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I was a skinny, lanky thing, though short, stunted by a low ceiling. There was hardly any meat on my bones, much less muscle. So when I was made to carry around the crates from the back of the van into his shop, then more to the van, my arms trembled with the effort. They weren't even that heavy, yet my body ached; biceps sore and back pained from when my proper posture gave out and my body finally slumped in on itself even though it's not the correct way to carry things, I simply didn't have the strength to just carry with my arms.
When he finally said the gracious words, "That's enough," I practically collapsed, overcome with the pure bliss of completion. That sounds oddly sexual, but perhaps it was. Sometimes the things we did together felt like sex, even before we ever put our bodies together. Pushing your waif of a son to his limit with such a simple task that's monumentally easy for you, forcing him to exert himself and spending more time observing the sweat rolling down his shaking body than helping him to complete the job, all of his exhaustion and stress culminating until you finally give him the word — well-trained for you, he is — and allowing his release. Even before I learned from him what good sex feels like, he was teaching me in the most mundane of ways. He molded me to his pleasure and I was none the wiser; of course, looking back on it now, my body burns and shakes delightfully, just like it does when he is inside of me.
As soon as I sat down, a complaint about the aches groaned out of my mouth. He laughed in response; I heard the foldable camping chair next to mine creak under his weight as he took his seat. His laugh carried that tone of mocking — or maybe my ears were bracing me for the worst and heard what they expected to hear — that tone of mocking that people have when somebody fails a task they themself find monumentally easy. But his eyes, a warm golden brown under the sun's rays, were endeared.
I can't trust my hearing; years of living with the woman who birthed me made me into a prey animal always high on the stress of survival. To not listen to her subtle complaints between the lines, underneath her speech, was certainly a death sentence. I try to leave it behind, but it's carved into my nerves. Even now, in safety, I strain to hear what's not there.
My eyes though, they do not lie. I could trust my vision to tell me the truth of the curve of his lips and the crinkle at the corner of his eyes. Not a lie was hidden in the crinkles of the aging skin on his face, nor in the glimmer of his eyes.
And as had happened many times before, and would happen many times after, and as will happen until my death, my teen body was set alight with the crackling sparks of arousal that puberty and the deep longing for a father figure bring.