Yes, And

The twenty-four year old wears his cap of raven ringlets like a crown. They are impossibly ornate, a fever dream made real of some long-deceased painter of the Pre-Raphaelite school. Golden morning light casts a halo atop those glinting curls. His skin is clear; his nose short and pert. The boy’s upper lip projects slightly over the lower.

Against the door frame of his parents’ home he leans, wearing nothing but a pair of beat-up white sneakers and cargo shorts too bulky for his narrow frame. One hand crosses his waist to clutch his side. He looks all the world like a portrait of St. Sebastian, aggrieved in martyrdom, yet still beautiful.

He’s looking me over, too. In my clean short-sleeved shirt and fresh shorts, I must pass the test, because he doesn’t send me packing. “I’ve never been with an older man.” The boy’s voice is deeper than I imagined. Soft, too.

“Well,” I say, equally quiet. “You certainly picked the oldest one out there.”

He tilts his head down, perhaps to conceal his amused smile. Through his fringe of circlets he looks me in the eye as he steps back to admit me into his home. “Come on in, I guess.”

At its root, lovemaking is expression. It’s performance. Improvisation. Two players—maybe more, but at least two—meet upon the stage to create a scene, each the other’s audience. A good performer knows that here the rules of improv apply: the yes, and of the stage carries just as much relevance in the bedroom. Each actor receives the words and energies of his scene partner and builds upon them. Hindering his enjoyment, negating what he has to contribute, refusing to be vulnerable—all these things lead to dead ends, whether enacted in a skit or upon the mattress.

Listening. That’s key. Taking in not merely words spoken, but the implications and possibilities behind them. When the boy says I’ve never been with an older man, I hear: Please live up to my fantasies. I hear: Please lead me. I hear: I picked you for a reason. When he says, come on in, I guess, I hear: Curtains rising.

On the edge of his bed in a surprisingly tidy room, the boy automatically begins loosening the heel of one sneaker with the toe of the other. “Let me, son,” I suggest, kneeling before him.

He hesitates, then leans back, his elbows planted on the colorful duvet. “Thank you, dad.”

Yes, and.

There’s a catch in his voice as he breathes his appreciation, though I cannot tell whether from the novelty of uttering the word dad, or from the touch of my fingers as gently I remove his left shoe. His feet are ridiculously large, like the comical paws of a puppy poised to become a much larger dog. I tug at his right shoe next, then carefully peel the no-show gray socks from his feet. When he stands, his distressed cargos slip slightly down his hips to reveal a forest of thick pubes. Once I’ve unsnapped the button and released the fly, the pants fall into a crumpled mass upon the wooden floor.

He steps out of them, stubby cock fully erect. His torso is perfectly smooth, save for a trail beneath his navel. The boy’s legs, though, are covered with a crazy amount of jet black fur. From the waist down, he looks as if he’s wearing a pair of dark, shaggy leggings. I gaze up with undisguised admiration. “You’re beautiful.”

Yes.

His dick leaps at the praise. I can hear his breath catch in his chest. “I can’t get over how handsome you are, dad.”

And.

“Thank you.” I hadn’t been fishing for praise, but his is pleasurable to hear. Yes. From my kneeling position, I pat the bed. “Sit down,” I suggest. He obeys, spreading wide those ebony-downed legs and folding his fingers over his bony knees. And. I whisper, “Lie back.” And. “Let me make you feel good.”

At first he resists, wanting to keep me in his sights as I run my hands over his flat abdomen, his sculpted pecs, the fuzzy planes of his upper thighs. Eventually, though, he settles down with his fingers interlocked behind his head, keeping it upright so he can watch. I kiss one thigh. Yes. Then the other. Yes, yes. I pingpong in slow motion between them, back and forth, moving upward inch by inch from just above the knees until I can feel his rigid inches baptizing my pate with sticky droplets.

And.

I bury my nose in his scrotum, inhaling deep of its soapy perfume. He has to be fresh from the shower. My tongue darts out. The tip tickles his taint, dances its way around the circumference of one of his eggs, then the other. And. Before he can protest or even verbalize what he’s feeling, I seize his short dick in my hand and squeeze hard enough to draw from him a gasp. And. Then I take it in my mouth and swallow it whole, to the base. I hold there, letting him enjoy the warmth and wetness.

“Oh my god,” he pants. “Fucking amazing.” Yes.

But I’m not done. I relinquish my position at the base and back off his meat, allowing my lips to cling and suckle at his dick and his swollen, cut head. Slowly. Deliberately. When I reach the tip, my tongue dips and plays around the slit. Then I slide back down again, in no hurry, until I return to my starting point. Several times I take him on this ride, aware that he’s watching as I nurse at his rock-hard dick.

Yes. I could do this forever.

He has the impatience of youth, though. It’s not long before he wriggles to a sitting position and pulls me off when I’m at the apex. “Can I do it to you?”

I crunch my brows and stare him in the eyes. My head nods as if he’s asked me the weightiest of questions, and I’ve given it all my consideration. Yes, and. “You’ve never sucked before?”

That’s what he’d told me on the app, at least. He nods, suddenly shy. “I’ve gotten head from two dudes. Just never gave it. I’ve eaten pussy, if that counts.”

While he speaks, I struggle to my feet and pull down my shorts. My own cock has been rigid this entire time, aching to be unbound. Now it bobs, free and proud, in front of his face. I feel a stab of satisfaction at the mingled look of awe and anticipation in the kid’s eyes. I’m at least twice as big as he. “You think you can handle this?” I ask.

He nods. Yes. “It’s so fucking big, dad.” I watch as he gulps. “Will you let me?” And.

Of course I will.

He assists by arranging and fluffing his pillows so I can lie back. It’s sweet, really, how solicitous he is as he ensures my comfort. For a moment, when our faces are close, I hope he might kiss me. He doesn’t. If he’s more experienced with women, perhaps that intimacy with another man is still too awkward. Yet when his curls brush my cheek and our lips are only inches apart, I yearn for another and.

Finally he flops between my outstretched legs and watches as I unbutton my shirt. The boy’s on his stomach, propped up by his arms, perky little butt flexing. In the moment, I don’t think I’ve seen anything so beautiful. The boy is miles and miles of creamy skin and unexplored territory, and I pine to be the surveyor to map him. “May I?” he whispers, stirring the hairs on my balls with his breath.

“You may,” I reply. In my appreciation of his beauty, I’d forgotten about my own dick. It has its own agenda, though, and certainly hasn’t forgotten its prey. Like a junkyard dog against its chain, it strains from between my thighs, angry and slavering and demanding release. When the boy wraps his fingers around it, though, I’m the one whimpering and growling. Yes. And. “Just do like I did for you, son,” I tell him. “Slow. Wet. Make me enjoy…”

He doesn’t need the direction. He sucks on his sulky lips to moisten them. Dark eyes looking up at me, he opens wide and takes me to the root. There’s no choking. No hesitation. Nothing but hunger, pushing him to devour as much and as quickly as he can. A cry flies from my lips and ricochets around the bedroom. His mouth still indulges my dick as, with a single strong hand, he presses me back into the pillows.

I could question his oral expertise. The kid knows exactly what he’s doing. And it’s his first time? Well, he could be extraordinarily gifted. A natural. Or he could be a liar.

In this space, though—this sacred theater, this place of performance and improvisation—I know better than to stem the flow with a no. He’s truly been the ideal partner. Why would I dare risk making him feel self-conscious, or foolish, or question his sincerity and experience? Riffing off each other, following the other’s cues, spinning a story without a script is how we craft this production. We do so together, as artists who share a mutual stage.

Not just here, today, this hour, this bedroom. Every encounter is a story of its own, a meeting of two performers, both of whom share a single spotlight. Two players who set and devise a shared scene. Who execute a single, choreographed bow at its conclusion. Who soak in the silent applause of each other. Who return to their lives happy, sated, and with a tale to tell.

“You like it?” he asks, emerging at last from the trance-like state in which he’s spent the last few minutes. He’s curled into an almost fetal position between my legs, and I revel in the selfishness of allowing him.

Yes. “Your mouth is amazing,” I manage to say, surprised I’m coherent enough for words.

He draws himself up. “Is it?” His eyes, half-covered by the fringe of his curls, bore into mine. We’re at face level again. Yes.

My fingers drape themselves on the back of his neck, beneath the heavy mantle of ringlets. He lets out an inaudible sigh and allows me to pull him closer. The boy’s eyelids become heavy, then close as my lips touch his. I give him the softest of kisses. Yes. “Oh, absolutely,” I tell him.

Without warning, he pounces, pushing me deep into the soft pillows with the weight of his body. His mouth presses hard, even painfully, against mine. Yes. When his tongue pushes deep into my mouth, I can taste myself on him. Hungrily we kiss, abandoning any pretense of taking it slowly. His hands wrench the shirt from my body. Oh, yes. Eager as he is to climb atop me, I take the opportunity to flip the boy onto his back. Still furiously making out, I feel his furry legs clasp around my waist as my cock slips between his thighs. Yes!

With moist, adoring eyes, he gazes up. “Dad?” he whispers. “Do you wanna fuck me?”

“Yes.” Arousal rasps my words. “Yes, son. I want to fuck you.” And into my curled fingers I scoop our mingled saliva from my tongue to press into his hole. “Do you want me inside?”

His head bobs up and down rapidly. “Yes sir.” It’s a plea. “Yes, I do.”

And as I massage my fingers into that hairy crevice, his legs lift into the air.

And I rise to my knees, readying myself.

And eyes locked, I guide his hand to hold me. “Help me guide it in,” I suggest.

“Yes,” he breathes.

And…

***

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What Dads Are For

You are exceptionally handsome, Sir.

My attention perks up at the message. Whose ego wouldn’t respond to such outlandish flattery? The adverb alone makes my dick swell, where it lurks within my terrycloth shorts.

I’m visiting my dad in Virginia for the week. Today I’ve been with him since the early morning; he had one of his semi-annual checkups with his oncologist at nine, and then a blood draw for a subsequent, different specialist, tomorrow. We’ve stopped at the pharmacy, where I’ve plumbed the mysteries of my dad’s several prescriptions. I’ve clipped his cats’ claws. I’ve navigated the complications of ordering a deli sandwich for his lunch, which involves reading each of the dozens of ingredients from the deli’s app, then listening to him expel air through his lips and ruminate before he approves or vetoes each one. I’ve bought and replaced a toilet seat for him. And it’s not even yet two o’clock.

Now I’m sitting in his living room, Grindr open on my phone, as he putters around his kitchen and listens to MSNBC at top volume. Thank you, I text back to the boy who’s caught my attention. But look who’s talking.

He’s got several pics visible in his profile. A selfie in his car, square-jawed, wearing a baseball cap, his cool blue eyes staring into his camera lens. Another in red flannel, equally serious, revealing straw-colored hair, cut with military severity. A third of his torso, emblazoned with a massive dragon tattoo across his left pectoral. He’s all of twenty-three, this young dreamboat, and he’s going out of his way to flatter me.

I feel unworthy.

You wouldn’t happen to be looking this afternoon, would you, Sir?

It just so happens that I might be. When I’m visiting my hometown, it’s usually my custom to take a break mid-afternoon to head back to my hotel to relax and decompress before meeting my dad once more for dinner. I definitely could be.

Would you like to trade some pics, Sir?

His insistent use of the capital-S Sir gives me wood. So do the more explicit photos with which he follows up. Two are of his cock, taken in a way that shows off the furry blond hair on his legs; the remainder are of his backside. My heart rate soars at the sight of his impossibly narrow waist. He’s chosen jockstraps in differing colors to accentuate the round globes of his ass. You are beautiful, son, I tell him.

What are you into, dad?

Eating and breeding hole, making out, oral, and open to much more. You?

Bottom here. Into kissing, oral, poppers, bondage, choking, kissing, kink, role play, voyeurism, exhibitionism, video taping, bb.

It’s quite a list. From the kitchen, my dad asks for the third time if I want either some of the cookies he’s baked, or a slice of cake. I yell no, and reply to the kid with a couple of explicit photos of myself: one in which my cock is impaling and stretching out a hole, and another in which it’s greased up and shiny as I stroke it for the camera.

I need that. Will you please breed me, Sir? Where are you staying?

I should go for this kid, right? I really want to. I give the boy my details and my phone number. I’ll be in my hotel room after three, I tell him.

I can’t wait, Sir. It’s been over a week since I took cum.

Although my father’s eyesight is bad enough that I could be outright tenting and he wouldn’t see, I adjust my shorts, make my promises to be back by dinner, and head to my car.

Back in my hotel room and after my shower, I lie on the mattress while a stream of air conditioning blows over my half-naked body. Now, my uncertainty rises. I’ve barely tiptoed back into having sex after a two-year hiatus. I’m older. My body has changed during the pandemic: my waistline’s a little more snug, my back feels creakier. I feel I’ve lost flexibility. In the half-darkness, as I review the shots the boy has sent, I’m assailed with doubts. Why in the world would a kid of this caliber want me? He looks as if he should be collabing with porn stars for his OnlyFans, or curating shirtless photos for his influencer account, not resorting to hitting up some near-geriatric for anonymous fucking in a sleazy hotel room.

Already I’m anticipating an expression of disappointment on his face, the moment I open that door and he sees the gray in my beard and realizes I’m over twice his age. What’s he going to do, I berate myself, when he shows up and sees what a fat fuck I’ve become? Two years have given me more of a belly. It’s made me slower. Perhaps it’s erased any skills I once might have boasted. Maybe I’m not the top I once was. Maybe this entire encounter will be nothing but disappointment for us both. Whatever I used to have—whatever might have made me stand out a little among the competition—I’ve probably lost.

Although the kid has already texted me to say he’s out of the shower and on his way, there’s still time to abort this doomed tryst. I could send a stupid excuse and opt out of meeting—I should opt out, in fact. How could I have been so stupid, to subject this boy to my gross corpulence? To him, I’ll probably look like some demon, straight out of the hellscapes of Hieronymus Bosch.

Then my reason takes over, as I look at his photos on my phone and play with myself. Come on, I chide. The young man had contacted me, after seeing one of my selfies on Grindr. I’d sent him more. He knows what I look like. He knows how tall I am, how much I weigh. I don’t lie about my age, so he’s aware of that, too. He’s smart enough to make his own hookup choices. If he wants to get naked with me, why deny him the opportunity? I’m reasonably sure I haven’t forgotten how to fuck. My tongue is as glib as ever. No matter what happens, I still have the skill set to give this boy a good time. I’ll focus on that, and let the cards fall where they may.

I hear a knock at the door.

He’s standing in front of me, now, kicking off a pair of flip-flops as he looks me over. “Wow, dad.” He looks me in the eyes. “You’re even more handsome than your photos.”

“Thank you, son.” I couldn’t be more sincere in my gratitude. His hungry eyes still bore into my own as he drops his basketball shorts to reveal the bulging gray jock beneath. He’s taller than I thought, nearly my own height—maybe six foot two. As lean as his photos. Beautiful. If I’d seen him on the street, I would’ve turned my head with a silent prayer he might meet my stare with his own. Yet here he is before me, telling me how attractive I am.

He’s about to take off his tank top with the same speed when I hold up a palm to arrest him. I sit on the bed’s edge. “Slowly.” I lean back.

“Yes, Sir.” The boy understands. He pulls himself to his full height. Runs the fingers of both hands through his short, blond hair, so that I get a glimpse of the corn silk decorating his pits. His eyes lock on mine as he crosses his wrists at the waist and, in one smooth, practiced move, slowly lifts his tank up and over his head. Once balled up in a hand, he uses it to mop moisture from his face. Then it joins his shorts on the floor.

There’s a half-smile on my face as I drink in the sight of him—that lean waist, the worked-out chest with its coiled Chinese dragon, the muscular thighs that shift his weight from side to side. I point an index finger to the ceiling and give it a twirl. Again, he knows exactly what to do. Looking at me over his shoulder, he turns. I draw in a sharp hiss of air at the sight of his ass. In the photos, it had been perfect. My impression is only improved, in person. Twin globes, pert, framed perfectly by the gray elastic. He watches as I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, appreciating the view. “Am I okay, dad?”

I chuckle. “Okay?” He’s not asking out of cockiness, nor from vanity, I can tell. There’s a genuine tinge of anxiety behind the question. I sit up and look him directly in the eyes. “No, son. You’re not okay. You are fuckin’ beautiful.” He opens his mouth to thank me, but I’ve hooked my pinkie and index finger in the elastic bands separating buttock from thigh. When I tug him toward me, he stumbles backward with surprise. I press the heel of a hand on the small of his back, and he bends.

“Oh!” is all he says when my mouth meets his pucker. He smells of soap. Though his legs are covered in blond fur, the pelt ceases where the jock begins. My hands run over the smooth skin of his back and chest and ass; his hole is completely hairless. The boy tastes so good. This isn’t going to be some lick ’n’ stick. I need to spend some time on this hole.

“Come here,” I order, as hastily I plump two of the pillows in the bed’s center. His hips grind into them as he flops in a diagonal across the mattress. Once he’s settled, I dive back in.

“Your beard…fuck,” he whispers. He’s grinding his hole back onto my face, mashing it hard as he can, trying to abrade my facial hair against the tender flesh. “May I do poppers, dad? Please?” I grunt to let him know I approve. I hear, rather than see, his lungs expand to accommodate the vapors from within the little brown bottle. Beneath my tongue, though, his ass blossoms.

For long minutes I apply heat and pressure to his pink hole, working in moisture, opening it wider. His hips rise and fall in tidal rhythm. His groans subside to whimpers, then rise in volume to become noisy pleas once more. My own cock lies, thick and hard, at an angle beneath my thigh as I grind it against the bedsprings. It can’t go unsatisfied for long. At last, I seize the boy’s ankles and pull them apart. Between his legs I slither up, until my dick juts against that wet crack. “Dad needs to be inside you, son,” I whisper in his ear. “You understand, right?”

“Yes, Sir,” he replies. His eyes are wet with adoration as he looks over his shoulder at me. “Anything you need.”

“Give me those poppers.” I hold out my hand as he scrabbles to find where they’ve rolled. Once mine, I unscrew the little cap and curl a thumb halfway over the aperture. “Head back now. Breathe.” He takes a tentative sniff as I force the bottle beneath his nose. “Breathe deep, son.” This time he obeys, huffing deep. “Other side. Sniff deep, son. It’ll get you ready for dad’s big dick.”

“Is dad going to bareback me?” He knows the answer, but as he takes another lungful of poppers, it’s clear he needs to hear the answer aloud.

“Dad is going to slide his raw dick up inside your tight little hole,” I promise, “and fuck his beautiful boy. Then he’s going to fill his son full of seed. How’s that sound, sport? Think you can handle a real man’s dick?”

He’s eager now, turned on by the scenario. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good boy,” I tell him.

I haven’t forgotten how to turn a bottom on. Not in the least. This perfect specimen of youth is arching his back. His neck is craning upward, his lips begging to be covered with my own. When our mouths meet, he exhales, the scent from the bottle still in his lungs. We kiss deeply. His eyes close.

“You can do this,” I encourage him. “Show dad what a good boy you are.”

“Yes sir.”

When my knob begins to probe at him, he whimpers a little. I need no more than a little more spit to slick him up. He opens for me while I slide deep, inch by inch. “You’ve got it,” I whisper, as it hits home. “You’re doing it, son. You feel so…damned…good.”

“Oh god.” His head hangs now. The pillows hold his hips at a perfect angle for me. I draw his legs together and surround them with my own, as I drive in. My hands wrap around his neck, applying a gentle pressure. He responds with gratitude, shoving backward onto my cock. “Yes, sir. Thank you, dad.”

“Good boy,” I whisper again. As I fuck, deeper and faster, I keep up a stream of filth in his ear. “That is one sweet ass, kid. Made to be fucked. Dad’s going to fill up that boyhole with seed, just because you show it off so well, son. It’s not right to tease your dad like that.” I lose track of my words, even as they continue. The sensations feel too good. The velvet of his clutch grips and milks my shaft; he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Tell dad you love his big cock.”

“I love it,” he gasps, his voice box vibrating between my palms.

“Say it.”

“I love dad’s big cock in my little boyhole,” he trumpets. “I love my dad fucking me. I love my handsome dad’s enormous—oh, Christ.”

Hearing the words force me to stab harder. At home, late nights after I’ve turned out the lights, raccoons fuck in the trees outside my bedroom windows, screeching like they’re being murdered. Those are the sounds we’re making, now—deeper, but just as loud and unbridled. This is no longer lovemaking. What we’re doing is mattress-bouncing, barnyard fucking, no less frantic and feral than animals in the moonlight. “Good boy,” I growl once more as I pound into him. My arm is now wrapped around his neck; his chin rests in the crook. “Take it. Take it. Take your dad’s cum.”

When I release into him, he’s ready for it. His hole opens wide to receive my gift; simultaneously he turns on his side and takes me with him, as I continue to convulse, so he can release his swollen cock from its elastic confines. Still shooting, I reach around to feel it, feverish and slick in my grasp. “May I cum, Sir?” he begs.

“That depends on if you want more loads from dad,” I warn.

Immediately he releases his cock. I, too, take my hand away, in case he’s too close. “I do,” he admits. “I do want more loads. I can wait. Can you cum again?”

“I can.” I grind my cock into his prostate, feeling the button press back against the head.

The sensation makes him close his eyes. “Oh shit,” he says. The words are urgent. “I’m shooting. Sorry, dad. I’m shooting!”

I’m lying both beneath and beside him, with enough clearance to peer at his midsection. He’s not touching himself, but his his erection pulsates and shudders. One jerk toward the ceiling. Two. Then, hands-free, as his hole contracts around my only slightly softened dick, semen shoots from the tip. The thick fluid arcs through the air and lands on his abdomen. Another jet flies onto the blanket, a third onto his forearm. The remainder oozes from the tip in a slow and inexorable gush.

“Sorry,” he pants, genuinely mournful. “I wanted to hold out. But you just made my ass feel so fucking amazing.”

“That’s what dads are for,” I say, as I enfold the boy in my arms and hold him close.

Maybe I haven’t lost my touch, after all.

Only For You, Sir

Just parked in the lot outside, sir.

I’m lying on the king-sized bed in my hotel room, naked in the dark, when the phone lying on the bedside table lights up with the text, illuminating the popcorn ceiling above. I lift my head, grab the device. My cock comes to life, slowly lolling to one side as it grows heavier and thicker. I’ve already considered how I’m going to reply, so it’s but the work of a moment to thumb out a response.

Dad is taking a nap in room 208, son. Let yourself in and wake him up the way you used to.

After I hit send, I spring to my feet and pad across the carpet. My cock is still stiffening. It bounces and swings with every step. I angle my body so that it’s mostly hidden from the hall when I pull open the door. There’s a latch at the top intended to keep intruders from forcing their way in. I swing it so that it extends over the frame and prevents the door from swinging all the way shut. Then I scamper back to the bed once more, dive under the comforter, and arrange myself into a slumbering position: flat on my back, hands raised above my head, head tilted to one side.

While I wait, I take stock. There’s lube on the bedside table, with a couple of hand towels. The blackout curtain is pulled to maximum, so that despite the bright street sign of the Mexican restaurant next door, the room exists in perpetual twilight. My cock ring is snug against my balls. This position is stupid, though. Who sleeps on his back with his arms over his head like some cheesy porn magazine spread from the eighties? Onto my side I flop, as I tuck one of the many hotel pillows under the crook of my neck and pull the comforter up to my chin. This is how I really sleep.

My room isn’t far down the hallway from the elevator. Though the crack in my door is only a sliver, I can still hear the grind of mechanics as the elevator door slides open and the pad of approaching footsteps gradually grows louder. For a moment the room is bright as the door opens; then dark, as my visitor softly shuts it behind him and flips the latch. I consider closing my eyes to feign sleep—but why deny myself the sight of his shadowed figure kicking off his sneakers, removing his calf-high athletic socks? I watch as the boy drops a baseball cap onto the floor and crosses his arms to seize the hem of his t-shirt. There’s a crackle of static as he pulls it off, then lets it drop where he stands. The shorts and briefs he discards last. He steps out of both in one fluid motion, his back to me. I’d seen his ass in photos, but my first glimpse of it in the flesh—pale, round, and blue in the room’s gloom—takes my breath away. My dick pulses, fully hard.

I finally close my eyes when he turns. I feel a rush of cool air as the bedclothes lift. Quietly, softly, as if he’s actually fearful of waking me, the boy crawls into my bed and slides close to me. I feel a hand groping my midsection. It connects with my hip, slides to my rigid dick. Then a mouth, warm and wet, wraps around my shaft. I allow the boy to suck me for a moment or two before I stir. “Who’s there?” I ask sleepily.

He releases his hold on my meat and slides up until his head is on my pillow. “It’s me, dad. Barry. Your son.”

“Barry?” I ask. “But I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“I know, dad,” he says. There’s an earnest and even innocent yearning in his voice that moves me. It moves my cock, too, so that it butts against his hard stomach. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yeah? How?”

For response, he presses his mouth against mine and wraps his muscular arms around my chest to draw me close. When I slide my tongue through his open lips, I can feel him tremble with excitement. My hands roam up and down his hard body. The shortest of stubble grazes my palms when I slide them across his chest; though the crack of his ass is furry, the skin of the globes is shaved smooth. Even in the dark I can tell he’s handsome. His eyes remained closed as we make out; he sighs and shivers as my hands discover near places to explore.

When I gather spit onto my index and middle finger and spread the slippery stuff over his hairy hole, he rests his chin on my shoulder and lets out a little gasp. “I remember you like that,” I whisper to him.

“I do, dad. Oh god, I do.” He yanks off the comforter and lets it fall at the foot of the bed, admitting the cold to play over my skin. Then, with his big hands, he adjusts a couple of pillows and nestles me onto them, face up. He straddles my thighs. The guy is what—30? 32? I can’t remember from his profile. He’s got the hard, worked-out body of an athlete. I gaze at the broad plains of his pecs, the dark quarter-sized nipples, the flat and rippled valley of his abdomen, his narrow waist, the obliques that lead my gaze down to his erect dick. The glitter in my eyes must be obvious; shyly, he grins and covers himself like a Botticelli virgin, one hand crossed to his shoulder, the other slanted down to his hip.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember, son,” I whisper, as my hands run over his smooth flesh. When I cup his cock between my palms, it leaps from their embrace. “You’re all grown up now.”

I’ve never seen this guy before, of course. This meeting is our first. It hasn’t been at all difficult, however, to intuit the sexual fantasy that excites him the most, even without overt discussion. He’s a boy with daddy fantasies—and I’m a dad who’s happy to indulge him.

Goose flesh ripples out across his skin; I can see his nipples harden into points at my words. “You were my first, dad,” he whispers, his eyes half-closed, as he gives in to the vision.

“I am your best,” I correct.

The boy’s lids lift. Our eyes lock, as he nods. “Dad is always my best.” He lifts the tips of his middle three left fingers to his mouth to moisten them. His back arches as he reaches behind to wet his hole with the spit. “I need you inside me, sir.”

“I need you more, son. It’s been so long since you visited your poor old dad.” Ordinarily my M.O. is to take a little longer to get to this point. I like to finger the hole, get it slick, flip the boy over, eat him until he groans and begs for me to open him up. This hungry faggot has his own agenda, though. Every time I mention our putative relationship, his libido surges. He’s flooded with desire. I feel his fingers grapple to find my cock . . . which isn’t much of a feat, as it’s been standing erect and nudging against the boy’s ass cheek the entire time he’s been straddled over me. He guides me to the vicinity of his hole, lifts his hips. I know what’s coming next.

Or at least, I think I do. I’m anticipating the meeting of tip to hole, followed by the gradual accommodation of a tight chute as my thick hardness stretches its walls. What I get is the last thing I expect. This hungry bottom aligns my shaft to his point of entry, then simply impales himself in one violent motion. There’s no gradual anything, in his haste to engulf my entire eight-plus inches. One second my cock is exposed to the AC’s gentle breeze; the next it’s roughly swallowed by this boy’s hole. He lets out a mighty groan as he slams down on me, so loud that had I not already been blinking and thinking about the consequences of what might’ve happened had I not been so rigid, or aligned so perfectly, that I would’ve been completely taken out of the moment. But my dick’s still intact, and his insides feel warm and wet and in need of fucking . . . so I quickly find myself back in the mood.

“Fuck,” I whisper. He’s bucking and riding, head lolled back, eyes closed, hand on his dick. “You really needed that.”

“I needed to feel my daddy’s cock rip me wide open,” he says. Now he looks down at me. “Was that all right, sir?”

“Oh yes.” I reach up with my right hand to cup his chin and cheek. “It’s very all right.”

As I prop myself up on my elbows, he leans down to kiss me once more. My tongue bores deep into his mouth; my fingers cup the sides of his face. He leans onto the mattress with the heels of his hands and begins bucking wildly. The boy has great ass control. I can tell he’s trying to do some fancy milking of my dick with the considerable muscles of his glutes. The sensations are working for me. Other guys often try to produce the same effect, but it’s nowhere near as compelling as the way his chute clamps and loosens around my meat as his hips gyrate to and fro. I know I’m pumping out precum, because his ass grows more and more slippery as insistently he grinds.

His nipples are sensitive. Sensitive? That’s an understatement. When my thumbs and forefingers reach up to grasp them, his ass becomes a vise, his back arches, he throws his head back so abruptly I worry that he’ll wrench his neck. I twist. His body spasms; his lungs expel a low groan. All I have to do in order to tighten that already-taut hole is give those knobs a yank. It’s like turning the volume from zero to ninety with a simple pinch.

Finally he speaks. “This is exactly what I remember,” he manages to grunt out, syllables arriving in fits and spurts. “You inside me, in my bedroom.”

“After school,” I suggest.

His eyes open and look down into mine, full of love for the suggestion. “After school,” he agrees.

“You used to come home from lacrosse,” I say. I don’t know where the lacrosse came from. My dad played it as a kid, but I hadn’t thought about it in years. “All sweaty. Dragging that lacrosse . . . stick up the stairs. Your hair all tousled.”

Slowly he rocks, slowly milking my dick. “I would always hope you’d follow me, dad.”

“How could I stay downstairs after watching that hot ass walk by? I’m the father of the most beautiful boy in the world,” I say, giving the nipples another tug.

He clenches, moans, and begins to pick up the pace. “Did you really used to think that?”

“I still do.”

Our eyes lock. I hope he can read the truth in them—even if it’s our own truth we’re creating.

“You know most dads don’t have a relationship with their boys like we do.”

He nods. “You always said it was our secret.”

“Oh yes. Definitely our secret,” I reply.

“You said I shouldn’t tell anyone that my daddy shoves his massive cock up my butthole.”

I shake my head. “No, you definitely shouldn’t mention to anyone that your dad loves stretching that beautiful little butt.”

“Good boys keep secrets.”

“Like you always kept ours, son.”

Spinning this fantasy together, detail by detail, noticeably excites him. My boy is leaking from the tip of his cock onto my abdomen. As up and down he bobs on my dick, the spiderweb strands of precum stretch and slacken, glistening in what little light there is. “I just wanted my dad to keep pumping his seed in me forever.”

“Greedy.” When I say the word, he clenches down on my meat, as if attempting to wrench it from my body and forever keep it for his own.

“Only for you,” he whispers. “Sir.”

“Yeah?” I’m still toying with his nipples as if I’m maniacally twisting the dials on an old cathode-ray television with poor reception, but although his body is twitching and convulsing with every new sensation, our eyes remain open and locked upon each other. “You don’t say those pretty words to other daddies?”

“Only,” he reiterates, then pauses as he draws his ass up to just below the crown of my dick, and then slamming back down as roughly as he had upon first taking me, “for you, sir.”

“How about those sweet kisses, son?”

“Those,” he breathes, as he leans down and plants one on my lips, “are only for you.”

Our mouths devour each other. It may be a fantasy we’re weaving, but we’re spinning it mutually, in the moment. We’re fashioning something demonstrably false: a tissue of lies based upon nothing but desire and longing. Yet right then, with every word, with every thrust, with every kiss and fumble and groan, we’re creating something more than the mere two of us. Our own truths. Our own reality, contained entirely in the dark of that hotel room The sweet perfume of our mutual fancy smells like sweat, and testosterone, and the salty prickle of precum.

He is a greedy boy. Up and down his hole slams on my cock. He knows what he wants. He’s determined to get it. When it arrives, my semen jets into him, erupting almost painfully as if it’s molten. “I can feel it, dad,” he grunts, as I buck and struggle beneath him. He holds me down, keeps me from moving, as he shifts his determined grinding to a shorter, swifter rhythm. “I can feel you shooting. Just like you used to.”

I gargle out something that makes no sense. I’m lost in my orgasm. Shuddering. Shaking. Struggling to catch my breath. My boy’s cock is flopping up and down and striking my belly like a mallet attacks the tight skin of a timpani. And then, on one of its pendulous thuds as my own waves of pleasure subside, it erupts. His seed jets out, splatting onto my face, marking the pillows, covering my chest, then finally, slowly, oozing out onto my belly.

We’re both breathing heavily. Trying to reorient ourselves. Moistening our lips, wiping the sweat from our eyes. Is this going to be the moment when the fantasy dissipates, when dad and son become two perfect strangers and their exchanges become small talk? Or will we continue creating our own world together?

At long last, I clear my throat and speak. “I don’t think I’m done with you yet, son.”

He nods. “I hope you never will be . . . dad.” Then slowly, relentlessly, he begins grinding those hips once more.