Hot Daddies, page 4
“Get that butt up in the air.”
I’m belly down, tied spread-eagle to Dad’s bed. He pushes the button on the remote control. The electric cock ring zaps my crotch. I yelp. Obedient, I angle my ass higher.
“Beg for it, Donnie-boy. Ask for more.”
Dad’s got a camo bandana tied real tight between my teeth, so I can’t talk clear, but he doesn’t care. “Please, Sir,” I mumble around the cloth my pained shouts have soaked with spit. “Please give me more, Sir. Cane my butt more, please, Sir.”
Again the zap of the cock ring. I let loose another yelp, like a kicked lap dog. Then the cane comes down on my bare ass, again and again, first one cheek, then the other, then both together. Pow pow pow pow pow pow pow. The pain builds, sharp and steady, thin and hot. Feels like I’m being sliced open by a flaming pocketknife, a narrow blade cleaving me the way an axe does oak.
Am I bleeding yet? Sure feels like it. I want to beg Dad to stop, but I’m too proud to do that. Instead, I squint my eyes shut and bite down on my gag so hard my jaw commences to ache. I’d like to cry for him, just break loose and sob, let long-heldback tears roll down my face—we both want that bad—but seems like I can’t, no matter how much I suffer. Men where I come from, we were brought up never to cry. I want broken bad, and Dad wants bad to break me, but so far—five years of onand-off torture—it ain’t happened. Most I can manage is some wet-rimmed eyes and a few choked-back sobs. Some part of me just can’t let go.
The sharp blows pause. “More, boy?” Dad’s voice is deep and kind.
Zap!
“Yes,” I squeak against my gag.
“Louder.”
Zap!
“Yes!” I yell. “Yes, please! More, Sir. More!”
The cane descends again, with a swishing sound that makes me wince even before it connects with my buttcheeks. Pressing my face into the sheets, I lift my rear end higher still. I want to be beat so bad it hurts to sit. Dad knows that, and he’s determined to oblige.
First time Daddy Draden mummified me, he let me sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed. But again I disturbed his rest. Blearyeyed the next morning, he growled, “You flopped around like a damn fish all night.” So tonight I spend in the guest room, on a big tarp so I won’t wet the floor if I have to piss in the middle of the night. He’s wrapped me real tight in yards and yards of clear plastic wrap, so I’m encased from my ankles to my neck, with my hands imprisoned at my sides. I’m already sweating a ton as he reinforces the wrap with duct tape, circling my body at the ankles, knees, waist, above and below my pecs. He stands astraddle me now, bit-gag in hand, looking down, a gaze both stern and fond.
“You can take this till morning?”
Beneath the plastic, sweat’s beading in my belly hair and chest hair.
“Yes, Sir.”
Dad pushes the rubber bit between my teeth and buckles the straps tight behind my head. “This gag will let you yell for help if you panic or get into trouble. Okay? I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”
I nod. He’s mummified me many times before. I’ll be fine. By morning, I’ll have pissed myself at least twice, after all the beer I drank tonight. He’ll jack me off, cut me loose, and help me to the shower, and I’ll feel clean and new, like a butterfly crawling from a chrysalis or Christ stumbling from the tomb, shucking off darkness and the grave.
Dad falls to his knees beside me. He kisses my forehead. Then he pulls out a pocketknife. If he were anyone else, I’d be fucking scared—lying here immobilized while a big guy pulls a knife—but no, I just lie real still as he cuts, slow and careful. Pretty soon my cock and balls are exposed, cool air drying the sweat, and my nips too. The plastic wrap’s so tight my nips bulge out like little balloons, stand up like pink cones. Since almost all my skin’s covered by this insulating cocoon, seems like the sensation normally spread over my body is concentrated in the pinpoints of my tits. Dad knows this. He makes love to them, gentle, not rough, with his fingers and tongue, till I’m about to go fucking crazy with the sweet feel of it. He jacks me too, slow and tight, and now I’m moaning, thrusting into his fist, pushing my chest against his mouth.
I’m about four strokes short of cumming when the warm, wet feel of his lips on my nips disappears. “Sweet dreams.” Dad gives my dick a farewell squeeze and stands. He clicks off the lights and leaves me here on the floor, cock bobbing, sweat trickling down my sides.
Here I am strapped hand and foot between two columns in Dad’s basement, nakedness stretched out in a taut X, whimpering as he adds another clothespin to the slew already fixed in lines across my chest and belly. My cock and balls are covered, bristling with pins like a chestnut burr.
“That’s forty-nine,” he says, adding one above my navel. “And here’s fifty.” He lifts the final pin to my face.
I know what’s coming, and it’s gonna hurt like holy hell. I crease my brow in a silent plea for mercy. I shake my head, and a big gob of slobber spills through the O-ring gag, over my chin and onto the floor. Dad squeezes the pin open, then slowly closes it on the thin wall of flesh separating my nostrils. I guess the jagged little noises I’m making now would be called sniveling, but I don’t care how pathetic I sound, it hurts so much. Dad leaves me like that, coated with what feels like burning embers, while he checks his email and starts dinner.
Okay, that’s enough. Hell, you get it, right? They go on and on, the past scenes we’ve shared. If Daddy Draden were to tell me to get lost tomorrow, I’d still have memories enough to keep me horned up for years. But tonight reminds me that what we have ain’t just hot. It’s real. Me suffering for him helps us both get through other kinds of pain.
“He stood me up again,” Dad says. It’s a chilly January evening, and we’re about to dive into the carry-out we just fetched home. It’s a running joke, that Sonic’s “our place.” I figure, if I’m gonna have me some edgy sex, I might as well live it up, throw the diet out the window and indulge a little, so, two times out of three, we hit Sonic for burgers, foot-long hot dogs, and tater tots before the beating begins. “The little bastard never showed.”
“Which one?”
“The ex-marine who wanted me to kidnap him. I sat in that motel parking lot for two hours, but he never showed.”
Tonight, as we sit around the kitchen table, munching our greasy haul, Dad talks and I listen. He’s lonelier, more depressed than ever. He has good reasons to be grim. On top of a shit load of crap at work—most of his coworkers at the DMV sound like morons—his attempts to find a regular boy are going nowhere. He’s been chatting with single guys, guys who might be there for him all the time, as I can’t. They’re fucking flakes, every one. I’d like to break their heads. They flirt, they promise things, they get his hopes up, and then they don’t show up, or, if they do, they’re spoiled, ungrateful, selfish. One of them, after the lightest of floggings, ran out of the house hysterical, the crazy queen. One stole some money. One gave him crabs. As much as I love to suck Dad off, or take a load of his cum up my butt after a good beating, well, it’s harder and harder for him to get it up. Depression erodes his sex drive, he says, and antidepressants do the same. If he can manage to jack off after he tortures me, we’re both lucky. He hasn’t fucked me in over a year.
One of these nights, he’s gonna be so sad he won’t want me anymore. But not tonight, thank god. When Dad finishes his last tater tot and I finish my dog and my glass of wine, he leads me into the playroom. I’m naked now, on my back on the padded bondage table, ankles tied to the legs, hands tied together beneath it. Dad’s tasty-rank briefs are crammed in my mouth again; layers of duct tape are plastered over my lips and wrapped around the bench, real snug so I can’t move my head. Dad’s in full leather, beating my chest and belly flush-red with a riding crop. We’re both relishing my muffled screams. We’re both still yet blessed. When his arm gets tired and he lets me loose, I fall to my knees and kiss his boots.
“Lick,” Dad says, so I do, lapping the shiny leather shinier.
“This helps, cub,” Dad says. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Ten months later, it’s my turn to talk. Dad listens, snuggling with me on the couch. I’ve just been laid off, the economy’s so bad I can’t find another job, and my savings won’t last long. My little cat’s sick; she’s got cancer and it’s too far gone to operate. Bob’s been real cranky, we’ve been fighting a lot, and we don’t hardly ever have sex anymore. I’m just glad I have a brawny Dad like Draden to hold me tonight.
“I’m done,” I say, tipping the fifth of Jack to my lips. “Sorry you had to hear all that. You know we hillbillies can’t tell a tale of woe any way other than real long.”
Dad stands, then pulls me to my feet. He takes the bottle from me, puts it on the table. He crooks a finger under the slave collar I always wear at his place. “I told you I’d take care of you, Donnie,” he says. “Come on.” He leads me down the hall to the playroom.
Soon I’m stripped and face up against the St. Andrews cross. Dad locks my wrists and ankles in leather cuffs, so I’m standing spread-eagle. He ball-gags and blindfolds me. He starts slow with a light paddling, the wood warming up my asscheeks. The flogger’s next, heavy strands of leather caressing my shoulders and back. Gradually the blows get more severe. Now it feels like someone’s punching me. I gasp and drool, arch my back and beg for more.
“Single-tail now,” Dad says. The whip’s hissing through the air, sharp stinging across my shoulder blades, fire-welts cutting into my back. I pant and shake.
Dad moves the action to my ass. The paddle’s no longer a warming glow. The stiff wooden whacks come harder and faster. I bite down on the ball and choke back my cries. I want him to stop now; god, how it hurts, worse than ever before, but I’m his boy and he calls me his little warrior and I want to take it all, want to be brave for him, and now, god, the single-tail again, slicing my shoulders, “You’re bleeding, boy. Want me to stop?” I shake my head, shout out “No!” and oh, fuck, at last, beneath my blindfold I can feel tears trickling, and fuck, oh, fuck, I’m so angry, scared and sad; how it hurts, bound here, bound down in this body; at last something snaps inside me, and the tears are gushing, and I’m sobbing and slobbering, spit’s running down my chin, and I’m shaking and jerking, the chains that hold me down are rattling, and I’m crying and I can’t stop.
The blows cease. There’s the sound of the whip hitting the floor, of clothes being peeled off. Dad strokes the throbbing burn of my back, and his fingers’ soft touch makes me jolt and tremble and cry harder. Dad stands behind me, holding me inside his nakedness. He tousles my hair, pulls off the blindfold. Light floods my eyes. Snot’s running from my nose, and Dad suddenly has a Kleenex in his hand. “No, please, it’s nasty,” I mumble, but Dad holds the tissue to my nose anyway, and I blow and snort. I’m laughing and crying at the same damn time now, as Dad unbinds my hands and feet, then loosens my gagstraps and pulls the dripping ball from my mouth.
I turn from the cross and my knees buckle and I fall into his arms and cry even harder. We lie on the floor, hugging one another tight, my face buried in his chest hair. I cry some more. Finally I stop. Dad helps me up. He leads me to his bed. He rubs lotion into my back and ass. “Yes, cub,” he says, spooning me. “Tonight you can stay here with me.”
I sleep sound, waking only once to find Dad’s arms still around me. First light, I get up to piss. I stare at the bathroom mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and my sinuses aching, thanks to all those tears. I turn, studying my reflection. Black bruises and red welts cover my shoulders, back and butt, like someone had spilled pokeberry ink or scrawled red sentences into my skin.
Today, I ain’t in any hurry to get back to the sadness at home. Think I’ll take the long way back, up over the mountains of Craig County. I’ll stop at my favorite down-home diner in New Castle and get me some coffee and some biscuits and sausage gravy, and I’ll sit there, listening to bow-hunters in camo talk about the bucks they brought down, and all they’ll see is a stocky little redneck with a bushy black beard, dressed in jeans and cowboy boots and a Virginia Tech Hokies baseball cap and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, and I’ll be what I seem to be and very much not what I seem to be, with these wounds Dad left hidden beneath my clothes, each mark a reminder of all the gifts he’s given me.
“Get in here, Donnie-boy,” I hear Daddy Draden growl from the bedroom.
Don’t take Dad long to tie my hands behind my back and fuck my face till he cums. The load he dumps in my mouth tastes like hope. Milk of human kindness: now I get the phrase. Dad drowses a little and then pulls out, slaps my cheeks with his dick, lets me lick the post-cum ooze from his slit.
I’m on the road now. We’ve said our good-byes. God knows when we’ll meet again or what’ll happen next. Maybe Bob will get tired of me coming home all beat up, ask me to move out. I suspect he’s already sick of how little sex we have, and I am too. Maybe Dad will find a full-time boy, fall in love, move away. Maybe Dad and I will end up together.
Who the hell knows? If being tied up and tortured has taught me anything, it’s to live in my body as much as I can, focus on the present, not dwell on what I can’t change or control. Today the maple leaves are orange and red, the coves are white with mist, and the wet fields streaming by either side the road are steaming in the sun. I roll down the truck-window to feel autumn air on my face. I turn on the radio—that hot Zac Brown’s singing “Free.” Today, that’s how I feel, thanks to Dad, thanks to the bruises on my back and butt. I’m young and clean and light and free. I’m that dew-glitter on the pasture grass, on the verge of evaporating, ready to rise into the sun.
FATHER AND SON TAG TEAM (THAT SUMMER! THAT CAMP! THAT COUSIN!)
Jack Fritscher
I woke up in this story suckling his big dick. When you’re eighteen and still in your wonder years, like I was that summer of 2001, you do strange things in your sleep, like kick off all the sheets and dream buck naked with your prick up hard as the flashlight you hide to read porn at night under the blankets.
Older counselors like Taggart, who was nineteen-plus (as in plus ten inches), love to pull tricks on younger guys. You know, when you’re out playing counselor at some Camp Gitchygoomee and it’s the last week of the season, after all the campers have packed up their sweaty jockstraps and nylon Speedos and headed back home. I missed some of them: the best of the cool young dudes all tanned and buffed and trained for their football, wrestling and swimming teams back home. The camp was deserted. Quiet. More beautiful than ever. We had maybe a week’s more work to do. Almost alone. Me and Tag.
I kept sucking, my eyes tightly closed, pretending I was asleep. I felt Tag’s big blond thighs straddling my chest. Maybe I was dreaming. All summer long, I’d lusted after him. He was a diver, six-two,185, lean-muscled and handsome. A dreamboat. When he practiced his approaches on the diving board, his long defined toes striding the length to the tip where he bounced up and down on the edge, my eyes never left his crotch, the tight wet, big bulge of his red trunks, the famous nylon Speedos I once stole and sniffed and shoved into my mouth to suck out the taste of his big cock.
Tag hung ten easy. Eyes closed I knew that. I felt his soft dick hardening in my mouth. I worked my lips around the velvet head, almost afraid to open my eyes, for fear I’d wake up and he’d be no more than an early morning piss-hard dream vanishing in the late-summer dawn. But his dick gelling from soft to hard in my mouth, the taste and smell of him—hey, I knew the real thing.
So I opened my eyes, and, shit! It wasn’t Taggart at all!
Well, it was, but it wasn’t the Taggart I thought. It was, I swear to god, the other Taggart! It was his dad, who had been a big stud at sixteen, had fathered Young Tag at seventeen and was still married to his wife, Verna Taggart. They all ran Camp Gitchygoomee with Verna knowing everything, especially bookwork and her place.
The night before, we had celebrated Big Tag’s thirty-sixth birthday, telling him the truth that he didn’t look a day over twenty-six. You get the picture. He was the coach, the daddy, the husband, the stud. The Taggarts, father and son, were a special breed of the biggest cocks I ever saw. So I looked real surprised, and twice as pleased, when I opened my eyes and found Big Tag threading my throat. I’d worshipped Big Tag from afar all summer: him swimming naked in the pool, endless laps of backstroke with his long cock cutting the water, sluicing its own wake; him, in Fort Cobb, which is what we called the main toilet, flipping his big dick over the gray sheet-metal piss trough; him groping himself in his nylon shorts around the evening campfire. I saw where Young Tag, who no one ever dared call Little Tag, got his size and I knew why Verna hung around her men smiling no matter what went on.
Between his thighs, Big Tag sported a real handsome piece of blue-veined meat. I’m talking twelve inches of blond cock, maybe nine inches circumference, which I think is about the exact circumference of my mouth stretched open to its widest cocksucking ring, just wide enough, I could tell, for the mushroom head, when he pulled it out of my mouth and with both fists waved it back and forth across my face, flushed that juicy hot purple peculiar to blond cocks.
He smiled and said, “This is your wake-up call, Sonny.”
I remember everything exactly.
“Are you surprised?”
I grinned like the cocksucker I’ve always been and shook my head no and stretched my tongue for his lubing piss slit.
“Are you disappointed?”
I snorted one of those you-gotta-be-kidding laughs and he drove the head of his cock right straight through my smile and laid pipe down my throat.
When a good-looking summer-camp director who stands six-four and weighs in at a solid 225 spreads his jock-thighs across my chest while the morning sun spotlights the blond hair on his pecs and forearms, I know, like the joke about where the two-thousand-pound canary can sit, that any man that much larger than life can, if he wants, sit on my face and pedal my ears till the cows come home. I worship big dick and Big Tag loved adoration. His cock played my vocal chords like the devil plays fiddle.
