My Gay Father Was A Spy

Khurana presented a plump, already-hard cock, and I took it in my mouth. Just opening to it, making a wide O shape, with my tongue flattening to the floor of my mouth, giving it a good angle for Khurana’s cock to invade along my tongue and into my throat. And to slowly move in and out.
*****
Spy? The man at the lectern was saying that my father had been an intelligence agent. I knew what an intelligence agent was. It was a spy. And I’d never even suspected that my father had been one of those. I figured he’d been something more than just a sportsman and dilettante, but I hadn’t given that much thought to it. Both of my parents had been flitting off someplace or other most of the time—and rarely together. I just hadn’t given it a thought. Someone’s funeral was sort of a bad time to learn that he had been a spy—especially when that someone was your father.
I guess that went part way to explain how and why he had been murdered in Tunis.
I looked around the cold interior of the large stone church in downtown Wilmington, Delaware. No one else seemed surprised that the man at the lectern, a distinguished English appearing and speaking, gentleman, a trim man in his early fifties, was talking of my father as a sacrificing public servant who had traveled into the jaws of danger again and again all over the world to serve and protect the United States.
There was a brief moment when I had the surreal feeling that I’d walked into the wrong funeral.
My mother, sitting beside me on the front pew of the church, didn’t look surprised, certainly. She didn’t look all that proud or grief-stricken either. She looked more distracted and separated from it all. It...