Father's Day Morning

 Father's Day Morning

28 June 2026

The following is an account of me performing fellatio on my husband for Father’s  Day. If that offends you then please do not read.

Note - We decided to have Father’s Day a week later when the house was not crazy with relatives. 

The morning light was still pale and thin when I opened my eyes, the kind of early Sunday glow that made everything look washed in silver. Father's Day. The words floated through my half-awake brain, bringing a small smile to my lips before I'd even fully registered consciousness.

He was still asleep beside me.

His breathing was deep and even, the slow rhythm of true rest. He'd been working long hours all week, coming home late with tired eyes and shoulders tight with stress, and I'd watched him push through it without complaint. The girls had asked what he wanted for Father's Day, and he'd shrugged and said something about a new grilling spatula, but I knew better. I knew what he needed.

I turned my head on the pillow, studying his profile. The strong jaw. The dusting of gray at his temples that had appeared over the last few years. The way his lips parted slightly as he slept, making him look younger, softer. My husband. The father of my children. The man who held our whole world together with those broad shoulders and steady hands.

I loved him so much it made my chest ache.

The house was quiet around us. Emma and Sophie were still asleep in their rooms down the hall—teenagers who wouldn't surface until at least ten if we let them. We had time. Precious, uninterrupted time.

I shifted under the covers, moving slowly so I wouldn't wake him. Not yet. The sheet was warm from our combined body heat, and I eased it down inch by inch, exposing his torso to the cool morning air. He didn't stir. His chest rose and fell with that same steady rhythm, the dark hair across his pectorals catching the pale light.

My hand found the waistband of his boxers.

Cotton, soft from years of washing, the elastic stretched just enough to make entry easy. I slipped my fingers beneath the fabric, finding him soft and warm, nestled in the coarse hair at the base. My touch was feather-light at first, just the pads of my fingers tracing the shape of him.

He shifted in his sleep. A small sound escaped his throat.

I wrapped my hand around him, still gentle, and began to stroke. Slowly. Deliberately. The motion was almost lazy, my palm sliding up and down his length with barely any pressure. I watched his face, waiting for the moment he'd surface from dreams.

His breathing changed first. The deep, even rhythm hitched, stuttered, then resumed at a faster pace. His eyelids fluttered. His hips moved, just barely, an involuntary response to the sensation.

Beneath my fingers, I felt him begin to stir.

The transformation was its own kind of magic—the soft flesh firming, lengthening, growing hot against my palm. I tightened my grip slightly, my strokes becoming more purposeful, and his body responded instantly. He swelled in my hand, hardening with each pass of my fingers, until his boxers were tented and straining.

"Mmm." The sound came from deep in his chest, half-asleep and half-aroused.

I smiled and slid lower under the covers.

The sheet tented over my head as I positioned myself between his legs, the warmth of our shared body heat enveloping me. This close, I could smell him—the clean, masculine scent of his skin, the faint trace of the soap he'd used in last night's shower, something deeper and muskier that was just him.

I hooked my fingers into his waistband and tugged.

He lifted his hips automatically, even in sleep, helping me ease the boxers down over his thighs. His erection sprang free, thick and proud, and my mouth watered at the sight of it. Even after all these years, after thousands of times seeing him naked, the sight of him hard still made my stomach flip.

I lowered my head and took him into my mouth.

The taste of him flooded my senses—salt and skin and something uniquely his. I closed my lips around the head, my tongue tracing the ridge where it was most sensitive, and heard him gasp above me. His hips jerked. One of his hands found the back of my head through the sheet.

"Lisa?"

His voice was rough with sleep, confused and aroused in equal measure. I didn't answer with words. Instead, I took him deeper, letting him slide toward the back of my throat, and the groan that tore from his chest was answer enough.

"God." His fingers tangled in my hair. "What—"

I pulled back, letting him slip from my mouth with a wet sound. "Happy Father's Day," I whispered, my lips brushing against his shaft.

He let out a breathless laugh that turned into a moan as I took him again.

This time, I didn't hold back. My mouth worked him with deliberate skill—long, slow pulls that took him deep, then faster strokes that focused on the head. My hand wrapped around the base, stroking what I couldn't fit, twisting slightly on the upstroke the way I knew he liked. My tongue traced patterns along the underside, finding the spot just below the head that made his breath catch.

He was fully awake now. His hand stayed in my hair, not guiding yet, just holding. Grounding himself. The sheet was still tented over my head, creating a warm, intimate darkness that contained nothing but him and me and the sounds I was drawing from his throat.

"Lisa." My name came out strangled. "Baby, that's—"

I hummed in response, and the vibration made him curse.

His thighs tensed under my hands. His stomach muscles clenched. Every small reaction spurred me on, made me bolder, made me want to give him more. I changed rhythm, alternating between deep, slow strokes and quick, shallow ones, keeping him off balance, keeping him wanting.

Minutes passed. I lost track of time, lost myself in the rhythm of it, in the taste of him and the sounds he made and the way his fingers tightened in my hair when I did something especially good. My jaw was beginning to ache, but I didn't care. This wasn't about me. This was about him—about gratitude, about love, about all the things I couldn't put into words.

Then his hand tightened.

Not in pleasure. In command.

The grip in my hair became firm, insistent, and I felt him shift beneath me. His hips lifted. His other hand joined the first, and suddenly he was guiding my movements, controlling the pace, the depth, the rhythm.

He was taking over.

"Stay still," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Open for me."

I obeyed instantly, relaxing my jaw, letting my mouth become a vessel for his pleasure. His fingers twisted in my hair, holding me in place, and then he began to move.

The first thrust was tentative—testing, asking permission. I moaned around him, and that was all the answer he needed.

He aggressively took my mouth with long, deliberate strokes, his hips rising off the mattress to meet my lips. The sheet was still over my head, trapping the heat and the sound and the scent of us, and I was drowning in sensation. The head of his penis hit the back of my throat, and I gagged slightly before adjusting, breathing through my nose, relaxing into it.

"Good girl," he growled. "That's my good girl."

The praise sent a shiver through my entire body. I was still in my sleep shirt, an old cotton thing that barely covered my thighs, and I could feel myself growing wet between my legs, could feel the ache building in my core. But this wasn't about me. This was his moment. His gift.

He used my mouth without mercy.

His pace quickened, his thrusts growing harder, deeper. I could hear him panting above me, could feel the tension coiling in his muscles. His grip on my hair was almost painful now, but I didn't want him to stop. I wanted him to take everything he needed, everything I could give.

"Lisa." My name was a warning this time. "I'm close—"

I grabbed his thighs and held on.

He came with a hoarse cry, his hips bucking, his release spilling hot and salty across my tongue. I swallowed reflexively, taking everything he gave me, my throat working around him as the last pulses subsided. He shuddered and groaned and finally, finally went still.

I released him gently, letting him slip from my mouth, and pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh before emerging from under the sheet.

The morning light seemed brighter now, harsher. He was lying back against the pillows, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest heaving. I crawled up beside him, propping myself on one elbow, and waited.

When he lowered his arm, his eyes found mine. They were dark and warm and filled with something that looked a lot like awe.

"Happy Father's Day," I said again, grinning. My voice was hoarse. "I'm your first present."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then his hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, and he pulled me into a kiss.

It was deep and slow and impossibly tender, especially given what had just happened. His tongue swept into my mouth, and I knew he could taste himself there, knew he didn't care. The kiss said everything words couldn't—gratitude, love, possession, devotion.

"Thank you, baby," he murmured against my lips.

I smiled, my own lips tingling. "You're welcome."

His hand slid from my cheek, down my neck, over my shoulder, coming to rest on my hip. Then it kept going, curving around to my backside, and he gave it a firm pat through the thin cotton of my sleep shirt.

The sensation jolted through me—a spark of heat, a reminder of all the other ways he touched me, all the other gifts he gave. My bottom was unmarked this morning, the welts from our last maintenance session long faded. But the memory of them lingered, and the pat reignited something deep in my core.

"Presents don't usually talk back," he said, his voice returning to its normal register, teasing and warm.

"Then you got a defective one."

"Never." He kissed me again, shorter this time, a punctuation mark. "Never defective. Maybe a little mouthy."

I laughed. "You didn't seem to mind my mouth a few minutes ago."

His grin widened. "Fair point."

We lay there for a moment, tangled in the sheets, the morning light growing stronger around us. Somewhere down the hall, I heard the creak of a door opening. Sophie, probably, on her way to the bathroom. The spell was breaking, but I didn't mind. We'd had our moment. Our quiet gift.

"I should make breakfast," I said, not moving.

"In a minute." His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. "Stay."

So I stayed.

His hand rested on my bottom, warm and heavy, a possessive weight that made me feel cherished. My cheek was pressed against his chest, and I could hear his heartbeat slowing, returning to its resting rhythm. His other hand traced lazy patterns on my shoulder.

"You know," he said, his voice rumbling through his chest, "most people get ties for Father's Day. Maybe a mug."

"You hate ties. And we have too many mugs."

"This is true." His hand squeezed my bottom gently. "This was better."

"Better than a mug?" I feigned shock. "High praise."

He laughed, and the sound vibrated through me. "Much better than a mug."

Youngest’s footsteps passed our door, heading toward the stairs. The smell of coffee would be wafting through the kitchen soon—she'd figured out the coffee maker last year and had been making Sunday morning coffee ever since. The middle child would be up next, and then the day would officially begin. Presents. Breakfast. Whatever Father's Day traditions we'd cobbled together over the years.

But for now, in this quiet moment, it was just us.

"Do you remember our first Father's Day?" I asked, my voice soft.

"Vaguely. Our oldest was what, six months old?"

"Seven." I traced a circle on his chest with my fingertip. "You changed the first diaper that morning. Said it was your Father's Day gift to yourself."

"I was an idiot."

"You were adorable."

"I was both." He kissed the top of my head. "You made me breakfast in bed. Burned the toast."

"The toast was not burned."

"It was charcoal, Lisa."

"It was well-done."

"And yet here we are." I tilted my head to look up at him. "Twenty Father's Days later."

"Twenty." He shook his head slowly. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know. But I'm glad it did."

His arms tightened around me, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. We'd been through so much together—the early years in that cramped apartment, the arrival of the girls, the career changes and the mortgage and the thousand small crises that made up a life. We'd fought and made up, we'd pushed and pulled, we'd spanked and soothed and loved each other through all of it.

And somehow, after Twenty years of Father's Days, I still woke up wanting to give him everything.

"Speaking of chaos," he said, "I hear the girls in the kitchen. They are going to try to make pancakes."

"They always try to make pancakes." I laughed

"They always burn them." he said with big eyes. 

"I know." I smiled against his chest. "It's tradition."

Downstairs, a clatter of pans confirmed his prediction. 

He sighed, but it was a happy sound. "We should go supervise."

"Probably."

Neither of us moved.

His hand slid from my bottom up to the small of my back, pressing me closer. I could feel him stirring again, his body responding to our closeness, and a flicker of heat ignited low in my belly. But the girls were awake now, and the moment had passed. Tonight, maybe. After the presents and the pancakes and whatever Father's Day adventure was planned.

"Tonight," he murmured, as if reading my thoughts. "When the girls are in bed. You and me."

"Promise?"

His hand came down on my bottom in a quick, sharp spank that made me gasp. "That's a promise."

The sound echoed in the quiet room, and I felt the sting bloom and fade, a tiny preview of what was to come. My breath caught. My toes curled.

"Okay." My voice came out breathier than I intended. "Definitely something to look forward to."

He grinned and released me, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. I watched him pull on his boxers and a t-shirt, the muscles of his back shifting under his skin. He was still broad and strong, still capable of pinning me down and reducing me to a sobbing mess, and the knowledge made my pulse quicken even as I followed him out of bed.

I found my robe—silk, pale green, a Mother's Day gift from a few years back—and wrapped it around myself. My sleep shirt was wrinkled.

The kitchen was exactly the chaos we'd expected.

My heart felt too big for my chest.

I thought about what had happened upstairs, the intimacy we'd shared in the quiet of the morning. I thought about the promise of tonight, the sharp reminder of his palm on my bottom. I thought about twenty years of Father's Days, twenty years of burned toast and smoke alarms and laughter and love.

The pancake batter splattered, and the girls shrieked and my husband threw his head back and laughed.

I laughed too, pressing my coffee cup to my lips to hide my smile.

This was our life. Chaotic and messy and full of love. Filled with secrets and rituals and moments stolen in the early morning light. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

When we finally sat down to eat, the pancakes were golden brown and perfect. He'd remembered the secret after all.

"Okay," the youngest said, reaching under her chair. "Presents!"

The oldest produced a wrapped box from behind the fruit bowl. "Open mine first!"

He took the box, shaking it gently. "Heavy."

"It's not a mug," the oldest said seriously.

"I should hope not."

He unwrapped the box—a new keyboard, the clicky kind. Our oldest had saved up for it, she explained, using money from her summer job at the library. He clicked several keys with his thumb, his expression soft.

"It's perfect," he said. "Thank you, sweetheart."

The youngest's gift was next: a framed photo of the five of us camping last summer, our faces sunburned and smiling. "For your desk at work," she said. "So everyone knows you have the best family."

He stared at it for a long moment. "They already know that," he said quietly. "But thank you."

Then it was my turn.

I hadn't wrapped his gift—it wasn't the kind of thing that came in a box. Instead, I reached across the table and took his hand.

"Mine's not technically a present," I said. "More of a promise."

"Oh?" His eyebrow lifted.

"The girls are spending the night at Becca's tonight. I already cleared it with her mom."

The girls exchanged a look. "We are?" youngest asked.

"You are. Unless you don't want to."

"No, no, we want to!" Oldest was already texting, probably. "Becca said her mom got a new projector for movie nights."

"Great. So you'll be out of the house from about four o'clock until tomorrow morning." I squeezed my husband's hand. "Which means you and I have the house to ourselves. All night."

His eyes darkened with understanding. "All night?"

"All night."

The girls were too busy discussing movie options to notice the look that passed between us, the silent exchange of promises. His thumb stroked across my knuckles, and I felt the touch all the way down to my toes.

"That's a hell of a present," he murmured. "And you already gave me one this morning."

"That was the appetizer." I held his gaze. "Consider this the main course."

He laughed—low and warm and full of anticipation—and I felt my skin prickle with answering heat.

Tonight.

After the pancakes and the presents and the lazy afternoon of Father's Day leisure. Afterwards, the girls packed their overnight bags and headed to Becca's. After the house went quiet and the doors were locked and we were finally, truly alone.

Tonight, there would be no maintenance spanking. No punishment.

Tonight, there would be something else entirely. Something I'd been thinking about since I'd woken up beside him in the pale morning light. Something that would show him, better than any words, exactly what eighteen years of Father's Days meant to me.

His hand released mine and drifted under the table, finding my thigh beneath my robe. Squeezing.

"Happy Father's Day," I said again.

His smile was slow and full of promise. "Best one yet."