Hot Daddies, page 3
Steve shut off the engine, locked the car and walked over to the edge of the yard.
“Good ev’ning, ladies,” he drawled.
The two women looked at him with small, angry eyes.
He stood with his hands on his hips, loose and unwilling to be troubled by the gathering storm. He tried again. “Mrs. Alexander, are those some of your amazing lemon squares I see there?”
They stared at him in shared silence.
“Who is she?” Penny asked.
“There is no she,” he said.
“There have always been shes, Steve. Dozens of them…since long before we got married.”
“Please don’t start this again, Penny. There has been nobody but you for five goddamned years—”
“You’ve got dried cum on your shirt,” Penny said. “Did that slut wipe her mouth on it after she went down on you?”
He looked down at the smeared galaxy of silvery speckles on the blue fabric of his shirt riding just above his right hip. He saw the ring on his finger, interlocking circles glinting in the porch light. He knew they had passed the point of no return. A new age was upon him.
“I want a divorce,” he said without looking up.
DADDY DRADEN
Jeff Mann
for Master JW
I’m awake at first light, dim dawn in my little nest. It’s chilly down here in Daddy Draden’s basement den, but the blanket I snuggle in is velvety and warm. My coziness is deepened by the sound of rain—the first hard September rain drenching Roanoke, pattering on the basement’s window—and by these bonds Dad has tied good and snug around my ankles and wrists. He’s real handy at making comfortable cuffs out of cotton rope.
I roll onto my side, curl against the couch cushions, think of Dad and get hard. Normally, I’d just lie here till he let me loose, but this morning I aim to be bold. Last night, after two months apart, I was so excited to be with him that I came too fast. I shot as soon as he commenced to chew my nips, so the lengthy play we’d planned never came to pass; we were both disappointed. I’m hoping Dad won’t mind if I take the initiative for once. Rubbing my dick, I gather my courage and then start picking at the wrist-knots with my teeth.
Pretty soon my hands are free and then my feet. I piss in the plastic bucket Dad left by the couch. Then I ready myself, hoping like hell that he won’t be angry if I rouse him this early, hoping that he’ll find it hot, what I got planned.
His briefs first: I don’t get to see Dad very often—five or six times a year, when my partner Bob’s out of town—so Dad saves his cum for me, jacking off in the same pair of briefs for weeks. These here on the floor are stained a dull brown. Their reek’s rich, aged like fine wine. I ball them up and stuff them in my mouth. For a moment I close my eyes and savor the smell and taste; I picture Dad humping his hand, dumping all those yummy loads into these few inches of cloth. Then I take the roll of duct tape off the bookshelf. I plaster the tape over my lips, securing the briefs in place; I wrap the tape around my head and over my mouth again and again, five or six feet worth, good and tight, before ripping the end off. Rope next: I tie the base of my cock and balls real tight, and then the base of my balls, and then the base of my cock. My dick rears up, straining, a shaft of tight brown satin.
Prepared, I head upstairs. I’m just vain and insecure enough to slip into the hallway bathroom to check myself in the mirror. Ain’t too bad, got to admit. Yep, Dad should like this. He keeps telling me I’m just his type. I stand there for a full minute, staring at myself, jacking my cock.
I’m twenty-six. My hair’s a black buzz cut, widow’s peak already beginning. On the sides, my beard’s trimmed real close, but on my chin it thickens into a wiry black bush a good four inches long, like a Confederate soldier’s or a Hell’s Angel’s, springing beneath the layered silver-gray tape like a dark waterfall. I’m only five foot six, stocky, pretty well muscled, with a chunky set of tits and a round little bit of belly, and I’m the hairiest guy I know. King Kong ain’t got nothing on me. I used to be self-conscious about it, but I’ve met enough appreciative guys to be proud of my cub-pelt, the black mat that covers my chest, belly and crotch like dense moss, that caps my shoulders, dusts my back and coats my thick thighs. “Black as a country night,” Dad always says. I jack myself a little more—got to admit my own looks turn me on, especially with my mouth taped shut and my cock roped up—and then I turn, checking out my chunky round butt, equally dark with fur. I reach behind me, spread my cheeks and feel cool air on my hole. I finger myself a little, hoping like hell that Dad will fuck me later.
At Dad’s bedroom door, I knock softly. “Donnie?” I hear him say. “Come in.” I enter, stand by his bed. My cock bobs in its web of rope; I stroke it.
Dad looks up at me, rubbing his eyes. He’s so damn handsome—an older version of me, he’s often said, and that’s the biggest compliment he can give me. Dad’s thirty-eight. He’s got a burly body, a full black beard, a head of thick black hair going silvery at the temples. To my relief, he’s smiling rather than frowning.
“Uhhmmm?” That’s my well-taped way of saying, “Is this all right? You like this? Do I please you, Sir?”
I’ve been his part-time bottom for five years, so Dad understands even my grunts. “Yes, cub. Very hot.” He throws back the covers, and there’s his cock. We both watch as it rises to its full length and thickness. If I weren’t gagged so tight, I’d lick my lips.
When Dad beckons, I fall to my knees by the bed. I lay my head on his barrel chest, snuffle the fur there, black mingled with silver, like the hair on his head. “Come on in,” he says, running his fingers over my buzz cut. Now that I have permission, I climb in beside him.
It’s so good to be in his bed. I love Bob and the life we’ve made—we’ve been together seven years, since undergrad days, lived together the last four, and it’s all good except for the sex, which is seldom and hardly ever kinky—but even when I’m with Bob, I’m always aching for Dad to truss me up and hold me all night. I’m a restless sleeper, though, and Dad’s a light sleeper, so always, after whatever rough play he gives me, he leads me to my basement nest, leaves a piss-bucket by the couch, ties me up and leaves me there till morning. Just once, I wish Dad would let me spend another night in his bed. As it is, guess I’ll have to settle for this, late-night and early-morning snuggle-fests, his big arms around me, his chest hair tickling my back, his beard brushing my ears.
“Sleep all right?” Dad’s fingers range between my pec-meat and cock, squeezing, stroking. I can feel his hard-on against my butt.
I nod. I’m so damn happy to be in his arms.
“I know it’s raining but…want to go to that Ren Faire today? I’ll bet I can find you that Viking drinking horn you’ve been wanting. There’ll be lots of vendors.”
“Uh-huh.” I snuggle closer. Dad’s fingers focus on my right nipple, tugging on the hair surrounding it, pinching it gently. He and I are both fantasy fans, SCA members, D&D players and comic-book nerds. Our talks are as much about the X-Men, evil sorcerers and jousting techniques as they are about daily events. The daily’s kind of like vanilla sex for us: boring, at least most of the time. Give us weird instead; give us intense extremes. I think Bob doesn’t mind lending me to Daddy Draden every so often just so he won’t have to hear me babble about swords, mutants, Tolkien and Dune. Not to mention ball-gags and duct tape.
“I bet you need hurt first,” Dad says. He takes my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His nails dig. The first wave of pain unfurls up my torso. “Ready for some hurt, Donnie-boy?”
“Uhh? Uhh?” I roll over, raising an eyebrow. In my expression is a request he’s come to expect.
Dad chuckles. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s so much better with rope, right?” I sit up, crossing my hands behind my back. He stands up, fetching cord from the floor.
“Ummmm.” I sigh with relief, feeling Dad loop, tighten and knot rope around my wrists. That free will the preachers back home are always ranting about: well, when I’m Dad’s captive, the burden of it disappears. Beneath the tape, around the bunched briefs, I smile, as Dad grabs another hank of rope and starts trussing my ankles. It’s so great to have a Top who understands my every kinky need, who loves me for those needs instead of condemning me for a freak, like the rest of the world. All my family and friends in Giles County, the guys at the gas station where I work, if they knew a mountain boy as butch as me—hell, I’m as much a lover of pickup trucks, buttermilk biscuits and bluegrass music as any of them—if they knew I loved to be tied up, tortured and ass-raped, they’d ride me out of town on a rail. Fuck, I’d probably end up a corpse in the county dump.
Satisfied that I ain’t going anywhere, Dad shoves me back onto the bed. I buck and kick, straining against my bonds, giving him the fight he relishes. “Keep still, you little redneck,” Dad orders. “You’re caught, boy. You’re my prisoner. No way you’re getting loose.” He sits on my thighs, gives my chest a few punches, then sinks his teeth into my right nipple. I shout into my mouthful of rank cloth; his fingernails dig into my left pec.
Since we get together so rarely, Dad likes to take his time when he tortures me, to savor my suffering. After half an hour my eyes are wet, my shouts have turned to whimpers and sobs, my gag’s sodden, and he’s growling like a werewolf, low in his throat, chewing one nipple and then the other, giving my flexed pecs more sharp punches, pushing a spit-wet finger up my asshole. It’s come down to agony, his teeth gnawing me raw, but I have no choice but to take it, and besides, I want to take it, I need to take it. I know Dad loves to top me because, unlike a lot of other bottoms he plays with, I can take a huge amount of abuse. I endure (albeit with a helluva lot of gagged noise) whatever he chooses to give me—flogging, tit-work, caning, cropping, whipping—for as long as he cares to continue. I’ve almost never begged him to stop; that’s my achievement, my point of pride. “My little warrior,” Dad calls me.
That’s one reason, I think, that he invites me back. That, and because he knows I really care about him. The “buddy” part of “fuckbuddy” is as important for both of us as the “fuck” part. Other boys, he says, some of them just come for the rough sex. Everybody knows he’s the best Top in southwest Virginia, so he has lots of bottoms clamoring to be used. But, according to Dad, half the time he’s the one who feels used. According to Dad, most of them make him feel like a human dildo.
My wrists and ankles are rope-chafed by now. Exhausted, I’ve stopped struggling; I’ve surrendered completely. I lie beneath him, thrusting my ass against his probing hand, my teeth sunk in the smelly gag, moaning softly as Dad, snarling, finger-fucks me and shreds my nips.
Now he straddles my chest. He’s so turned on that he pumps his dick for only a few minutes before his load spatters my face. Grinning, he rubs his cum over my tape-gag, into my beard, across my forehead. Then he rolls off me and takes my dick in his hand. I’m done in half a minute, squirting on my belly.
This might be my favorite part. Dad leaves my mouth taped, leaves me tied hand and foot; he rolls me onto my side, cuddles up against my back, and holds me. He fondles my cum-wet beard, my cum-wet belly hair. “You’re safe, boy,” he whispers. “I’ll take good care of you.”
I want to say, “I love you, Dad. Damn, you treat me good. If it weren’t for Bob and our history together, if you and me’d met first, I’d be your cub for always.” But I’m still gagged, so I can’t say anything, and besides, I know Dad’s lonely, real lonely, and I know he wants a full-time boy bad, and I know he’s been single for eight years, since he and his lost love Nate broke up and Nate moved to Texas, and I know he’s afraid he’s aging and may never find a permanent boy, and so, if I were to say what I want to say, it’d just be harder on both of us when I go home to Bob later this afternoon. Instead, I snuggle back against him and rub my taped mouth against his hand.
I guess closeness feels dangerous to both of us sometimes. Suddenly Dad sits up, breaking the charged silence. “I make you do bad things, don’t I, boy?” he says, loosening my wrist-knots. “That liquid-courage bottle of red wine you always bring along. The Chinese buffet last night, with all those fattening crab rangoons and egg rolls and General Tso’s chicken. And then BDSM. And now, guess what? Yes! How’d my boy like to hit Krispy Kreme for breakfast?”
I nod happily, giving an enthusiastic “Uhhhh-huh!” as Dad removes the ropes about my wrists and starts freeing my feet. Sometimes I wish I could be his slave, his boy, all the time. Other times I think the once-every-couple-months thing is best. I’m afraid if I were here all the time, I’d bore him. As it is, we spend our lives hungry for each other, and I guess that ain’t a bad way to live.
When I’m alone, and sometimes even when Bob and I are doing it—which ain’t too often these days—I think of Daddy Draden. I run through them, scene after scene over the last five years. Memories as hot as them never fail to get me off fast. Listen, man. I’ll tell you a few.
It’s snowing the night Draden and I meet face-to-face. I’m living alone, in that broken-down house on Airport Road; Bob’s still living in West Virginia, and we’re meeting on weekends. Bob knows how much I need kink and how much I need to bottom sometimes, so he tolerates it when I cruise leather and bear websites. I guess he figures if I can find someone trustworthy, he won’t have to bother with tying me up or topping me anymore. He just ain’t into it, since he’s pretty much a bottom himself, and I guess that’s all right—or it’ll have to be—since he treats me so good otherwise.
Anyway, Daddy Draden and I meet online, start chatting—he lives only an hour away—and one night our planning comes together, and I’m watching the clock, a little drunk on Jack, and the snow’s coming down, hard enough that I’m afraid he’ll cancel, but there’s the knock at the door I’ve been waiting for. And that’s how I see my Dad for the first time. I open the door and shiver; I’ve followed his orders and am wearing nothing but boxer shorts because they turn him on. He’s standing on the stoop in the snowfall. He’s dressed in black work boots, black jeans, black T-shirt, black leather biker jacket and biker’s cap. He looks down at me and grins—he’s a good foot taller than me. “Damn, boy, you’re even hairier than I thought!”
I look up into his dark eyes and grin back. “Good to meet you, Sir. I hope you like my fur.”
Draden nods; we shake hands. I invite him in, offer him Jack. He wants beer instead. I keep drinking bourbon, because I’m scared and excited and I always like a little buzz going when I submit to a Top, especially a new one I don’t know real well yet. Don’t take long before he’s wrapped a short chain around my neck and padlocked it, so I guess I’m his for the evening. Then he’s behind me, holding me close, one big hand clamped over my mouth, the other tugging my tits. I’ve already told him online that my nips are my ON buttons, and he wastes no time taking advantage of that fact. I love the pressure of his hand over my mouth; I love the pain building up in my chest; I love this feeling of being mastered by an older, larger man.
We’re on my bed now, frost feathering like maidenhair ferns across the bedroom window, the spruce trees outside covered with white. We’re both naked. I don’t know it now, but this is a scene I’m going to be jacking off to for the next half a decade. Draden has me on my elbows and knees. My hands are tied together and anchored to the headboard with a short rope-tether. I’ve got my hairy butt in the air; Dad’s strapped a ball-gag in my mouth and I’m drooling like a motherfucker, head down in the sheets while Dad kneels behind me, puts on a rubber and lubes us up. It hurts bad at first—I ain’t that used to being fucked, and Dad’s got an eight-incher and thick to boot—but soon enough we’re rocking together, back and forth, he’s thrusting in and out, I’m grunting like the happy pig I am.
Dad cums up my butt; I cum in his hand about the same time. We snuggle, and oh, god, is that sweet, to be held so tender by a man who’d used me rough like a whore only minutes before.
“The noises you make when you get fucked sound interrogative, boy.” Dad chuckles. “‘Uhhh? Ummmm?’ Sounds like you’re asking me a question.”
“I’m saying, ‘Please, Daddy, would you plow me harder and faster?’” I say, head on his shoulder.
Dad laughs, wraps his arms around me, holds me tight.
He spends the night, since the snow has got so bad. But, dammit, I toss and turn too much, snore too loud. That’s the last night we sleep together, though it’s the first, thank god, of many tasty-as-hell nights we play.
The movie’s Ladyhawke. It’s one of Dad’s favorites, but I haven’t seen it before. Tonight I’m watching it with him, but in kind of an unusual way.
He’s lounging on the couch in shorts and a T-shirt. I’m naked, tied to a chair beside the couch. He leaves me tied like this sometimes when I’m around in the summer and he needs to cut the grass. Tonight I spend several hours in this position. My wrists are bound behind the chair, as are my elbows. He’s got loads of rope wrapped around my chest and upper arms and belly, securing me to the chair back so tight I can’t hardly move. My legs are spread, my thighs roped to the chair-seat and my ankles roped to the back legs. He’s got a butt plug up my ass, and he’s got tweezer clamps hanging from my nips. Occasionally, in between scenes—guy changing to wolf, girl changing to hawk, gotta admit it’s a pretty cool movie, so no wonder Dad likes it—he pauses the DVD, pulls the plug-gag out of my mouth and tips a beer to my lips. When I’m done gulping and thanking him, he gags me again and starts tugging and twisting the clamps till my numbed tits burn and my eyes water. Then he sprawls back on the couch and starts up the DVD. It’s the hottest goddamn way to watch a movie, man. Take my word for it.
