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Best Friend’s Son (III) Burt’s Son – Part Three

I stayed away as long as I could, running errands – four hours at least . I decided to fuck the Hy-Vee and headed to the fancy part of town. Butcher I knew. Hungry fucking pig. Loved good meat. If you get my meaning.

“Drew,” he nodded, eyes twinkling.

“I’m here for the meat, Rush,” I said.

“So am I.”

“Two rib-eyes. Best cut you got.”

“Hot date?” he said.

“Kinda,” I nodded, suddenly uncomfortable.

He stopped. “What does that mean?”

“Dude it’s … “ then I looked at him. “It’s important.”

“How important?” he prodded, but it was the prod of a friend. A man with whom you shared intimacy. There was a bond. There always is with the good ones. The good men that you connect with.

“It’s the most important dinner of my life,” I said, not even considering how melodramatic that sounded.

“Well … hell,” he mused, scratching his bearded face. “Never thought I’d see the day.” He turned, heading into his cold storage. When he returned he was carrying the most beautiful set of ribs I’d ever seen, slung over his shoulders.

He cut two – then two more.

“The first two are on me. You gotta pay for the second two. Save ‘em for your engagement.”

I blushed, standing there, trying to stay in the moment – trying not to be stupid.

He wrapped the steaks with care, I paid, and then he came out from behind the counter, grabbing my hand, pulling me into his thick, squat frame.

“I hope it goes well, Drew,” he said, in a whisper that only we could hear. I held him – hadn’t been this close to available man-flesh all summer. I needed his strength and he sensed it, tightening his hold on me. Finally I pushed away. I was flushed. “Thanks.”

He just smiled this big smile of high wattage and said, “Man it looks good on you.”

“What?” I said, confused.

“Love.”

Then he turned: “Next customer.”

By the time I got to the car, which I could barely find, I’d developed an acute case of low-grade blue-balls, the likes of which I’d never experienced before. It was like my crotch had suffered this terrible earthquake and now, periodically, and unpredictably, my balls would rumble with an after-shock; in some cases causing minor discomfort, in others, more extreme shudders of agony.

As for Rush the Butcher’s comment, I chose to believe it existed in another space-time continuum, one where I had absolutely no feelings of predatory lust for my best friend’s son. Or love. Or both.

Like I said, I was fucked.

I finally got back late afternoon. The k** was nowhere to be found and I was suddenly concerned, but then I opened the basement door and heard the huffing of what sounded like a wildebeest. I walked down to the basement, slowly. The k** was shirtless, headphones on, doing flies on the bench. He was covered in sweat. His shorts dripped – the floor was soaked. But, to his credit, he’d kept the gym neat and clean – other than the funk, which, between you and me, I was just fine to inhale.

“k**,” I barked, and he jumped about a foot in the air.

“Shit, Drew,” he said, dropping the weights. “Scared the fuck outta me.” He pulled the earbuds out. He was breathing hard. His body was impossibly pumped, precisely the last thing I needed to see. I held on to the railing, bracing myself for a huge aftershock – you know, the kind that does more damage than the original quake.

“You been working out – since I left?”

He nodded, still huffing, looking at me look at him. He caught it, I think: maybe it was his state – on high alert, body pushed to maximum. But I swear to God he caught the rush of him that washed through me the minute I laid eyes on his pumped frame. He saw me clenching, bracing for the testicular shudder that was rumbling in the distance, gathering power.

“What time is it?” he asked, stretching now, finding awareness of his attractiveness, exploiting it.

“Nearly five.”

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Lost track of time – you were right. I needed this.”

“Should be careful – don’t hurt yourself.”

“Be okay, Unc. Just finishing up.” He turned, bending over to grab the weights.

“What’d’you call me, k**?”

“Huh? Oh – Unc. Uncle. That’s what me and dad call you sometimes. Uncle. Don’t know why I never called you that to your face.”

I just nodded.

“I’m gonna unload the car, then lay down for an hour or so. I’ll be down later to start dinner.”

“Sure thing,” he said, “You need help? Sir?”

“No, I got it – you bought. That means I unload. Rule of the house.”

By now he had turned. He was smiling, beginning his curls, biceps bulging. I was looking – couldn’t not look. Figured I had to front it – so I did.

“Lookin’ good, k**,” I said, giving him the eye. “Looking real good,” I said, deep-voiced, heading up the stair.

It was smooth. Real smooth – just the perfect ambiguous but not so ambiguous tone. And then the aftershock hit, and I buckled near the top stair, tripping and then catching myself. He saw me falter, jumped to the bottom of the stair.

“You okay, Unc?” he asked, actually concerned.

“Just a cramp, k**,” I said, legs shaking. I could feel his eyes on me. I stood, in serious pain, and headed up to my room. I downed three Tylenol, threw myself on the bed, and willed myself to be still – be quiet – seek serenity. My balls throbbed but I breathed through their agitation. Then, surprisingly I slept, though fitfully. I woke with a start about an hour later. The house was quiet. Then I heard him rambling around the kitchen.

The blue-balls had retreated. Instinctively I knew I had to keep moving. So, that’s what I did. I showered – spent about thirty seconds worrying about an outfit, then realized I had to wear just what I would have worn on a summer night in August. The Tee fit perfectly – you could see the hair matted underneath – I hadn’t worked out as long as the k** had, but I was still looking tight. Feeling fucking good. The ratty board shorts were my favorites – low slung, so the crotch-hair was visible, and thread-bare. And I free-balled. I would normally – therefore I would tonight.

When I hit the kitchen he was standing there, smiling. There was only minor chaos, but on the counter was a well chopped salad.

“I made a salad,” he said, but he said it like he was God and had just created the universe. “And a dressing,” he showed me, in a Ball Jar that he found in the pantry. “I found a recipe on line.”

He was a ten-year-old, holding his first caught fish.

He was sixteen, and had just bagged the last out, winning the game.

He was standing in my kitchen, muscles thick, face open, smile wide, beaming. It was overwhelming the joy he was projecting – but I also sensed its fragility. He was trying – he was tired of failing. He was scared shitless, too.

“Come here, k**,” I said, hugging him. “Nice work.” He gasped, grabbing me with one arm, trying to figure out how to express himself. I patted him on the back, rubbed his head, and then pushed past him, and … began the show.

I showed him how to season the steaks.

How to fire the grill.

How to work the coals.

How to bank them – when they were ready, then all the other dinner prep – getting the table ready.

“Once they’re on – you gotta be ready to go, k**. Nothing kills a barbecue like a cold piece of meat.”

He stayed close. Not so close as to be obvious – but not a normal distance, either. It was comfortable, though. We were easy – like we had been when he was in his p*****ns, camping with his dad. Before he’d gotten his balls and had gotten all fucked up.

I threw the steaks on the grill and we were off.

“First thing you gotta do is be patient. Don’t fuck with ‘em. I’m getting a coke – you want a beer, k**?”

“No – I’ll have a – no. I’m fine.”

“Hair of the dog, son. Sometimes it helps.”

“Naw. I don’t want to – you know. Get drunk. Not tonight.”

I looked at him.

“Plus – you ain’t drinking. So – I don’t want to be either.”

“Son – you don’t have to hold back, just because of me.”

“Don’t I?” he asked, honestly, looking straight at me, learning how to communicate, gaining confidence in our interaction.

“Sprite?”

“Yeah. Coke gets me wound up.”

“We can’t have that now, can we,” I said, touching him. It was a father’s touch. It was more.

I walked into the kitchen in a daze, forgetting why I was there. Then remembering the soda cans – coming back out on the porch with this sense of peace that I’d never experienced. I’d never had a guy just not drink with me – except his dad, of course, in the early days, but once I got it under control, it was under control.

But tonight – up on my bed – before I slept – for the first time in months I thought about calling my sponsor. I was nearly hyperventilating, thinking of the beer in the frig – but I fought it back. Like I’d trained myself to do. And when I woke up – no such urges. Still, I was on dangerous emotional ground and so my alert about alcohol had to be high. And here he was not pulling out a bottle. Not sucking on it. Not tempting me.

Here he was – being a good man at the right time.

And a good k**, too – sweet. Kind.

“Thanks, k**,” I said, needing to acknowledge him – needing to learn my own means of communication with this new young man.

“For what?”

“For not drinking. I been feeling a little … unsteady – so not having beer in my sights kind of helps. I appreciate you thinking about me.”

He blushed.

“It’s hard to imagine you unsteady, Uncle Drew,” he said, looking at his feet.

“We all have our weaknesses, son.”

“You don’t seem to have any,” he said, kind of whispering.

“Oh I do,” I said, looking at him. “I do.”

I popped the can and pumped it down, needing the small rush of sugar and caffeine to clear my head. “So – it’s been about four – five minutes. Now we check.”

They were perfect.

I flipped them. Taught him now to criss-cross. Really basic shit, but he was a blank slate – eager to soak up anything from me – his guard was down.

“How do you know when they’re done.”

“It’s a mystery,” I smiled, but then explained. The science. The art. The touch-test.

Then they were ready. We let ‘em rest, covering them with foil. “Ya gotta do this, k** – let ‘em sit. You’ll never know the difference until you just start eating them straight from the grill, but don’t. They keep cooking when you rest ‘em. The juices get all … well, fuck, I don’t know what the fuck happens. Just let the steaks rest. They’re better when you do.”

We finished the table, served the sides, then dove in.

k** didn’t say much during dinner, what with him feeding his muscles and all. Can’t even remember what he wore. Didn’t matter. All I know is he smelled fresh – clean – and looked fantastic all shaved up with an actual face that you could actually see – and read. The balls started rumbling again.

“So good,” he said, chomping on the steak. He was slathering his potato with butter. Those days were gone for me. He saw it, took a big cut and plopped it on mine. “Come on, Unc – live a little.”

“Trying to keep the weight off,” I said, smiling.

“Fuck the weight. Thick is good am-I-right?” he said, showing his swole. I spit out my potato.

“I mean – fuck – you already don’ drink – may as well have some butter.”

I couldn’t stop laughing.

Night fell. I turned off the lights and a candle I had lit bathed us. He got all glittery. It was another wrong choice. Fuck.

“This is nice,” he says, catching the vibe that maybe this was a bit more than just two dudes eating, and I smile at him, nodding.

“You ain’t saying much tonight,” he says, looking at me, throwing me “The Puppy” which the fucker seemed to have picked up pretty quickly.

“Not much to say. Sometimes silence is the best way to communicate.”

He thought about that a bit, chewing. Then he smiled at me, this big lux smile – the k** had smiles he’d hidden all summer. With the beard gone they all came out – each one killer in its own way, especially to a lonely old fuck like me that had suddenly lost his life-line and was freeeeefalling.

“Never thought of that. You make me think, Unc. More than anyone I ever met.” He gave me another smile. I was getting crushed.

Dinner was done. Like I’d said earlier, I had to keep moving. All I wanted to do was hold him, curl up on the couch – in other days I would have pulled a smoke. The urge to drink came back and the ice got thinner. He cleared the table.

“You cooked – so I clean. New rule of the house,” he said, imitating my voice perfectly. I choked on my Coke. I rose, laughing. “k** – you made the salad. I’ll help.”

“How’dya like the dressing.”

Again that sound – half challenge, half expectation. I paused. But then he lightened up. “It was a little sour to me,” he said, honestly. Suddenly I had a lifeline – at least for this part of the conversation. “I like it with a kick,” I said, evading, but also being honest. “Next time – it tastes like that – just add a little honey. We got some.”

“See,” he stops, plates in his hand. “Like – how do you know that, Unc? Like – that’s right – fuck it didn’t taste right to me, either, and I followed the recipe – but you know –“

“Practice, k** – like all things in life – practice. Not all recipes taste good to you – no matter how much you follow ‘em. Some bitter old bitch working in New York City probably came up with that recipe – maybe she ain’t been fucked for a decade and so her only entertainment is vinegar. Whatever – just learn to trust your tongue. Honey counters vinegar. They go perfect together. It’s just something you learn – like right now. You won’t forget. Next time you make a dressing, you’ll have that up your sleeve. Experience.”

It was like I was fucking Moses and had just delivered the tablets.

He was about to say something and then he just shook his head, said, “Thanks,” and got to work.

I couldn’t be in close proximity. Too dangerous. In the light his perfectly muscled perfectly thick body was a perfect fucking magnet. I’d never felt this way before – so completely wound up, focused, needful. He was prey and partner, man and family – brother’s son and young gay man, needing direction, tenderness, brute force and manhood.

I retreated. It was all I could do – otherwise I would have grabbed him, held him, pushed into him, and taken control of a journey only he could navigate.

“Gonna go flip on the tube, see what’s on.”

He nodded, deep in his own thoughts. I caught the tremble – the changed breathing. I let him be. Knew I needed to. Like I had all night I followed my instincts. In the den I sprawled on the couch, owning my space but not walling it off. I surfed. Can’t remember a thing I looked at. Not at all. The urge to drink came back with a vengeance, and then he was there, with a coke. A fresh one.

“Here – for you.” The gift was simple. Stoic. Like he knew.

“Thanks.” My mouth was dry.

“Whaddya wanna watch,” I said, throwing him a lifeline – but he didn’t take it.

“Nuthing – I mean – whatever.” He was sitting, purposefully, arms crossed. At war with himself. I realized again that he wanted me to make the move. Or, fuck, I don’t know: maybe he was testing me. Whatever – I wasn’t gonna do it. I surfed. We laughed a bit at some fucked up show. I kept surfing. He breathed deep. I looked at him. Poor k**. He was stuck – frozen. Maybe trying to get up his courage. He shifted. Probably I wasn’t the only one in the house with a case of aching balls. And speaking of those, they’d come back, with a vengeance. A little bit of rest and a lot of food had given them more time to consider their displeasure with my lack of action. They voted unanimously.

No matter what – I’d be beating off tonight – maybe twice. Fuckers needed relief. I needed relief.

I didn’t know what time it was but time shifted, as it does. My balls thrumming, my focus s**ttered, the k** stuck there, quivering like a new strung piano chord, I had to take action.

Beside …. I wanted a fucking beer. So fucking bad.

“Heading to bed, son,” I said, trying to communicate need without being needy. But I also needed to communicate that I needed to be out of there – away from him. If we weren’t mating, I needed to be away. I thought of the old bulls in the herd – the ones that had fought for supremacy – the stallions that would just jump on it and take it, because it was theirs. How far we’d come, I pondered, seeing him in the light of the television, frozen in time, scared and confused.

The place we’d gotten to – the one that took away the power of the bull – seemed distinctly wrong right about now. Downright fucked up. But then I realized that’s what separated them from us. Why we were the motherfuckers that ate them for dinner, and they only had one top to a herd of fucking bottoms.

No way to live, I snorted, surprising myself with the sound, which he caught. It resonated with him – the older bull snorting – but retreating now, not pouncing.

It was up to him.

It was up to him.

“Good night, k**. Nice night. Thanks for that. Tired now though – “

“Night Unc,” he whispered. It was almost a cry.

“It’s been a long day, son. An emotional one. You can do worse on a day like this then to go to bed – get some sleep.”

He nodded – unconvinced. Perhaps he realized in that moment that he did not, in fact, have as much to learn from me as he thought he did.

Whatever – I split, the beer calling to me when I passed through the kitchen. I bounded up the stairs, found myself sitting on the bed, shaking. In a bad way. I picked up the phone, flicked it on – there were three messages from Burt and so many texts I couldn’t count. I dialed the number – not Burt’s, my sponsor’s.

“Hey k**,” came the voice. He picked up on the first ring. “Been awhile. You alright?”

“Probably not.”

“Talk.”

“There’s beer – downstairs. In the fridge. Talking to me.”

“How the fuck did you get beer in your house, k**?”

“Long story – I mean – I guess it’s been a while since we talked.”

“It has. Tell me.”

“Got this k** living with me – Burt’s son. I told you about him.”

“Yeah – I remember. Your bro’s k**.“

“Him. Yeah. k**’s a fuck up. Burt kicked him out. I took him in as a favor. Been here all summer. I been fine. He’s had beer on and off – hasn’t been a problem.”

“Until now.”

“Yeah –“

“That beer ain’t gonna help ya, Drew,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” I said, trying to breathe, but letting out my emotion. I needed him to hear it. He did.

“What’s going on – why now?”

“It’s the k**. Wanna fuck him. Can’t – so the beer – you know.”

“Wait – he legal?”

“Yeah.”

“How legal.”

“Just this side of twenty.”

“Emotionally.”

“Probably about twelve – but he been growing up fast these last few days – last week. Shit coming to a head.”

“Dangerous ground, Son,” he said.

“I know, Dad.” He wasn’t – my dad, I mean. But that’s what I called him – what he was to me, sometimes, when shit got real.

“You know what you’re doing?”

“Not a fucking clue.”

“Well – at least you’re being honest with yourself. I’ll come over.”

“No – don’t. I got this.”

“You sure – don’t sound like it.”

“I told myself – I wouldn’t do anything unless he asked for it. And – he ain’t asking. Poor little fucker is frozen. Ain’t that little though – big k**. Muscled. Fuck – he’s so … fuck.”

There was a pause.

“I never heard you like this.”

“Never been like this.”

“So –“

“So – he ain’t making the move. So the beer is. The beer knows I’ll take her. Fuck with her. Do her right.”

“That beer’s a bitch. Don’t listen to her.”

“Why I called you.”

“I’ll come over – be there in twenty – fifteen if the cops don’t catch me speeding.”

“No – just needed to hear your voice. Gonna beat off – twice. Then sleep. I need to sleep. Been through the ringer. k** got me wound up.”

And then –

And then ….

Then, there he was. I hadn’t heard him come up – hadn’t heard him in his room – hadn’t heard him come to my door. Hadn’t seen him standing there. Naked again. Hard. Nearly hyperventilating.

“k**,” I said, standing up.

He saw me – on the phone.

“Fuck,” he said. “Didn’t mean to – that my dad?”

He looked like he was gonna flee.

“No – k** – no. Not your dad. It’s my sponsor – I’ll call ya back,” I said, into the phone.

“You okay – “

“Fine. Fine. I’ll call – but I’m fine.” I hung up, facing the boy – the man-boy. The boy-man. Him. Standing there.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered –

“No, son. Don’t be. Talk to me. I mean –“

“Who’s a – what’s a sponsor?”

“It’s … AA. The guy you call when you’re feeling … weak.”

“I can’t imagine you weak.”

“You don’t know me inside.”

“I want to,” is all he said.

I turned off the phone – tossed it on a chair.

I crossed my arms, trying to be strong. He was so vulnerable. I cursed myself for missing the opportunity. Being on the phone.

“What’s up, son?” I tried humor. “Other than – you know,” nodding at his cock.

He blushed, covering himself. Then revealing himself again, not knowing where to put his hands, then reversing course, then putting his hands on his head. Me being on the phone hadn’t been in his plan. I’d interrupted his intention.

“I -,” he said, but there were sobs on the edge of his field of play. He was fighting them – fighting his conditioning – just one huge fight I saw in him, like this massive bloody battleground in the pitch of war, and here I’d been, whining about my blue balls and a single bottle of beer.

“Talk to me, son,” I said, quietly, trying to project paternalism.

“I – Drew – “

I waited.

“Uncle –

“Ryan –

“Sir … I want you, Daddy.“

“I’m not you’re daddy, k**.”

“I want you to be,” he hiccupped.

“What else do you want, Ryan?”

He finally found a place for his hands: on his hips. He finally found a place for his eyes: looking into my own.

He finally found himself.

“I want you to make me a man,” he said to me.

And that – as they say – was that.

It was the perfect set of words for the perfect moment. I shuddered feeling them hit me, grow in me, become me. In some porn version of this story that had been looping in my head all day – all night – he’d begged me to fuck him – to do him – to let him worship my cock. He’d said or done something lewd. And I’d responded, of course –

But here – now – he asked for the ultimate gift: the thing that I could give that he needed most. And it crushed me. Steamrolled me. Consumed me. It was done. The beer no longer held sway – or his dad – or my friendship with his dad – it was just us, here, in my domain. I pulled off my shirt, my chest heaving. I kicked off the boots, which I wore, unlaced. I pulled open the shorts, letting them drop. It sprung free, big, alive, swaying in the light.

“Target acquired,” my cock said, as it honed in on the young man, pulling up, then curving like it did, standing proud. My b**st.

He gasped. Like literally – a gasp. Almost comically loud. My cock pulsed. Drool gurgled out.

“Close the door, son.”

He did.

“Come here.”

He approached, shaking. His own cock quivering. He was drawn to me – drawn to it.

“Sure about this, son?” I said, my eyes trying to communicate both my profound care and my desirous hunger.

His head nodded. But it was tentative. He was scared.

“It’s okay. Touch it. You can touch it.”

He reached out – grabbing it – his body quaking, probably a direct result of the aftershocks that were emanating from my balls. They were tight. Full. It was breeding time, but there was more – so much more. This was paternal. This was everything.

“Oh – man – “ he said, barely audible. Not even a whisper – like the words couldn’t make it out of his throat.

I touched him – touched his arm – worked up to his shoulder. The electricity was … well, electric. I was more alive than I ever recalled.

I wanted to stop everything – savor each moment – but the only way forward was forward. So, I grabbed his neck, letting him feel my strength for him. He misread my signal and his knees collapsed – lowering his thick body in order to confront my manhood.

“No –“ I said, directly. “No k** – that’s not now it goes – not here – not with me.” I reached down and got under his arms, pulling him up and into me – our cocks grazed, our muscles touched – he looked frightened. He was scared that he had done something wrong.

“Ryan,” I said, looking into him as deep as I could. “You’re not going down there, son, not without a kiss first. This isn’t happening without my lips on yours - us holding each other. This isn’t sex for me, son. Not just. This is … us. You get to my cock through my eyes and my lips. And through here.”

I took his hand and put it on my chest.

The words surprised even me. But it was all instinct now – like it had been all day. And this was no longer just about him. It was about me and my needs. What I wanted from him. What I wanted from us.

There were tears coming down his freshly shaved cheeks. He was nodding – saying yes – understanding. A low murmur escaped his lips.

“Never kissed a guy,” he said, sorry it seemed, that his innocence and inexperience would be a disappointment – not understanding it was the opposite. It was an intoxicant.

I kept looking at his eyes. His hands touched me – feeling me, reaching around behind me. His crotched moved elegantly into my own. He invited me to hold his bulk, and I did, waiting for him to make the move again. My cock was on high alert. The entire control room was screaming, “SECURE THE TARGET!” But I held back, waiting for his kiss, which came with such gentleness. His lips met mine. The first touch was liminal. The first sound was a****l – juvenile, too. His mouth opened, inviting me, and then I felt his tongue, hot, wet, sweet. Arms pulling me in, body shaking –

“Daddy,” he murmured. “Kiss me.”

And I did. I pushed past his lips, mashing my rough face against his smooth opening, diving into him, holding him, showing him how men love – no longer hiding my need. We collapsed into each other grinding, groaning, exploring our muscle – our privacy. I could have held him like that forever – kissed him ‘til I died. He crawled up on me, wrapping his massive legs around me, resting on my unyielding penis, trying to pull his entire bulk into my body, nearly crushing me with his strength – except he wasn’t the only one trying to consume. I wanted him inside me, too – wanted him to become my symbiont – inhabit my depths – connect in the most pure and complete way. We were nearly wrestling each other, desperately searching for ways to violate the laws of nature – trying to make two bodies become one. And then he came – of course he did – a sobbing cry of ecstasy and disappointment, shooting teen cream in a torrent of youth and testosterone.

And yeah – the k** was a shooter. And epic fucking shooter.

And this was my little secret – the one kink that drove me wild – guys that could spray and spray when you were deep inside of them. Being the guy that caused that fountain of life and love always blew my head right off. As I drove in and they sprayed their boys out, I took the credit – I was the God that had pulled the trigger, and that moment always drove me over the edge, particularly if the spew was epic. Electrifying.

But not this time – I wasn’t inside him this time. And I immediately sensed his passionate panic, and countered it with my absolute obsession with cum. I ground into him, humping up his trench, countering his strength with my own –

“Fuck yeah, son,” I growled, chin soaked with his third ejaculate of vital juice. It painted my chest, matting me to him. It flew out the side, landing on the bed. It painted his cheek as I held his head, devouring his mouth, tongue lapping at his seed where I could find it, growling and moaning – showing him that I loved his cum – needed it – desired it.

Fucking lived for it.

“Show me what you got, k**,” I demanded, turning, throwing him on the bed, landing on top of him, my hands grabbing his wrists, push-upping over him so I could witness his release in all of its glory and it was fucking glorious. He kept pumping. The k** was a firehose. It was nothing I’d ever seen before – nothing I’d ever witnessed. (And I’d been with some freaky-assed hose-spraying mother-fuckers.) It painted his chest, his face again – then flew out, hitting the head-board, drooling down the proud lion that I had carved there. In my imagination that lion licked the sperm, roared approval, sought more.

But then I heard his cries. They became urgent – scared –

“No.”

“Nononononononononoooooo,” he moaned, still twitching, still shaking, balls pumping, legs flailing. I brought myself back to him – made him, not his juice, the center of my universe, falling on him, holding him.

“Son – “ I said, heaving into his neck and ear. “What’s wrong, k**. Baby – boy – babyboy,” I said, holding him, wrapping my bigger legs around his, letting him hunch into me, shooting the last drops of his epic load on my cock and balls.

He was sobbing now, incoherent.

“No –“ he cried, clutching me. “It’s coming – I don’t want it to come,” he said, holding me like no one has ever held me.

“Ryan,” I said to him, loudly. “What’s coming?”

“It – “ he cried. “It.”

“Shhhh – k**, I got you. I’m here. Daddy’s here for you, son. I got you.”

The “Daddy” word seemed to have an impact, but only a slight one. Now he cowered, trying to shrink under my body, disappear into the bed.

“Keep it away – I don’t want to stop – please –“

“Ryan,” I barked, pulling back, grabbing his face. “Talk to me son. Tell me what ‘it’ is.”

“That it’s wrong. That we’re wrong. That God won’t love me. That it will be over and I’ll hate this. Hate me. Hate you. Hate us.”

The fear was real – there was panic in his eyes. I didn’t lose my hard, but I did shift gears, pouring into him, being there for the boy that was so frightened – so fearful of his nature.

“Oh baby – what’d the do to you? Fucking what did they do.”

Then I kissed him. Touched his face. Cooed on him.

“Just hold me, Ryan. I got you – nothing’s coming for you but me, son. Only me. Only me from here on out. Nothing’s coming through that door – nothing’s coming through me. Nothing, k**. Not a goddamn thing.”

And the more I spoke the more he calmed – and then the crazy went out of his eyes. And then he was touching me, feeling me with his hands, determining my reality – making sure of my protection. Then he held me – tight. Then he held me tighter. Then he tried to crush the life out of me with his honed bulk, making me fight back against his strength, show him my ability to survive any onslaught.

“Oh,” he said, almost believing, but still shaking – the fear held fast; it had a long dark purchase with him. It wasn’t going to give ground easily. And then I ground into him, shifting position, pushing my cock through his legs and up through his trench.

“Grab me,” I said, and he knew I meant his legs. He did.

“Don’t let go, son. Hold on. I’m here.”

He shook still, but it was a different shaking – a shaking free – an expulsion of long held beliefs. He shook harder, gripping me harder with his legs, and then he ground into me, his hardness sluicing through the sticky wetness that secured our oneness.

“Oh,” he said, feeling himself – surprising himself.

“I’m still hard,” he whispered, as if it was a secret. A naughty one.

“I know,” I said, nuzzling him.

“That never happens. After I cum.”

I gripped him, reaching under his ass, grinding him into my frame, helping us both to feel his continued vitality – the confirmation of his true self.

“Never,” he said, hope escaping from his lips. “Hardly ever.”

I just held him. Couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Then –

“No one, son. No one’s coming for you. I’m here. Just you and me. Just us.”

“Oh,” he said, melting, a sob of great and profound relief escaping his lips, which immediately started searching for my own, but along the way, exploring. “Oh –“ he gasped again, believing that the evil would not approach – that the shame would not over-take – that I could, in fact, protect him from his guilt. He grabbed my head, urgently, pushing his lips into mine. “Daddy – oh fuck, daddy,” he growled, hunching and kissing, pushing his tongue into my mouth, catching up for lost time, believing in himself and his needs and his desires.

“Oh God, Daddy – Oh God I love you,” he said, and that hit me like a truck, but it didn’t stop me – didn’t hurt me – didn’t frighten me. Here, in this room, alone with him – the boy I had helped raise as if he were my own, well, all I could do is accept his love, drink it, take it in.

“Baby boy,” I moaned. “I love you, too.” And we kissed, more and more and more, bodies entwined, passion refueled.

At which point – working together – him seeking the ultimate coupling, and me letting my boys in mission control acquire the target, the head of my too large cock caught in his too small hole and stayed there – not entering, but not retreating.

His eyes opened, looking at me. I looked back, not blinking.

Fear rose again, but a different kind of fear. Still, his legs opened wider, inviting me in.

Then I showed him my need – pushing forward just slightly, eyes glazing, mouth opened –

“Son,” was all I said. “Please.”

And then he kissed me, gently, nodding, caressing. His own nut out of the way, but still charged, he turned his attention to me, touching my face, showing me a part of him that I’d never seen – the boy who loved deeply – too hard – with too much passion.

“Please daddy,” he whispered.

“Are you scared?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Good – you should be.”

“Why?”

“it will hurt, baby,” I said, telling him the truth.

“I know.”

“But it will change your life.”

“I hope so.”

I was barely hanging on. This wasn’t how I imagined it – imagined the moment. I stalled for time, trying to get my bearings – trying to prevent a **** of my best friend’s son.

“I need you to be sure, Ryan,” I said, quietly, my chest rumbling but my body frozen.

“I can’t be,” he whimpered. It wasn’t what I expected to hear. It was better, because it was his truth.

“Then I need you to ask for it, son. I need you to ask –“ he cut me off.

“I already did ask, daddy. I asked you to make me a man.”

I groaned, pushing forward, meeting resistance. He reached up, pulling me down into him – now he was the one giving assurances – helping me overcome hurdles of doubt. “All my life,” he whispered, hot breathe in my ear, lips touching my lobe, “I’ve dreamed of this. For as long as I can remember, Mr. James, for as long as I’ve tried to deny it, this is what’s been inside of me – you … being inside of me.” He held me there, breathing calmly now, kissing on me with a maturity that was uncommon, given his inexperience. “For as long as I can remember, no matter how hard I fought it, Drew,” he said, calling me by my name, trying to equalize us in the moment so I could be sure that he was talking man-to-man, not submissive to dominant – son to dad – ‘nephew’ to ‘uncle’. “It’s been you.”

The k** had a unique ability to say just the right thing at just the right time. In an instant my life with him flashed through my skull – the early picnics, when they were still together. Wrestling in the grass. At a couple of his baseball games, and after, him leaning into me, me with my arm around his shoulders. Even during the divorce, when we would sit together in the back, him periodically grabbing my hand and me holding it, then putting it aside, anxious that some fucker from the church would see – would use my presence and proximity as a wedge to drive him from his father. And later, during his darkness – the way he avoided contact – avoided touch – aggressively shook my hand and let go too early, making a show of his male distance.

I pulled back, looking at him. I saw him with new eyes. The side-table light was still on. We had been doing this in full view – not in darkness – and like the rest of the evening my instincts on this had been correct. I could see his face. It was open. I could see his desire. I could see his fear. It was pure, but controlled.

And I could now see his profound attraction. It was more than that, though, and I knew it. He loved me. Had always done so. First in a familial way. Then the love turned to lust – twisted by desire. Then, somehow, in these last few months, and in the last week with Arnie, it had coalesced into a youthful but powerful whole. He was mine, if I would have him, love him back with the same force that he loved me. And what I had been controlled by all day – what Rush the Butcher had seen as clear as a distress flare on a dark night - was the force of my own love for him, sensing his and feeding off it. I had thought it was paternalism – just an older guy trying to look out for a young, questioning k**. And it was that. Of course it was. But it was more than that, and it aroused me, enflamed me. This was what had been missing all of my life – the one piece of the puzzle that I could never find. I’d assumed it had been lost in war. You can lose a lot in war. Burt and I knew that – were thankful that we were nearly whole. Me with my addiction. Him with his anger and his violent streak. But we stepped through the landmines and came out the other side. Damaged but mostly intact.

Mostly.

But, with each fuck, with each connection, I never found that one piece.

Sure – I cared for each partner – loved them in that moment – nurtured our intimacy into special friendships, unless they were one-night stands. And there were a lot of those. But never – not once – had I felt the spark of fire, the connection, the soul-touching moment that you read about, dream about, especially in the dark of night, alone, grabbing onto your cock with one hand and a pillow with another, wishing it were a man – a boy – a daddy – anyone you could connect with and be next to every night for the rest of your life.

Like I said: I figured that I wasn’t able. Had lost the ability – or never had it in the first place. That maybe my own father had beaten it out of me during one of his drunken rages, rages that drove me to enlist on my eighteenth birthday and find my own way to manhood. Or, that it had been killed off during one of those hellish nights outside of Kandahar.

But here it was. The k** had found it. Had seen it all along, possibly.

The dizzying, overwhelming images of my life – of my father, my war and my best friend’s son – had the benefit of calming my pounding lust. Even my boys down below stood down, awaiting new orders from there general.

I pushed back and caressed his thighs. He’d graduated again to a new level. When there was a pause or a change in me, it was no longer followed by a questioning look from him. He just waited, watching. Ready to follow.

I knelt back, looking at him with new eyes. My cock retreated from full on fuck-pole to a father’s hard-on, proudly displayed to his son. The k**s eyes watched it, attracted and afraid. His own rod remained rigid. His skin was smeared with his own cum and our shared sweat. He gleamed, covered with our fluids.

“Turn over, son,” I said quietly, and he did, grabbing one last look at me and my full manhood, taking it in, copying it for the record. He gathered a pillow to his chest, instinctively, clutching it, putting his face on the bed right under the carved cum-stained lion.

“Show me yourself, Ryan,” I whispered, reaching for the bedside drawer, pulling out the towels and lube.

He did. He knew what I wanted – knew what he’d been pushing so hard to achieve in his workouts. His back flared with rippling heft. His arms bulged as he grabbed another pillow, dragging it under him, using it as an object to display his thick arms. Then the ass came up while I leveraged it with another pillow, giving him a pedestal to display his glory.

And it was magnificent, his ass: every-fucking-thing-I-ever-fucking-wanted-in-a-hot-stud’s-butt. I shook with hunger looking at it. He heard and moved with perfect maleness. Not slutty. Not over-done, just a big equally hungry boy knowing that his daddy loved what he was seeing.

“Damn,” I said, hoarsely, running my hands over his back, feeling his arms and their steel heft. Then touching his ass, like it was the fucking holy grail.

“Ahhhh,” he whispered, feeling me feel him. A man’s touch transforming him – helping to ease his fear.

“Son,” I growled, speechless, beginning to lube my cock, running my other hand down his trench.

“Ohh,” he moaned into the bed. “Mr. James.”

“Baby boy,” I whispered, and it didn’t seem wrong, despite his hugeness. I was twice his age and had him in height, easy. I was leaner – never had been one to pack on true thickness like his dad, but I was muscled up – liked being muscled up. It helped being one of the biggest guys on site. Ya never knew when you needed to throw your weight around – and I wasn’t afraid to do that. Hadn’t been since I left home.

Then I poured the lube on his pucker, which seemed impossibly small. He shook now, mouth open, gaping, his one eye looking back at me, then away, not knowing whether to witness or wait.

“Cherry,” I said, surprising myself. But it was a reminder to proceed with care. He sobbed, nodding, beginning to twitch his ass while I probed him with first one, then two fingers. Impossibly tight. I couldn’t fathom how this was gonna happen, but of course, I could.

“Last chance, son,” I said, going deep with two fingers, pouring on more lube. “Once I’m in I’m not stopping until I’m done. You do that to me, k** – make me that way. Turn me on so much. Can barely see ya, k**, I want this so bad. Babyboy.” It was a litany, spoken to help him understand his profound attractiveness.

“Ohhhhhhh,” he moaned, hearing my words, feeling them inside. “Mmmmmmm,” he said, wordless, responding to my penetrating touch, begging me to begin. “Please,” he said, finally, finding a single word that indicated his pure consent.

I pulled my fingers out, toweling them. Then pushed my cock against his hole, the light helping me to see the perfect angle and position.

“It’s best to take a deep breath, Ryan. It will help.”

He did as instructed, huffing out, and sucking back in.

“That’s it. Another. Do that a few times, to get control of yourself, okay baby?”

“Yessir,” he mumbled, head in a pillow now, but following direction. It helped him calm himself. He did it again and I felt his muscles tighten in preparation. When he did that, I entered him, just the head, knowing the shock of my width would convulse him, which it did. But … he held steady.

“Do another,” I said sternly, and as I did I realized that unlike some gay k**s, he’d maybe never had much more than a finger up in here. His religious conditioning had probably turned the ache in his boy-hole into some kind of Satanic affliction that he had resisted … until now.

I’m not sure how I knew how to fuck him, but I did. I knew precisely what he needed, how I needed to deliver it, and the crucial moment that would determine our destiny. I was focused now – utterly. I had somehow regained full control of myself, knowing what I had to deliver and knowing that if I did, I would have a night I would never forget – the best ass I’d ever had in my life.

Knowing that …

His ass would be wholly mine – solely mine: the first to enter it, the first to break it in, the first to breed it, the first to make it what it was meant to be. All that and a night that would change the k** forever. Pressure? Fuck yeah, but I thrived on it. My cock throbbed. Only on the battlefield had I ever felt more alive but this was different – this was creation, not destruction. This was … everything.

This was the meaning of life motherfuckers.

“One more, son,” I counseled, clearly. “Make it a deep one.”

He sucked in air, holding it, sweat beading on his back and face. And when it was completed, I pushed, downward, directly into his center, using the years of ass that had been fucked on this bed to guide me perfectly into his being.

I didn’t ram him. I just fucked slowly into him, not hesitating once, not inching along for an hour, pansying into his ass with questions and consultations. I pushed, hard, relentless, deep, at the perfect pace, fast enough for him not to reject, but slow enough for him to feel each inch – each half-inch – each eighth.

One hand held his waist, the other pushed into his upper back, gaining perfect leverage for the cherry-picking. At the end, I found it, pushed up against it, and with the last underside inches of my perfectly curved dad-cock, I pushed through it, deep-ing him, owning him.

Making him a man.

With that harsh plucking – and it was harsh – the last thrust always is given the force you need to get the under-inches past his lips and the head beyond the cherry - with that last thrust his body went on high alert. He flinched, hard, and in that moment I watched every single one of his muscles – every single one – tighten, clench, lock. What it did to my cock was indescribable. I believe his actual physical body was trying to cut it off, to kill the invader at the root. But of course that was impossible – all it did was assure me that this was the ass I’d been waiting for all of my life and before I lost it completely, all I needed to do was help the k** through this moment of sheer terror and utter panic.

To his credit, he was fighting it himself. Once the clench occurred he didn’t flee, didn’t scream, didn’t shout – he didn’t strike out, move away, fight me.

He froze.

I saw the battle: his nascent desires, pushing back against fight-or-flight-youth at the peak of physical perfection. It was a David and Goliath battle. The ethereal force of his darkest, most erotic dreams, up against every sinew of flesh which he’d trained to the highest possible strength. The k** had no fat on him. None at all. He was all muscle, all tendon, all machine and I witnessed, as he gripped my cock like a fucking vise, that muscle being engaged, opposed by only the force of his need and a distant faith that this brutal pain could transform into life-changing pleasure.

I’d never seen anything like it. My cock pulsed in him, owning him, refusing to be denied – he had to understand what it meant for me to fuck him – to inhabit him deeply. It grew – thickening. I was close, but still in control. Still he fought, frozen. His face was turning red. He hadn’t breathed and the deep air supply he’d filled himself with was running low. Tears had formed. His teeth were clenched. There was a moment – as he clenched even harder – where I feared he was lost, that the scream would come, that the beg to be unviolated would echo against the walls and his journey would end.

And so I reached up, caressing him, apologizing for the pain I had caused with the simplicity of a gesture that harkened back to his youth, gently tussling his short hair, offering a single counter-point to the aggression with which I had speared him.

“You can do this, son,” was all I said. “I know you can.”

At which point his dark dreams surged and his desire crescendo-ed. His took one last full-body clench, fighting against the pain and throwing his weight with the force of his passion. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced in a man. He became rock hard: Michelangelo-Marble. The tightness painfully gripped my cock with a force I had never, in all my years of fucking, ever experienced. Ever.

And then … he won. He surrendered. His body shuddered, then gave, one muscle unlocking, then another, then a cascade of decompression. It felt like – looked like – a huge piece of metal that had reached its melting point and then diffused, losing its structure, disappearing before your eyes, even while transforming into something new.

“Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwgawddaadddddddy,” he groaned, giving in: to me, to my cock, to our desire. “Awwwwwwwwwwwwwfuuuuuuuck,” he rumbled, relaxing, retreating.

Realizing.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhgodyessss,” he said, splaying out his legs and arms, opening himself to me. “Oh jesuschrist,” he exalted, as I pulled out using the same speed as my impalement, and pushed back in, relentlessly, beginning my work. “Oh … jesuschristourlordandsavior,” I honest-to-God believe I heard him whisper in some kind of silent prayerful opposition to the bullshit he’d been fed by his desire-hating mother. Or perhaps a prayer of absolution for denying his nature – the gift His Son had given to him that he had rejected all of his young life. “Oh Jesus … “ he moaned, shuddering.

And then, to his other Father – the Priest of this Communion: “Oh, Daddy,” he groaned, nodding, becoming.

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Could only be. Only fuck. Only have. Only take. Only do what I had wanted to do all summer – even though I hadn’t known it. I grabbed him with my big hands, controlling him, achieving a perfect rhythm as his searing hot tightness gripped me, giving me pleasure.

I leaned into him, coming closer, and he pushed back into me, becoming a man.

“This can’t be wrong,” he said, to himself, to me, to the universe.

“It isn’t, son,” I said, in his ear now, wrapping my arms around and underneath him. Holding him close, beginning to ride, the way I do, but this time with so much more intention and need.

He allowed my strength to own him and dominate him – allowed my larger size to daddy him, protect him. He pushed up as I began to thrust seriously, his eyes becoming delirious.

“Oh gawd,” he felt me hardening – enlarging. “It’s coming isn’t it.”

“Yes baby,” was all I said, driving now, breathing hard. “It’s coming.”

“Daddy,” he groaned, writhing, opening, urging me to seed him.

I was his first. Would always be his first. No other man’s seed would ever travel this path without traces of my DNA marking the way. No other man’s sperm would spunk into the k** without seeing the flags my boys were about to plant, deep in his guts - mini markers of me.

It was a freight-train of an orgasm. For the first time all night I pushed aside his needs and rode him for my own, letting him feel who I was in my moments of greatest passion and desire. My angry, aggravated balls – denied a summer of fuck – pumped out more cum than I can ever remember shooting, flooding his guts, drowning his depths. I grunted like a bull, sweat and spit spraying his cheek and head and neck, breeding him, trying to make an unnatural miracle spawn in his guts.

I kept pounding, wet now, my balls slapping against his, my cock sluicing in its juices, opening a tunnel that would never be closed to me again. It was cherry – it would last as long as I made it last – and I made it last for longer than I thought possible. I lost him in those moments, hearing only, on the periphery, a nearly religious babble of profanity and desire and determination. He was humping back on me, understanding the depths of pleasure that could be delivered by his newly discovered sex organ.

In the end – and the end did come, no matter how hard we fought it – I was on top of him, drenched in sweat. We were breathing as one. My cock, softer now, still pumped sperm into him and his ass, loaded, using my DNA to recover from my violation, was learning to massage it. He was understanding its capabilities. We lay there like that for what seemed like hours. But, it wasn’t – who knows how long it was? Time was secondary. The present was all that mattered.

I found myself kissing him. Nuzzling him. I came back to myself, became a lover again, whispered to him.

“Best ass I ever had, son. Best fuck I ever had.”

And it was true. Absolutely true.

“Daddy,” he only replied, comfortable now in who he was, content. The rage was gone. It had been doused by the firehose of cum that I’d sprayed into his volcanic center. There was only his honest self now – no twisted construct imposed by others too fearful to face their desires.

People tend not to change that quickly. We all know that. But the did – he did. The fight against his nature was over. He was …. this. Lying underneath me his contentment was distinct. It flooded the room. He came home.

To himself.

To my bed.

To me.

I suddenly couldn’t imagine him anywhere but here, under me, beside me.

And so … well, fuck … I cried.

It started small. I fought it. He turned back, looking at me. But like I wrote before, when he looked at me now, he no longer challenged – only tried to see. He wasn’t questioning either. Only learning.

Looking at him I couldn’t hold it back. It came in waves, my cock flopping out of his hole, my body shuddering in emotion. His strength returned. He pushed me back, but not away – he was turning now, facing me, under me. He was looking at me, touching me, learning me. I buried my face into his thick neck, felt his huge arms wrap around me, felt one leg grip my ass while the other entwined my thigh.

“Oh, daddy,” he said, learning my loneliness. Witnessing the end of my search.

I heaved into him, letting him see what I thought was my weakness, but realized was only my true self. Just as he had showed me the man he was meant to be, now I could show him the man I was. I never wanted him to leave. Was fearful that he would. I understood the nature of youth – its restless need to explore and discover. But he gripped me harder, stronger than I was, whispering to me. “Oh daddy. Oh dad.” And then he caressed me with searching hands that had somehow become experienced in just a few hours of love-making. He let me get it out.

And when that was done, he just said into my ear. “I love you, Mr. James. Always have. Always will.”

I nodded trying to believe it, wanting to.

Why the fuck was I so fucking wounded?

And he sensed my tentativeness. Acknowledged it without fear.

“You’ll see,” was all he said. “You’ll see.”

I may have slept – I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I do know I relished the strength with which he held me. Having shown myself more nakedly than with any other man, I felt uncertain where to go next and his strength allowed me to halt – for the first time in hours. He touched me. He explored me. He loved me. And I learned his valleys and his crevices, the shape of his contours.

His smell.

His taste.

He was fresh and salty. There was a bitterness to his youth that cut into my taste-buds. I’d been feasting on men my age or older: aged beef which, of course, is fine in its own way. But this fresh meat had vitality.

Eventually I lifted my head and he reached across the bed, fishing into my fuck drawer, grabbing a newly washed cum-rag. The towel covered his big-paw and he wiped my face with it, erasing the evidence of my sadness (happiness? relief?), tossing it aside. Then he moved my sweaty hair out of my eyes, smiling mischievously. The smiles were killing me – each one, new. Like he’d been hiding a warehouse of joy out back behind the rage-lot, and was now forklifting inventory from its depths.

He stuck his head up and kissed me.

“So handsome,” he said.

I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say.

Then I did.

“Thanks, k**. And by the way, the answer is ‘yes’.”

His eyes arched, trying to figure out the question.

“Last night, Ryan. You asked me a question. The answer is ‘yes’.”

“I don’t remember –“ he said, trying to figure out if this was a game or something more serious.

“You asked: ‘Do you really think I’m handsome, Drew?’” My cock had thickened. It sluiced slowly between his wet glutes, surging. “The answer, Ryan, is ‘Yes’. You are a very handsome young man.”

He blushed, but the blush turned into a glow. It was white hot, the beams coming off of him – from his eyes, too.

“When you smile, son, I can’t stop looking at you, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

“Then I guess I better keep smiling,” he said, killing me again with another variation – this one knowingly sexual. He was figuring out the buttons he could push, one button at a time.

“We’re not done, are we?” he asked, gathering himself – I wasn’t sure for what.

“What do you think?” I said, pushing my fleshy fuck-stick under his balls again, feeling his own vitality throb between us.

“Good,” he said, then grabbed my rib-cage, scissored my legs, and flipped my older bigger ass right over, landing me on his back, with him seated on my groin.

With any other man I would have fought back and exerted my dominance. But fuck, I loved being manhandled by him. The k** was strong – had trained hard. He had more skills than he let on: was quick and agile. Most guys I bedded didn’t have that kind of brute strength. It was fucking thrilling to be engaged with such mass and force.

His smile turned to desire as his eyes raked my chest. He let out a low groan. With two hands he sexed himself, rubbing the sweat and frothy remnants of his earlier seed into his cock and muscled frame, then moved his hands over my chest, squeezing my pecs. His hips started a slow grind – barely perceptible. His rigid prick stood straight up, his balls tight to his taint, full again.

“Damn,” he said, feasting on me with his eyes while his hands explored. I realized in the moment that of course he’d never had this close a look – this amount of time. He wasn’t practiced in the fine art of scoping out manflesh and, anyway, he’d been in a constant state of denial. Those days were gone and he could stare, unabashedly, at the object of his affection. I re-hardened completely under his gaze, my boys catching the ‘alert’ signal, and snapping to attention. They’d never been more poised – more perfectly synched. The target – once acquired – would be assaulted again and again.

His nostrils were flared. His tongue darted out, hungrily. I saw drool on his lips. He needn’t have asked for permission, but I gave it, freely.

“Go ahead, k**,” I said, looking right into his eyes, shoving my hands behind my head, flexing my own damn self.

The noise that he uttered – I’ll never forget it. It was a****l. Cat-like. Maybe it came from the carved lion, or was prompted by his pride from some far off savannah where the feeding had begun. The boy bent down, flicking his tongue on the tip of my tit. He shook. He did it again. He shuddered, making more sounds that I’d never heard before – sounds that I could get used to hearing in my master bedroom.

Then he latched on, biting just hard enough, suckling like a new-birthed piglet, anxious, greedy. I growled, pushing my cock up, letting him feel my response and desire.

“That’s it, baby,” I growled, putting one hand on his head. “Take care of daddy.”

And he did – sucking and licking and lapping at my furry chest. His exploration was detailed and complete, all the while picking up urgency with his hips, learning new moves that would turn him into a world-class bottom – as if he hadn’t already skyrocketed up the ranks with just one fuck. I lead him, here and there, but didn’t push him into the depths of my funk – preferring to watch him hunt for the scent, like a truffle-pig on the first day of the hunt.

I knew he would get there – and he did – roaming up to my clavicle, then sucking on my neck. From there he went under my ear, where I responded insistently, cock seeking solace, body goose-fleshed. But then – I think – he caught his first whiff of true man-funk. He stopped, purring, then sniffing some more. His tongue followed a trail down my shoulder, nipping along the way, then his face massaged my muscle there as his full body responded to the pheromone-ladened musk that had developed over the course of this erotically inclined weekend.

“Awwwhhhhhhgoddamnnnnn,” he growled, fully on the scent now, like a hound-dog. His nose dipped under my raised arms and he sniffed, delicately. His body shook, hard. I thought he might come again – instead he breathed deep, letting out a guttural sound like a death rattle – though there was more life in it than any sound I’d ever heard.

I’ll give the k** credit (I suppose). He didn’t pig out immediately. Instead he rose, grinding his wet trench on my cock, forcing out some of my least-fortunate boys, the ones still trapped in my thick tube. They gurgled, spewing onto his cleft, massaging my cock with my own seed. (To this day I don’t know if this move was intentional – I do know, ho