My son, My trade

The following is a work of fiction depicting graphic scenes of sexual encounters between consenting individuals which is meant to be enjoyed by a mature audience.

Buck Hauser was a big bear of a man. Years toiling as a steel worker had made him beefy and strong. He started right out of high school, at eighteen, part of the team constructing steel frames and supports, positioning girders, wiring and welding for any number of large infrastructures. Never had an incident in sixteen years until the last one, a bridge. The foreman was on a strict time table and not adhering as closely to safety protocol as expected when the accident happened. Something, Buck still wasn't exactly sure what, came loose and he and two other men were sent hurtling off the structure, dropping forty feet into the muddy waters below. Sam Belford snapped his neck and died instantly. Lance Majors, one good-looking sonofabitch with more pussy than any man should be allowed, broke both legs and one arm. Buck suffered a spinal injury.

Along with Sam's widow, they sued and won. While every doctor the company's lawyers sent him to attested to the fact that Buck suffered a fracture to his vertebrae, he wasn't really all that bad off. Sure, there was some pain. But Buck played it up. X-rays couldn't reveal the true depth of his discomfort. Or lack thereof. He underwent treatment, wore a back brace for show and followed the instructions of his shark lawyer to the letter. The result was a declaration of permanent disability and a nice settlement. Not as nice as it originally sounded after the legal eagle took his piece. But still nice.

Greta, his wife, was a cheating whore. Had been from the day of their wedding when he caught her and his best man going at it in the back of the limo parked outside the reception hall. There she was on hands and knees with her pure-white wedding dress hiked up, garter belt still in place over one shapely thigh and her big tits spilling out of the neckline while Ralphie-boy speared her. He watched for a while, shrugged an 'oh-well-what-the-fuck', and joined them. Nine months later Greta gave birth to a cute baby boy. At the time he wondered whose load had been predominant. His, Ralphie's or any of the other men she'd fucked immediately before and after. As the kid, Marcus, matured he looked the image of Buck's brother. That seemed to settle things for Buck. Unless she'd been fucking his brother, as well.

Marc was just starting grade school when Greta took off with a businessman in town on convention. From what Buck later learned his unfaithful wife, a server at the banquet hall, had been the focal entertainment at the conference. Good riddance to used rubbish, he decided, divorced her tramp ass and was awarded uncontested custody of their son. He prided himself on the fact that he'd never beaten fuck out of her, as he probably should have. And wanted to. But Buck knew his strength and feared he might have killed her. Bitch wasn't worth a prison sentence. And there was young Marcus to think about.

Buck didn't know much about raising a child but he did the best he could, with more than a little help from his folks. Marc was a good kid. Outgoing and popular. Had a nice group of friends. Wasn't overly athletic but enthusiastically participated in all sports. Excelled at b-ball. Long and lean with a bit of teenage musculature as he matured. Kept to himself a bit. When at home he was behind the locked door of his room a lot. Buck was amused remembering his teenage years up in the room he shared with his younger brother, the both of them beating their meat every chance they got. Sometimes they even beat each other off. Nothing wrong in that. Those times Marc brought home a buddy to hang out with Buck wouldn't have been surprised to learn they were queuing up porn on one of his gadgets and doing the same. Boys will be boys.

Marc was seventeen now and a good looking boy. If he was anything like his father at that age he was getting lots of high school cooze. Buck was a looker back in the day. Still was a fine hunk of manhood at thirty-six. Truth of the matter was while he had vilified Greta for her philandering he'd been doing the same. Could never turn down pussy. With sexually promiscuous parents like his Marc just had to be getting laid regularly. The apple couldn't fall that damned far from the tree.

It was late spring when Buck got his answer. He was working at the corner bar down the street in their rather ordinary town. It was an old burg which had originally been reliant, and to some degree still was, on the factories down by the waterfront. For the most part the houses were built long ago, two-to-three story narrow, drafty structures so close one could shake hands with their neighbor through side windows. Ralph's Place, yup, the same Ralph who'd fucked his bride on the wedding day, was basically a neighborhood shithole which served beer, shots and not much else. You weren't going to be served a frou-frou cocktail with little umbrellas and cherries in Ralph's. The joint opened at seven a.m., catering to those overnight factory workers just finishing their shift and wanting to unwind before heading home, and closed when the sidewalks were pulled up at ten in this sleepy industrial town.

Although technically disabled Buck had earlier made the mistake of taking an under-the-table job with a construction crew to supplement his settlement. What he didn't count on was the insurance investigator periodically following his moves. Only through the fancy footwork of his attorney did he get through that one only partially unscathed. The other side sought to cancel his payments; they settled on half. The legal eagle left him with a stern warning to avoid employment in his former field lest he next lose the settlement entirely. Taking such a big hit, Buck needed something to supplement so he took on a less strenuous part-timer at his buddy's blue-collar bar.

Buck was working the seven-to-two when he got his first whiff of something shady going on. It was a seasonably comfortable day so the door was propped open to let in fresh air and cigarette smoke out. There were only a handful of regulars seated at the bar, local old-timers with not much else to do but down a few and shoot the shit. After three, maybe four, when the business day shift let out the place would pick up. Since he had open availability Buck's shifts ran on a rotating basis; sometimes he opened, sometimes he closed. Today his relief was Axel, a multi-tattooed big-bellied biker who lived a few blocks over. All knew when Axel was coming by the roar of his hog which could be heard from a mile away.

Buck usually stationed himself at the far end of the bar when not waiting on a customer. The angle of the television mounted high up in the front corner was better there. It was generally locked in to some sports channel. He also was afforded a view of his house a distance down the intersecting side street. School was out for the season and he noticed Marc's road bike secured to the front stair railing. Earlier the kid had been out, probably down at the park shooting hoops with his buddies.

Clyde Clemmons signaled for another one. Buck hoisted himself out of his stool to draw a Miller for the man. Clyde was well past fifty, probably pushing sixty. As sure as the sun came up in the morning you could count on Clyde wasting his day sipping a beer and chewing on his cigar at Ralph's. His wife passed away near to a year ago. Cancer. Pancreatic. Clyde's big regret about it all was the lack of handy pussy. Near everyone at Ralph's knew Clyde hadn't been getting anything long before Martha took ill and, unless he paid for it, probably never would again. But in Clyde's mind he was still a stud and raring to fuck. It seemed to Buck that he had enough trouble prying himself off the bar stool to hit the john let alone roll around in the sheets.

Returning to the friendly card game he was engaged in with Bobby Bonerz (yeah, that really was his last name) down at the other end of the bar Buck was contemplating his next card when movement over at the house distracted him.

The door to the front porch was opening but, instead of Marc or one of his friends, out stepped Clayton Hoyt, local postal carrier. What in fuck was Clayt doing inside his house? And why was he tucking in his uniform shirttails and looking around nervously as he dismounted the chipped brick steps?

Just then the thunder of tail pipe roared in front of the old bar and, a few seconds later, Axel bounded through the doorway. Axel sported a full beard and mustache which appeared as though it might be hiding something within and long but thinning slightly graying hair tied back in a hasty pony. He had the stereotypical biker's gut but the rest of him, encased in worn jeans, wrinkled t-shirt and leather vest, was strong and stocky for a guy only a few years shy of fifty. Aside from all the tattoos and facial hair Axel truly was a handsome enough guy. Those piercing midnight-blue eyes of his got the ladies every time.

Soon as Axel took his place behind the bar Buck begged off from the game with Bobby, snatched up his tip money, bid adieu to the others and headed home. Way down on the next block he observed the mail truck pull out of its parking slot, head further down Arthur Ave. and then turn onto Sycamore. With bushy brows furrowed Buck mounted the crumbling stairs, stepped through the unlocked front door and into his house.

The vestibule opened onto a long, dimly lit hallway. To the right an old, creaky stairway hugged the wall, leading up to the bedrooms. Opening from a doorway to the left was a large room sectioned off into two---living and dining---by mismatched furniture. A sofa, love-seat and overstuffed chair were positioned so as to square off the back of the room. They were all covered with multiple quilts, presumably to disguise the fraying material and faced the television. The frontal portion had once been conceived as a dining room, as evidenced by the long and nicked table and chairs, now covered with an assortment of clutter. A presumably vintage stereo cabinet, popular in the 60s, was up against the front wall under a bank of windows covered with yellowed pull-down shades and dusty curtains. Along with a mattress and box spring, an assortment of boxes were piled up along both paneled dark mahogany walls, most of them containing the possessions of the departed Greta.

Buck was not a housekeeper, as evidenced by the overflowing ash trays and bags of crushed beer and soda cans. A mop hadn't gone over these floors since long before Greta took a powder. Didn't stop his buddies from coming over once a week and playing cards. Hence, the cigarettes and ale. Most of the shabby furniture in the place dated back to his grandparents, who had passed the family home down to Buck's dad, then Buck's dad to him.

The hallway opened up onto the kitchen area which was kept in a much more tidy and sanitary state. To the sides of the door leading out to a porch and small backyard area was a fully functional bathroom to the right and washroom to the left. Buck had begun a remodeling project a few years back and the walls of the bath were still bare sheetrock. One day he would get to it.

As he entered his home he stepped into the dimly lit living/dining area and noticed the new mail atop the junk circulars which had been piling up for weeks. What in hell was wrong with the letter box to the right side of the front door that Clayt had to come inside to leave the mail? Buck leafed through the envelopes and, finding nothing of importance, moved on down the hall where he detected the sound of running water. Marc was in the shower. Perhaps he missed it, but maybe there was a package delivery. Clayt might not have wanted to just leave it on the porch and had knocked but, with Marc being otherwise occupied, the boy had not heard. So Clayt, knowing full well most in this sleepy town didn't bother with locks, left the bundle inside. Yeah, that must have been it.

But why wouldn't be just have left it in the vestibule? Why traverse into the house, down the hall and into the side room? Back tracking, Buck looked for a parcel and found none. Scratching the back of his head Buck returned to the kitchen, drew a beer from the fridge and contemplated the curious happening.

Marc was in the shower quite a while. Buck chuckled, thinking how he'd used the shower to cover his masturbatory needs when he was the boy's age. No wonder the kid hadn't heard Clayt. He had visions of big firm tits and juicy pussy to contend with. Buck wondered again if his boy had gotten himself a piece yet. Cripes, in teen years no amount of pussy or jerking off was ever enough!

The water went off and Buck could hear the boy milling around in the bath. Buck was leaning against the counter draining his beer when Marc finally stepped out. He was ruffling his wet, medium length hair with a towel and didn't see his father standing there at first. His totally nude, lush, smooth and toned teen body was exposed to his father's eyes. Buck couldn't help taking inventory. His boy was the stuff young girl's dreams were made of. He was slim and fit with nary an ounce of body fat on him, but not at all skinny. Looked more like those young men one saw on swimming competitions, all broad shouldered and tight waisted with barely a hair on their smooth skin. Arms and legs were nicely toned, hips were lean, chest was showing slight swell of developing pecs capped by dark little nubs which now stood out fully erect. And his cock was the stuff to make the Hauser name proud, a perfect piece of meat hanging down at a good five inches or so.

"HOLY SHIT! DAD!" the kid exclaimed when he saw his father standing there and quickly thrust the towel down to cover his groin.

Alarmed when he realized he was throwing a boner Buck shoved his hands into his pockets to camouflage his state of arousal. Cripes, he was getting hard looking at his own son! Chuckling nervously, he said, "No need to be shy, boy. We're both guys here."

"Wh-when did you get home? I thought you were working to 3."

"Two today," Buck corrected. "What've you been up to?"

Marc nervously stood there with tiny beads of water gliding down over his smooth, youthful frame. "Just hangin' with my boys." Then, "Well, I better get upstairs and dress." With a sidelong glance at his father and, still holding the towel in front of him, he darted past Buck and down the hallway. Buck turned to watch his retreat, getting an eye full of high and tight butt cheeks flexing as he hastily departed. An odd sensation overwhelmed the big man and he suddenly realized he was fervently groping his crotch. What the fuck was wrong with him, getting horned up over the nude, perfect body of his own son? He didn't realize until later that he'd failed to question Marc about the intruding postman.

Marc bounded up the stairs, locked the door to his room behind him and, throwing himself back across the rumpled sheets of the unmade bed, tossed the towel to a corner. His teen cock was fully erect, arced out toward him at seven lusty inches. His father had been checking him out! His big, strong father! He wasn't exactly sure but he thought he detected a rise in Buck's crotch! Wrapping both hands around his meat he stroked it while grinding his little ass into the mattress still warm from the body of Clayton Hoyt. Clayt was always a good fuck but it wasn't the horny postal carrier he was thinking about now. Instead he was visualizing the hard, hairy cock of his own father plowing his always hungry asshole.

Exposure had been close. Marc thought sure Dad was working the seven to three. Good thing Clayt was so horned up he came prematurely. Still flogging his dick the boy raised his toned legs, reached between the juncture and fingered his tight hole. Oh yeah, he could feel Clayt's warm load still inside him. As he dug around inside his head fell back on the pillow and his eyes dreamily rolled up in their sockets. Damn, if he wasn't always so horny! Had been this way since he was about thirteen. He had sampled girl pussy, but nothing did it like a cock down his throat or up his ass. Better yet, both at the same time.

Withdrawing his working digits he saw that, no matter how much he'd cleaned up in the shower, Clayton's load still marinated inside him. Clayton came a lot. A real lot. First time he sucked him off in the USPS van he'd choked on Clayton's load. Poor doofy guy had a wife who put out maybe, if he was lucky, once a month leaving Clayt with a serious case of blue balls. Clayt had been nearly speechless the first time Marc came on to him. None of them ever expected a wholesome young man like Marc to be a cock worshipper. But Clayton hadn't had anything in quite a while and Marc knew just what to do and say to entice him into taking the plunge. Clayton may have looked like a goober from Mayberry but he had a nice, big cock. And Marc was a teen who enjoyed a challenge.

First sniffing the load glistening on his fingers Marc brought it to his lips and slowly, methodically licked it off. He moaned appreciatively as his tongue carefully lathed each digit, careful not to miss the webbing in between. He loved the taste of cum. Straight from the spigot was great, but recycled was even better. Never at a loss for a fix, Marc had learned to flip his legs up over his head and beat off into his mouth. Never the day went by that the talented teen wasn't enjoying his favorite protein, whether supplied by himself or a donor.

Marc squirmed on the sheets with his teen cock steely hard. He had thought his desire had been satiated by Clayton. But the encounter with his father had aroused him all over again. As he stroked his cock he entertained a salacious daydream. In it Clayton was still there in his bedroom in push-up position atop him. The mail carrier's official shirt was completely unbuttoned and hanging loose over his white T, which covered his puny, sunken chest. His less than impressive physique didn't matter much to Marc; the man was all cock. Clayt's tan shorts were down around his ankles as he thrust the best of him in and out of Marc's clutching pussy. Marc couldn't figure what in hell was wrong with Clayt's wife because that big ole cock of his was hitting his zone each time and causing Marc's toes to curl. Turn off the lights and Clayton Hoyt was a real stud!

Marc's pretty pink lips parted in a sigh as Clayton's ravishing rod ventured way up into his guts. Clayt's sweaty, low-hanging balls smacked up against him with each breathtaking plunge. Marc could feel the horse-like head as it traversed his grasping channel, spreading his insides and breaking barriers. His once tiny asshole was stretched outrageously around the formidable member, the lips futilely attempting to cling to its heated girth. Clayton was relentless, sinking that big cock into him again and again, making him feel every fucking inch of it. Marc was in bottom boy heaven, crying out to him, "Fuck me, Clayt! Fuck me harder! Harder!"

Suddenly a heavy piece of meat was whipped across his face. It was a fat, weighty, dark-hued and hairy chunk of man-meat. Its owner's big, hairy-palmed hand pressed down and smooshed it all over his cute, smooth skinned features. Marc inhaled the pungent, intoxicating aroma of he-man. He attempted to wrap his lips around it but the stud stepped forward and deposited his hairy, wrinkled nutsac over Marc's mouth. Hugely aroused by the musky smell emanating from the heavy sac Marc slovenly slurped on the bloated nuts. The big man was grunting deep and low in his throat as Marc worshipped his manly nuts.

While he salivated over those tasty nads Marc was staring up between the full mounds of a strong, masculine ass. The solid cheeks were coated with fine delicate, dark hair which grew proportionally thicker along his greasy ass crack. Marc whimpered as he eyed the dark, knotted bung hole buried in that wooly thicket. As if reading his thoughts the unidentified stud shifted forward again, reached back with thick wristed, heavy tendoned hands, spread his cakes and planted himself square on Marc's wholesome, unblemished face. He rubbed his ass back and forth from the bridge of the boy's nose to his cute little chin as Marc swiped his tongue along the length of the oily, hairy ass crack. Marc hooked his arms up along the outsides of the stud's massive, hairy thighs to settle him down and then was able to work his tongue into the hot, musky hole. Marc's mouth was watering from tasting this this manly man's muscular butt. He drove deep, swirling his licker around inside and really excavating the delicious hole.

"Taste good, you little whore?" came a deep, sonorous voice. "Eat that fuckin' ass, boy. Eat it out good!"

Marc choked. He knew that voice. He'd heard it for every day of his life. HE WAS EATING OUT HIS FATHER'S ASS!!!

Clayton's more-than-a-foot-long mutation repeatedly pummeled his young, tender asshole but Marc was suddenly more captivated by the man perked on his mug. With the realization that it was his big, hairy and hunky father Marc really went to town on the man, shoving his tongue up that tight hole, licking his insides, chewing on the tender lips and eating him out with a bestial desire. Dad rocked on his face, mashing his butt down against Marc as if attempting to swallow his head whole. Drool seeped from Marc's mouth and he moaned with adolescent delight as he worshipped his father's ripe, ravenous hole. They hadn't kissed much. Maybe as a child Dad has given him a peck on the forehead every now and then. But now he was kissing his father in the most erotic of manner, the way every horny son should, lips pressed against his quivering ass ring, sloppily sucking the entire warm, tasty mouth and frenching him deliciously deep.

All at once Buck was kneeling behind him, Marc's head between the spread of his hairy, muscular thighs. Buck grabbed a fistful of Marc's short nut-brown hair, yanked his head back and shoved his heavy man-meat into his gaping mouth. The fat, bulbous head glided across the roof of his mouth, struck the back of his throat and drove inside. Marc took it like a champ, impressing his Dad. Heck, he'd taken, well, almost all of Clayton's monstrosity down his gullet. And there were those black drug dealers who hung out down by the railroad station on the other side of the town, nearly every one of them almost as huge as Clayt.

Marc accommodated every bit of his macho father's hefty prick, shuddering with excitement as it throbbed against the warmth of his tongue. Buck showed no mercy merely because the suck hole was his son's. He hammered into Marc's face as if the boy was some two-bit street whore. Marc used everything he had to further entice Buck. His tongue lapped at the heavily tendoned underbelly of the ravaging cock. His lips spread wide, sliding along its full, thickly veined surface. His cheeks hollowed for pleasurable suction and his throat reverberated along the pistoning length. Marc calculated a good nine solid inches from ultra-hairy root to swollen head.

Obviously trigged by the sight of father cock-handling his son, Clayton was fucking Marc good and hard. Those twelve, thirteen, fourteen, however many it was, inches, kept pounding away so far up in his pussy he thought the two cocks might meet. (It was, after all, his fantasy.) Marc wasn't one to just lay there and enjoy the efforts of others. As roughly as Clayt was impaling him he managed to work his ass muscles around the mammoth cock. His teen meat throbbed with each gut-wrenching thrust and was leaking a strong, steady stream of fuck lube.

Buck yanked free of Marc's greedy jaws and with a gruff, gravelly voice commanded, "Out of the way, Postman. It's Daddy's turn." Marc was giddy with anticipation as the two men traded places. Standing, Buck's large hands grabbed his son under the thighs and roughly dragged him to the edge of the bed. Clayton moved himself up behind the teen's head ready to feed him more than a mouthful but Marc, anxious to observe the pivotal moment, held him back. His stretched boy hole was gaping, a lurid ass mouth steadily pulsating with expectation. Buck's dark eyes sparkled with fuck lust as he ogled his son's pussy. Licking his plump lips he took himself in hand and effortlessly sunk his daddy dick into his son's moist asshole.

Marc sighed and broke out in gooseflesh as the big, beautiful meat filled him. His insides quickly formed around it, swallowing it up and holding the cock in its sensitive embrace. Buck's grizzly square jaw was set determinedly. With one hand pressing on Marc's throat he pulled his cock entirely out and then forcefully shoved it back in. Marc grunted, his eyes locked with the glaring orbs of his bestial father as Buck fucked him with a fury. Marc worked his battered ass muscles as best he could on the ram-charger and thrust back to meet each powerful thrust.

Left out of the action too long Clayt took hold of Marc by the sides of his face, angled his head back and impaled the teen's mouth with his outrageously sized log. Unlike that first time in the postal van when he'd choked, gagged and sputtered on the huge cock Marc had little trouble taking it down his throat. He ate the cock, swallowing inch after inch until he was nibbling on the root and the dweeb's matted pubes were tickling his chin. With his hand pressed on Marc's esophagus Buck could feel the other man's big cock lodged in his boy's throat. When Clayt began moving his hips and fucking that monster in and out Buck, even more aroused, began really battering his son's hot hole.

Both men went at the boy like savages. Buck pounded his hot, wet pussy and Clayton raped his overly stuffed mouth. Nine inches soared through his clutching boy pussy while an impossible fourteen tested the limits of his throat. Marc admirably took it all, just the good little cock whore he was. His moans and groans may have sounded like protests, but he was loving every moment of his ravaging.

As Marc entertained this forbidden fantasy he was writhing in his sheets and beating hell out of his nice teen dick. Three fingers were crammed up his asshole, driving in and out, twisting around and attempting to engulf the entire hand. In the heat of passion he forgot himself and heavily breathed, "Fuck me, Buck. Fuck me with your big daddy dick."

Meanwhile, with curiosity over the postman's presence in the house and Marc's timely afternoon shower getting the better of him, Buck had quietly treaded up the creaky staircase, careful to avoid the telltale boards. Standing in the dark hall outside the boy's door he listened. It was fairly obvious what his son was doing in the locked room. Although replaced by alternate locks and no longer used, the old doors in the house still had the original skeleton key holes. Squatting, Buck peered through the opening. His vision was obstructed by a wad of cotton the boy must have placed there. Thinking quickly he extracted a pocket knife he always kept at hand and carefully worked on the blockage. It was easy going. Without a sound he managed to catch an edge of the fiber and used his beefy fingers to pull it free. He pressed his eye to the aperture. With Marc's bed placed directly across the way he had an unobstructed view of his son in the throes of masturbatory delight.

Damn, his boy was a fine specimen of teen spirit! And with a cock to do the Hauser name good! Buck knew he shouldn't, but he was rooted to the spot. The kid's fist was sailing up and down his hose and his fingers were ramming in and out of his tight, smooth asshole. With his heart pounding in his chest Buck unzipped, hauled out his raging hard on and fisted his meat while he watched.

Buck's shadowed jaw dropped when the boy became vocal. Did he really hear Marc shout out his name? When the kid followed with the mention of "daddy dick" Buck was certain his son was beating off to the fantasy of being fucked by HIM! His big dick, even more formidable than in Marc's imaginings, pulsed maddeningly and leaked excited cock drool onto the wooden floor.

Marc was squirming in his bed. He dug his bare heels into the mattress, pressed the back of his head deep into the pillows and tossed it from side to side while chewing on his bottom lip, thrust his crotch upward and ground his cute little ass against his working fist. Breathlessly watching, Buck thought certain his contortions would force the entire thing inside. Young Marc was moaning like a bitch in heat while he stroked his handsome cock. His hand moved up and down, faster and faster over the glistening surface of his teen cock. Even from a distance Buck could see the slit leaking a continuous flow of youthful pre-cum. The kid had a lot of it.

"Fuck, yeah," the teen moaned almost painfully. "Big daddy cock pounding my little pussy...feels so good...fuck your boy...two big cocks...fuck my face, Clayt...oooh, yeah."

Buck's face darkened and his eyes widened. Clayt? Clayton-fuckin'-Hoyt? Realization suddenly crashed down on the stunned man. Clayton hadn't been there hand delivering the day's mail. And Marc's afternoon shower hadn't anything to do with a sweaty session on the basketball court. He was washing the scent of Clayton off him. Clayton Hoyt was fucking his son! Or, at least from Marc's whispered confession, making the boy blow him.

How had this happened? All these years Marc had never given any indication of being queer. He seemed just like every other well-adjusted high school boy. And Clayton Hoyt, that gangly sonofabitch? Old man Hoyt and Buck's father were drinking buddies back in the day. Clayt was a couple years behind Buck in school. All the guys Buck hung with taunted Clayt because he was so damned dorky. Clayton, the dumbass, took it all in stride. He ended up marrying Louise Baiker, who was actually even homelier than Clayton. It was a good thing they'd never had kids because that would have been one sorry child. That Clayton Hoyt was molesting his son!

Peering lecherously through the keyhole, Buck had troubling images of his son and Hoyt. He could almost visualize scrawny Hoyt seated on Marc's nicely developed chest feeding him his man meat. He wondered how it all had started. Did Hoyt somehow overpower the boy? Buck couldn't see how that was possible. Clayton was thin as a reed, not much to him at all. Marc, on the other hand, was a young agile teen. Was it Marc who had initiated the sex? Buck couldn't believe that either. Marc was a good looking boy. He could get anything he wanted. Why the fuck would he settle for Clayton Hoyt?

And there was the question of why he, Buck, was so aroused by what he saw and heard coming out of his son's bedroom. He hadn't been this horned up in years. What the fuck was wrong with him? He wasn't into dick. He was a healthy, heterosexual man. Got pussy any time he wanted. Fucked it and left it. But his good looking son, murmuring his name while he flogged his stunning beefstick, stirred something heretofore unknown to him. The more he watched, the faster he stroked, he almost wanted to knock down that door, burst into the room, slam his steely meat into the ready pussy and fuck him full of family seed.

Marc was getting close. Buck could tell by the twitching of his thighs, shuddering of his body and the heavy, labored breathing coming from the other side of the door. When the boy came it was like a geyser shooting skyward, massive ropes of thick cum ripping out of his peehole, suspended midway in air before splattering down on his heaving frame. His swollen nuts seemed to have an endless supply of the stuff. He kept coming and coming.

Sweating profusely, Buck rose from his crouch and stood facing the door beating his meat. Throwing his head back he fought to stifle the ensuing moan as he reached the boiling point. The first blast practically pounded against the center panel of the door, followed by another. Then another. Buck's entire frame quivered with the ferocity of his ejaculation. Thick streams of spunk lazily dripped down the dark wood as Buck shook off the final glistening drops from the spout.

Unable to resist another peek he hunkered down again at the peep hole and was rewarded with the sight of his son casually scooping up finger's full of spent cum, bringing it to his sweet lips and hungrily devouring it. If the kid had mentioned his name as he ate Buck was certain he would not have been able to restrain himself. He would show him what a real man's load tasted like.

He might not have been as young as Marc, but Buck was always ready for a second round.