Daddies, page 15
I nodded. Words tumbled from my lips. “I’m a slut. I love a stiff cock in my mouth. Up my hole, too. The more often the better.” Why mince words?
He lowered a hand to my asscheek and squeezed. “Let’s heat up your buttocks, shall we?”
I bobbed my chin. My heart chugged.
Lance seized the leather strap. He stepped behind me and rubbed it against my bottom. He swung hard, swatting my buns, and the sound of the smack bounced off the walls like a pistol shot. I felt a searing pain, as though he’d pressed a hot iron to my flesh, and I nearly cried out. He struck again and again, always in a different spot, fifteen times at least. My skin was soon afire, and I flinched each time Lance whipped me, but I didn’t remove my hands from behind my neck. I kept still, sucking air through my clenched teeth, eyes leaking tears, while the blows echoed in the room.
When he’d finished, Lance took my arm. Turning my rear to the mirrored wall, he said, “Look over your shoulder.”
I stole a glance. My butt looked like a pair of ripe strawberries.
He patted my ass. “A boy needs his rump punished before he tends to a man. Don’t you agree?”
I nodded again. This guy was a dominant like Russell Shropshire. Who was I to argue?
“Kneel before me,” Lance said, “and open my pants.”
I did as he commanded, excited by the hum of his zipper. His cock bulged inside his jeans. I pressed my lips to it, licking denim while Lance ran his hands through my hair. I looked up at him with my eyebrows raised. “May I?”
He nodded. I lowered his jeans to mid-thigh. He wore no undershorts and his genitals exploded into view, a thick-shafted cock with a bullet-shaped head, eight inches maybe, and a pair of low-hanging nuts. A crescent of gray pubic hair. The heady odor of crotch sweat. I couldn’t help myself. I wept anew. At last, a daddy for Bradley.
I got to work, sucking and licking, taking Lance’s entire cock down my throat the way Russ had taught me, using plenty of tongue on the underside of the shaft, kneading Lance’s ball sac, tickling the tender area behind. He continued to comb my hair with his fingers; he played with my ears, tugging at them while I slurped away, contented as a child in a toy store. This went on for ten minutes or so, till Lance seized a handful of my hair, just above my forehead. He pulled my face from between his thighs, saying, “Enough for now.”
I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored wall. My lips and chin gleamed with my own spit. My hair was tangled, my cheeks flushed. Lance peeled off his jeans and tossed them aside. His cock wagged before him. He seized my forearm and took me to his bed, instructing me to lie on my back and raise my knees till they touched my shoulders, so my anus was exposed. He looked at me with a smile. Resting one hand on the back of my thigh, he stroked my reddened buttocks with his other. “Feel good?” he asked.
I nodded.
He nudged my hole with a fingertip. “When was your last time?”
I answered straight-faced. “Seven months, eleven days.”
Lance chuckled, keeping his eyes on mine. “You’ll have to earn sex from me. You must do so every time”
I nodded. “Tell me how.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he seized the bottle of lubricant, flipping it open and pouring a glob onto my anus and then another onto his middle finger. Kneeling beside me, he brought his finger to my hole. He applied pressure and my sphincter gave way. His finger bored into me, the knuckle stretching my anal ring, and I squirmed on the mattress while Lance worked his digit in and out, getting me loose. He was in no rush, adding a second finger after a few minutes. I didn’t mind; it was good to have any part of him inside me.
Perhaps five minutes passed before he withdrew his fingers. He wiped them on my chest, and then pinched my nipple between his thumb and index finger as he spoke.
“Ever been plugged?”
I nodded, keeping my legs hiked. “I own a dildo, though it’s not as big as yours.”
He switched nipples, pinching. “Oscar is rather…demanding, but you’ll come to appreciate him in time.” That’s right, Lance’s plug has a nickname. Kinky, eh?
I nodded. “Of course.”
Oscar was a taskmaster indeed. I cried out when it entered me. Pain coursed through my abdomen and I broke into a sweat. I chewed my lower lip while Lance drove the plug forward, a little at a time, stretching me open till the thickest part of Oscar entered me and my sphincter seized the plug’s slender neck, leaving only its handle protruding, a dime-sized disc resting flat against my hole. I felt a fullness down below, as if I needed to shit, and when I mentioned this, Lance said, “Your discomfort—this humiliation—is part of my controlling you. You will often wear Oscar when we’re together, sometimes in public, beneath your clothing. In time, you’ll ask permission to borrow him for pool visits or for classroom attendance.”
My cock throbbed when Lance told me this. A drop of precome fell from my glans and onto my belly. He understands my need to be owned. He’s got two distinct personalities: one brilliant and sensitive, the other savage and domineering. I like both.
Again, Lance reached for the strap. “Let’s make sure you don’t sit comfortably for a day or two, eh?”
I closed my eyes and bobbed my chin. My legs trembled from the strain of holding them aloft.
He lashed the backs of my thighs, several times in quick succession, inflicting fresh stripes of pain. The pops sounded like firecrackers igniting. He whipped my buttocks anew and I cried out, grinding my hips into the mattress, squirming every time leather kissed my skin. Oscar’s tormenting presence, together with the beating, drove me into frenzy and I cried out. My ass and thighs flamed. How much could I take?
As much as I hated the sting of the swats, I made no attempt to escape them. Instead I danced with the strap, arching my back to meet each blow. I sweated, while whimpers shook my throat. Oh, Daddy, treat me as rough as you want. I’ll submit every time. I am yours.
The whipping lasted several minutes. When Lance finally allowed me to lower my legs to the mattress, when he kissed my cheek and told me I was a sexy boy, I felt a sense of loss from the beating’s cessation. I lay on sweat-soaked sheets, chest heaving, savoring my burning backside while my anus gripped Oscar’s neck. How kind of Lance to control me, to punish me so skillfully. What a generous Daddy he is.
Lance brushed damp bangs from my forehead; he kissed me there. He asked, “Enjoying yourself?”
I nodded.
“You’ve done well, Bradley. You’ve got courage and I like that.”
I blushed and smiled.
“As a reward, you may select the position we’ll use for tonight’s intercourse.”
Swallowing hard, I looked away and didn’t say anything.
Lance whispered, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I looked back at him. “You should make our decisions when we’re alone—all of them.”
He closed his eyes and bobbed his chin. “I’ll do that from now on.”
I seized his hand and kissed his knuckles.
After removing Oscar—I yelped—Lance had me lie upon my stomach, legs spread, face in the pillow, hands resting at my ears, elbows jutting.
Lance walked to the bathroom. His stiff dick bobbed and his buns twitched when his weight shifted from leg to leg. He returned with a lubricated condom, which he slipped over his cock. Climbing onto the bed upon his knees, he positioned himself between my thighs. When he gripped my punished buttocks and spread them, jolts of pain erupted below my waist. I drew breath through my clenched teeth, shifting my hips on the bed.
The condom’s coldness raised goose bumps on my flesh. It tickled my hole at first; then the bulbous head of Lance’s dick pried me open, stretching me as Oscar had, making me wince. Lance groaned as he bore into me. His furry chest met my shoulder blades and my anus went into spasms, flexing against the base of Lance’s cock. He brought his lips to my ear, whispering, “Your hole’s nice and tight, Bradley.”
He instructed me to raise my hips, so he could reach around and seize my cock. His fingers dipped into a pearl of precome that dangled from the head of my dick. He spread the sticky liquid around my shaft. He stroked my swollen member. His hips smacked against my seared bottom. His cock worked in and out, poking my prostate, sending shockwaves, making my spine tingle. The blend of pain and pleasure was shamelessly exquisite.
I’m Lance’s possession now, his whipping boy. His fuck-hole.
When he came, his cock throbbed and his come jetted inside the condom. His hand pumped my cock while he sank his teeth into the back of my neck. I cried out—a hoarse shout of ecstasy. My voice bounced off the walls. My cock pulsed in Lance’s grip, and I sprayed the sheets with my sticky seed.
Collapsing on the mattress, I gulped air while my heart pumped. I stared at the headboard, lungs heaving, feeling the weight of Lance’s lithe upper body on mine. His fierce nip left my neck—I’d have a bruise there in a half-hour—then he kissed my shoulders. We lay in silence, breathing hard.
“Happy?” he whispered.
I bobbed my chin but didn’t speak. I smiled.
“Want me to pull out?”
I shook my head. No way, Daddy. Stay inside me forever.
Durham’s a nice town. I adore Duke University’s campus with its Gothic buildings and leafy terrain. With Lance’s help, it wasn’t hard for me to transfer from Miami. We share his home, a 1920s two-story bungalow with a brick fireplace and heart-pine floors, five blocks from school. For my birthday, Lance bought me a puppy, a chocolate Labrador I named Simon.
Am I happy?
Well, yeah. Kids at Duke are worldly, more tolerant than those in Miami, and my professors inspire me. I have my dog, my books, and some flower boxes. I have my Daddy. Yum-m-m.
Lance was right about Oscar. The plug and I are close companions; he goes with me many places.
This term I’m taking a public speaking class; it’ll get me ready for the pulpit. One evening last week, in Goodson Chapel, I delivered a fifteen-minute sermon before my classmates. I was unnerved, looking down at people in the pews, their eyes focused on me as if I possessed a wisdom they did not.
Lance attended, of course.
My chosen topic? THE IMPORTANCE OF EMPATHY IN CHRISTIAN LIFE. I dedicated the sermon, brief as it was, to Reverend Michael back home—and I sent him a copy. I said to my audience, “Don’t be so quick to judge others, especially those who might seem odd. Our Lord gave special attention to social outcasts. If He were here today, He might tell us, ‘Empathize with those who are different from you. Walk a mile in their moccasins.’”
I sweated as I spoke, certain I’d make mistakes. My voice quivered and my hands shook when I turned the pages of my notes. But Oscar rode inside me, a calming presence, a reminder that someone owned me, a Daddy who loved me very much.
Once in a while I’d clench my buttocks, giving Oscar a little squeeze, a thank-you, so to speak. I’d gaze at Lance and he’d smile at me and I’d smile back, bathed by the pulpit’s glorious spotlight.
BIRTHDAY BOY
Mike Bruno
I was old enough to be his father. I wasn’t necessarily proud of that, certainly wasn’t ashamed. It was just a fact, and let’s be serious: kind of a hot one.
We met on the beach. He hit on me, which was one of my favorite things about this new Daddy gig. At nineteen, I couldn’t have gotten attention from a guy like him if my nose had fallen off my face and into his soup. Now, at thirty-nine, I may be grayer and heavier, but I’m luckier than ever with the hot young jocks. They buy me drinks in bars and hit on me at Starbucks. I never really aspired to one day become a Daddy type, and at first was surprised, to be honest, to find myself perceived as one. But hey, I figure when life gives you lemons, if they’re twenty-one, gorgeous, and fit, you might as well suck ‘em.
I was just strolling down Ocean Beach that afternoon—wandering, really—with my flip-flops in one hand, coffee mug full of whiskey in the other, watching big surfers and little birds chase the waves, when he ran by. With long, effortless strides, he was practically flying down the beach, and I gave him the appraising glance I give all cute guys. He gave me the Hey Dude straight guy nod and ran on, so I continued on up the beach for a bit, threw a tennis ball for a mop-lookin’ dog, then turned to head home. I noticed that Hot Chocolate had turned, too, a few yards ahead of me, and was heading back. Excellent, I thought. We all know the only thing better than getting an opportunity to ogle a hot guy on the beach is getting to ogle him again.
I have never been particularly sly when cruising guys, I’ll admit, and in college had the black eyes to show for it. I was nevertheless surprised when the kid called out, still several strides away, “Hi again!”
“Hello.”
He made no effort to conceal his appreciative gaze. “Big love, man.”
I’m not fat, but I’m definitely thick. I’ve got more meat on my bones than a lot of guys my age, and to a lithe young gazelle in the prime of his prime, I’m sure I come off as huge. Whatever works. I smiled.
Not enough, it seemed. “Seriously, man. Big love.”
I pointed at him with the sandy flip-flops in my hand and looked him square in the eye. “Right back ‘atcha.”
He smiled—huge teeth like snow-white dominoes—and ran on. I stopped to appreciate the spectacle of his tight apple asscheeks bouncing down the beach. Without looking back, he held his arm high above his head and waved. Cocky little prick; I was hooked.
When it comes to drastically inappropriate boys, my taste runs toward the fair-haired, ruddy-cheeked, cornhusker type, but something about this African-American adonis stuck with me. In fact, the thought of his gleaming smile, roving eyes, and insistence on soliciting a response actually made me sticky that night, and again next morning in the shower. I purposely avoided the beach that afternoon to prove to myself that I wasn’t getting carried away with fantasies of a man half my age—although I thought of nothing else—but the afternoon after that I sat on the beach with my whiskey mug for two hours without spotting the assertive athlete. It wasn’t till a week later, when I was having trouble conjuring the details of his barely-glimpsed face, that we met again, this time in front of my house.
I had just finished mowing the lawn, shirtless and sweaty, and was coming back from putting the rickety old mower in the garage. The long dark silhouette strolling along the sidewalk made the small of my hairy back even sweatier. It could have been anyone, but the buzz in my crotch told me I’d recognize my runner as he got closer. I was Mr. Cool when he hollered, “Hey, Big Love!” and stopped to lean over my fence. Even five years ago I would have sucked in my gut and reached for my shirt, but I could tell by his face that the yardwork look was working for me, so I just met him at the fence.
“Well, look who’s in the neighborhood.”
“How you doin’, man? Hard at work, I see. This your house?”
“Sure is.”
“Nice.”
“Thanks. It’s home. You live around here too?”
“Good buddy of mine lives up on 48th and Noriega. We just went for a run, I’m finna go catch the N.” There was a slight sheen on his shoulders, exposed today along with his softballsized biceps by the white tank top that clung to his tight torso. In delicious contrast, clown-baggy basketball shorts hung off the half dome of his ass, hiding hardworking quads but revealing long, strong calves. An oversized, squared-off diamond stud sparkled in his left ear, but it was no match in color, clarity, or carat for his smile.
“You’ve just been running, do you want a glass of water?”
Shameless. He looked at my bulging crotch when he said, “Yeah, Daddy, I’d like that a lot.”
“Come on in,” I said, opening the gate but sticking to it so he’d have to slide right up against me to get by. He smelled of sweat and horndog. As I’m sure did I.
“Come on in,” I said again when I opened the front door. I gestured to the couch. “Make yourself at home. What can I get you? You want a beer? A Coke?”
“Water’s great, man, thanks.”
I slid off to the kitchen, where I wiped some of the stray grass blades off my chest and shoulders, poured a glass of water, and cracked myself a beer.
“Here you go—whoa.”
Was I ever this sure of myself? I would never have had his balls at his age around an older guy, that’s for sure. He stood beaming in the middle of my living room with his shirt off, his square pecs straining against his taut teak skin. He reached for the proffered glass of water with his left hand, not removing his right from inside his shorts.
“I been thinking about you, man, ever since I ran by you the other day,” he told me, casually yet deliberately toying with himself. “You’re even hotter without your shirt on.”
“I’d say the same about you,” I said.
“Glad you think so. I thought you were feelin’ me.”
Damn, I was ready to feel him. He didn’t have the gym body of the guys my age in the Castro. These muscles—long, firm, solid but pliant—came from being young, being active, being natural-born fine. The muscles in his forearms double-dutched across each other as he stroked himself. His rounded deltoids gleamed, his biceps bulged, his square pecs teetered above a whippet-narrow waist. The color of his smooth, cocoa-dusted skin was so similar to that of chocolate and espresso that it made my mouth water. This was a delicious-looking stud.
Watching him toy with his own dick made mine tingle, then stir, then beg for attention. It wanted out of my shorts, bad, and I was undoing the top button when his cell phone jangled. The pheromones were sucked out of the room as if someone had opened a window at thirty-five thousand feet. He yanked his hand from under his waistband and then dug in his pocket. He flipped open a tiny, next-generation phone and turned away from me. “Hello?”
A short, snarky conversation followed: “Nah, Moms, I’m out here at Petrovsky’s house, I told you that. I’m on my way to the N, I’ll be home in a few. What? Yeah, I’ll stop and get some. Soon, dang, Moms. Alright. Bye.” He flipped the phone shut with a smack and turned back around. “Dang, I can’t wait till I graduate. Next year I am so gone.”
