Daddies, page 9
I grinned back, my hands pushing off against the sink behind me as I followed him into the far stall. The door to the stall would not stay closed, and, as I played with the lock, he grabbed my shoulder and wheeled me around to face him.
“Leave it.”
I heard the predatory shuffle of feet outside, vying for an acceptable peephole as his muscular arms encircled me.
“What’re ya up for tonight, Tiger?” he whispered, his lips brushing the edge of my ear, teeth grazing my neck.
“Mmm, surprise me,” I murmured, shivering under the gentle pressure of his teeth on my neck, my shoulder.
“Surprises…” his whisper faded as he pulled me toward him and I sensed, rather than smelled, a fine expensive cologne, vaguely familiar from some far distant, nearly unremembered evening. His hair was dark and smooth and smelled like snowy mountain air. His shirt was cool and inviting to the touch; his jeans radiated heat like a furnace. His lips made their way across my collarbone and crossed my chin so delicately that I barely noticed—a feather tickling the edges of my mouth—when they first touched my own lips. And then his tongue hit the inside of my mouth, a full-frontal invasion that shook the enamel barricades of my teeth to their foundations.
His tongue caressed and touched and retouched each spot separately and distinctly like a thousand tiny fingers, soothing my lips and my gums and my tongue. His tongue tasted sweet, like ginger.
I closed my eyes, letting my fingers roam along the hardness of his chest, ribs, and shoulders beneath soft cotton. He pulled the edge of my shirt out of my jeans as I ran my palms along the outlines of his thighs and his mythically perfect ass.
He fumbled with my nipples, never taking his mouth from mine. His fingers tugged and pinched me into a squirming ecstasy. I pulled my right leg off the floor and braced it against the wall behind him, pushing against him with all my weight. The feel of his hard, perfect body meeting the force of my own pushing sent a shiver down my back.
The heat and pressure of his cock, swollen, reared and pulsed beneath the denim like a caged cat. His hand slipped down between us and rubbed my cock as if in response to my thoughts.
I reached up and began to unbutton his shirt, nearly tearing the buttons from him in my eagerness to see his chest. When he stood before me, bare-chested, I felt the rise of saliva in my mouth and the pulse of my cock in my pants. His perfectly proportioned chest was patterned with a thick carpet of cropped black hair. His pecs stunned the voyeuristic queens outside the cubicle into silence. His nipples were the size of half dollars, nearly glowing in the half-light like beacons in the forest; his abs made me want to applaud.
Instead, I knelt to lick his chest, tongue circling his erect nipple and then sliding down his side. But a sexy impatience crossed his face, and he pulled me gently to a standing position. Then, with a single deft motion, he ripped his button-fly jeans open to reveal his hulking cock. Wildly curling hairs escaped over the edges of the denim unrestrained by underwear. As my hands touched his burning skin, his own hands moved to unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip me.
Once we both had our jeans down around our ankles, he pulled me toward him, grinding our cocks together and smashing our lips and tongues into a grunting swirl of saliva and greed. I sucked on his tongue, my mind reeling as I reveled in the feel of his chest against mine, his outer thigh against the inside of my right leg, his burning cock stroking my belly, leaving behind a sparkling smear of pre-come.
Then, with a startling sense of purpose, he knelt before me and took my cock roughly into his mouth. He plunged all the way to the root before I even registered what he was doing. He cast aside whatever timidity or tentative tugging I had expected and sucked full force. His right hand surrounded the base and alternately squeezed and released me. His left hand snaked around my hip and, in an instant, was plunging into my ass. His fingers and his mouth worked at a feverish pitch, in perfect unison. I felt a flash inside my head, and as I leaned my head back against the wall, I saw a face staring at me through the semi-darkness of the open stall door, heard the slapping of hands and cocks echoing through the tiled space around us.
My cock jumped between his lips, and my blood pounded beneath my temples, crashing behind my eyes. I felt at once faint and invincible, exposed and enfolded. My face burned crimson, heat radiating so that I felt it against my shoulders and neck.
Just as I felt the first tingling of orgasm sliding along the base of my cock, my companion bolted upright and plunged his tongue back into my mouth. I tasted myself on his tongue. His hands fumbled at his sides, and I gasped as he rolled a condom onto my dick. He clamped his teeth down on my tongue lightly at first and then with slightly more force to prevent me from speaking. He pulled his face away for an instant and winked gleefully at me. His face shone with a childlike joy that surprised me.
“Ready, Tiger?” he asked and ran his fingers playfully through my hair. He smiled a perfectly angelic smile, and the mischief in his eyes was so seductive and contagious that I felt the beginning of an uncontrollable grin spread across my face.
With a wink and one more quick kiss, he turned around abruptly, bent at the knees and backed into me, grasping my hands and pulling them around his sides. He placed my right hand on his cock and set up a rhythm for me and placed my left hand on his left nipple, all the while writhing against me and—if I wasn’t hallucinating by now—releasing a strong rumbling riff of laughter. He reached back around and guided my cock expertly into his ass. I realized that not only had he slipped the condom on me in record time, but he had also lubed himself up.
I gasped at the plunge of heat as my cock thrust into him. I pushed until my body was flush with his ass, smiling as he groaned and whispered, “Oh yeah, baby.” I pulled back and then pushed in again. His muscles took up the same spinning tarantella that his mouth had danced around my cock, and that his body seemed so intent on dragging me into now. My head clouded and cleared then clouded again as I thrust deeper and faster into his perfect ass. I pumped his cock with my right hand and let my left hand stray across his hard thighs. He rocked and encouraged me, coaxing me verbally into the realm of his own ultimate pleasure. We rocked and I felt the walls of the stall vibrating, our grunts and gasps rising above the hum of the overhead lighting. The slap of hands on cocks filled my ears, seeming to drown out the sound of my body slamming into his; the jangle of a watch; a zipper slammed home, announcing a latecomer to the show.
The tension and the pace accelerated, and I felt the hot chill of delirium sliding across the tip of my cock like sandpaper. I gasped and thrust, breaking his rhythm and, feeling the climax rising, holding on for dear life. I threw my left arm around his body, slamming him against me with the vigor of the edge of the earth. He bucked into me, riding the wave beyond the breaking point and then, with a great wracking, wrecking, smashing cacophony, we came, he into my pumping fist and I into his pumping body. I know that I cried out, but only the echo of my cry reached my ears. Blood rushed to my head, and I leaned my shoulder against the wall of the stall. My partner spun around and held me to him, splattering his come on the tails of his shirt and my own. He held me for a long moment, whispering softly to me, “Hold on, beautiful…”
He held me to him, rocking gently side to side and kissing my neck, my ears. I marveled at his attention.
“You okay, Tiger?” he said after a moment.
“Yeah… yeah.” I mumbled, “That was phenomenal.”
“You ain’t kiddin’, kiddo,” he purred, beginning the arduous task of dressing himself. In what seemed an hour, but was surely a moment, we were fully clothed. He followed me out of the building and caught up with me on the darkened lawn.
He threw his arm around my neck, pulling me close and whispering in my ear as we walked, bodies close against the chilly evening. “A story to take with you, Tiger. When I was a kid, my first trick gave me a ring and told me to pass it on for luck. I passed it on dutifully to the next guy I slept with, told him to do the same, and never gave it another thought. Then last week, this trick I picked up at the beach told me the story of how a beautiful young man slipped a ring on his finger at a B&B in Key West five years earlier and told him to pass it along for luck. So for the next five years, this guy wore the ring, unable to give it up, unable to let go of the memory of that beautiful young man. When he finished his story, the guy looked at me, smiled and placed something in my hand, disappearing without a word into the dunes. I looked down and realized that he had given me the same ring that I had passed on ages ago—a bit the worse for wear, but essentially the same. Take it on the rounds, Tiger, and let it go when you can bear it. For luck.”
He kissed me lightly on the ear and slipped the ring into my hand, disappearing into the night. I stood for a moment staring after him in stark silence; then I looked at the ring, at the six interlocking circles.
When I returned home, my mother and father were sitting at the dining room table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. “Silent Night” seeped softly from the living room stereo.
“Where’ve you been, kiddo?” my father asked.
“I went to the beach,” I said, placing his ring on the table before him and heading to my room to get my bag.
THE DIE IS CAST
T. Hitman
Tag had finished tying the last of the knots when the doorbell gonged its miserable, outdated melody. The old man’s eyes shot fully open, speaking all the things his lips could not: the rage, the surprise, even the filthy excitement. Tag had stuffed a dirty sock into Larry Wayne’s mouth, one he’d pulled from a pile on the bedroom floor. Black, OTC, and sweaty at the toes. The added humiliation was fitting.
Tag’s dick burned in his seersucker shorts. Its thickness had begged for attention when he’d shackled the old bastard’s right wrist to the headboard’s slat using police-issued handcuffs. By the time he’d struggled to get Larry Wayne McCallister’s hairy left ankle into a noose, securing it to the footboard, his dick was dripping. The room stank of Larry Wayne: the sour scent of his sticky balls, dirty feet, soiled laundry, beer-soaked perspiration, hairy asshole, and stale farts infused the air, filling Tag’s lungs and conjuring a million darkly magnificent memories.
The doorbell tolled again. Tag checked the knots, the cuffs. Larry Wayne bellowed through a mouth that was full of dirty black sock. And Tag’s straining erection, one of the biggest for a power bottom in all of gay porndom, reminded him of that mathematical factoid with every footstep as he raced to answer the door.
Ralph was halfway down the walkway by the time Tag wrenched it open.
“Ralph, hey!”
Ralph revolved, startled by the outburst. He’d come incognito, as Tag had requested: black hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses. He hurried back up the flagstone walk.
“Taggert? I didn’t know if I was at the right place.”
“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Tag said, extending his hand—and, unintentionally, his dick. The ten inches of swollen length trapped in his seersuckers jutted into the overcast afternoon. “Glad you could make it.”
“The timing worked out fine with the convention,” Ralph said, reaching out his own hand. His shaded eyes tipped a glance down at Tag’s swell. A lusty smirk spread across Ralph’s thin pink lips. “And anything for a friend.”
Perfect, Tag thought. Ralph had cast the OFFICIAL TAGGERT LAWRENCE LATEX ASSHOLE (“…complete with lifelike Tag Lawrence erection, for those special reach-around moments!”). He was the right man for the job. But Larry Wayne McCallister, as Tag knew all too well, was one tough fucker. He was also crafty. Fourteen years in the army, another twenty on the police force…only the fact that Larry Wayne celebrated Happy Hour early and alone on the weekends had made this possible. But even now, the fucker could be working himself free of his service cuffs and bindings.
Tag hurried Ralph into the living room. A few dead soldiers lined the coffee table, standing guard beside a stack of newspapers and dog-eared stroke magazines, and an enormous key ring. The drab wallpaper had to be thirty years old and hung on the walls like a skin of yellowed newsprint. The air was stale, male. Tag’s cock lost its bounce.
“No apologies. It’s not my place.”
“I know. I’ve seen your place,” Ralph said, his lips again curling into a sharp smile. “Remember? The last time I cast you?”
“Oh, I remember.”
“So why are we here in this dump so far from civilization?” Ralph asked, huffing a puff of breath heavy on sarcasm into the question. “And what am I casting on you that ain’t already been cast?”
“Grab your kit and I’ll show you.”
Ralph Barker, who’d once slathered warm goo across Tag’s gym-toughened butt cheeks, aimed the pointers of both hands gunslinger-fashion and fired a fake bullet with a click of his lips. “Back in a flash.”
The flash proved enough time for Tag to check in on the old man. Larry Wayne was still secured to the bed at four points, struggling to get free. The sight of hairy ankles and naked feet bound to the footboard threatened to launch Tag’s cock back into buoyancy; he avoided gazing across the topography of Larry Wayne’s crotch. The old man had been wearing a tatty blue bathrobe when Tag snuck into the house. He’d used the bathrobe’s tie to secure one foot. There would be plenty of time to explore the hills and valleys of Larry Wayne’s groin once Ralph got started.
The old man howled a blue streak of curses around the sock in his mouth, something that sounded like, “gottamfukeengockucker !”
Tag approached the bed. Despite the fiery rage staining Larry Wayne’s flesh, and his fifty years of hard living, he was still magnificent to behold. His military buzz cut had gone silver, his square jaw prickled with rough stubble, and his eyes, an icy shade of blue, so filled with aggression and the threat of violence moments ago… a level of fear had crept into them since Tag had left to answer the door. The sense that the predator was being preyed upon, that the master had been mastered, was finally sinking in.
Larry Wayne, so handsome, so virile. Tag gently, lovingly caressed the backs of three fingers across his cheek. “Relax, dude. Soon, it will all be over.”
The old man grumbled, “fuckeengitgottamit!”
Tag ceased with the gentle strokes and clocked the old man hard upside the head, knowing Larry Wayne would respect him more for it.
“It isn’t me I’ve had you drive all the way up here to cast,” Tag explained. “Look, I know this is going to sound strange, a little fucked up, but…”
Tag pulled Ralph into a huddle at the side of the hallway.
“It’s an old lover of mine,” Tag whispered. “The best I ever had. He’s dying. I’m keeping this on the QT, so please don’t let it get around.”
Ralph, holding the body molding kit in one hand and a pair of latex gloves in the other, cast a wary eye toward the open bedroom door.
“Hey,” Tag said, drawing Ralph’s attention back toward him and away from the image of the pissed-off jarhead struggling against his bindings. “You’re the best in the business, and I know I can trust you. Christ, dude, that asshole and dick you did of me is selling mad-hot—”
“No doubt,” Ralph agreed. “You’re in the top three sellers, man. The top seller for tops who love to screw a choice piece of make-believe butt.”
“So do me this favor, okay? I’m gonna pay you well, and when you see the dick on this dude, you’ll understand why I want you to smear it in rubber.”
“Sodium alginate, not rubber,” Ralph corrected. “It’s a rubbery material made from brown seaweed. All natural, totally safe. They put the shit in hamburgers as filler. It doesn’t shrink during the cure or burn the skin, like molding with plaster can do. Once I get the mold, I’ll cast it in high-quality latex. As good as the treatment your asshole got.”
“So you’ll do it?”
Ralph tipped his gaze back in the struggling prisoner’s direction.
“You’re an artist,” Tag said, growling the word, part of his plan all along should Ralph hesitate. “What you’ll create from this man will be a fitting tribute to him, to his prick, which is a work of art as stunning as Michelangelo’s David, or the Elgin Marbles, or Warhol’s silkscreens. Help me make sure that his amazing dick lives on. I only need one dildo, and then you can break the mold.”
Ralph shook his head and let forth with a long, nasal sigh. A jolt of panic surged through Tag.
“No way. If that dude’s dick is as dildo-worthy as you say it is, I want to cast two of them. One for you, and one for me.”
Rage now flambéed the panic coursing through Tag. The idea of Ralph Barker riding a lubed-up asshole-ripper modeled on Larry Wayne’s cock made him suddenly, inexplicably irate. Jealous.
“That’s my sole term,” Ralph said, as if reading Tag’s thoughts. “You don’t have to pay me for the job. Consider it a favor for a friend. One hand washing the other.”
Tag choked down his anger. A sour taste ignited at the back of his tongue, like the lemons you imagine right before you upchuck everything that is and isn’t in your stomach.
“Deal,” he eventually forced through clenched teeth.
He hadn’t seen this part coming, but thought he could live with the idea of Ralph stuffing his hole with Larry Wayne’s big one. If he had to.
The old bastard shrieked something that Tag was able to translate as, “Get the fuck away from me, you fuck! I’m a policeman, dammit!”
“Call the police?” Ralph asked.
“No, he doesn’t want you calling the police. Trust me, explaining this to the cops might get them asking other questions he wouldn’t want to be forced to answer.”
