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.

Redneck Rim Artist

I’m face down, sprawled diagonally across a double-sized mattress, listening for footsteps and hearing nothing louder than the refrigerator’s purr in the corner. I’ve turned on the bathroom bulb and closed the door so that only a cupful of light spills through the crack; at the hotel room’s other end, I’ve slipped the security latch between the outside door and its frame, keeping it slightly ajar. I’m facing away from the sliver of illumination from the parking lot and third-floor outdoors walkway, angled in my direction.

I’m naked, legs spread, pillow clutched to my chest. And I’m waiting for a stranger to join me.

He’d messaged me on the apps only twenty minutes before. I’m a lil horny. U?

I don’t usually talk to profiles without photos, but it’s my first night in Richmond. After a six-and-a-half-hour drive and dinner with my dad, maybe my judgment was impaired. Or maybe I’m intrigued by his screen name: RimUDown. Me too, I’d told him.

Looking for some ass to eat, he’d sent me. He’d followed up the invitation with a photo that had made my heart beat a little more quickly. The shot had been of him in baggy denim and an open plaid shirt with the arms ripped out. He’s twenty-six, maybe twenty-eight. A backward trucker hat tames a strawberry-blond mane. His shoulders are broad and defined; his biceps bulge. His chest is lightly furry. A treasure trail leads down from his navel to the top button of his jeans. It’s not the photo of a man posing for a mirror selfie—he’s tousled and carrying a rake as he laughs at the camera, as if someone he knows has caught him walking up the driveway from taking care of the lawn. Really need to munch a fuzzy hole for a long long time.

My insides had unglued at his words. I don’t get many men offering to eat my ass, even though I always crave a good rimming. Most bottoms seem more intent on getting my mouth on their own rears as a prelude to fucking, though intellectually I know the act doesn’t have to end in penetration. This stranger hasn’t mentioned topping me, though, or insinuated it's on his agenda. So I’d taken his offer at face value, and replied, Haven’t been eaten out in a real long time.

Let’s change that right now, he’d texted.

I’d immediately clicked the location button at the screen’s bottom, to let him know where I was.

That was fifteen minutes before. Moments ago, he’d sent a message to let me know he was in the parking lot. Before planting myself prone on the mattress, I’d given him the room number and cracked the door. And now I wait. I look at my watch. It’s 9:35.

My eyes are squeezed tight shut when I hear the door open, then shut behind him. There’s one soft thud, then two, as he kicks off his sneakers so they collide against the hotel room’s chair. His hands, warm, callused, seize my ass cheeks, They squeeze, pull, appraise. “Turn over,” says the boy in a soft drawl. “Let me see the man I’m gettin’.”

I obey. My cock is rigid, erect at an incline from my body, a textbook example of an acute angle. The shaggy-haired boy standing at the foot my my hotel bed is wearing the same trucker cap and jeans as in his photo, but tonight his top is clad in an old NASCAR tee that’s seen better days. Again, the arms have been ripped at at the seams to expose muscles of which he’s obviously proud. “Fuck, daddy,” he says, leaning down to rub his hand over my beard. “You are hotter’n hell.”

When he looms close, in the twilight I see his cheeks and chin are covered by wispy facial hair. He smells of beer. The stranger removes his hat, and allows his wavy flow to hang on the sides of his face. “Thank you,” I say, a little breathless as he reaches between my legs to feel me.

“Damn, daddy.” His fingertips pry at my hole. “I bet you're gonna taste good.” I watch as he removes his shirt, but leaves his pants intact. His arms are a deep red-brown, while his chest is nearly as white as my own—a real farmer’s tan. The boy's deep drawl and his dress and mannerisms have a direct effect on my cock, making it even more rigid. I’ve landed a redneck after my ass, and the knowledge leaves me panting.

As his probing becomes more insistent, he once more leans in close. Long hair tickles my ears and chin as his lips press against mine, surprisingly soft. Usually I’m not aroused by the taste of cigarettes on a man’s tongue, but I’m already hungering for his man’s attention. He could smoke a pack and I’d not bat an eye. “Get that ass up,” he orders, his voice still quiet. “I need t’get in there.”

I’ve barely managed to roll over when I feel the sensation of his hands forcing apart my cheeks, followed by the tickle of his hair on my skin. When his mouth meets my hole, I gasp aloud. With only twenty minutes between his first text on the app and our meeting, I’d not had the time for a deep douching—but I’m glad I had the foresight to hop in the shower and give myself a two-finger soap-and-rinse to the second knuckle.

The boy grunts as he dives in. The sensation of his mouth on my hole is so sudden, so forceful, that without knowing what I’m doing, I arch my back. My head flies up as I let out a cry of joy, or of need, or of animal instinct. Perhaps all three at once. He places the butt of his hand on the small of my back and pushes down. I’m his to command, for the duration of what’s to come.

From time to time his teeth scrape against my ass cheeks in gentle, lingering bites. Otherwise, though, his mouth never leaves my hole. For long minutes he licks and abrades his bearded chin against its tender length. He grunts like an animal as he takes me with his tongue, sending it deep within. I gasp and shudder when his cupped hand collides with my ass in a loud smack. “You like that, daddy?” he asks, releasing his prey from his mouth for the first time. “You like gettin’ your ass whupped?”

“Fuck yes, I do,” I manage to gasp. “I like it…sir.”

He lets out a feral growl. “Callin’ me sir is gonna make me get aggressive,” he warns.

The redneck is clenching my butt wide open; he’s already given me the most thorough rimming I’ve had in years. If he wants to get more aggressive, I’m willing to let him bring it on. “Do what you want...sir,” I manage to say, as I look over my shoulder.

I’m rewarded by him pulling himself beside me on the mattress. The flat of his hand lands on my ass with another slap. “What I want is to punish that ass, faggot,” he growls, as he kisses me roughly. He spanks me again, harder. My flesh prickles and twinges as the blood rushes to the surface, but I don’t regret my offer. The room echos with the sounds of his hand against my butt, as he wallops it again and again, pushing me closer to my limits. “Then reward it.”

And again I’m over the pillow, ass stinging from his thrashing. The hotel room’s air conditioning blows frigid air over my over-warm flesh as his mouth probes its deep, protected center. My eyes roll to the back of my head. Drool oozes from the corners of my mouth onto the sheets.

I don’t know how long he’s in there. I just know that for endless moments I’m his. Once every while I’ll moan when he gives me a paddling, no doubt adding depth of color to an ass already scarlet from his punishment. “Love me some handsome daddy ass,” he murmurs with affection at some moments. Then, at others, “Gimme that hole, faggot.”

I respond to both endearments with equal fervor. If he wanted to fuck me, I’d let him. But he never makes that move; he doesn’t even unbutton his jeans, though with insistence he humps the bed’s corner and sometimes plunges his hands beneath his tight, narrow waistband. He’d doing exactly what he promised, by giving my hole the attention it didn’t know it needed.

At one point he grabs a bottle of poppers from his pocket, twists off the cap, and inhales deeply. One side, then the other. “Your turn, cocksucker,” he growls. Before I know it, he’s straddling my ribs, cupping my chin with one hand to tilt back my head. He holds my left nostril shut and hands me the bottle. I half-cover its aperture with my thumb and take a deep sniff. He repeats the gesture on the right. “That’ll loosen you up good,” he says, satisfied, as he lands another smack on my backside.

His occasional paddlings keep me from completely drifting away on the waves of pleasure his lips and tongue set into motion. These sharp bursts of not-quite-pain are my anchor to reality, between what feels like the endless attention he pays to my hole. I alternate between whimpering and panting, between moaning and simply huffing with pleasure. At times he’s so determined to dive deeper that he propels me across the mattress. I scarcely notice that I’m contorted against the padded headboard or am even dangling off the mattress and sprawled halfway onto the floor until, with his rough hands, he grabs my waist and hauls me like a fertilizer sack back into position over the pillows. I’m no longer thinking. I’m operating on sensation and instinct only. I respond to his every order: Back that ass up, daddy, or C’mon, faggot. Open up that pucker for me.

After what could be an hour, or perhaps even days, he lifts himself up and sits on the edge of the mattress. I hear him twist open the cap of the bottled water I’ve left for him on the bedside table. Still trembling, my ass sore, I twist myself around and try to summon words. “I…that was fucking amazing,” I say, feeling sheepish at accepting so much attention. It’s a rare luxury to take a deep dive in that vast reservoir of pleasure. “You really didn’t have to…”

Sweat is pouring down his face, but he cuts me off with a grin. “Oh, I ain’t finished, daddy. Just getting my mouth wet for the real rim job I’m gonna give ya.” With a shove, he pushes me back into the pillows. "Now hush."

I am helpless to resist.

I look at my watch when, at last, he flops his back across the foot of his bed. It’s 11:42. The fucker has been at it for two hours. Two hours. My ass cheeks burn mildly, as if someone’s holding a flame to the bare skin; I swear I can feel every scrape of my redneck’s teeth across them still. “Damn, daddy,” he pants. In the dark, I can see how slick with sweat is his torso; a tattoo of Tigger dances across one deltoid. The redneck stretches like a cat. “You fuckin’ wore me out.”

He’s got to be kidding. I’m the one whose brain is still on the centrifuge he set into motion. “Let me do something for you,” I whisper. I don’t know who I’m kidding. At this point, I’m pleading.

“Y’ain’t gotta,” he assures. But neither does he protest when I loosen the button at his waistband, nor when I tug down his zipper. From a thatch of ginger hair springs his cock. It’s not especially large, but when it lunges upward, released from its prison of ragged denim, the sight of multiple filaments of the ample precum that’s been flowing for the last two hours, binding cock to pubes, make my own erection harder. Each sticky rope looks Lilliputian, tiny tethers straining to contain the giant, Gulliver. “C’mon,” he says, catching at my wrist as I dive forward. “You don’t gotta.”

I do gotta. I engulf his cock to the base, and then some. It’s salty from the fluid he’s been leaking and natural tasting, as if he’s been freeballing in these jeans all day. I have to show him my gratitude, though, and neither a bit of scent nor traces of hours-old pee are going to stop me. I caress his nuts in my left hand, and encircle the base of his meat with my right as I throat his thick, cut cock.

“Suck it, daddy,” he whispers at last. Both thumbs flick against his nipples. “Suck that hog, faggot. That’s what you wanted all night, wasn’t it.”

I grunt and nod.

When I look up for his response, he riffles fingers across my short hair. “Just like that. C’mon. Fuck!”

I’m prepared to suck for as long as it takes, considering the attention he’s lavished on me. But I’m barely a minute into the blow job when he lets loose his load. Growling obscenities, he clutches the back of my head with both hands and drives in deep, holding me down on him as his cock pulses and contracts. His cum is bitter-tasting on my tongue, but I swallow it all with gratitude. After a gasp for air, I go down on his softening dick and nurse it until every last oozing trace of his seed is down my throat. Then I settle back on my haunches on the floor, waiting to see what he’ll do.

After a moment he stirs, then laughs. “Didn’t expect you to do that, daddy.” He sits up and helps himself to what’s left of the bottle, then checks the cap to the poppers and shoves them in his pocket. “But you sure are good at it.”

“Thank you,” I say. Then I add, for his benefit, “Sir.”

He growls once more with pleasure at the title, then stands and yanks me to my feet. The cock that had been softening swells as it jabs against my thigh. It’s the first time I’ve stood since his arrival, and I now see I’m a full head taller than he. He’s still the boss, though, when he grabs the back of my neck and pulls me in for a deep kiss. “Beat that cock off thinking about me when I leave,” he orders, as he pulls on his tee.

It’s the one order tonight that I disobey. Even though I still stink of his spit and cum and sweat, and jerking off would bring me release, I content myself with lying there in the dark, atop that strange bed, sleepily remembering everything that’s gone before. It’s rare that I’m treated like another man's hole. I’m in no hurry to cut short the novelty.

He messages me on the app the next day, while I’m in a doctor’s waiting room, waiting for my father to emerge from the offices within. Sorry for tuckering out last night, it reads. Had a long day at work and didn’t have all the energy I wanted for eating that daddy hole. If you’re around tonight late, though, I’ll make it up to you.

My short bark of laughter attracts attention from the waiting room’s other occupants. Beneath my mask, I clear my throat and compose myself. I’d like that a lot. I’m yours tonight, sir.

What kind of underwear do you wear? he asks.

Trunks, I tell him.

He sends me a sad-faced emoji. I really love daddy in briefs, follows. If I walked into that hotel room and found my daddy faggot in briefs tonight, I might just have to lay him over my knees and give him a real paddling before I go to town on his hole.

I manage to catch the sharp inhalation his words arouse, before anyone around me can hear. Understood, sir, my fingers stab out on the screen. 

There’s a Target between my dad’s house and the hotel where I’m staying. I can pay a visit when I’ve dropped him off after dinner. My cheeks are still sensitive to the touch, but the notion of further manhandling excites them. I hate wearing briefs and think they look ridiculous...this evening, though, my redneck with the farmer’s tan will enter my room and find daddy face down, wearing a black pair by Hanes, ready and willing for as much abuse and molestation as he cares to deliver.

Last night was the work of a tuckered-out man? What the fuck are his usual rim jobs like, then?

I’m itching to find out.