(Caption) Notes on Reality #1

October Caption Challenge (24/31)

Mitch had never really felt that life had dealt him the hand that he deserved, much less the hand that he wanted. Gay, but at least able to pass, growing up in a small town as the only kid of a fairly deadbeat, and rather traditional father, who tended to keep him at arms length. Mitch hadn’t done well enough in school to get into college–there was the small issue of the cheating on his permanent record. That had nixed most of his college hopes, so he found himself living with his dad, stuck in a dead end job, and with no real opportunities for relationships aside from the occasional hookup with a trucker passing through, while his dad was passed out on the couch.

However, it was one of those truckers who took a bit of pity on him, and passed him an odd little notebook. It was blank, and the cover of it said, “Notes on Reality.” 

“This little thing gave me the life I’d always wanted,” the old, cigar smoking fellow said, as he got back behind the wheel of his semi, adjusting his sizable endowment as he did. “Give it a try yourself–I think it might be just what you’re looking for.”

Mitch had no idea what he was talking about, but he took the notebook home, tossed it on h8is dresser, and promptly forgot about it for the evening–but the book didn’t forget about him. The next day, he found it tucked in his glove box at work. Then, he found it on his bedside table when he was going to bed. It clearly wanted him to do something, but what? He opened up the blank notebook, and there on the inside cover, was something scribbled that he hadn’t noticed before. Write what you wanted, and reality would bend to your whim. It sounded impossible, but then, the book kept appearing right where it couldn’t possibly be. What harm could there be in giving it a shot.

So he wrote a little something, talking about how he had cleaned his room up earlier that day, despite having done no such thing, and all around, him, from one moment to the next, the room was…immaculate. Even odder, he could remember doing it himself! It was almost like nothing had changed–it fact, even reading back to himself what he’d just written, it was difficult to remember exactly how things had been. Suddenly, his hand didn’t seem so terrible after all.

He went out into the living room, where his dad was sitting in his underwear, smoking a cigar, and wondered just how much he could influence things.

He wasn’t sure that he wanted to change himself, exactly…but why not make his stern, overbearing, distant dad a little more…relatable?

He went into the kitchen and wrote:

“I came out to my dad around a year ago, and he was very supportive and kind. He wants me to be happy, and has absolutely no problem with me being gay.”

As he finished the thought, he felt reality twist around him–and sure enough, he could remember sitting his dad down and having the talk, and he’d been…fine with it. Better than fine, really. If anything, their relationship was better and more open than ever. 

He laid awake that night, pondering and scheming and wondering. He could stop now, of course. He didn’t…need to keep using the notebook. But…why not keep using it? He hated living here, he hated so much about his life, and he could change it, all of it. So he started writing in the middle of the night, as much as he could. About living and growing up in the city, about going to college–but his thoughts turned to his father again, and what came out was…not quite what he had planned, initially. 

His dad was unhappy, he knew that. At first, he just wanted to make him happy too. He wrote about his dad going to gym, he wrote about how he had a good job that he liked. And then, he wrote about how his dad was gay too. Then, he started writing more about him, about how he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but that he made up for it with his kindness and his strength of character. He wrote about how he had a substantial cock, but was a total bottom in bed. He wrote about how his dad was attracted to him. He wrote about how his dad had begged Mitch to fuck him, how he loved getting plowed by his son’s cock more than anything. Finally, he couldn’t write anymore, after filling pages and pages with his fantasies, and the resulting wave, as reality shifted, was too much, and he passed out in his bed.

When he woke up, it wasn’t in his dad’s small house–it was in the apartment they shared, while Mitch was going to college in the city. He had been woken up by a massive, white haired, burly fellow with a substantial cock sucking him off, a man he knew was his father, but did not quite recognize as such quite yet, and then the older man climbed on and fucked himself on Mitch’s cock while he watched, moaning and panting like a fucking slut, until they both came–Mitch inside his father’s ass, and his father all over Mitch’s chest and face. 

“Fuck boy, I needed that,” he said. The voice was familiar, but lacked the drawl, and was instead a bit higher, a little freer. “I’m gonna hit the gym–you coming?”

Of course he was. Mitch always went to the gym with his dad before class. More than once he caught his dad flexing and winking at him on the gym floor, and before he could stop himself, they were fucking again in the sauna–like usual, right? 

His dad was a fucking slut after all, he needed a cock in his ass all the damn time. Preferably Mitch’s, but he’d take almost any young buck in a pinch. After a long day of school, Mitch found himself back at home, and much to his unease and muted delight, the notebook was waiting for him as well. He tucked it away in a drawer, and it seemed to stay put, for the most part. After all, he had everything he wanted, right? At least, for now.

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