Daddies, page 11
There is one night that I remember vividly, from start to finish. The first night I really knew I belonged. The energy was charged. The air crackled. Daddy took me to his apartment overlooking Golden Gate Park. He had instructed me to pack my biggest dick, and to stuff it into the leather jock he had given me, that pair of old jeans he liked, my best boots, and one of the A-line shirts he liked to call boy-beaters. Just getting dressed for Daddy put me into headspace. I hit the floor and was on my knees two seconds after we walked in. It was like I couldn’t stay up a second longer.
“Good boy,” he growled.
He towered over me and slowly put on his gloves. He was stern, and gripped my chin, lifting my head to meet his eyes.
“I’m going to make you mine tonight, boy. Are you ready?”
I couldn’t breathe. I melted into his eyes.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered. He smiled wickedly at me and slapped my face, hard. And I could breathe again. He held my gaze and continued to slap me over and over.
“This is important, boy. This means you belong. You have to earn this. I know you can. You are going to make me proud.”
He clamped his hand over my mouth and nose, taking my breath. The buttery leather smell seeped into me, and I dropped deep into headspace, giving myself to Daddy. When he lifted his hand away, I felt like I was floating, and yet deeply present. The air was crisper, the colors brighter. Daddy was right. This was important. I needed to pay close attention. Then Daddy pulled me to my feet by my hair. His hands twisted in my hair, he kissed me. Ruthlessly. He took my mouth, ravaging every inch of it, leaving nothing unclaimed, and growling as he did it, his beard rough against my skin.
“I’m going to reach inside you tonight, boy. Going to take what I want from you. You will feed me tonight, faggot.”
Until that night, Daddy and I had not exchanged fluids. Daddy was very particular about who he did that with. When he bit me, he was careful. He would ride the edge, but never draw blood. I had been begging to feed him, wanting him to take my blood, aching for it. And it was going to happen that night. I could not stop trembling, even as a huge grin split my face.
“That’s right, boy. Tonight you will get what you have been begging for. I will claim you, thoroughly. Then I will feed on you. You are a very lucky boy.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered, my voice shaky.
Daddy took me to the bathroom and bent me over the sink. I moaned. He stripped off my clothes, leaving me in my boots and jock, my eyes on myself in the mirror over the sink. Daddy’s hands slid over my skin, his cock against my ass as he held my eyes in the mirror.
“My little faggot is just aching to get fucked in the bathroom. You are going to get it tonight, boy. Can you feel Daddy’s cock? Do you want it?”
“Please, Daddy. Please fuck your boy.”
“My cub is going to get it tonight,” Daddy growled, as he put clamps on my nipples.
I watched my eyes widen in the mirror. My breathing got shallow. Daddy was going for the pain I hated. I could see it growing in his eyes. He was going to test me with hateful pain that tore into me. That meant only one thing. My eyes frantically searched the bathroom for its reflection in the mirror. There it was, propped next to the toilet. Daddy’s cane case. I could hear rushing in my head and feel sweat beading at my temples. I met Daddy’s eyes in the mirror, and saw them change. He sensed my fear, and it was like a predator was waiting behind those eyes, waiting to feed on me. Daddy snarled, holding my gaze, his paws digging into me as I whimpered in fear.
It was fast. His hand clamped on my neck, pushing my head into the sink, and suddenly his cock was inside me. Daddy truly was magic because there was lube and I had no idea how that had happened. But not enough to make it easy. No, this was not about my pleasure at all. It was awful. Cruel. He was growling in my ear, making me tremble on his cock. My mind raced round and round. I was breathing so fast, my heart pounding, and behind my closed eyes all I could see was that cane case.
Daddy’s cock was reaming me, and it hurt, and my nipples hurt too as they banged against the sink and then Daddy leaned over and growled “Mine!” in my ear. I couldn’t stop them. Before I even realized it was happening, tears were streaming down my face. I lifted my eyes to meet his in the mirror.
“Yes, that’s my good boy. Cry for Daddy.”
Daddy pulled a clamp from my nipple, and searing pain ripped into me, creating fresh tears. He groaned and began to thrust harder, his cock driving into my boy hole.
“Daddy!” I whimpered.
“When I take the other clamp off, you are going to cum for me, boy. You got that?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
His cock felt like it was ripping me open. His eyes were unforgiving. I knew what was coming next. I felt a new surge of fear washing through me, and Daddy smiled at the smell of it. His beard scratched my skin as he buried his nose in the nape of my neck and drew in the metallic scent of fear.
“Yes, boy. Give me your fear.”
His cock gored me, and then the other clamp was twisted off, and before I even decided to I was cumming, growling with Daddy as he rammed home, shuddering as he spurted inside me. Too quickly his cock was gone, and my hole was gaping. I started shivering, my eyes closed as I heard Daddy moving things around, then a zipper, and then that awful sound of rattan ripping through air.
“You are going to give this to me, boy. You are mine. I want your pain, your fear, and your tears, boy. Don’t hold back.”
“Y-yes, Daddy.”
I was going to take it. I worked to breathe slowly, relax my muscles, and wrap my mind around accepting it. Every time I played with Daddy, there was a moment where I said no. And every time, there was a moment when I was sure I was crazy for doing this. It was then I tasted my safeword in my mouth. I was not going to say no to this. I had already decided. But damn, I sure could taste my safeword, and it was bitter.
I hated canes. They were an evil invasive sting, and that kind of sensation just felt wrong. My body rejected it. Canes were an ordeal path to surrender filled with constant doubt. When I made it through to the end, I always felt powerful in some way, and deeply proud. But the road there was horrid. Canes had nothing to do with my pleasure. They were about accepting Daddy’s will and feeding his sadism.
As the cane ripped into me, I kept my mouth clamped shut on my safeword. It was not going to come out of my mouth, dammit. Daddy was not giving me even strokes or pacing it. This wasn’t a pretty show. This was relentless fire on my ass and thighs, and there was no time between one stroke and the next, they just spiraled into a whirlwind of awful pain and fear that poured out of my eyes and eventually my mouth in rasping growly sobs. Daddy was snarling, his voice harsh as the pain went on in waves, riding along fear, crashing into me until I could do nothing but surrender.
“Good boy,” he growled. “Now for six of the best.”
One was a tidal wave of fire. Two was nasty and twisted, carving me open. Three was lemon juice on the longest paper cut of my life. Four was almost too much, and my safeword rose like bile in my throat. Five exploded in fireworks of pain and blood that I could feel begin to drip down my leg. Six was an evil bastard of a hot poker searing me.
Daddy put the cane aside for later cleaning, wrapping a piece of hunter green tape around the handle to remind him it was now dedicated to me. To think I remember that. Little things like that crop up in my habits today. Back then, they just made me feel safe. He pulled out his first aid kit, and cleaned me up, placing Tegaderm on the spots where he had opened skin.
He met my eyes and stroked my cheek, saying gruffly, “I am proud to call you mine.”
Then he tossed me my clothes and said, “Get dressed, boy. We have places to go.”
I floated into my clothes, and Daddy shuffled me out of his apartment and into the park below. It was dark, but I could hear murmuring voices, slurping sounds, low moans. He stuffed a ball gag into my mouth, wrapped his navy blue hanky around my eyes, and bent me over a nearby rock. I focused my hearing, trying to figure out what Daddy was going to do next. There was a loud click, and I jumped, knowing that his knife was out.
“Stay still, boy.”
It began cutting my jeans away. Just a chunk out of them, baring my asshole. And then I knew why Daddy ordered me into a jock earlier. His fingers were teasing my hole, sliding lube into me. One, two, then three fingers in my ass, their squirmy possession riveting me to the spot as I got that almost nauseated feeling in the pit of my stomach that always begins an ass fuck. Daddy’s gravelly whisper carried to the men nearby.
“Who wants a piece of my boy’s ass? His mouth and cock are for me alone, but if you play nice, you can fuck his hole.”
I could hear the leaves rustle as the men moved in. How many? I heard voices murmuring as I writhed on Daddy’s fingers, but I couldn’t quite pick out the words. He slid his fingers out and leaned over me, his voice low in my ear.
“Don’t you dare cum, boy. Not until my dick is in your ass.”
Daddy stood up and chose someone, handed him a condom, and stood with his hand on my neck. I heard a zipper, and then a condom wrapper was opened. There was a slight pause. I tensed up. I couldn’t help it. Then his dick was spearing me. He worked it in to the base, and oh, was it long. The wormy feeling in my gut pulsed as I tried to take it in. I whimpered.
“That’s my good boy,” Daddy said, gently stroking my neck.
The man in my ass started to move. Oh god, and my dick began to throb as his thighs rubbed against the welts from the cane. He was working his hips in wide circles, and it felt like he was deep in my gut, stirring me in long sticky strokes. I ground my hips down into the rock and soon was moaning behind the gag. I worked with him, wanting his cum, loving his dick with sharp squeezes of my muscles, clamping down on him, wanting him to spurt.
He did, in three long thrusts, and he was gone too quickly. Daddy chose another, lamenting the need for latex, wanting my ass to be full of other men’s cum when he would finally fuck it.
The next man was inside me immediately. His dick was shorter and my ass felt the loss. But he made up for it in rhythm, working me hard, in fast thrusts that smarted as they hit the marks from the cane, until I was breathless, shaking, gripping the rock with all I had. Then I heard Daddy say “Stop.” The man pulled out. Daddy’s voice was fierce as he reminded me not to cum. He motioned the man back to my ass, but I was scared. I didn’t want to be fucked so well. All I wanted was my Daddy inside me. All I wanted was to please Daddy.
The circle of men around me got louder. I could pick out phrases. “Woof!” “Look at that nasty cub.” “Want a piece of that hole.” “Damn he can move his hips.” “Fuck that sweet ass.”
I worked my hips harder, frantically wanting the man’s release, wanting him gone from my ass. I could feel Daddy’s hand on my hair, stroking. He leaned down to whisper, “Be a good boy for me. That’s it, take his cock. Milk it for me.”
I did; I took it till he came, trembling at the feel of him spurting in me, proud to have done it. Then a third dick was at my hole. And I wasn’t sure it could get in, it was so thick. I pictured my hole opening, rubbing my cock against the rock to heighten my desire, knowing I would regret it later. The pressure was still there, insistent. And then Daddy gripped my hair in his hand, and pulled. It slid in. I could feel myself widen to accommodate it. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I became a hole. Just a hole to get fucked. Daddy’s hole. He started to move inside me. I screamed, glad for the gag.
“It’s too big. I can’t do it. It’s too big.”
I was shaking my head, screaming no, and all the while Daddy stroked my hair, whispering to me.
“I know you can do it, boy. Do it for me. Yes, that’s it, take it for Daddy. You are such a good boy. My boy. My hole. That’s it, take it. You are so hot, boy. All these faggots want to be inside you. But I’m next. I can’t wait to get inside you, boy. I love watching you get fucked. It makes me so hard to know you are my hole, my hole to give away. My hole to use, however I choose. That’s my good boy. Take that monster cock. I know you love it, boy. You love being Daddy’s hole. You love being used like this, by a group of strangers. That’s my good boy.”
As I concentrated on his words, my body fell away. I was just a hole. I existed solely to please Daddy. This pleased him, to offer his hole to others. And that was who I was. Just Daddy’s hole to use. However he chose. I was working my hips in rhythm as the stranger fucked me, squeezing his cock with my muscles. Because these men were just an extension of Daddy’s will, his pleasure. This was my Daddy fucking me. And I wanted to be pleasing. I loved being Daddy’s boy. I could feel the man inside me cumming, and it was a tribute to my usefulness. I began to float.
And then Daddy was behind me. His dick slid into my hole like I was built for him. I didn’t want this moment to end. I could feel Daddy deep inside me, and that was where he should be. He grabbed my hips, working them, using me in precisely the way he wanted. I was exactly where I belonged. Under Daddy.
“You feel so good around my cock, boy. You were made to be fucked by me. That’s it, boy, grab onto my cock with your ass. All these men are watching me fuck you and wishing they had gotten a turn. But you are mine, mine alone. And I am claiming you as mine. You may cum, boy.”
There were no more words because Daddy’s teeth were driving into my neck, and he was fucking me, and I was bleeding, and Daddy was feeding, and I was cumming, and Daddy’s cock was ramming me, and his teeth were claiming me, and my cock was spurting, and Daddy’s cum invaded me, seeping into me as he drank me down.
Daddy slid out of me, and I didn’t want him to. He turned me over and slowly removed my gag and my blindfold. His arms enfolded me, and I was gripping him so tight, sobbing. He rocked slowly, just holding me as I sobbed. When my tears subsided, Daddy licked each one from my face. My eyes were still closed as he stroked the space on my forehead above my nose, grounding me. I heard his voice asking me to slowly open my eyes. And then I saw the men surrounding me. They were grinning, and their faces were warm and familiar, and then I was enveloped by this tribe of men that I knew and cared for, with my Daddy’s proud smile joining theirs. I was home. I belonged.
THE BIG HOMO DADDY’S GUIDE TO LOVEMAKING
Shaun Levin
You are inside him. Call him beautiful. Call him things like: My baby. Sweet baby. Say: “You’re my beautiful boy.” Tell him how much you love being inside him. That his smooth, sweet body is yours now. He is thirty-four and you’re in your mid-forties. You are ten years older than him. He has never been anyone’s boy before, but it’s as if he’s been waiting all this time for someone like you. Be his Daddy. Listen when he tells you that he’s usually the top. “I’m always the one who fucks,” he says. So you say: “Do you like it this way now?” Say: “My boy.” He is on his back and you are inside him and he looks calmer and more content that he’s ever been. You’ve known him for three weeks, though it feels like longer. He’s a DJ. He is tall and skinny and Latin brown. You like tall skinny men. You like tall skinny men with long hair. You met him at an exhibition of a friend of yours, a woman painter who’s been doing a series of pieces about the London clubbing scene. Your boy sat for her with his long brown hair that falls halfway down his back, and his thick metal earrings and his shirt off, a life-sized swallow on his chest. If a dozen things were different he’d look like James Dean; he has the same wild, wiry energy in the painting and in life. Tell him he is beautiful. Tell him how peaceful he looks. Wonder if this calmness that you bring him is not too confusing, a result, perhaps, of your need to control him. You have been known to want to control. You are not unlike so many of us who have grown up unloved. You are not part of the clubbing scene. Your shiatsu guy says you should go dancing twice a week. “Even in your own living room,” he says. “Get more movement into your body.” He says you’ve got huge muscle mass but it’s become stagnant. “Stagnation,” he says, “is a word they use a lot in shiatsu.” And you think, as you go in and out of your boy, making him happy, that this must be the perfect movement, the perfect flowing gesture, this back and forth, this gentle back and forth in and out of another human being—it must be the most soothing and crazy-making… just fucking crazy-making… to have part of your body enter the body of another human being—so you turn him onto his side. Now hold him from behind. Hold him close to you. Your boy against his Daddy. Press your stomach to his back. Don’t move. Feel the bulk of your stomach against the concave of his smooth slim back, then start that gentle back and forth again. Say: “Is that nice?” Say: “Can I keep fucking you like this?” And he says, because he is a man who is Latin: “Make love to me, papi. I want you to make love to me.” For a moment, think that these words might scare you into softening, that too much tenderness might put you off, but the desperation and hunger in his voice keep you hard and make you enfold him and raise him up, and yourself, onto all fours so his hands are on the wall behind the bed and you are holding him, spooning, Big C against little c, the opening of quotation marks. Say: “You’re my baby. My beautiful, beautiful baby,” And he says, yes, he says, yes, he says: “Make love to me.” You think he might cry. You cannot see his face, but you know his eyes are closed and he is easing himself into this newfound role, this place he has not been to before. Say: “Why did you come up to me at the exhibition?” Say: “What made you talk to me?” Smile when he says: “You talked to me.” You like being bigger and older. You like it when he calls you “Mister Professor.” You like that his whole body fits into yours, like a Russian doll. You are his shell and his flesh. He is skin and bone and you love it. He is everything you wanted to be at his age. Think of envy and the number of times you have seduced men you’ve wanted to be. Tall skinny men; men, admit it, with zero percent body fat. Muscles are not important to you. Be glad. Enjoy his body. Enjoy the way your boy pushes himself back into you so that you can go deeper. Go deeper. Fold your arms around his chest and pull him to you. Roll onto your back and carry him with you so that he lies with his back against your chest, his long brown hair falling into your face. Let it fall. Thrust into him. You like that word: Thrust. You like words like shove and ram and bang. Say these words to him, or think them. Think about banging and thrusting and slamming into him. And do it. Lift his body, lift his whole body with your body and push into him with each upward movement, and as you come back onto the bed pull him against you. Keep your arms around him. Tell him: “Arch your back,” so that he can press against you, draw you deeper into him. You have been told that you are good at this. There are men who call you especially for this, who fall in love with you just because you can do this to them: make them feel like your boy. Think about your parents and about lovemaking. You were never a Daddy before your father died. You were the age your boy is now when you lost him. It’s been ten years since the death of your father. Don’t feel guilty about these thoughts. It’s just a game, this thing between you and your boy. Think about your sister and the man she’s dating who has the same name as your father. Your brother’s girlfriend is the spitting image of your mother’s psyche. You can tell when you are pleasing a man, when your boy is happy. Say: “Sit on me.” Say: “I want to see your face.” Press your palms against the tight smooth skin of his back as he lifts himself off your chest, his face toward the window. Hold onto him so that you stay inside while he slowly turns to face you. Watch his expression change as he says: “Don’t take it out. No, no, no, don’t take it out.” That expression on the edge of abandonment. Say: “My god, but you are so beautiful.” Think how in just under an hour—or has it been longer?—you’ve gone through six different positions. Ha, movement! you think, as you think of your shiatsu guy. Nothing stagnant about this. Think about how the way we fuck tells us truths about ourselves, about the way we want to live our lives. Feel proud of yourself. Feel amazed at how a fag like you who has gone through a childhood and adolescence of ridicule and bullying, his twenties of being made fun of by men and women he could not fuck…think how you are now a big fucking homo daddy. A pleasurer of boys. Feel proud to discover the joy of this, the profound sensation of being inside someone and satisfying him. Feel wonder at how your body has developed in a way that has…in a way that…and all the time you’re thinking these thoughts, urge your boy to keep bouncing like that. Say to him: “Use my cock to pleasure yourself. It’s all for you, baby.” Until he comes on your chest. Beautiful warm ribbons that reach your neck and your face and the pillow to the side of your head. Watch him breathe and smile and his chest rise and fall and the dark-green tattoo of the swallow with it. Let him straighten his legs and lie on you, his lovely skinny body against yours, cupped in yours, the great largeness of you, and feel his cock press against your middle and your erection. Say to him: “You’re still hard.” And he’ll say, yes, I know, he’ll say, that’s what you do to me, and he’ll put his mouth close to your ear and whisper: “It’s your turn.” He’ll whisper in your ear: “Open up.” And you do, because you like opening up to men who want to be inside you, who want to know you, who will rename you with terms of endearment like: Baby. Like: Mister Professor. Like: Daddy.
