He’s a skinny boy. Twenty-three. Tall as I am, but maybe twenty or twenty-five pounds less—one-forty, maybe. His waist is narrow and pale; I can see his hipbones jutting out above the elastic of his baggy striped boxers. From their bottoms are his long, lean legs. His nipples are small, but their tips are round and hard. He’s half-aroused in his underwear as he invites me in the house.
It’s not the best of houses. It perches on a street next to one of Richmond’s busier expressways, and the front yard is overgrown with weeds. There’s no driveway, but parked in the waist-high grass are three cars that made me balk when I pulled up off the curb and next to the closest of them; I thought this boy was going to be alone. And inside the house is a bit of a wreck. There’s debris everywhere. CD cases. DVD cases. Discarded mail and food packaging. A pizza box. It’s clean. There weren’t any surfaces so grungy that they made me recoil to touch or sit upon. But it’s cluttered.
When I’m in the door and it’s shut behind me, he grows shy. I hadn’t seen his face in the photos, and I could see why he hid it. He’s a little bit nerdy. His hair is cut in a timeless Richmond style—short but not too short, parted on the side, a cowlick poking up in the back. He wears round Harry Potter glasses. He’s not ugly by a long shot, but he obviously feels his body is his strong point. I put my hands on those hips, so sharp they could cut me, and pull that body in close. His legs automatically pull together and move between mine. His hands go around my shoulders. And then we kiss, long, and slowly, and deep.
The boy knows how to kiss. I don’t want it to stop. But he pulls away slightly. I feel a tremble shiver through his body. Then he says, “Oh, daddy.”
When I’m visiting my own daddy in Virginia, in the springtime I do so to help him out. I do all his spring yard cleaning—cutting down the sturdy trees that were mere twigs six months before, pulling out the strangling wisteria and the English ivy, pulling out the weeds from my mother’s former garden of roses, now gone wild and fragrantly feral. I fix things around the house. And when that’s all done, I perform chauffeur duty. My dad can’t drive after sunset, and doesn’t like driving anywhere he can’t reach on surface streets, so if he has errands that require distance driving, I’m his go-to guy.
The day before we’d driving all the way out to the Blue Ridge and back, allegedly to drop off a box of documents to an academic society there, but really, I think, so that my dad could have lunch at of his two favorite restaurants out that way—only he couldn’t decide which. I frankly thought the buffet at Kentucky Fried Chicken (“It’s the only KFC I’ve ever seen to have a buffet!”, he enthused) or the buffet at Golden Corral sounded both about equally vile, so I’d had to spend over an hour that morning trying to make him pick one. By rights that should’ve been the highlight of our day. Instead, on the trip home, we were talking and my car started to make one of those funny noises that cars make when something’s not right. It proved to be the plastic shield beneath the car had detached from the bumper and was alternately dragging against the highway or splintering into tiny shards.
I know nothing about cars. I really don’t. This was a fact driven home back at my dad’s place that afternoon, when his insistence that we poke around under the hood led to the astonishing revelation that in the several years I’ve owned this particular vehicle, I’d never lifted the hook, and didn’t even know how to unlatch it. (In my defense, I’m great around the house and have excellent soldering skills.) I determined that I’d get up the next morning, early, and head to the dealer for service . . . which why, at five in the morning, I’d been awake with this skinny kid begging me to come over and fuck his little hole. I need my daddy in me, he said in his messages. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to service my daddy’s dick.
Fine by me. At seven in the morning I presented myself at the dealer and, thanks to my brother’s superior car knowledge, was able to say in a blasé manner that my car’s air guard was dragging on the ground and could they please fix it so that I didn’t have to drive back to New England with it scraping all four hundred miles back? They could, but they couldn’t get the part until the next morning. Could I come back then, before I left for home?
It was nearly eight a.m. when I get on my phone and email him. He sends back his address immediately.
And now, here I am. “I’m so glad you’re in town, daddy,” he whimpers. “I’ve needed you.”
He’s playacting, but it’s not put-on. He’s genuinely happy. He genuinely does need me. I can tell that from the way his legs and hip mold against my own. He gasps and relaxes when my hands move over his smooth, hairless skin, when they shuck down his briefs like limp corn husks. “Take me to your bedroom, son,” I murmur.
He looks embarrassed. “The bedroom is . . . unavailable.” Ah. I get it. He’s got roommates. They’ve divided up this house into partitioned areas, I see now. There’s a divider between the living room and the dining room that’s an accordion-like vinyl pleat, latched in the middle. There’s probably a roommate sleeping on the other side. That would account for why we were being so quiet.
I didn’t give a fuck who was there. I led him to the sofa and let my shorts drop to the floor. The boy was on his daddy’s dick immediately, sucking it all the way to the base. Good head, too. He knew how to suck. Not too much teeth, not too much abrasion. Just the right amount of tongue action along the underside. He’s getting me close, and getting me close quickly. It’s more than most grown men can do.
I alternate between kissing him and letting him slobber all over my fuckstick. I’m not in a hurry to get back to my dad’s. His own dick—small, narrow, uncut—drips precum over his belly. There’s a long sticky thread of it connecting navel to tip, as his dick jerks and begs for his own attention. His hands are busy with my nuts, though. Stroking them. Caressing them. Squeezing them. Making my dick and balls feel good, and feel loved, the way a boy should. Yeah. He’s very good.
It’s time. I pull him up to the sofa and push him face-down on the pillows. I’ve already been licking at his little pucker from time to time. He’s wet and slick and hungry for it, so I push my dick against the sweet, warm spot and shove in. He twitches, then relaxes once more. He needs this dick. His hips raise up and push back, trying to get me deeper inside him. We try again with a little lube, and then I’m in, sliding all the way home. “Fuck, boy,” I whisper.
He starts a prayer into the seat cushion that doesn’t end the entire time I’m in him. “Oh god daddy oh god I need you daddy, fuck me, fuck me daddy, I needed this so bad, please don’t stop, please give it to me, oh god, oh god. . . .” He’s almost crying. His breath is ragged and torn as I move in and out of him. For long minutes I stroke in and out. I can tell he gets the most pleasure when I long-dick him, drawing out all but the tip before slowly pushing back in. His eyes roll up in his head when I do this. Drool hangs from the corner of his mouth, all over the pillow.
“Fuck me please, oh god daddy, please fuck me, fuck me please,” he says. The litany makes my juices flow. He’s so slick and wet now. His hot little hole grips onto me. He moans when I thrust hard. “Sssh,” I tell him. “We don’t want to wake your mom.”
This little bit of inspired roleplay sends him into a frenzy. He silences us both by craning his neck so that he can kiss me over his shoulder. Hard and keep we kiss as I shove my raw dick inside him. I’m coming before I really know it’s happening. It’s one of those orgasms in which it feels like something’s snapped, and the release is almost painful. Three, four jets of semen I shoot into him. A reluctant fifth. A small and tired sixth. We lay still.
But only for a moment. “Let me clean you,” he begs. “Let me clean you, dad.” He flips onto his back. I settle on my knees into the cushion and lower my dick into his mouth. He sucks away at my tool, cleaning off the ass juices and the semen and my sticky tool as he whacks away at his own dick.
“Good boy,” I say, stroking his hair. “I have a very, very good boy.”
When he comes, almost immediately after the words, it’s a geyser. Fluid sprays everywhere on the first shot. The second shot flies up like a ninja weapon to his nipple. He chokes slightly on my dick. I lift up and out of his mouth.
Then I watch him lying there, shuddering for a long minute after. He keeps twitching. His eyes are closed. I can almost see the electrical charge playing over his skin, from head to feet and back again. At last he subsides. By then, I have back on my clothes.
“Good boy,” I whisper, as I lean down to kiss him. “This is just between us guys, right?”
“Yes, daddy,” he whispers. A beatific smile crosses his face. With his eyes closed, he looks like an angel.
I give him one more kiss, and then I leave the house, to drive home to my own daddy.