A regimented man, economic in thought, common sense reared, a rebel with little patience for whiners, and now a leather daddy with a cause, Sergeant Major Robert Gilmore, Retired, a crusty 26-year veteran, my daddy of eight months, stood in my doorway, leathered and booted, to shadow me in dusty coolness with his 6-foot, 8-inch tower of military manliness.

"Let's go," he ordered, standing with thick, hairy hands on hips, his flattop of red quills, shockingly severe, backlit by the sun. He wore army sternness in his face, an expression that declared a "bullshit-free"

zone. A daily runner, Big Daddy (the name naturally came to me because of his mentoring and paternal affect) still carried around the slightest paunch (had to have his beer and cigars) that for me only added to his handsomeness: the classic daddy.

"Let's go where, Big Daddy?" I craned my head and shaded my eyes to search his glassy hazel ones, made so by the medication he took for a war wound, one he never talked about; one, somehow I knew not to ask about. And even with my turning twenty-five, something about him, besides his stature, made me act boyish, made me want to obey him.

But I hadn't been a good "boy," a good boy in the sense that I had learned the philosophy of my status, the mind-set. Most importantly, I hadn't learned how to balance my position as man-boy with that of man-man. In fact, I didn't really know how to be a man-boy.

Or is it boy-man? I honestly didn't know the difference before I met Big Daddy. He explained the difference quite simply: "If the "boy"

in ya' is lookin'through boy eyes, then ya' still wet behind the ears, and I don't have time to fool with ya'." Then he rubbed his hardening cock, growing before me as he thought more of the explanation. "But if the "boy"

in ya' is looking through the eyes of a man, than I can work with that."

He decided he could work with me, but I hadn't been progressing as quickly as he would have liked. Yet, he never complained, nor did I see signs that I was eventually going to be replaced.

"Just keep ya jock on, boy," he said to my question of our destination, with a tone of controlled annoyance. Secretly, I liked that tone, a bearish grumble, mostly, one that massaged by balls when he spoke. But when he became ornery, the grumbled turned to a growl, and I knew to get out of his way.

Grabbing my hand, Big Daddy pulled me toward his Harley. When I got on, he raised a thick hand and shouted over the loud and almost patented "potato, potato, potato sound of the Harley's engine, "Don't ask,

'cause I'm not tellin'." I fell silent.

After a while, he grabbed my leg, and squeezed a bit.

"Where are we going?" I yelled, but only the buffeting wind answered.

Despite being together only eight months, I started to believe I loved him. Even more telling, as this sudden trip proved, I had fallen, perhaps, too soon (again) for a man who was more attracted to my youth and vitality than to my character. My last daddy had only been interested in my youth, and in trying to suck every ounce from me (pun allowed), he almost destroyed me.

On the other hand, I didn't sense this with Big Daddy, but I still remained guarded, and although I was waiting for him to use me, and then send me away, I wanted to be with him forever. I loved everything about him, especially his body.

I loved his handsome face, weathered and heavily bearded, his meatiness, and the hair covering his entire body, ever so thickly in the right places; I loved the way my body fit snuggly into his; and I especially loved the secure and warm feeling I got when he taught me life, love, and how to be a man-boy. That a man-daddy is the reciprocal of a man-boy was a concept I understood intellectually, but I suspected Big Daddy had walked into my life to increase that understanding.

Just thinking of a future with him, remembering our passionate nights, and having him near to me to touch and to admire kept me hard and leaky. Sometimes when I had to be away from him, I ached from wanting to touch him and wanting to be touched by him. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, I imagined him behind me, pushing his rigid cock into the soft gripping folds of my rectum.

I imagined his pinching my stiffening nipples, stroking my cock, and gripping my balls (He knows I like that.) Then gripping my hips or my shoulders, he would push all of his daddy dick into me, hold it there and pulse, a sensation that drove me wild and shot tingles all over my body. And I would take his meaty pole, all of it, down to his bushy bull nuts. I would take big daddy's cock until I had to yell out the irresistible and pleasurable pain.

And when Big Daddy pummeled me, his flesh slapping my flesh, his hand striking my tender boy-ass, his pile-driving purplish steeliness stretching my warm and juicy boy-hole, I would trembled from the strain, would released and go limp, then I would strain again. I did this several times as Big Daddy pounded deeper and deeper to territory I never knew could be reached.

And then when I could no longer take his pounding, when energy would gather somewhere in my ass and travel through my cock, the world would fall away; my senses would abruptly stop; nothing would have meaning for several minutes; and I would float somewhere between my existence and my end.

Then sensory overload: everything would come rushing back in an explosive fireball that would moved from the base of me, somewhere in the churning flesh of my ass. The feeling would slowly ebb along my shaft until it reached the head of my dick, illuminating it in aching electricity until I would splatter cum before me like an attacking serpent.

And still Big Daddy, would pummel me. He would slide his sweaty hairiness along my smooth body, would shout obscenely and demonstratively the utter feeling of passion, desire, and lust, like a big grizzly. His efforts would take him closer and closer to the point of no return. Then I would hear it, the biting back of satisfaction, his futile attempt to delay his climax, a whimper signaling his defeat; and he would holler out relief, as he shot gobs and gobs of his seed into my milking and spasm-ing hole.

God, I loved how my Big Daddy fucked me.

Then he would push us both over on the bed, his weight on me, and enclose me in hairy, warm, security. And love would rush from me with such impact, that it would make me cry.

Now, speeding down the highway to some unknown destination, the wind blowing around us, I gripped Big Daddy's waist and lay my head on his back. I wondered if he was smiling behind his mirrored glasses.

END OF PART I

Comments are welcomed, but keep the flames.

 

Siktici

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