Daddies, page 13
Silent, Daddy seizes my hair as he comes. He yanks once, hard, a promise of everything that awaits me.
I swallow and wipe my mouth, carefully tucking him away before settling back into my seat. I cannot get comfortable. The hardness between my legs has become truly painful, and I need more.
Gazing blindly at the screen, I grin again, not bothering to hide it this time. Daddy has just taken his pleasure, but mine is yet to come. I just have to be patient.
A week passes.
Nothing.
Another week. Not a word.
Finally, I slam down my fork at dinner. “You said you were going to beat me.”
A slow smile spreads over his wine-reddened mouth. Daddy drinks deeply again, and then sets down his glass, fingers playing idly across the crystal. “I said I might. I did not say when.”
Daddy makes me wait another three days, startling me as I come in the front door. In the dark, I scream in a way I never did at the movie, and his hand clamps over my mouth. Lips press into teeth; my bag of groceries crashes to the floor. We follow its trajectory a heartbeat later, his body pinning mine to the Oriental rug. I gasp for air, kick. In the midst of the flailing, he catches my arm, slamming it backwards. Cold metal snaps shut around my wrist. I continue to fight, though I expected the cuffs. Being anchored to the leg of the couch will come next; I expect this, too. Without warning, I am dragged up instead, and thrown face down into the velvet cushions of his favorite chair.
I struggle for a breath as Daddy fastens the other cuff to the chair’s wooden arm. Two years ago, while we were still courting, he found the antique at an auction, its finish badly battered. Daddy restored it lovingly, his long-fingered hands working hour after hour to revive the luster of the wood. He runs one of those strong hands down my spine, and I repress a shiver, careful not to rasp the silver band against scrollwork thick with dragons and whirling blossoms.
Daddy turns me over so we face each other. “Are you sorry, my boy?”
Very suddenly, I want to cry. I can’t speak around it. I stare at him, hoping that the words trapped in my throat are clear in my eyes. Daddy blinks slowly, his gaze as wet as mine, and my gut clenches. I wait for him to continue, to say that in my efforts to be a brat I have finally gone too far, that this is quite the end. After all, my Daddy is a private man, and some things are more sacred than favorite chairs.
I do cry then, that thought echoing in my head.
Daddy reaches for the heavy shears resting on the mantel. Cool, they slide over my skin, and my clothes drop away, snip by snip. I sit motionless, rags pooled around my legs. He removes the pieces gingerly, careful not to touch me.
My unchained hand clutches the cushion. Please, I’m sorry, say I’m good—
I cry out with the first blow, jarred forward. Instantly my eyes snap to the arm of the chair. No scratches, not yet, but it is nearly impossible to tell by the streetlight that slants through the blinds if I have marked the wood. My grip tightens. His palm cracks solidly into the underside of my thigh, directly on my sweet spot. I whimper, rigid, as his hand falls again and again, exactly in the same place.
All too soon, I realize there is something far worse I could do to Daddy’s chair than scratch it. In the time we have been together, so many things have changed, but not this, not the high, sweet thrill of pain. “Don’t,” I manage. “Daddy—”
He unclips the cuff and tosses me to the floor before I can finish. There is no fumbling now, only jerked-open slacks and thighs shoved high. He spits twice into his palm, not nearly enough fluid, but I do not scramble away. I draw my knees to my chest, offering myself, and shriek as Daddy takes me.
He doesn’t wait for my body to submit. He pounds from the beginning, and I cling to him as I am forced open, hipbones and shoulders jarred into the floor. The moment my ass yields, I come, my body arched against his, my fingers digging into his back. He thrusts right through it, my seed smeared up his belly. The two syllables of my pet name become myriad, bit out between clenched teeth. His breathing accelerates; my name becomes something else, hoarsely uttered. A final buck, half-lifting me, and he is still.
I sprawl on the rug, panting. His beard rough against the hollow of my throat, Daddy squeezes my hip and whispers “sweet boy” one more time. It is this that we always return to, a tangle of bodies that is so much more than simply flesh, the summation of everything I need to take and everything he needs to hand over, again and again and again.
I am forgiven.
DADDY LOVER
Martin Delacroix
I’m nineteen and queer, but I’m not attracted to guys my age. I find them shallow and insubstantial. Straight boys are fixated on sports and pussy, gay boys on wardrobe and hairstyle. My taste runs to mature men, fellows in their forties and fifties with salt and pepper hair. Guys with baritone voices who speak with the confidence only experience imparts.
Yeah, I’m a Daddy lover; I don’t know why. Maybe ‘cause I grew up without a father. (Pop, you bastard. How come you deserted me and Mom?)
My first sexual partner was Russell Shropshire, age forty-two (I was eighteen), a Coast Guard commander and father of my best friend, Gordon. Russ (he insisted I call him that in private) was medium height with a flattop haircut, a moustache, and a hairy chest. He exercised religiously, keeping his waist trim, sexy in his white uniform.
Russ made the first move. He gave me a lift home one evening—just us in the car—and when we came to a stoplight Russ placed a hand on my thigh. “I’ve noticed how you stare at me sometimes.” (Was I that obvious?) “I think I know what you want.” (He sure did.)
My approach to sex with Russ was shameless and submissive. I let him do whatever he pleased, I did whatever he told me to, and I let him call me whatever he liked (“pussy boy” was a favored moniker). His cock was long and thin, with a head like a stick-shift knob. I loved taking it into my mouth, sucking till he shot a load down my throat and made me swallow. Other times he’d strip me naked and pinch my nipples, calling me a “wicked little fag” and a “cock whore.” He’d spank my bare ass till it glowed red as a stop sign, then make me beg for a butt-fucking. (“Please, Daddy, ream my hole.”) He’d screw me doggy-style till his cock throbbed inside me and my come splattered the sheets.
Russ was creative. In motels and in wooded areas outside of town, at my home and his, he plumbed the depths of my sexuality, exploiting my submissive nature, debasing me to no end. And how I savored the groveling, the indignities Russ forced me to endure. Do you know what it feels like to spend an entire weekend in a cheap room, wearing nothing but a pair of panties with a hole cut out of the rear for quick access to your “boy pussy?” I do. Russ owned my ass and he didn’t hesitate to say so (“You’re Daddy’s slut, aren’t you?”). But I’ll say this: outside the bedroom he treated me with complete respect, and I loved him for that. Gordon and Mrs. Shropshire never had a clue, I’m sure, what went on. Russ always gave me a firm handshake when we met in the presence of others. He’d ask how school was going, what my plans were, just as he did with Gordon’s other friends, and I addressed him as “Commander Shropshire.”
It was sexy, the way Russ and I had our secret life, and I was entirely satisfied with the arrangement, assuming it would continue forever. Thus my spirits plunged when, after fucking me especially hard one afternoon—my hole was afire—Russ informed me he was transferring to the Coast Guard station at St. Simons Island in southeast Georgia, five hundred miles away. We lay in bed in a motel room, my head resting on Russ’s pec, and when he spoke of his upcoming move I wept, my tears flowing into his chest hair while he stroked my cheek. He whispered, “It’s all right, Bradley. Things’ll be okay.”
Between sniffles, I asked if I might go with him, if I could live with the Shropshires and we could continue our affair, but he said no, it wasn’t possible. They would live on base, in married officers’ quarters, where only his wife and Gordon could reside with him. “Besides,” he said, “there’s no privacy at St. Simons. It’s not like here.”
I thought: Oh, shit. My life is over.
Once Russ departed, I lost interest in everything—my job (stock boy at a discount department store), my friends (I had two, maybe), and even sex (I went several weeks without masturbating). I spent my free time watching television or sleeping. I wrote letters to Russ (“Bradley sure misses his Daddy”) that I never mailed. I stopped eating, I lost weight, and my skin broke out. Visiting a gay sex shop, I bought a dildo and wore it to bed some nights. (Sick, I know, but such is heartbreak.)
Each night, before falling asleep, I’d pray to God, asking Him for another Daddy, one who’d hold me and use me like Russ had. (“Lord, I’m sure it’s hard to understand, but…”)
I felt a need to talk with someone about my situation, but who? Not my mom, no way. Now that Gordon was gone, my only friends were girls, and they wouldn’t understand. I thought of Reverend Michael, our youth minister at Holy Redeemer Methodist Church. A slender guy with a widow’s peak, acne scars and a perpetual five o’clock shadow, he ran marathon races and didn’t eat meat. In his sermons, he’d always stressed tolerance for the differences in people. “Walk a mile in their moccasins,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll understand them better.”
I brought my moccasins to Reverend Michael. We sat in his office in the church annex and I told him my woes. “I’m gay,” I said, “and that’ll never change.” I spoke of Russell Shropshire (not by name, of course) and our relationship. I told Reverend Michael, “I’m so lonely I feel like dying.”
To his credit, Reverend Michael did not discourage my interest in older guys. “When it comes to our sexuality,” he said, “each of us knows himself best. If you need a man in your life, then so be it.”
I was relieved hearing him say that.
We discussed my future.
“You can’t work as a stock boy forever,” Reverend Michael said. “Have you considered college?”
I nodded. “My high school grades were good, my SAT scores too. But I got so wrapped up in my love life I didn’t bother to apply anywhere.”
“Any career interests?”
I chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“I’ve considered your line of work—the ministry. Does that sound strange?”
Reverend Michael shook his head. “Gay men are often drawn to religious vocations. Of course, you must be discreet in your private affairs, but homosexuality’s not incompatible with church employment.” He leaned back in his chair and it squeaked. Reaching into a drawer, he produced a pamphlet for a divinity school, one associated with a private university in Miami. He gave it to me and I studied it a moment, then I raised my chin.
“Thanks for listening, Reverend Michael. I feel better already.”
It took me a while to adjust to life away from home. Miami traffic was nerve-jangling, and half the people didn’t speak English. The university backed up to I-95, a perpetually clogged artery that roared twenty-four hours a day.
I rarely left campus. I lived in a dorm, sharing a room with another freshman, Bruce Billstein, a pale, skinny kid with his hair dyed ink-black. He favored T-shirts advertising death-metal rock bands. We rarely spoke because he owned an iPod that he listened to even when studying.
I took my meals in the cafeteria, and my appetite slowly revived. Sometimes I studied in the library, but most days, if the weather was good, I’d slip into swim trunks and take my books to the campus pool, a twenty-five-meter beauty with a diving platform. I’d swim laps and then sun myself on a chaise while studying. My skin gradually cleared and I developed a tan. I put on a few pounds, adding muscle to my physique. My hair lightened and I took to wearing shorts and sandals to class.
My sex drive, which had disappeared along with Russell Shropshire, re-emerged. I was attracted to my English instructor, Eric Peterman, a willowy, silver-haired guy with a deep voice and a passion for literary novels. He wore khaki pants and open-neck polo shirts to class, and I admired the triangle of platinum chest hair he displayed. I longed to lick the nipples I could see against the fabric of his shirts.
At night, between the sheets, I’d stroke to visions of Mr. Peterman. In my fantasies, he’d treat me as Russell Shropshire had—like a whore. I’d service his cock with my mouth. I would beg for a fucking and then whimper like a five-year-old while he pumped my ass. (God, I’m a slut.)
I even visited Peterman’s campus office one afternoon, ostensibly for advice on a paper he’d assigned. I wore my shorts and sandals, deliberately leaving several buttons open on my shirt so he could glimpse my chest, maybe even a nipple. As I entered his office, my pulse raced and my hopes rode high. But then I saw a studio portrait of Peterman and his family—a wife and two girls—resting on a credenza, and my spirits sank. I left minutes later, scowling and discouraged.
There was a gay student organization on campus, but I wasn’t interested in boys my age. I couldn’t meet older men in bars and clubs, as I was too young to gain admission to such places. In desperation, I turned to the Internet, to a website called Lads for Dads.
You know the drill: register with the site, create a profile with personal statistics, sexual preferences and so forth, post a photo, write a brief description of one’s interests, one’s likes and dislikes. Mine said:
Sweet-natured, submissive boy, nineteen and cute, seeks daddy. I need my mouth stuffed with cock, my ass too. Make me your bitch and I’ll keep you happy. Men under forty need not apply. Chest hair a plus.
(Okay, I’m a pussy boy. At least I’m direct.)
Within a week I received more than twenty messages via Lads for Dads from men seeking my company. Problem was, most described themselves as “versatile” (that means they’re not really “tops”), or they were hefty, or looked too young. Also, a third of them lived in places like Los Angeles and Chicago. I like my Daddies fit and mature, unabashedly aggressive in the bedroom. And I wouldn’t take a plane flight just to get fucked.
I became even more discouraged. Each night, I lay in my dorm bed, in the darkness, and I spoke to God, asking for His help. (“Please, Lord, help me find someone…”)
At the university pool one afternoon, I studied passages from Deuteronomy, an Old Testament book comprised of three sermons given by Moses. He tells his people, the Israelites, they must worship only one God; then he pours out a bucketful of laws. I reclined on a chaise, taking notes, when my attention was drawn to the diving platform, to the high-dive, specifically. On it, a gray-haired, athletic-looking fellow in a thigh-length Speedo prepared to take flight. Raising his arms and joining his fingertips, he bent at his knees and sprang from the platform. He arced, then plunged, spearing the water with nary a splash, and after exiting the pool he stood drying himself about twenty feet from me.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, and when he turned in my direction his gaze met mine and he nodded. I nodded back, thinking: Oh, Daddy, you’re just what I need. You can fuck me into next week.
But he turned away, approaching a woman in a deck chair. The man said something to her and she laughed; then he sat beside her on the pool deck, using his towel as a pad. I stole glances at him, trying to be discreet. He was long-limbed, with a flat belly and big feet. His hands were large too. He raised his knees, resting his forearms on them, displaying tufts of armpit hair (also gray). I sprang a boner, just looking.
The woman laid a hand on the man’s arm. They smiled at each other, and I thought: It’ll always be this way, won’t it? The ladies get the dream Daddies every time.
On weekends, when classes did not meet, I found myself with excess free time. I thought, You can’t study sixteen hours a day, Bradley. Find something to do.
I had an interest in architecture, and I learned of two Miami neighborhoods, Coral Gables and Coconut Grove, reputedly special. I visited the school library and studied local construction styles. Then, Saturday mornings, I began boarding Dade County buses to visit these areas. I strolled the sidewalks, taking photos with my digital camera. In my backpack, I carried a pad and pencils, and sometimes I’d sit in a shady spot and sketch homes or churches or trees I liked.
Coral Gables houses were mostly Mediterranean-style—stuccoed dwellings with barrel-tile roofs and windows with fanlights. Lawns were emerald, trimmed just so, banked with hibiscus, allamanda, and bottle brush trees, shaded by Malaysian coconut palms. The prevalent sounds were hisses from automatic sprinkler systems.
The Grove was more jungle-like, its homes eclectic and quirky, their yards disorganized. Streets were narrow and winding. Tropical birds cackled in banyan trees. Philodendron vines, their leaves big as breastplates, climbed up limbs of live oaks. Nearly every sidewalk was shaded, so that one walked through dappled sunlight, passing homes with cypress flitch siding and screened porches. Bungalows with limestone fireplaces stood beneath long leaf pines. I found tin-roofed structures called “dog trot cottages,” built in the nineteenth century. From my research, I knew that the town of Coconut Grove predated Miami’s incorporation.
Some weekends I spoke to no one other than convenience store clerks. My life was lonesome and I longed for companionship, but none came my way. So, I took my walks and studied buildings. I noted flora and fauna. Time passed.
I climbed the steps of Humberstone Hall, our university auditorium, on a Thursday evening. Mr. Peterman had insisted our class attend a lecture by a visiting professor, one Lance Beckett, a cleric and author of several books, both fiction and nonfiction. The following Monday, Peterman would expect written reports from the class, discussing Beckett’s presentation.
Only half the seats in the house were taken, and I chose a spot two rows from the stage. Fishing a notebook and writing pen from my backpack, I listened to the rumble of student conversations. Spotlights shone on the stage, where a podium with a microphone stood before a velour curtain and valance. A gaggle of faculty members conversed not far from me.
