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.