Some One Shot Gay Fantasy

5: Dad and the bully (prequel)

Don't get me wrong, at first glance you might think I'm just some middle-aged dad with a gut. But hey, I'm a tall guy – six foot four! And while I'm pushing 220 pounds, it's not all beer belly. I'm actually built, like a brick wall. So built, in fact, that many of my underwear can barely contain my, uh, impressive ass cheeks. Let's just say it's got some serious heft, with the size that can compare with a ripe watermelon!

My son, on the other hand, didn't exactly inherit my physique. Not that I mind – he's got brains for days, super smart and ambitious. That's why I was happy to raise him myself after his mom passed away when he was just a teenager. I kept him on the right track, taught him the difference between right and wrong, and gave him a family he wouldn't have had otherwise.

He's tall too, around six feet one, but he's more on the skinny side, always focused on books and science. It made him a bit of a target for bullies.

So, there I was one night, during a really bad storm. Rain was pouring outside, and the power was out – pitch black inside. My son was supposed to be home hours ago, and I was getting worried sick. I was about to go out and look for him when he finally walked in, soaked to the bone and looking like a drowned rat. I could tell right away something was wrong, something that maybe reminded me of a bit of trouble I got into when I was his age.

With him coming home so late and acting weird, I had to ask. "Hey son, you alright?" I said, worried sick. But he just brushed me off, mumbled something about being fine, and disappeared into his room...

Worried sick by his behavior, I couldn't just sit there. Curiosity, sharp as a tack, poked at me. I crept down the hall towards his room, quiet as a mouse. Reaching his door, I pressed my ear against it. A muffled groan, followed by a choked sob, sent shivers down my spine. My gut twisted with a feeling of dread. I couldn't take it anymore. With a single, powerful kick, I burst open the door.

There he was, sprawled on his bed, bruised and puffy like a worn-out soccer ball. Who did this to him? My sweet boy was hurt and scared. "Dad?" he croaked, scrambling to cover himself with a blanket. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the red splotches on his skin. "What happened?" I boomed, a low growl escaping my throat.

"Who did this to you?" I demanded, my voice tight with anger. I stood tall beside him, a protective wall against whatever nightmare he faced. "Tell me who hurt you!" My fists clenched, my knuckles white.

"Dad, please," he whimpered, "It's okay, really. I'm fine." Seeing him so broken, my anger simmered down. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "Okay, son," I said gently, "but I need to know what happened."

Slowly, patiently, I coaxed the story out of him. My heart sank as he revealed the bully's name, that same kid from school who always picked on everyone. Part of me wanted to march right over there and give him a piece of my mind. But then I looked at my son, his fear a stark reminder of the situation. "Don't, Dad," he begged. "I don't want you to get in trouble with him."

My determination to seek retribution wavered as I gazed upon my son's pleading eyes. His desperate plea tugged at my heartstrings, softening my resolve. I nodded, agreeing with his words, hoping it would bring him some peace.

Of course, I didn't just sit there and let it happen. I went to the school, talked to the teachers and principal, and met with the bully's parents... but nothing changed, I didn't even have any chance to see that brat, just know his face through a picture. I felt useless, like a failure of a father. I couldn't protect my own son! My anger grew stronger and stronger.

Maybe some folks would think I was a coward for letting it go, but I had a plan. I'd wait for the right time to deal with the jerk who messed up my son. Obviously, my son wouldn't know anything about it.