Hot Daddies, page 17
The other night when I logged onto this website, a guy—practically a kid, for god’s sake—IMed me hello. He was eighteen; his age was posted next to a shot of himself grinning like a blond banshee in front of a bathroom mirror. He looked like just another smug college student who’d coasted through high school without doing all of his homework. I was about to delete his hello so I could focus on a few emails when he typed, i heard about u.
What the fuck had he heard about me?
like what? I typed.
let’s meet
Who the fuck did he think he was? I decided not to answer.
u don’t like being called daddy, right?
Of course. I’d specified “no daddy chasers” in my profile. you got that right now leave me alone boy
i don’t like it when older guys call me boy
thats because you dont know whats good for you plus youre too young for me
u just proved what everyone said about u on here
What the hell was he trying to do, taunt me? I didn’t want any more of his game-playing. I’d wasted my time online trying to hook up for way too long. Still, I checked his profile. He was local—as in, my city. That’s a rarity. Most of the IMs I get are from guys in places that require a plane ride. It’s as if they use the Internet to say hello and disappear like the cockteasers that they are. what do they say about me?
lots of stuff like how u are a worldclass prick
who told you that?
lotta guys here say u won’t date anyone younger than urself
I grunted.
not exactly true i date guys around my age
I stared at the screen for a moment and resumed typing. what the fuck do you want?
let’s meet
why should i meet you if youre not answering my question???
meet me tmw nite at giorgios 6 pm i’m paying
With that he logged off.
The little fucker didn’t even give me a chance to turn him down. I looked at his picture again. He was wearing a white undershirt. There was some saying in Spanish—or Portuguese—tattooed on the underside of his forearm. He had a nose ring. His blond hair was probably dyed. He looked Hispanic, maybe Brazilian. I couldn’t tell; It was hard to judge with photographs taken with a cell phone. Maybe it was an old picture. Maybe he was older than eighteen. Either way, I wasn’t interested in barely legal guys.
I couldn’t sleep that night. It had been a long time since someone asked me out on a date. I’ve got a small stable of friends with benefits, but when they found young men going gaga over them, I didn’t get much action. Then it was just me and my left hand. It sucks, but that’s life. Also, it takes me a lot longer to shoot now. I used to shoot three or four times a day, easy.
Then after the AIDS crisis happened, guys my age started doing the relationship thing. I thought it ridiculous. Why did they want to emasculate themselves by emulating straight folks? Men were designed to spill their seed as often as possible. I preferred to live alone with my cat and my books. Sometimes I light up a cigar and let its smoke drift through my house. I’m up front about this in my profile: if you don’t like cigar smoke, stay away.
So who did this eighteen-year-old fuckwad think he was? He didn’t look like one of my students. But he had to know people on campus. I knew that when students registered for classes they compared notes, evaluating the propensity of professors to give easy grades. Most students took my course in world economics because they couldn’t get into the more popular classes. I’d have liked to have been a popular teacher, but it seemed that the older I got, the more students were slacking off with their studies. Someone had to give them a whack. My students hated me every time they showed up in class: a single absence cost them twenty-five percent of their grades. I didn’t care. Learning wasn’t supposed to be a popularity contest. And I knew I was on the right track when a few students returned after a semester or two away to tell me, “I learned more from you than anyone else here.” Students who pass my courses are the ones who do me proud.
I debated not showing up at Giorgio’s. It’s an upscale Italian restaurant that specializes in local and organic produce, not too far from my house. I had been there a few times, and it’s certainly not cheap. I was intrigued: an eighteen-year-old kid was asking me out to an expensive restaurant on his own dime? What the fuck was he trying to prove? Was he a hustler trying to scam me?
I checked my profile. Why had he singled me out?
I’m wearing glasses without style in my profile picture, and my salt-and-pepper beard is bushy, the better to hide my chin, which is practically nonexistent. The beard gives the lower half of my face some definition. People say I look good, so that’s good enough for me. I’m content to look like the academic I am, instead of trying to pretend I’m some kind of youngish studmuffin. There are plenty of those out there. I’ve got a bald pate that shines in the sun and, in Internet parlance, I’m six-three, two-hundred twenty, hairy chested and average, as in never work out.
I waltzed into Giorgio’s at six p.m., wearing a starched white shirt with a navy blue bow tie, pressed slacks and a tweed jacket. He needed to see that I was no spring chicken. He had to see that I was every inch a geezer so he could leave me alone. The restaurant was almost empty; the usual evening crowd hadn’t flowed in yet. The kid was sitting by the bar, drinking a glass of wine. To my surprise, he wasn’t wearing an embarrassing T-shirt-and-shorts getup: he sported a pin-striped suit with a vest and pocket watch and his black hair, no longer blond, was combed back, held in place by shiny mousse. No nose ring, either. He looked like a suave Italian from Francis Ford Coppola’s Godfather movies—except that he was clearly Hispanic. When he turned and saw me, he stood with an extended hand. “Professor Devane?”
“Yes.” I shook his hand and noticed his well-manicured nails. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name—”
“Rico Martinez.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Martinez.”
He beamed, and then nodded to the bartender.
I turned to the front door. A waiter had posted a sign: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY. I turned back. “What’s going on?”
“Dr. Devane, if you will.” The young man held up his hand and beckoned forth the wine list. “Everything’s on me tonight.” I barely noticed the waiter. The light from above seemed to turn the menu in my hand white-hot. I squinted just to read the text.
“Whatever it is you’re doing, stop right now. Please.”
“Why? Am I scaring you, Dr. Devane?”
“No. I don’t know what you want from me.”
“You.”
“Me? This old bag of a man?”
He broke into a grin. He had perfect teeth. Not a crooked incisor in sight.
“What’s so funny?”
“You sure you don’t remember me?”
“I teach many students. Year in, year out. I’m afraid you’ll have to refresh my memory. You don’t look eighteen.”
“I’m twenty-five now. Seven years ago you told me that I wasn’t fit for your class.”
“You’re not the only student I’ve said that to.”
“When you said that, it really hurt. You had no idea.”
I knew I should say something obligatory like, “I’m sorry.” But I still didn’t recognize him.
“I hated you. I hated everything about you. I hated the fact that I was letting a white older man tell me how I should feel about myself.”
“I would’ve been fine with you thinking of me as just another privileged white male asshole to knock in your quest for racial equality.”
He quietly smiled. “That’s the papi I’d fallen for.”
“Come again?”
“I’ve cum many, many times over you.” He glanced around before he discreetly gestured jacking off.
I was embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but I still don’t remember you.”
“Seven years ago I was in your class. It was the third week. I showed up stoned out of my mind. I giggled at everything you said. You threw me out with the line I’ll never forget: You’re not fit for my class. You wanna know why I had to get high before I went in your class? I was in love with you. I couldn’t just sit there at my desk and drool. Hell, I jacked off over you three times a day. Usually more. I wanted you so much.”
“But why me? You’re handsome. You should stick to guys your age. Make your life easier.”
“No,” he said softly. “You were what I really needed in my life.”
“This is making me feel mighty uncomfortable.”
“Dr. Devane, you changed my life for the better.”
“How?”
“That’s why we’re having dinner.”
And he recounted the story of his young life. His father was an abusive drunk; his mother, a druggie. His aunts rotated their care of him. Once he graduated from high school, he met a wealthy older man and became a kept boy. But he wasn’t happy with how the man treated him, or made drugs so readily available. Still, he paid for the teenager’s tuition. He enrolled and showed up in my class. He really liked how strict I was. No one had truly stood up to him, and that scared him more than anything. When he left my class that day, he decided to quit college altogether. No one stopped him from spiraling down even deeper into a morass of drugs and promiscuity. Then he caught sight of himself, scraggly and zonked out, in a store window, scaring himself into blubbering his story to his first AA group. They listened. They took him to a treatment center. It took a while, but he sobered up, realized he wasn’t an alcoholic and now had an occasional glass of wine with dinner.
By then his older lover had come down with pancreatic cancer. Tricks looted his house and disappeared. Rico was the only one who stayed with him through chemotherapy. They never discussed money, so he was surprised to learn, when the old man died, that he had willed him his entire estate. He paid someone to tutor him in how to carry himself better, how to shop for better clothes and how to appreciate the finer things in life. He enrolled in a university downstate and earned his degree in business administration and accounting. He invested his legacy wisely and was soon much more wealthy than even the old man had been. He now considered himself a fiscal conservative when it came to managing his own money.
“Seems you’ve learned something from my course. Good for you. So why are you telling me all this?”
“I never got the one thing that I always wanted, so when you gave it to this one girl in your class, I was so jealous. You just about killed me.”
“Just what did I give her?”
“You were so proud of her when you handed back her paper. She had the only A in the class. When I saw that look on your face, I knew what I was missing from my life. I’ve never had anyone proud of me.”
What could I say? I was overcome with emotion. I tried to find words, but I was speechless.
“You don’t have to say anything,” the young man murmured.
“No,” I finally said, “I must. I still don’t remember you, but I’m very proud of you. You knew what needed to be done, and you did it even if it wasn’t the easiest road to take. That’s what makes you a man.” I placed my hand on top of his and gave it a slight squeeze. “A real man.”
He looked at my hand, disbelieving, and turned to me with wide eyes. I chuckled.
“Seriously, you were the only reason I decided I had to do better. And seeing you tonight, I feel like a million bucks already.”
“And then some.”
He laughed. “Oh, you’re funny. I forgot that about you.”
I smiled.
He gripped my hand and kissed it. “I’ve wanted to do this from the first time I saw you.”
I lifted his chin and didn’t blink when I looked into his brown eyes. “Let’s fuck.”
Fifteen minutes later he was inside my foyer. His hands were all over me, but I gently set him back against the wall, next to the radiator. “Let me show you how proud I am of you.” I knelt before him and fished out his cock, erect and uncut, its folds a work of art. I swallowed him whole without effort. He gasped loudly as my tongue flickered under the shaft right next to where his balls began. My fingers caressed the sensitive space between his thighs and balls. His cock leaked precum down my gullet.
“Daddy—sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, sir.”
I slowly took his cock out of his mouth and looked up at him. “My boy, you can call me anything. Call me Dad if you want. I don’t care. I want to show you just how proud I am of you.” I went back to his sweet sheath of skin and flesh. God, it had been so long since I tasted such thick foreskin!
“Dad, Dad, oh, papi!”
I reached around his ass and pulled him toward me. The fabric of his slacks felt incredible. There’s something to be said for a high-quality weave.
He instinctively understood what I wanted.
He gripped the back of my head and thrust in and out of my mouth. His cock wasn’t too long; in fact, it was just the right size. I could breathe through my nose and not take my mouth off his cock.
“Papi, I’m fucking your mouth, it feels so good…Uh-unh!” He tried to pull out. “Dad, I’m gonna blow…”
I looked up with my sternest professor look. “If you shoot down my throat, you’ll make me a very happy papi. Got that, boy?”
“Sí, papi.” With that, he fucked my mouth with abandon. I kept up with him. “Papi, papi, papi…” His balls rose as I fondled them, my lips sealed tight. “Fuck fuck fuck!” he screamed as he volleyed thick gobs of semen down my throat. He didn’t let go of my head as he quivered and deposited even more cum over my tongue. He sighed loudly when I licked cum from inside the folds of his foreskin and around his glans. I didn’t swallow. He looked down at me with a far-off look.
I stood up. “What’s wrong, my boy?”
“I can’t explain.”
I pulled him close and rubbed his back. It was strange to have someone sob in my arms. I didn’t know what else I was feeling in that moment, but I was uncomfortable. I had spent my life fucking and sucking whomever I wanted, and I never had to hug anyone afterward. I’ve had a few guys express feelings for me, but I wasn’t interested in dealing with lovey-dovey shit. But this boy—well, he was different. I had inspired him to change his life beyond textbooks. That was a novelty for me.
I kissed him on the forehead.
“Thank you, papi,” he said. “You can fuck me if you want.”
“Hey. You sound like a dejected student. I don’t want to hear that kind of shit coming out of your mouth. From now on, if you want to be fucked, it’s because you enjoy being fucked. If you don’t like being fucked, it’s fine too. You’re not a kept boy. I can’t afford you, and no, I don’t want your money. If I want you, it’s because you’re a fucking hot boy with a killer smile.”
He flashed his irresistible teeth and lit up.
“Such a hot boy.” I took his face close to mine, and stuck out my tongue. He licked the remnants of his cum off and then fed it back to me.
“Open your mouth.” I spat his cum back into his mouth.
“Fuck.”
I opened my mouth as wide as I could.
He spat his cum, diluted with our spit, back into my mouth. I swallowed, wrapped my arms around him and zeroed in on his luscious lips. Our tongues wrestled and our hands roamed. He had a gym-worthy body; the firm mounds of his pectorals had told me that much. Did he know just how fucking lucky I was to have him?
“Please.”
I looked down to his fingers fumbling with the shirt buttons underneath my bow tie. “What?”
“I wanna see your chest.”
I unsnapped my tie and unbuttoned to reveal my white undershirt.
“Fuck,” he whispered as he caressed its fabric. “I always wanted to touch you like this.”
“You can touch me anywhere you want, boy.” I pulled the shirt off and pulled his face to my chest. “Suck your Daddy’s tit.”
He licked tentatively at first.
“You can nibble.”
He bit almost too hard.
“Ow!”
“Sorry.” He looked up at me with a great concern.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re doing great.” Then I thought about what he wanted to hear the most, and said it: “Son.” It was such a pervy thing to say, to my mind, but men don’t always have control over what makes their cocks hard. Was it his fault that he was into the Daddy-son thing? He never had a proper father figure in his life.
He stopped licking my tit.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, no.” He took off his suit jacket, pulled down his trousers and boxers, turned around and bent over. “Fuck me, Dad.”
“You deserve better than just a fuck, son.” I knelt and parted his lusciously smooth cheeks. He had the darkest hole of musk, and I licked all over its trench before I penetrated his puckered hole with my erect tongue. He groaned, appearing to be aroused beyond belief. I’d never felt so happy, teasing and torturing the voracious hole of the boy suddenly, surprisingly, in my life—because that’s what he’d truly wanted. Sometimes you just have to give.
As he carried on in his near-incoherence, I unzipped myself.
“Lube’s in my jacket.”
I chuckled. “All right, son.” I bent over and found a tiny vial of lube and a condom in a pocket. Both were high quality, of course. “Let me get this on.”
“I can do that for you—”
“No. Next time. Later tonight. You’re gonna shoot three times tonight.”
