to the same music on a loop.  Only after I’d bulked up enough was I allowed to go outside again, and even then, only to the gym, the grocery store, and Buddies, where I barback a couple nights a week.

The chastity cage I wear under my shorts is a constant reminder of how aroused I am by what my hot Son has done to me, and how helpless I am to do anything about it.

You don't even have to tell me where we are. Just leave me at a rest stop, unlock my memory and drive off. I'm smart and resourceful, I'll find my way home. Just please let me go.

You've got that look in your eye, man. That look that says you're going to play around with me. You're going to get me all confused again. You're going to make me remember to forget and forget to remember.

Yeah, man. I do feel really relaxed. How'd you know? Maybe I should just lean back into this chair for a minute and–

Aw, come on, man, quit messing with me. Either keep me the way you like me or put me back to normal and let me go. I can't stand this in between stuff, where I know what you're doing and I just have to sit here and let it happen.

Huh. Yeah, you're right. I never noticed how nice my bulge looks in these shorts. Maybe I'll take your advice and just rest my hand there for a while. Mm, yeah that feels good. What did you say, man?

Oh, sure. Yeah, no worries. I guess it's not important. Could you speak up, though? It's hard to make out what you're saying to me. I'm feeling a little confused here, man. Yeah, you're right. There is a little more grey in my beard. Huh. When did that happen?

I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute or two, man. I can't stop thinking about something but I can't remember what it is. It's making me sleepy.

Huh? Oh, sorry I nodded off on you, Son. Your old man got up pretty early to split the firewood and get all the chores done before cooking your breakfast. I know that's no excuse, Son. Yes, Son, I apologize. Of course, Son, dad deserves to be punished for falling asleep when you're talking. I guess you'll be sending me to bed early tonight? Yes, Son. Dad needs to be better at managing his time. Yes, Son. Dad needs to be reminded who's in charge. Yes, Son.