When my wife died, my stepson was still at home. I took care of Brad the best I could for the two years before he went away to college. By then his real father had reestablished contact with him and had agreed to help with tuition costs, which I wasn’t able to do.

I got a chance to meet Doug at Brad’s graduation. It was hard to imagine my wife Cindy being married to him; he was so different from me. He had that kind of macho swagger you see in some business executives, you know? The kind of guy who acts like every female is a potential mate and every male is probably jealous. I’m glad he didn’t raise Brad; he grew up a lot more like me: kind and considerate of others, male or female.

Then, when the recession hit, I was pretty badly affected. I lost my job and the house. By then Brad had been out of college for four years and was well established in his career as a software engineer, unaffected by the recession. So he invited me to move in with him until I could get back on my feet. He had recently purchased a “starter home,” a small suburban house with two bedrooms, one bath, and a den. “Stay as long as you like, Bill,” he told me, using my first name instead of ‘Dad’. “It’s the least I can do, considering how well you took care of me after Mom died.”

So that’s how I became his cook and housekeeper. It was a role I was surprised to find I enjoyed. It was so much easier now than when he was a teenager and I was working full-time. Now I had the time to really make his home as warm and welcoming as a home should be, and enable him to focus on his rising career. I loved having a meal ready for him when he got home from work, and hearing all about his busy day as we ate our dinner together. After dinner he would catch up on his emails while I cleaned up from dinner and did the dishes. Then we’d usually watch some TV, usually sports, or we would stream one of the series or movies he liked.

Not surprisingly, Doug was pretty derisive when he heard about our arrangement. He thought it was funny. He sent me a frilly apron with a note about a woman’s place being in the home. I was only mildly embarrassed; I’m sure he wanted to shame me. For whatever reason, I kept it; I put it away in one of the kitchen cupboards and forgot about it.

After about six months as his homemaker I confessed to Brad that I had stopped looking for a job - it’s hard when you’re over 50 - and he admitted that he wanted to keep things just as they were. “I’m spoiled now. I really don’t want to do my own cooking and cleaning ... not to mention the shopping, laundry, yard work...” he smiled at me and added, “The landscaping looks really great, by the way.”

“I’m so glad! Really I am,” I replied. “You have no idea. I never would have thought it would be so fulfilling to be a...” I was going to say ‘housekeeper, but that struck me as inadequate. “ ... to be a housewife,” I joked. It suddenly seemed quite comical how much my life mirrored the old 1950s stereotype.

Brad totally got the joke. “Lucy! I’m home!” he cried out in a Desi Arnaz voice.

“Oh, Ricky!” I falsettoed. We both laughed.

It’s odd how a passing thought can linger and grow, especially when it’s been shared out loud. After that day, I couldn’t get the housewife idea out of my head for more than a few hours at a time. I wondered if it had struck Brad as strongly as it had me. It seemed unlikely. But I couldn’t help thinking about it. It reminded me of Cindy, and how she had done all the daily housework and cooking. She had worked, but only part-time, and although I helped a little, I knew how it felt to be taken care of. And there was the other dimension that was missing now, as I thought of her. Not just the sex - I certainly missed that - but just the day-to-day physical intimacy and affection I had taken for granted. I had almost forgotten how hard the first months - the first couple years, really - had been, and how much I had missed that closeness after her passing.

I admit that from early on I had started to feel less masculine, being dependent as I was, having to rely on Brad for support. Sharing the joke, if that’s what it was, with Brad helped me realize that by throwing myself into the housewife role I had saved myself from what could have easily turned into a severe depression. I was so grateful, but I also felt guilty. Brad should have been out there dating, looking for a real wife. Wasn’t it selfish of me that I wanted him home with me instead?

I had become an excellent cook and housekeeper, but surely a healthy young man had other needs! I ruminated on it while doing my chores around the house over the next couple of weeks. Soon I began to fantasize about the housewife role, imagining myself as a “little wifey” who could attend submissively to her man in many other ways as well.

My self-image became so dissonant with the reflection I saw in the mirror that one morning after Brad had gone to work I shaved off my mustache. It was a pretty dramatic change. I had worn either a full beard or at least a mustache for over thirty years, so my face looked almost like a stranger’s. My lips were much fuller than I remembered. They looked soft, kissable, I thought. I examined my reflection, turning my head this way and that. I fluffed out my shaggy gray hair - I hadn’t had a haircut since I lost my job - giving myself a more androgynous look. I wouldn’t pass as a woman like this, but I definitely looked more like I felt, having erased a lot of the overt masculinity.

That’s when I remembered the apron Doug had sent me. I tried it on before cleaning up the breakfast things. From then on I wore the frilly apron almost daily, at first just when doing housework, but after a while I started wearing it whenever I knew I’d be alone in the house. I liked the way it made me feel.

“Wow, you shaved off your mustache!” was what Brad said when he got home that evening, stating the obvious. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without one.” He looked at me appraisingly. “You know, I might not even have recognized you if I passed you on the street!” He then smiled kindly and added, “It looks good, though,” sounding a little sheepish. Like it or, not, I wasn’t going to grow it back; I was pretty sure of that. In fact, soon I went further and started shaving all my body hair, too. I loved how I looked and how it felt to have no pubic hair, with smooth legs and hairless chest and underarms.

I think it was more than just my new role in life that prompted these changes in me. Maybe it was part of the natural aging process - lower testosterone, or whatever - but I was definitely feeling that my masculinity was waning. Seemingly by contrast, I became more aware of Brad’s maleness. He had grown up tall and broad-shouldered and now, at 25, his boyish charm had developed into a manly confidence that made his gentle kindness to me all the more attractive. The idle housewife fantasy I had been entertaining in my solitary hours began to intrude into other times, making me feel self-conscious and a little vulnerable around Brad.

This heightened awareness of his masculinity led me to thoughts and actions that would have been unthinkable before. I noticed the odors he left behind, especially in the bathroom we shared that I cleaned weekly, and in the clothes hamper. I started doing the laundry more often because I liked the smell of his dirty clothes. I was especially attracted to his underwear and would hold his them to my nose and inhale deeply. That never failed to give me an erection. There were three distinct scents to be found in his boxers. There was the warm musk of his balls; I liked that best. Then in front there was often a sour tang of urine, which for some reason I also found alluring. And third was the back side, where there was often a spicy sort of smell, the scent of his asshole. Lord help me, that was delightful too.

As these habits and habits of thought became routine and even a bit obsessive, I gave no thought to how peculiar they were. It didn’t occur to me that I might be gay, for example. No, I think I was so absorbed in the housewife persona I had put on, that it seemed completely normal to me. If Brad noticed the changes in my appearance and behavior, he didn’t say. Even when I started wearing the apron to serve him meals, he didn’t say anything, but his demeanor towards me was changing too; he seemed less boisterous and more solicitous; he started to help more with outdoor chores, especially if any heavy lifting was needed.

Then something happened which was to have major repercussions. One afternoon when I was starting to prepare dinner, I heard the front door open. I put down the raw chicken and was giving my hands a quick wash, when I heard Doug’s voice.

“Hello, Bill? the door was open so I...” He entered the kitchen to see me drying my hands on the apron. “Well, now, don’t you look pretty?” he said sarcastically, eyeing me up and down.

I blushed crimson and said nothing for several beats, and then said, “Doug! What are you doing here?”

“I was just in the neighborhood and...” he paused. “You look quite the hausfrau!” He grinned and winked. “I always thought there was something about you ... Are you putting out more than just meals for my son?”

“I ... I don’t know what you mean,” I protested, lying shamelessly while blushing shamefully.

“Sure you do, honey. I bet you’re a sweet little cocksucker, too. Giving Brad some much needed relief after a long day at work.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Is that it?”

“No! I never...” I replied all too hastily. I was mortified, but also a little aroused, and not with anger.

“No? Well, maybe it’s time you did!” He grabbed his crotch obscenely. “Maybe you need some big daddy dick, huh? Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

Maybe it was the way he called me sweetheart, maybe I just wanted to call his bluff, or maybe, just possibly, it was the phrase ‘big daddy dick’ that made me say it, but anyway, what I said was, “Oh yeah? Let me see it.”

He stepped up really close, opened his fly and tugged out a thick, red cock that flopped out and hung down, it’s purple head swinging loose, with a tangle of dark black hair at the root, bristling from his wide open pants. I saw all of it at once, although at an emotional level it seemed to happen in slow motion, as if it were a movie scene crafted for maximum impact. I think I gasped.

“Yeah, baby? You like that?” Doug inquisited. “Maybe you need a closer look!” He grabbed me forcibly at the shoulders with both hands and pressed down, making my knees buckle and hit the floor. He grasped his thickening snake and thrust it in my face. “Open up, doll-face. I know you want it.”

I let him force my head toward him with his other hand as he pressed his cock against my lips. My mouth opened and let him push that big angry cockhead inside. My tongue receded compliantly to welcome the invader with an exploratory caress. I was astonished. My lips and tongue seemed to have a mind of their own; I was simply a spectator. It was evident that they liked their new friend; he fit right in! And they joined him in a joyous game of mutual stimulation. My lips were tingling from their stimulating friction against the stiffening shaft; and my tongue danced around the swelling head, exploring its shape and texture. The taste was oddly satisfying and the scent emanating from the hairy nest in his pants made my head spin. My whole mouth was reflexively participating, sucking on the fat plum inside it.

“Good girl!” I heard Doug say as I surrendered to his assault. I felt a rush of euphoria. Was I pleasing him? He certainly seemed to like it. Was I a cocksucker now?

He grasped my head in both hands and forced his cock in deeper. I gagged. He paused, relenting, while I swallowed and blinked away my tears. But I didn’t protest or try to evade him as he renewed his assault. “Easy, girl ... that’s it,” he coaxed, as I managed to take the head of his cock past the gagging point. I tried to relax as I felt that big plum stretch my gullet. He held my head still and let his cock rest there. I took deep breaths through my nose and managed to quell the panic that had occurred on his first attempt. There were a few involuntary spasms, but Doug seemed to like that. “Yeah, baby, that’s the way!” I felt a grateful sense of accomplishment.

Then he started fucking my face. There’s no other way to describe what he did. Gently at first but with increasing force, he thrust his pelvis forward and back, driving his cock in and out of my throat while he clamped my head immobile between his strong hands. His cock was thick, but fortunately not too long, maybe six or seven inches, but even so, that thick shaft sliding in and out between my taut, sensitive lips and stimulating my tongue that pressed hard underneath it in my earnest sucking, was a sensation I could never have imagined. But the fullness in my throat that came and went, and the sensation of his cockhead popping in and out through my pharynx, gave me intense pleasure. I could just imagine how good it felt to Doug!

When his tempo slowed and his thrusts became more forceful and erratic, I knew he was about to cum. He pulled my head in tight to his belly and thrust deep, deeper than before. All was still for a second or two. Then, I heard a deep groan of satisfaction, I felt a seismic pulse through his cock, and his cum began to spurt into my throat, each spurt an expanding pulse of the dickhead in my throat. I felt helpless - he was holding my head so tight against his body - but I also felt victorious, as if making him cum had been a hard-fought goal.

He released my head. I didn’t pull away, but sucked on his softening cock as it retreated, savoring the bitter-salty taste of his cum, until it popped audibly out of my mouth and he tucked it away. I was still on my knees. I looked up at him. His expression was sheepish, almost apologetic, but there was also an edge to it, as if he were challenging me to dare to complain.