He’s got a tribal tattoo that covers his right bicep. It’s a splash of dark ink against what’s otherwise milky-white skin—skin nearly as white as his facial hair, which has been trimmed into a severe, snow-colored spike that projects from his chin like a lethal icicle. It’s deceptively soft as it brushes against my thighs. His head is completely shaved. My hands both rest on it as his mouth glides up and down on my pole. They don’t let him up. I don’t want him to stop.
But I recognize the man needs air, so I release my grip on his skull. He stares up at me with eyes of a startling blue. “You like that, son?” he asks.
The word sets me off like a lit fuse. Without thinking, I jut out my jaw and growl. “Fuck yeah I do, dad.”
“I love my son’s cock,” he whispers. He holds it against his face so that I’m forced to look at it at him both. My engorged, red meat, glistening from his spit and hot out of his throat, and that handsome face. “I love sucking on my boy.”
“Then suck it, dad,” I tell him. “Suck your kid’s dick.”
And I settle back into the pillows as he goes down on me.
The man’s only a handful of years older than myself. He’d picked me up online when I was spending an afternoon in the city at the museum where I’m a member. I go often enough that I don’t feel obligated to stay for more than a couple of hours in a single visit. If an opportunity like this pops up, I take it. The fact that his place was only a three-block walk was a plus, in this metropolis.
The apartment’s a fucking mess. There’s clothing all over the floor, books and clutter strewn everywhere. He’d told me that he was cleaning out his closet, when I walked in, but if that’s the case, his closet is bigger than my old house. I’m not here for the tour, though. Just for his mouth, and his throat, and soon, his hole—that hairy little pucker that keeps pulsing in and out whenever I crane my body around to catch a glimpse.
He’s off my cock again, and pushing me down into the depths of his pillows. His mouth is on mine. His saliva is hot as we open our mouths and crush against each other. He’s on fire; his skin seems fevered to the touch. “Bite it,” he tells me, as he pushes my head down to his nipple. “Bite your daddy. Make him feel good.”
What can I do but obey? My incisors clamp down on that erase-shaped protrusion. My lips suck it out, my tongue swirls against it, and the edges of my teeth rake against the soft flesh. He sighs, and growls, and holds me down on his pec. He’s a muscular man, a man of very little body fat; there are photos of him at leather competitions across the room, on his dresser. It’s not difficult to imagine him winning.
“Jesus,” he whimpers at last, when I’ve turned that tit from pink to red with my nibbling. “I got me the best boy in the world.”
“You got a boy that loves his daddy,” I whisper. Then my face is in his armpit. It stinks. It smells of sharp, metallic body odor and tastes of salt. No deodorant there, that’s for sure. “You got a boy that wants his daddy’s ass,” I say.
He looks at me, then licks out with a broad, flat tongue like a happy dog of an oversized breed. His tongue swipes up my face from chin to eyebrow, licking the stink off me. “Fuck it then, son,” he says, pulling himself off the bed. “Fuck your daddy’s ass.”
He takes a moment to grab something from his top drawer. It’s a round-tipped syringe of sorts made from colorful plastic, in a shade of lime green one might find in a kid’s safety scissors. He submerges it into a bottle of lube, pulls back the plunger, and then hands it to me. The tip is dripping slightly, same as my dick. “Lube shooter,” he explains.
I don’t need a tutorial to use the thing. Once he’s on his hairy knees at the bed’s edge, I slide the finger-sized barrel into his hole, working the stick in a circle to open it up a little. I’m squeezing out a little lube all the way in, but it’s once I reach bottom that I let loose. I hear him sigh as it fills him up.
He sighs more loudly, gasps, and then lets out a long groan when I start to stretch his hole with my cock. The shaft slides in. He’s no novice at this, that’s for sure. I can even feel the lube once I’m all the way in; though his hole is warm and grips me slickly, my cock’s head feels like it’s dipped in Jello, or something remarkably cooler. Then I take a stroke, and another, and the coolness starts to fade and spread. The head of our bodies equalizes within a dozen strokes. I can’t tell where I end and he begins. I just know that he feels good, and that his hips keep rising to meet me with every thrust.
“That’s right, dad,” I whisper into the half-darkness. “Make your boy feel good.”
“Oh god,” he cries into the bed. And I do mean cries. I can hear the sob in his throat.
“You like this dick?” I ask him. “You like this dick? I got it from you.”
“I love that dick,” he moans.
“You are making this dick feel so . . . damned . . . good.”
He tries to rise onto his hands. He looks over his shoulder, that handsome fucker with the tough man appearance and the blue eyes of a little boy. “I love you, son.”
“I love you daddy,” I whisper back. A grin crosses my face when I say the words, and my dick swells.
When I shoot in him, minutes later, after a long fuck that leaves us both sweating and swearing, he’s holding me close and repeating the words. “I love you, son. I love you, boy.” Over and over again he says them, with his elbow locking the back of my neck against his chest. I unload in him as his legs seem both to repel me and to clamp me from leaving.
Then, after he holds me in there for a minute, the fog clears. He chuckles. His beard tickles me as he sucks me clean. I collect my things from among the junk on the floor, then find myself stumbling out of the apartment and out onto East 83rd. My face still stinks of the man—my grateful daddy, whom I left half-asleep in the tumble of sheets seven stories above.
I wonder if he’s dreaming of us.