Monday, April 30, 2018

Daddy

Not that long ago I was complaining to a friend of mine about guys in the area. They’re flaky, I told him. They’re never available when I’m horny. My other half can leave town for a week, and the moment I’m able to start hosting freely, all the guys who’ve been sniffing around and asking and asking and asking when I can have them over suddenly evaporate and are nowhere to be found. There are days I spend all afternoon and evening checking The Grindr without a single nibble . . . but let me make the actual decision to give up for the day, take out my contact lenses, brush my teeth, and hit the sheets, and suddenly my phone is buzzing and pinging like mad.

And the hotel guys, I told him. Fuuuuuuck. Don’t get me started on the hotel guys.

Where I live, a lot of out-of-towners overnight in the local hotels. Some come from Manhattan, so they can be here early mornings when the overseas stock markets open; others are constantly flying in from all over the country to consult or confer with the several big financial firms nearby. These men don’t stay at the no-tell motel several exits down the freeway; we’ve only got the one cheap place, here. No, they stay at the multi-story Marriott that casts a long shadow over the six lanes of I-95, or they stay at the Hilton, or they stay at the Hyatt up the street or our tiny, pricey boutique hotels.

And while these hotels aren’t that far away from me, all of them feel just as inaccessible as anything fifty miles over. Visiting guys in the Marriott involves paying by the hour in their parking garage . . . if they have any spots, which is no guarantee. The Hyatt has an outdoor parking lot, but it’s open only until 5, after which it’s a cool twenty-five bucks to stow your car there for a quickie. And since the Hilton and the tiny little boutique hotels downtown have no parking whatsoever, it’s a gamble whether or not there might be something on the streets.

Then, after you’ve finally parked and emptied out your wallet, or walked three-quarters of a mile from the first place you’ve found to leave your vehicle, you arrive at the hotel and the guy’s room. What if he’s a boring-ass dud, like they often are? It’s too late to leave. You’ve invested.

So fuck the hotel guys, I told my friend. I’m done with all the hassle and the gamble and the uncertainty. Done. Kaput. Finito. Adios.

But you know how the universe works, right? The moment you put your foot down, the second you draw a line in the sand and dare anyone to cross it, the very instant you attempt to assert control over forces inherently wilder than anything you yourself can tame, the universe singles you out for notice. Not so fast there, little buddy, it says. I’ve got other plans for you.

It’s later the same day. Yes, the same day I made those declarations about never doing any more visitors in hotels. Around dusk, I get hit up on Grindr. Faceless profile, but his information says he’s 26. Right off he sends me a photo of himself—a selfie in a bathroom mirror, taken low to the floor, squatting down in only a pair of soccer socks, the head of his fat, stiff dick knocking against the tiles.

My own dick hardens at the sight. There’s another buzz. He’s sent a pic of his long legs, spread wide on a mattress, leading like twin highways up to the mound of his tight ass, framed in a jock. Fuck, I think. How come I’ve never seen this guy before?

Fuck me tonight? he asks.

I’m tempted. Really tempted. I send him a dick shot. Then another. Then a third, of my raw dick poised at a hole, my fat cock head nudging against the pucker.

It elicits the response I’m looking for. Breed me!!!

Where in town do you live? I ask.

My heart sinks as I read his answer. I’m visiting from Italy. He tell me the hotel where he’s staying. It’s not one of the big three; it’s a smaller boutique hotel on the water.

But I’ve just sworn off fucking dudes in hotels! I made a stance! Just hours ago! What kind of idiot would I be to break a vow I just took?

The kind of idiot of which the universe likes to make fools, apparently.

The Grindr guy sends me a few more shots of himself clothed. They’re professionally done photographs of him in expensive clothing. I’m a model and I’m here to do a photo shoot on location, he says. Please come meet and breed me?

A young, attractive, cum-hungry male model from Italy? At least when the universe makes me eat my own words, it serves up the dish as tastily as possible—I’ll give it that much.

Yeah, I tell him. I definitely want to meet and breed you.

The hotel’s only a five-minute drive down the highway. There’s no traffic. The street in front of his lodgings is empty; I can park right in front of the building and walk right into the lobby. I knock at the model’s door; he opens it promptly and invites me in.

He’s wearing nothing but a fire engine red jock with black straps. In his photos, he’d sported blond hair and a dark beard, but now his hair’s all dark. It suits him better. “I’m so happy you came to meet me,” he says in a deep voice. His accent is heavy, but charming. He reaches out and entwines his fingers in mine to lead me all of five feet to the bed. He turns, and wets his thick lips. “Such a sexy daddy.” He presses his mouth to mine.

I usually don’t feel all that sexy during my travel time to tricks. The rush of getting somewhere, the pressure to get the directions correct and find parking, the exertion of walking and navigating through strange streets and buildings—none of it is boner-inducing. But when this kid, this lean-bodied kid less than half my age, this kid as tall as myself who’s wearing nothing but a skimpy jockstrap from an expensive label, starts pressing his body to mine as our mouths connect, I respond. My limp dick stirs and stiffens, then strains against him, groin to groin. He’s holding my head with both of his hands, now. I let the flats of my palms explore his body. The bumpy road of his spine. The swell of his smooth, firm ass. The pebbles that are his tiny, hard nipples.

“I saw you and I wanted you to be my daddy,” he says in that accent that sounds more Hollywood than real. “Fuck me tonight, daddy. Fuck me.”

“I’ll fuck you,” I promise.

His room is a god-damned mess, I notice. He’s got two suitcases, both open. From the way the clothes seem to have landed over the chairs and the extra bed and even the floor, I wonder if they exploded from internal, overpacked pressure. He’s got a case of bottled water next to the TV, its plastic ripped open, several bottles already removed. There are watches and phone chargers and thick chain bracelets and a wallet and a passport on the desk, and poppers and two bottles of lube on the bedside tables. He pushes me down onto the mattress of the bed he’s sleeping on, and straddles me.

His fingers rip open my buttons. He’s still kissing me, but he’s tearing the clothes from me as he does it. My chest lies bare; he pushes a hand down on it to keep me still as his other fingers wrestle with my best. Then the top button of my jeans is undone. He yanks down my zipper. With a rush he tugs down my shorts.

My clothes are undone, but not off; the shirt around my shoulders and the pants around my thighs are just as effective bondage as any ropes or chains. He’s able to switch positions so that he’s sitting squarely on my sternum, facing away from me, before I can wrestle out of any of my things. I feel the heat and wetness of his mouth on my cock. There’s a sound of someone groaning. I realize it’s me.

He’s doing these, these things with his mouth. I can’t see him at work; I don’t know what it is. But it’s driving me nuts. Maybe it’s his tongue determinedly working around the head. Maybe it’s something he’s doing with his hand against the slick skin of my wet dick. I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want it to keep happening. My arms are pinned under his knees, but while he sucks I manage to work them out and over. His ass is just inches from my face. I have to taste it.

I manage somehow to convince him to back up a little bit, to lean forward and take my dick deeper down his throat, to expose his hole. My neck cranes up. My tongue flicks out to taste him. The boy’s skin is creamy and smooth. He tastes and smells of hotel soap, with the faintest hint of a masculine cologne. When he feels me eating his hole, he starts groaning as well. He removes his mouth from my meat and allows himself the luxury of enjoying my tongue on his ass. I can feel his thick cock pressing against my skin. Its heat is intense, white-hot. It’s almost as if he’s branding me, as if when he eventually changes position again, I’ll find myself permanently impressed with the banana shape of his uncut salami on my skin.

“Daddy,” he says, finally, screwing himself around to kiss me once again.

“What do you want, son?”

“You. Inside me.”

“Yeah?” Still tangled in my shirt, I lift myself up on my elbows. We’re face to face, our eyes intently staring. “You want daddy’s dick up that pretty smooth hole?”

For a second he looks vulnerable. Helpless. As if he’s so wrapped up in the moment that my words have disarmed him. “Please. Yes.”

“You want dad’s sperm in there, don’t you.”

“Oh yes. Yes. Please.”

“What if I tell you no?”

It’s a taunt. He knows it. It’s also an empty threat. This pretty boy, this fucking Italian male model, has got me wrapped around his finger. He plants his palm on my chest again. Pushes me down. Leans over to grab a handful of lube from the bedside.

I feel the cold goo as he spread it all over his dick. Another handful. Another intense rush of coldness as the lube drips down onto my nuts. He grabs one more pump of the stuff and applies it to himself. The next sensation I feel is the warmth of his ass crack, as it begins to slide against my head.

“Let me get all the way out of my clothes,” I urge.

He doesn’t give a shit about my state of undress at this point, though. He’s got dick on his mind. Grabbing the poppers from the side table, he takes a deep whiff and lowers himself, reaching back to aim my dick at his hole. I slide in with no resistance whatsoever. This is one well-fucked boy.

“Daddy,” he whispers over and over as he allows me in.

“Oh baby,” I whisper back.

When he lowers himself to kiss me, I can still taste the poppers in his lungs. His mouth tastes mine only momentarily before he raises himself again. Using his knees as a fulcrum, he raises himself up and down on my dick. There’s a dark stain spreading across his jock, where the head bulges. When I press the heel of my hand against it, he responds with a groan and more intense grinding on my dick.

The kid is skilled. I mean, he’s good. He’s twisting his hips in a way that’s catching my dick just right. Every time I try to assert a little control, to do my own thrusting, he shakes his head and pushes me back. He’s greedy. He wants this his way.

So I let him. I let him grind, and buck, and set the pace. I let him speed up to the point where I can feel the juices bubbling in my nuts, threatening to boil over, before he looks at me with lidded eyes and stops altogether. Just to show me who’s in control. I let him take me to the edge again and again. I let him make me beg for release, and watch him enjoy himself when he denies it.

But he can’t keep me from shooting forever. He knows it. After long minutes he finally rests his hands on my chest yet again, pushing his weight there. He arches his back, and lets that bubble butt slam up and down against my nuts. “Daddy,” he announces. “Breed me.”

But when I come, I’m not so much breeding him as he is stealing my load. He’s breeding himself. My dick is only the delivery system. He’s forcing out the seed, inhaling it with his hungry hole, driving down for more. He’s milking every individual sperm out of my nuts, staring in my eyes as I convulse and groan and gasp for air. At the receiving end of his relentless drive I’m helpless. He knows it. The little fucker gets what he wants.

Only then does he pull down the pouch of his jock and pull out his uncut fat Italian dick. One jerk. Two jerks. Three jerks, and it erupts. A geyser of seed cascades over my chest, splashing me in the face. Then another. Then a third, smaller, but still copious.

I’ve done nothing but lie there tangled in my clothing the entire time. But I’m fucking exhausted. He, too, is panting heavily. I close my eyes and try to still my pounding heart. Then I hear something. The faintest of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, slitting open my eyes.

He’s still mopping his own sweat from his face. “Funny?” he asks, not understanding.

No. He hadn’t laughed.

Somewhere, somehow, it’s the universe snickering at me, and at all my silly vows.

Monday, April 9, 2018

Show-Off

So here I am, butt making a dent in my mattress, legs spread with my laptop between them. The tiny dot of a camera in the top bezel is angled squarely at my junk. Just a typical Monday morning, right?

Whenever I get exhibitionistic on some cam site, viewers always ask me, Dude, what’s getting you so hard? Here’s the serious truth: I’m not watching porn. I’m not fixated on anyone else’s broadcast. I’m just admiring the sight of my fist clutching my meat. And right now it is seriously grabbing onto those inches. My fingers are wrapped, vise-like, at the base of the shaft, stretching out my taut, fat nuts below. The top two-thirds of my meat—yeah, not the top half, but the top two-thirds, because I’m big like that—is thick and dark red from my own grip and strain for a hole that’s nowhere near.

What gets me so hard on cam is the sight of my own rock star dick. I’m am one cock-proud, and cocky, motherfucker. This crank of mine is turning on the seventy (and climbing) spectators who are using the chat box to cheer me on and express an admiration that almost equals my own.

Fuck, I love looking at myself on cam. My shaft is slick and glistening from all the lube I’ve been slathering on these past fifteen minutes. Every now and then a bead of my own natural juices will bulge at the tip; I’ll make a show of corkscrewing my finger into it, mashing the head down hard to give the illusion I’m digging deep into the tip to retrieve it. A long spider’s thread of precum connects cock to fingertip as I lift it up and bring it to my mouth. My spectators go fucking nuts when they see the long strand, plainly visible against the background of the black tee I’m wearing specifically for this purpose.

fuck look at that precum, writes someone.

This stud could breed me anytime! messages sexykittenMO.

pvt me? write a few people at once.

I’m not looking to send private messages now, though. I like to respond to my audiences in the chat room, sure. When hungdad4sexybois tells me I look hot, I’ll wipe sticky goo from my fingers and tap back, thanks hungdad. When trucker007253 asks where I live, I’ll reply, NY, trucker. I’ll answer questions about my size and my marital status. Some shit I ignore. When I get asked if I’ve ever been caught jerking off, I refrain from the obvious answer, No, because I have ears that work. When guys ask me to pull up my feet and put them behind my head, I refrain from suggesting that they go find the Ringling Brothers if they’re looking for acrobats. The dumb shit, I just refrain from answering at all.

But damn. I sure love the sight of my image on the computer screen, choking my big fat hog and grinning like a fool while I do it. Seeing how turned on and erect I am just makes me even more turned on and erect; I’m trapped in a pleasurable feedback loop. I’m a perpetual boner machine, watching my fist slide up and down over my gleaming shaft. The bout of ego doesn’t bother me. It’s like my mom always used to say: if you’re gonna be doing some self-loving, best love yourself while you do it.

(Note: my mom never actually said that.)

Show you feet, says m4hotfems in chat.

lift up that shirt dude, says boyfordads.

Someone named torpedo announces, I’m camming too. Check me out, stud.

My enjoyment of cam rooms and sites always takes place in three acts. Act One is the slow-moving scene setter in which I turn on the cam and wait to see who starts watching. Act Two is the bulk of the show, when I have more than a couple of dozen viewers, but less than a hundred. It’s during Act Two that I can chat with the guys and gals viewing me, thank them individually for their compliments, answer their questions, grant a few of their requests, if they strike my fancy. I love Act Two.

Act Three, though, begins when the number of my viewers outstrips my ability to keep up with them. There’s something about the triple digits that pushes the whole experience over a cliff. Onscreen chat happens too fast and frequently; I have to resort to a less personal thanks guys! after a spate of compliments scroll down my screen. I get too many private messages to really keep up—it feels like I’m almost spending more time typing than showing off—and typing is not why I’m here.

Today, Act Three begins about forty-five minutes into my show. My viewership hits the triple digits, dragging me to the top half of the first page of broadcasts. Having more people in my room brings in even more people—and more of them are making demands. More of them are trying to lure my viewers to their own rooms. It’s a little bit of a clusterfuck.

I’m used to this pattern, though. I know it’s coming, the moment that little green dot above my screen blinks on. I’ve been down this road many times before. So I thank my viewers, encourage them to follow me, and sign off. Sure, I didn’t shoot . . . but my cam shows aren’t about the climax.

They’re about the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.

I stand up, stretch my stiff legs. Snap down the lid of the laptop. Time for a shower, anyway. I pad over the bedroom floor and across the hall into the bathroom, where I wash the sticky lube from my dick and let the warm water soothe my aching boner. My dick’s soft, but still hefty, by the time I’m toweling off.

I’m still damp and clutching my towel when I scoop up my phone from the end of the bed where I’d left it. Several notifications from Scruff have filled the front screen; I let my thumb unlock the phone to check them.

There’s a message from a guy less than five miles away. Were you just on cam? he’s asked, naming the site where I’d been publicly masturbating. Hot as hell if you were. Woof.

My first thought is a startled How the fuck . . . ? My Scruff profile uses my face; on the cam site I’d only presented myself from the bottom of my nose down. When I realize I’ve used the same name on both places, though, I relax. Plus, the guy’s fucking hot.

That was me. Enjoy the show?

Fuck yeah, he says. You’re amazing.

Like I said, this fellow is pretty amazing himself. Mid-thirties, body of a muscled bulldog, dark red beard. Rapidly he sends me a few shots of himself—one on the beach, tanned and sweaty, one of his round bubble butt bent over a bare mattress in a dark room. I flipped through those and the others, dick beginning to harden again.

You’re the one who’s looking amazing, I tell him.

I get dressed while I wait for the next message. I don’t have to wait long, though. I really need to give head this morning. Can’t host, though.

Honestly, the offer of head is highly attractive to me. I can’t host, either, though, and tell him so.

Kinda unsure if you’d be into this. But I’ve got a van we could meet in, and I know a place off the parkway we could do this, if you’re up for now. Before I can tap back a reply, he adds, There’s a hundred bucks in it for you.

A hundred bucks? To get blown? I ask. My dick’s now filling out the pouch of my jeans.

Two hundred if you can do it now. Might not be your bag but you’d be worth it.

Tell me where and when, I tell the guy.

I’m grinning like a fool the entire drive up there. Nah, my smile’s not about the validation the transaction implies. I don’t need validation—though it’s pleasant when I get it. I’m just thinking how god-damned funny it is still to be doing this at my fucking age. When I was a twink, sure, I could see guys shelling out their hard-earned bucks for a taste of me. But midway through my fifties? Preposterous, right?

Yet I’ve been doing this for how many decades, now? Not soliciting—never soliciting. But accepting.
And here I am, hopping into yet another suburban minivan in a parking lot with a stranger. He removes his sunglasses. That pic in his profile must’ve been very recent—he’s even wearing the same tee/hoodie combo that’s in his main photo. “Didn’t think you’d show,” he comments, as I slide into the passenger seat and pull his door shut.

“Really?” is my only question.

“Nah. Not really,” he admits. His dark eyes are looking me over. Up. Down. Mostly down, checking for signs of stirring in my crotch. “You seemed like the kind of guy who would step up to the plate. Here you are.”

“Here I am,” I agree. I’ve dressed casually. I’ve made myself easily accessible—in a parked car emergency situation, you don’t want to be fiddling with any more fasteners than you really have to. So I’ve got on a flannel shirt, unbuttoned. The dark V-neck tee I’d been wearing on cam, earlier. Jeans—no belt. I sit there with my hands at my side, letting him see everything. “You want to . . . ?” I rub my thumb over my fingers.

“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. A moment later, I’m pushing folded bills into my own pocket. “Let me see that dick again.”

“Up here?” I ask.

He looks around and rethinks his request. “Back seat. Yeah? Think it’d be better?”

I absolutely thought it would be better. There’s enough room for me to squeeze between the seats; he follows so that we’re sitting in the minivan’s back seat, where the shadows are deeper. He reaches for my groin, rubbing the flat of his hand over the taut denim.

“Fuck,” he says. “You know how many dudes wanted this dick this morning?”

I nod. “I know.”

“Now I’ve got it.”

“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” I tell him. (Honestly, it sounded better in my head.)

“You hard?” I nod again. He licks his lips. “Let me see.”

I unbutton my jeans. Unzip. Immediately my dick flops out. No underwear—like I said, in car sex, the less you have to mess with, the better. My meat is hard. Even though it’s been through a shower, it still feels moist and slightly swollen from the thorough lubing it had during the hour I’d been on cam. Kind of like a sponge swollen from an excess of fluid. And god knows my balls have an excess of fluid today.

“Shiiiiiiiiit,” he whispers, drawing out the word. My dick jumps when he reaches to take it in his hand. “That’s what I’m talkin' about.”

“All yours.”

He urges me to get comfortable. There’s only so much comfort to be had in the back seat of a minivan, but I pull myself sideways so that my back is pressing against the door’s armrest. One of my legs is up on the seat itself, and he’s got a shoulder leaning on my thigh. With my pants pulled down a few inches from my waist, my dick’s pointing at the roof when he finally opens his mouth and engulfs it. One of his hands cups my nuts.

“That what you wanted?” I ask. “That big dick in your mouth?”

His reply is a muffled gulp of pleasure.

“So make it feel good, then.”

He replies to my demand by taking all my inches down his throat. The fur of his red beard tickles against the inside of my thighs. He’s surprisingly good, this bulldog cocksucker. Fucker could have anyone he wanted if he walked into the Eagle. Yet here he is on a weekday morning, sucking off some strange dude in a suburban strip mall parking lot. I’m happy he’s enjoying himself, though—and I can tell he’s really enjoying himself. His eyes are closed as he bobs up and down on my meat. Every time he reaches the base he lets out a contented little grunt. The dude is lost in a sexual fugue, caring about nothing but the sensation of his lips around hard cock, of his throat as my engorged head stretches it. When I let loose with a glob of precum, he lets loose a rumble in his chest, at the salty taste.

The street we’re parked on is sleepy and not much traveled; it’s too early for lunch and no one’s visiting the ramshackle travel agency. The van’s back windows are tinted, and a building blocks the front windscreen, so I’m not much worried about being caught. I let out a few groans to let him know what good work he’s doing. They’re not feigned, not forced. I’m genuinely getting off on this scene. His spit is slopping out of his mouth and down the length of my shaft, drawing wet lines of sensation down my nuts as it puddles on the seat. He wraps his thumb and forefinger down at the base, making me more rigid than I already am.

Eventually he comes up for air. “Do what you did earlier,” he asks, staring directly into my eyes.
“What was that?” Earlier covers a lot of territory, for me.

“Put on a show.” He pulls himself up slightly to rest his weight on his forearms. “Stroke for me. Let me watch. Like this morning.”

There’s something so fucking arousing about the way he’s making his request. I spread my legs a little wider and spit in my hand. Then, like I’m considering the request—casually, you know, the way guys always do when they’re masturbating while thinking over proposals—I reverse my usual jack-off fist and start stroking with my thumb at the bottom, bouncing against my pelvic bone. Usually drives them wild on cam.

He’s no different. I can feel the stiff intake of breath as it stirs the wet patch on my nuts. “Fuck,” is the only word he mutters.

Yeah. I can do this. I’m aware of his intense presence between my legs, mere inches away from my crank. All my attention is focused on my dick, though. This is what he wants to see. Intense, sexual, preoccupation. I make-believe he’s not even there.

One of my hands reaches up and squeezes my own tit. My jaw drops, like I’m loving it. “Fffffffuck,” I spit out.

“Christ, you are hot,” he whispers, watching the show. “Can’t get over how I’m actually right here in front of you, watching you choke that fat dick.”

I pretend not to hear him. I spit again, apply the liquid to my slick meat. It’s red, now. Throbbing. I thwack it into my palm with a wet slap.

“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. “I didn’t get to see you cum on your cam show.”

“You want me to cum?” My voice is low. Deliberate. When he nods, I look at him directly. “Tell me.”

“Cum for me,” he says, excited. He hasn’t opened his pants the entire time we’ve been together, but now he reaches for his zipper and pulls out a cut five-incher that he begins to beat furiously. “Dude, please cum for me. Shoot it.”

“Yeah. I’ll shoot it.” I pull back into my cock-proud self-regard, staring at my fat prick while I pull on it. “You’d sure like that, wouldn’t you.”

“I’d take all your loads if I was lucky enough to be your boyfriend.” He’s pulled himself on his side, now, so he can whack. He’s beating so audibly that his balls are slapping against the denim of his jeans. “Take all your loads. Mouth and ass. Not a drop would touch the ground. Fuck, if I was your boyfriend, you’d be drained twenty-four/seven.”

I’m digging how deep into the fantasy he is. As he keeps talking about all the things he’d do for me if I were his boyfriend, I pick up the pace to let him now how much he’s turning me on. “I’m getting close,” I warn him.

“Feed me,” he says, abruptly shifting place to position his mouth near my cock head. “Feed your boyfriend. Fucking feed your boyfriend.” While he repeats the words, he starts ejaculating into his own cupped hand. “Fucking feed me, fuck, feed me please, motherfucker.”

“Here it comes,” I tell him. I can tell from the pulse in my nuts that it’s going to be a big one. There’s just something about the sensation of the spit and the close quarters and his insistent boyfriend chatter that’s pushing me over the edge. Obligingly I angle my dick so it’s pointing at him. His mouth opens wide to watch the flying seed. I feel his wet pursed lips close over my meat, hungrily sucking the ejaculate as it spews.

His eyes half-closed, he nurses at my softening meat. I let him. His dime, after all. Finally he wakens from his sexual reverie. “You’re going to let me do that again sometime.”

“Sure,” I say.

“Not a question. You’re definitely going to let me do that again. Soon.”

I shrug, and smile to myself. Who am I to argue? I’m already picturing another time with this guy. I’m picturing the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.