Hot Daddies, page 14
“I like Hemingway’s stories but not his style. Updike is good and Chabon. I don’t know. I guess I’m looking for one of them to drill down into me and so far none has.”
“Keep looking.”
It’s the second glass of wine before we settle onto the sofa and I ask him about his boyfriend. Painful as this is, it remains my sole avenue and so I listen like the wise man he expects. My arm is on the sofa’s back, not quite reaching him.
As he relates a tumultuous coupling followed by abandonment followed by more coupling, he sorts out his own relationship, concluding once again that Jason is a shit. “But he’s got a big dick,” he adds with a wry chuckle, “and god he can fuck.”
“I suppose you have to decide, then, what it is you want. Love or fucking.”
“Can’t I have both?”
“Not always.”
“Have you had that?” he asks with genuine curiosity. I look into his eyes, grateful that he wants to know anything about me at all.
“Yes, I was very much loved in a twenty-six-year relationship. He was older and died four years ago. I miss him to this day.”
“Tell me about him,” Harley says, taking more wine. “I need to hear something good about a man.” And so I bring Carl to life for us, sharing the sex and the love, the mishaps and the joys, and during this Harley scoots in, working himself into the crook of my arm. And as I relate some of Carl’s wisdom, I unzip the boy’s pants and free his stiff cock. I smear his juice down the shaft and fondle him until he utters a “please,” then lies back. I bend to take him into my mouth and as I suck the come from him, I know I’m at the precipice all over again, my life in these young hands. Maybe he will remain, I think, as I taste his spunk.
IMAGINATION MORPHS INTO REALITY
Doug Harrison
The tropical noonday sun forced its way through my closed eyelids. Or was it intuition that woke me from a dreamy slumber to scan the Hawaiian surf? No matter. I raised myself on my elbows, conscious of my eager hard-on straining painfully against the metal and leather confines of my cock cage—deliciously decadent on a family beach. He was standing waist deep in shimmering, sea-green water, staring at me. I grinned, he smiled. He was too far away for me to scrutinize his facial features, but I sensed he was handsome. And what a body, at least the upper half: broad shoulders, very broad indeed; wellsculpted biceps; a strong chest and clearly defined pecs whose cleavage pointed to classic washboard abs. I’d read that women are most attracted to great abs. If so, he could have any woman on the beach.
But he was still staring at me. Me! He reached under the water and appeared to adjust his swimsuit. Board shorts? Trunks? Speedos? A bikini? A thong? He answered my query by turning, jumping and diving into an oncoming wave. What a butt! At least from a distance. Not a bubblebutt, but solid muscle held prisoner by a white bikini. He disappeared for a few disappointing but teasing seconds and popped up in a quiet trough beyond the breaking waves. Then, with powerful strokes, he swam in my direction, parallel to the shore. Again he stood, now nipple deep. His smile broadened, if such were possible, and he dove into the tumbling surf. He emerged facing me directly, foaming water surging about his knees. He shook shimmering droplets from his light brown hair and torso, which was covered with a fine coat of brown wisps. Not overly hairy, mind you, but just enough to accentuate his masculinity, strong but gentle. A gold ring swung from each nipple. His left earlobe sported a similar ring.
Online ads for white and yellow racing bikinis often carry the warning that such apparel becomes transparent when wet, an enticement to buy a jock, perhaps, but certainly not for the shy. My Adonis was anything but that. The suit clung to him like a second skin. His long dick stretched from his pelvic bone almost to his hip, leaving no doubt whatsoever that he was circumcised. Two drawstrings fell over the edge of the suit, and their ends curled around the base of his balls, which were tightly cupped by the pouch’s lower contours. They were large, at least in my book, and they hadn’t contracted much, if at all. I stared. What’s a boy to do?
I fantasized kneeling in front of him, sliding his suit over his hairy legs—he steps out of it, his dick springs to attention, my mouth closes over his balls, perhaps urging them all the way in with my hands if necessary; slack jaw and pursed lips are a staple of my repertoire. And then teasing his balls with my tongue and a slight tug of my head while running my fingers over his dick prior to stroking it. And, finally, oh, yes, taking that dick in my mouth, grabbing his hips, pulling him into me, all the way in, burying my nose in his crotch fur.
My cock pulsed and ached, testing the limits of my cock cage.
He strode toward me, his pace a delicate and perhaps deliberate balance between eager jog and contained lope. I sat up. My butt plug provided a gentle but insistent reminder of its presence. He halted at the edge of our large rainbow blanket and scrutinized me, hands across his chest, his dick also throbbing. I guess I looked embarrassed, but hopeful. What, me a tease? What would Daddy think?
My visitor relaxed with his hands behind his back, probably resting on his gorgeous butt. His posture reminded me of a hunk leaning against a lamppost, but there was no pole to support him, just firm muscle. He slid into a seductive pose from which the slightly concave curvature of his torso emerged. I’d heard that some guys have eight-packs, but I was more than grateful to worship the six-pack hunk appraising me. A furrow ran from his pecs to his navel, bisecting his torso, and heightened his abs. I puffed out my chest.
“Aloha, I’m Craig.” His voice was a perfect fit to a perfect body, a resonant baritone, secure in cadence and measured in tone. He knelt on his haunches and held out his hand. I didn’t hesitate, drawn by his humongous biceps, and reached over to him, expecting a bone-crunching grasp, but was rewarded with a firm yet tender, almost enticing grip. Was I reading too much into this encounter? Well, he did approach me. Now what to do? I felt like a fisherman who had snagged a marlin almost too large for his small boat. Craig was about ten years older than my twenty-five. Let him take the lead.
This aloha business still felt strange, but I went for it anyway. “Aloha, I’m Jim,” I replied, and smiled. I breathed deeply and drifted into his salt-water aroma. He wasn’t trailing seaweed, but he sure did smell like the ocean, with a hint of sweet brine, a fragrance. I longed to lick him dry, linger at the pleats of his chest muscles, lick his pits and burrow between his asscheeks. My mind conjured an image of him staked out on the hot sand, four limbs pulled taut, struggling, straining, his dick pointing to the heavens as I stroked myself into a glorious release.…
“Boy Jim, I gather,” Craig said, looking at my glistening collar of polished stainless steel links secured by a padlock. I nodded.
Craig glanced at the torso-shaped indent in our blanket. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Taking a leak.”
“He’s got himself one hell of a good-looking boy. Cute, and a great body.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re a few inches shorter than me, and wiry like a male model—not the beefy Charles Atlas type, more like someone from Physique Pictorial. Where did those muscles come from?”
“I’m a gymnast.”
“I could have guessed. With a little weight lifting thrown in to keep in tone?”
“Yep.”
“Like bench presses, flys, pullovers.”
“Yep.”
Craig waited.
“And a few more,” I offered with a shrug. “Curls, raises, and crunches and sit-ups. And yoga to keep limber.”
I paused, then added, “Looks like you’ve been through the drill.”
“Yeah, but you’re something else. Wish I had my camera.”
I blushed, although my flush probably didn’t show through my freckles and ruddy skin. My father was a redhead, and I carried on the family tradition, although my hair was closely cropped into a crew cut, unlike the few strands Dad combed and carefully, indeed artistically, draped over his forehead. My time would come, but, for now, I’d make the most of my good looks.
Craig looked over my shoulder.
“Putting the make on my boy?” I heard Daddy ask. I couldn’t see if he wore a frown or a smirk.
“Just getting acquainted,” Craig answered, standing to his full height, which about matched Daddy’s six-one.
“So I see,” Daddy said, glancing at Craig’s crotch. He pushed his hand forward.
The two men shook, and Craig winced. Daddy left no doubt as to who was in charge, but tempered his authority with an invitation.
“I’m Glen,” Daddy said, and added, “pull up your towel.”
“I’m Craig. Yeah, I’d like to.” He glanced at me, turned and jogged off.
Daddy put his hands on his hips and stared down at me. Great bod, but far, far too much was hidden by his baggy blue nylon surfer board shorts. And good grief—he wouldn’t know which end of a surfboard to push into the water. He’s an engineer and could quickly figure it out. But mounting it? Ha!
“So, my boy’s been flirting, huh?” Daddy asked as he cuffed my shoulder.
“Well…er…I…uh, well, he came over here. Sir!”
“With an encouraging come-hither look from you?”
I counted my toes.
“It’s okay, boy. If you’re gonna fish, catch a good one. And you did.” He plopped down and stretched out beside me. I lay back and snuck a quick peek at my chest and stomach, which looked exceptionally delineated at this sharp angle. Daddy put his forearm under my neck and pulled himself closer to me. Goose bumps erupted as his torso slid along mine, despite his shorts. He tugged on my collar. “Whatever happens, you’re my boy—you know that—but occasionally I like to share.” He paused. “With the right person.”
Jesus, I thought, so now I’m a boy toy. Well, I still have one aperture unplugged. I licked my lips.
Daddy closed his eyes. I admired his body for the umpteenth time. My Daddy! Fuck! Holy fuck! Bristles of black hair pushed through his shaved torso; he still modeled and “acted” in porn videos, even at his age. He delighted in my giggles whenever he lowered himself onto my body and playfully slithered his scratchy chest over mine before fucking me hard. Like Craig, he had great abs, and his muscles stood out in a heavy basrelief: three horizontal lines cut across his trunk, announcing a six-pack from hell and accentuating his obliques. He wore his thick black hair on the longish side, and I loved to see him shake his head as he peered through uncooperative strands when he procrastinated over a much-needed hair cut. Square jaw, Aquiline nose. A five o’clock shadow that appeared about three p.m. Long legs firm from years of running, mostly track and around our flat town, not much hill work—which was obvious from his great calves, but his thighs needed gym persuasion.
We’re both athletic, although we focus on different activities. And we’re pretty well matched otherwise—sharp technical minds; we both joke a lot, are partial to puns but tend to be deep thinkers. Our coffee table and bedside tables are piled with scientific mags and journals, and, I must admit, sci-fi, adventure, and spy novels. The trait we have most in common is the love we have for each other, a spiritual marriage I can feel but not explain, a match of beautiful bodies and beautiful minds.
Craig approached with a white beach towel draped over his shoulder. Daddy motioned him to the far side of the blanket. Craig positioned his towel contiguous to Daddy’s side of the blanket and stretched out. Two hard-ons out of three wasn’t bad, and just maybe there was a third one under those damn board shorts.
“So, where are you from?” Daddy asked Craig.
“Born and raised in upper state New York. Good place to leave behind. I prefer warm weather, so I made my way to California.”
“And your line of work,” Daddy pressed on, “if I may ask?”
“Oh, sure, I’m a personal fitness coach and a masseur. Have a space here in Kona where I see clients, some on a regular basis, some vacationers. Also go to other islands, Kauai and Maui, once a month.”
“So that’s why you’re so buffed.”
“Yeah, I have to set a good example—can’t be a chef who won’t sample his own creations.”
Daddy raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.
“Yeah,” Craig offered, “sometimes I give more than a massage.”
“What’s your client base?”
“Oh, the cross section is pretty even—young, old, men and women.”
Daddy raised himself to a sitting position. “And which side of the pond do you fish in?”
Craig threw his head back and laughed. “Both sides.”
Daddy relaxed with his arms underneath his head.
“So, what’s your line of work?” Craig asked as he scanned Daddy’s body.
“Engineer, somewhat specialized.” His eyes locked onto Craig’s and they swam in each other’s gaze. “I pull a few hours from a hectic Silicon Valley schedule to make it to the gym with forays to the track, especially on weekends—I enjoy long, solitary runs.” Daddy smiled and Craig threw him a thumbs-up.
I scowled.
Just then two girls, or should I say young ladies, sauntered by. They weren’t the Playboy Bunny type, but close enough. They wore matching orange string bikinis, covering their crotches but not their butts. Not too bad for a woman. Their halter thingies covered their nipples, but just barely. Craig watched them closely, but Daddy couldn’t care less. They were gym toned, with small but well-defined biceps, a smattering of ab development, and firm thighs, and probably entered physique contests. What was going on? A freakin’ convention? A nearby body building competition? Well, I guess the well-heeled pot-bellied, bald business execs and their overweight, bejeweled wives with beehive hairdos claimed some other portion of the beach—like unto like. The Amazons looked toward us, giggled, linked arms and ran into the water.
“Are we supposed to follow?” Daddy teased.
“You won’t keep up with them in those balloon pants,” I snapped.
“All right, wise-ass,” Daddy said, and stood. He untied his drawstring with a fluid motion. Then he teased his long Velcro fly open, reveling in the staccato crackle he orchestrated. Finally, ever so slowly, he lowered his shorts. The top of a black Speedo appeared. Next the crotch. Then his knees.
“Go haole, go!” A cluster of Hawaiian teenage boys hooted and threw Daddy a shaka.
He lowered his clown pants to the ground, stepped out and tossed them onto our pile of clothes.
“Satisfied?” he beamed.
My “Yes, Sir!” and Craig’s “Yeah!” were an impromptu offkey duet.
Daddy did a half turn and faced the boys, arms akimbo.
“You’re a walking gym ad,” one shouted.
“Mahalo,” Daddy answered, and turned back to us.
Daddy hadn’t shaved his legs—his last “appearance” didn’t require it—and his leg fur turned me on, as usual. A tuft of black hair rose from the rear of his suit, reaching for the small of his back.
He kicked my leg. “Roll over,” he ordered, “it’s your turn.”
“Daddiee,” I whined.
“No arguments,” he said. “Do it now.”
I complied. Slowly. Craig raised himself onto his elbow. “Good goddamn, he’s wearing a thong.”
My entire body blushed.
“What a motherfuckin’ bubblebutt,” Craig said. “And stripes! A great caning job—well spaced and even on both sides. More surprises in this little family.”
Daddy swatted both my cheeks with his palms, and none too gently.
“Yeouch,” I yelled, and jumped into a crouch.
“I see the outlines of a butt plug,” Craig announced.
“Yep,” said Daddy. “He takes a medium thong and a large butt plug. Hard to dress.”
“Jesus Christ!” I pounded my fists into the blanket.
“He loves the attention,” Craig hooted.
“You’ve got his number,” Daddy shot back.
“I’d like to get something else from him,” Craig said. I turned my head to catch his wink. Almost threw my neck out of joint. Hard work, this being a boy toy.
“His body really turns me on: those wide, defined, V-shaped trapezius muscles… like a stingray,” he snickered, and droned on, theatrically, “the narrow hips, the ass from hell, enough to drive any man crazy. Great legs, too. I love the light blond fuzz.”
“Don’t pop your britches,” Daddy guffawed.
“I’ve already stained them—I’m a dribbler. Particularly with a live centerfold.”
That did it! I hopped to my feet.
“I’m not a freakin’ object,” I yelled with clenched fists.
“No, an objet d’art,” Craig said with soothing tones. “I’ve never seen such physical perfection in a boy. And a sharp mind to boot, I’ll venture.”
“Mais oui,” Daddy nodded with a mischievous smirk. “That’s why I corralled him. A smart, frisky colt.”
Oh, god, I was really feeling the cage now. My engorged cock ached against its leather and metal confines. I rubbed my crotch.
Daddy swatted my hand, pulled Craig toward him, and forced us into a tight circle.
“Lower your thong, boy,” he ordered.
“Daddy, pleeez!” I whinnied.
“Just the front. No one will notice.”
Craig put his arms over my shoulders and peered at my crotch.
“We’re waiting,” Daddy said.
I looked around. No one was watching. The boys had left. The two girls were off in Lesbo Land somewhere, I guessed. So I did it. My cock sprang up to my belly, cage and all, and landed with a thwap. My dickhead, covered with precum, strained and pulsed against the cage’s cylindrical tip. We all three stared at it.
“Clean yourself, boy,” Daddy ordered, and I caught Craig’s leer. I stuck my index finger into the end of my penis prison and swiped the tip of my cock. I hesitated. Where to wipe my finger? Daddy solved my conundrum.
“Lick it clean!”
Well, it’s not like I hadn’t done this before. My finger flew in and out of my mouth at record speed, and then my hand disappeared behind my back.
