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.