Round-About: A Satire

For Mark, Andrew, Jackson & Beauregard who are known to have "funny-bones"

In the moment of ecstasy, his eyes flash open and find mine. The urgency behind them pours into me, pulling from me an orgasm long, powerful, satiating. We collapse, the glint in his eyes shuttered by downed lids.

I shake sweat from my brow. Back off. Hear him thank me. Pull on my cleanest jeans, athletic socks, and Nike Flex Runners. Arm my way into yesterday’s Adidas tee. Sniff.Body odor free.

On my way to the kitchen, I remind rather loudly, “Dad, you better get up or you’ll be late again to the brokerage.”

“Oh, all right.”

Coffee beginning to brew, I munch buttered toast with marmalade and glance at a glaring headline. SENATE PASSES RIGHTS-TO-BOYCOCK BILL 62-38. I would read more than the article’s opening line – “Boycock on-demand is now the law of the land.” – but not while Dad’s gearing up for the office.

“You laid into me real well this morning, son,” he compliments as two eggs meet our frying pan and begin to sizzle.

“You know you’re welcome, Dad. You’re always appreciative. I could fuck you even better if your legs could be held a little higher.”

“Working on that. Lunch-hour exercise class starts today followed by a healthy salad. Is that coffee for me?”

He breakfasts quickly. I know why. My load’s griping him. I ask, “Having trouble holding it?”

“I’ll get the hang of it. You say Terrence’s dad can take his load to his workplace before relieving himself?"

“So Terrence claims. May be true. Terrence says that’s because he seeds Mr. Haulover’s inner sphincter and that clamps down to preserve the deposit.”

“Terrence’s boycock is that long?”

“It’s the talk of our school.”

* * * *

“I don’t like it.”

“Me neither.”

“It’s an abomination. Washington thinks men need that law. That…that they’re entitled.”

“Those senators, like certain dads these days, must’ve suffered damage growing up. Like, their butts were neglected. Warped their personalities. They’re so needy now.”

“What do the senators think we’re made of? I mean, I drill my Dad every evening just like you do yours every morning, Ellis. You bear the Land family name proudly.”

“Yes Clint, I try to. Dad always is grateful. I love him. Guess what? He’s starting exercise classes today so he can hike his legs up more. Anyway, you do the same for the Westwood name.”

“I’m dutiful, like you.

“What about Terrence?”

“Let’s ask him. Look, he’s over there, showing himself to Lloyd’s dad.”

We muster our courage and head for what’s sure to turn out unpleasant.

“Mr. Roberts, Terrence, what’s going on? Where’s Lloyd?”

Eyebrows knit, Mr. Roberts tells us, “Lloyd didn’t take his flu shot. Now the flu’s glommed him. His Mom’s tending to him, however.”

“And, not that it’s any business of yours, Mr. Roberts is offering to pay me to take over his seeding. So there.”

Spite’s always in Terrence’s cock-superior voice. A chip on his shoulder, too? Such a turd.

We are flummoxed.

I’m torn. Shall I tell the man about the Senate’s action? I think I will. Why should he spend money hiring snotty Terrence to provide what he can now legally get for free?

I clear my throat, produce the newspaper, point to it, and watch those two read it.

Mr. Roberts beams. Looks at us. “Clint, you and Ellis have done me a favor. Here, take the money I was going to pay Terrence. Divide it between yourselves.”

His demeanor changes. Voice drops. “As for you, Terrence, we’re going in those bushes this instant. I want a seeding from you – now. The one you were offering. Your classmates will witness.”

Except in one area, Terrence is our size. We three are about the same height, virtually the same weight, and have the same body type. I’m more tanned than they are. Our hardness is the same. Lengths not so. We’ve known since itchy wrists and palms at age 12 led us into hands-play and the smartass’s claim of superiority. No matter now. The two of us will not let him make excuses. We take his arms and follow Mr. Roberts whose clothes were coming off fast.

Bingo! Legs up, his back on a mossy bed, Lloyd’s dad waited. An illusion or…? Yes! – his pucker is pulsing. For real.

My mind sometimes spins on pinwheels of imagination. Apologies, I’m drifting…

Defiant, Terrence protests our denuding him. His cock dangles not as far as his balls.

“A grow-er not a show-er,” Clint quips.

“Hey, do him,” I snap. We want to see you in action.”

His lower lip pouts.

“Please, I’d love a shafting from you,” begs Mr. Roberts.

“No.”

“Ellis, I don’t think our boaster here can get it up. Why don’t you, you know…?”

Clint’s earnestness convinces me. My clothes join the others. “Okay, Mr. Roberts?”

“Fuck me.”

“Well, if it’s an order under the new Senate law, I guess I have no choice.”

“Goddammit, fuck my daddy ass, boy!”

“Ooh, you’re so forceful. I’m up – see! Here goes.”

A few minutes later, having cum, it appears I haven’t been enough. I lift Mr. Roberts’ chin to meet my eyes. Stay that way, connected, the way I do with dear ol’ Dad. Grateful hands travel to my back. Imagination thinks he wants to kiss me. I lean closer. Instead, his chin hooks my shoulder. He says, “It’s your turn, Clint.”

I muster courage to stand and take over Terrence’s arm. “Dumbass, you should be following the new rules. The rules of law. That’s good dad-ass.”

He only smirks. Stubborn as a mule.

Clint’s clothes top my finery. The pile grows higher.

He jockeys between the Roberts legs, finds his way in using my leavings, and rides the man to a fair the well, as Granny used to say. Fine sight. Great cleavage, shows his own purplish dot with every uplift. Clint’s butt will one day charge up his first son’s cock.

Energy so enthusiastically spent clearly means a lot to Mr. Roberts. He goes “huh-huh-huh,” then “oh-oh-oh,” before “yes, yes, yes.” Clint bubbles a lot into Mr. Roberts calling “oh-yes-oh-yes-oh-YES!” He then stands, proud of himself. I note Clint’s grown a little since last time we jerked off together. Sweats about as much as I do.

Terrence remains where we have him, stupidly inept. Limp. We figure he’s impotent if not in charge of a fuck. Naturally, we laugh and ridicule.

Smart, I put together this-and-that from my gray matter – and remember the matter of prostates. When palpated…

“Don’t worry, Mr. Roberts. Terrence here’s about to rise to the occasion.”

Behind the goon’s back I signal Clint to lick his middle finger. At the same time, I shove Terrence to his knees and say, “Get in there!”

I lick my middle finger. Together, Clint and I finger-fornicate with Terrence’s virgin spot. I penetrate. Clint penetrates. I find the nut button. He finds it. We take turns massaging it and – voila! – Terrence turns red with embarrassment, his cock inches outward.

He doesn’t want to fuck Mr. Roberts at our instigation (the law’s, really) but he is forced to, because two fingers in his ass dick-tate that he drive forward.

Soon, “I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum!” Terrence clamors.

“Oh no, you’re not!” I yell at him. Grapple with free fingers to cinch his balls. Give those baby-makers a squeeze. The jerk has to consider that two fingers are plying his butt while his testes are under a riled schoolmate’s testy control, and that he has no place to go but into and out of Mr. Roberts.

My next brightest idea is for us to get out of Terrence. At a nod of my head, we do. I release his balls. He fucks, not quite as decisively. “You need encouragement,” I say, hoping to fuck with his head. Yeaahhh.

I start smacking his butt when he pulls back. Clint joins in. Together, we smack as we chant in rhythm, “Fuck him! Fuck him! Fuck him!” When I see Mr. Roberts’ toes curling, I tickle Terrence’s balls. Flips his orgasm switch.

A blast, let me tell you. Several in diminishing intensity. Would have been lights out for Terrence except for the arrival of his father. In a dither, Mr. Haulover doesn’t notice Clint and me as we hide in the bushes. He sees his spanked-rosy-ass son languishing in fuck position over Mr. Roberts.

“Terrence! I’ve been looking all over for you.” He growls a quote from some old writer, “Rouse yourself from that posture of torpor.”

“Dad, I’m worn out.”

“Like hell you are. I’ve seen the paper. You’re mine. Get in the car. You won’t be needing your clothes.”

“I was just following orders. Mr. Roberts told me I had to fuck him.”

“And so you have. Get up, and be quick about it. Word gets around that any man can command a fuck from you, your big dick will be turned to mincemeat. I’m taking you home, you dunce, for your own protection. That dick belongs in my ass when I want it.”

“But Dad…”

Terrence dodged the swing of his father’s palm to his face but received a resounding swat on his flabby dick.

Mr. Roberts, gathering himself to stand, tapped retreating Mr. Haulover’s shoulder. A wry smile brightened his face. “There’s been a discovery here. That boy of yours can do more than he lets on if he’s spanked, his ass is fingered, and his balls pulled. Gave me a great load, man, way up inside.”

“Damnation, that’s news to me.”

To Mr. Roberts’ sage expression, Clint and I nearly give ourselves away in amusement at naked Terrence being whisked away.

“You boys have been very nice,” we are told. “Now run along home to your Dads. Let them know you did this man a good turn each. They’ll go easy on you.”

We laugh. Grab our duds and Terrence’s, too.

From my house, Clint calls his Dad, who comes over from work, arriving almost when mine drives up. Surprised, they shake hands.

After we clear the air about the day’s events, they happily receive – our idea – a fuck in tandem from us. Clint and I sweat from our joyful exertions. We accept kisses from your grateful Dads after sending their asses into orbit.

Dad wipes up himself and Mr. Land. Mr. Roberts is given a call and the three men strike a deal.

More than a week passes before Lloyd Roberts is well and back in loving action. He, Clint, and I serve dick to our Dads as we had before the legislation and Lloyd’s bout with flu. No need to be told to. Our attachments are stronger than ever. We socialize together.

The six of us eat shrimp and crayfish in Alfredo sauce at the Olive Garden. We mull over what’s happened and talk openly about the sex we have. Salty, buttery breadsticks fit our mouths, so jokes are made about oral sex and our dicks’ sizes, how mouths have sphincter muscles and could accommodate dicks if someone were queer.

Mr. Roberts quiets down our uproar. He has a confession to make.

“Ever since you, Ellis, and Clint fucked me then forced Terrence to, my ass has wanted what Mr. Haulover doubtless enjoys every day – greater length than my devoted Lloyd can provide.”

Right in front of the Olive Garden’s clientele, he smooches Lloyd. Nobody takes notice.

“I have a dildo that long. Lloyd uses it in me each time after he cums. Does a number in me. The effect’s soothing – to know his cum’s way inside so I can hold it for a satisfying while…like a good Dad.”

“It’s fun for me,” Lloyd adds, “to love Dad so he’s really happy with me.”

We Lands and Westwoods accept the Roberts’s story and make small talk until the meal is over and we get ready to part, friends as always. But we are thinking. About dildos.

Once at home, I ask Dad whether he’s horny. He is. Yay! My cock’s going crazy.

Street clothes hung in the closet with care, Dad disposes himself face down and tells me, “Do your best.”

I dart in, bang away, drop my load, recharge, poke around, go for broke, drop a other load, claim weakness, stall for minutes, pole up real hard, climb aboard, let loose wildly, yowl like a cowboy who wins a rodeo, and head for the shower. I always sweat a lot. My thought: It’s been a good day.

Back in the bedroom where Dad has remained, he says in his most seductive voice, “Ellis, Mr. Roberts gave me one of these.” He reaches to the floor and hands me a brand new dildo like the one we’ve heard about.” “He gave Mr. Westwood one, too.”

I can take a hint. Clint, too, at his place at this very minute, I guess.

No experience with dildos phases me not at all. I figure the trick is to make this one seem like the real thing. Unlike what I just did with Dad, my notion is to move it around just outside, like it doesn’t know where to go. Makes for some anxiety, to judge from Dad’s efforts to capture its head.

I let him have it – just the round bit at the end – and pop it out, to start over, probing here and yonder. Wish you could see his butt trying for it. He stops to catch a breath, so I feed him a couple of inches. He freezes in place, hoping for more. Me, I move my wrist in a circle, pull out the dildo, shove it in three or four inches, and wait.

“Son, have mercy.”

I don’t. Instead, a new idea forms. I flatten my palms and roll the thing between them, then push it another inch, rotate it between my palms again – until the hair on the back of Dad’s neck bristles and he gets shivers. That’s when I steer it further…and further. He dares say nothing. Doesn’t move. Good sign. I make necessary fucking moves to work my sperm throughout Dad’s gutter. Steady. Steady. Like clockwork.

At the deepest point, with just the dildo’s end standing out from Dad’s hole, I use both hands on his buttocks, wobbling them like so much jelly before bidding him good-night.

“Go to sleep. That better be there in the morning.”

I woke to breakfast smells – bacon and coffee especially. Found Dad with the dildo in his ass, held in place by his wearing a pair of my jockeys.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. Sit down. I’ll serve you.”

“Gladly. You’ve made enough for us both, so you sit, too.”

“Ulp, not sure I can. The, uh, dildo…”

“Dad, you know I mean it.”

The look on his face is priceless.

He pours the coffee and places our plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and brown toast on the table, braces his hands on the formica top, bends at the waist, feels the extended part of his dildo contact the chair, lowers himself ever so carefully, squirms…and – whew – sits totally down.

The look on his face is priceless again.

“See, I told you.” Smug but not willing to let on, I take my time, eating slowly to prolong my surveillance of Dad’s adjustment. “Bacon’s really crisp.”

My compliment makes him self-conscious.

During the clean-up, I watch him as I call Clint for a report.

“Westwood home,” his Dad answers.

“Hey, Mr. Westwood, it’s Ellis. How do you like your dildo?”

“Good morning, Ellis. It’s been an adventure. Want to hear about it from my son?

“No sir, I’d like you to tell me. Clint won’t mind.”

“It was wonderful how he took charge of my ass the moment he finished cumming in me last night – by slipping the dildo in before I knew what was happening. Just like that! The last couple of inches hurt, you know, the ‘right way,’ Clint said, but he made me take them. I hadn’t cum – until then! Amazed us both. You think he let me up then? No, he fucked the hell out of me with it, saying over and over, ‘This is yours, Dad.’ And beautiful words such as, ‘Take it, Dad.’ I love to hear him call me Dad, like that.”

“Was that all?”

“Not exactly. We slept together. I was dreaming about being fucked – but it wasn’t a dream. Clint was in me in the middle of the night, screwing his Dad. Got me again this morning. He was so happy, he cooked our oatmeal and brewed the coffee.”

Talk about being gobsmacked (a word I learned from some old British movie)!

“Ellis, hold a second. Clint’s hollering at me about something on the news. It’s on the networks. Better turn on your TV. Bye, for now.”

A press conference from the East Room of the White House. President Whippet, General Twiddly, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Consumer Affairs Chair Betty “Cupcake” Crackpot, and Senator Bumrush, author of the new legislation with important announcements for the nation.

Dad thinks to alert Mr. Roberts and Lloyd.

All eyes and ears, we pay attention.

The President doles a few generalities about the legislation before he speaks of the flood of approving calls and letters to the White House from dads in the forty-eight contiguous states and in Alaska, Hawaii and our territory Guam. “Overwhelming acclamation underlines this administration’s determination to provide for the needs of the dick-underserved dads in this great nation.”

Gen. Twiddly is specific. Our armed forces, in order to maintain the chain of command, are exempt from this legislation. However, each branch of the service is at work arranging leaves for as many dads as we can spare to keep our shores safe. Sons in service, too, when hard-luck cases at home merit.

Chairperson Crackpot and her team have prepared a, illustrated booklet of tips – suggestions, recommendations, directions, and step-by-step instructions – for dads. A special appendix lists sources for articles (including blue pills) to be used in assuring sonly compliance –her newly coined term. “This publication – your tax dollars at work – is to be distributed free to all registered voters.”

Senator Bumrush, blustery as a Foghorn Leghorn, brags on his foresight, touts his achievement, but cautions that, upon advice from the CIA, there may be trouble ahead. Extremist sects abroad are developing “weapons of mass fuckation” about which he, other leaders, the President, and the Joint Chiefs will be conferring around the clock. The public is to be wary.

President Whippet, who regrets having only daughters, closes the occasion by urging adherence to the rule of law. Sons throughout the land have a patriot’s duty to keep themselves physically fit for their Dads and to provide functionally upright dicks as required, “for the good of the country.”

America the Beautiful is played behind views of the White House, fleecy white clouds billowing and the stars and stripes waving in the breeze.

Within days, copies of the government’s booklet arrive at the Roberts, Westwood, and Land residences, addressed to our Dads. Together, we six pour over them. Most of the content is meaningless in our secretive context. What focuses us is the appendix.

Dildos, buttplugs, vibrators, inflatables, French ticklers, floggers for tits, balls, cocks, and bottoms, and restraints of every kind. It’s as we speculate about their possibilities that Lloyd raises his eyebrows and wonders aloud about how Mr. Haulover is faring with Terrence.

Abuzz for a time about that, we determine that a call is in order. I’m elected to make it.

Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, we’re invited to come over.

The Haulover dwelling is a two-story, half-timbered affair decidedly upper-income. Might account in part for Terrence’s superior air, I mean in addition to his dick.

Ding. Dong. Who should answer the doorbell but a bathrobed Mr. Haulover wearing a melting smile! He ushers us upstairs to the master bedroom.

Our mouths drop - one..after..another.

Terrence lies spread-eagled on his back with ties securing wrists and ankles to the far corners of the large bed. Nude. Asleep. Cock and balls lying where they ought to be and shiny from oil or cream.

Beside the bed, an I.V. pole. At the foot of the bed, what immediately is recognizable as a mechanical fucking device with a ribbed phallic rod pointed at Terrence. We take in an array of gizmos and gadgets, a few of which were not in the appendix we studied.

“He’s learning not to refuse, but to produce on demand.”

I was unruffled, “Explain, please.”

“Terrence is off solids. He’s fed a rich diet intravenously, along with certain medications that increase production of ejaculatory materiel and heighten the sensitivity of his prostate. When not resting as now, he’s kept in a state of sexual excitement. I ride him almost an hour in the morning, another in the afternoon, and longer in the evening – except when treating him to hypnotic videos that plant and reinforce ideas about responding with erections to my needs.”

“What about exercise?”

He points, “That apparatus is his treadmill. He trots and runs several miles a day, a remote-controlled plug in him that zaps with mild electric shocks when he falls below a pre-determined rate. As a result, his lungs are excellent and his legs and buttocks strong.”

Clint notices movement on the bed. “I think he’s waking up.”

Mr. Haulover opens a nearby, small refrigerator from which he takes, then opens a can of Gatorade. Freeing Terrence’s limbs and helping him to sit up, he says, “Here my love, drink this and say hello to your friends. They’re here to help you get back into action.”

We didn’t know that.

Terrence blinks at us, swallows deeply, stands, tests his legs (which indeed are muscular), looks me particularly in the eye, tightens his lips into a straight line, and says, “Let’s get to it, then, shall we?”

With a nimble vault, Mr. Haulover’s where Terrence was, only minus the robe and on his back with his heels ceilingward, butthole poised. Terrence’s voice is not warm (but it sounds resigned) as he hands each of us a different anal implement, “Since you’re here to help, use these in me.”

He dribbles spit and fondles himself, looking at the hole his long cock knows so well.

I take the lead, “Stay still.” I run a pink dildo up him from behind. “Now kneel to fuck your Dad.” My hand pushing, the dildo sinks home. I think to say, “You’re getting hard now, Terrence, the way you must.” I twist and thrust, sweep it out, grab a wider one from Clint, pry it in – noting its effect – and am impressed by the crooning, melodious sound from Mr. Haulover underneath.

“Oh my boy, fuck your Dad, fuck your Dad, fuck your…”

Lloyd, sporting a hard-on of his own, persuades me to change for a battery-powered dildo – a really thick, black one – with a rotating, studded collar just under its penis-shaped cap. Held by my steady hand just inside Terrence’s anus, the whir activates him increasingly. He gathers momentum, scoots back for more of it in him, then propels his now-rigid cock like a porn star.

When I tire, Clint takes my place, ramming a self-activated plug into Terrence. “Take that!”

Lloyd sneaks up, a paddle in his hand. He flicks Terrence’s butt with it during out-draws. Brings capillary color to the surface. The fucking’s pace accelerates to a phenomenal rate. With a scream, Terrence suddenly brakes. His whole body shudders, quells, stops.

For minutes, he seems to stew in his own juices before removing his dripping cock. All of us see a slipstream of cum running from Mr. Haulover. Terrence tugs out his no-longer-necessary plug and maneuvers it where he was – in Mr. Haulover’s ass. “Keep it there until I tell you otherwise.”

Donning his Dad’s robe, he turns to our Dads. “Listen guys, can you send your boys back over for an hour or so tonight?”

How this complication of needs was resolved need not concern us. What you want to know is what happened long-term. We made history.

Word leaked. Our four Dads – Clint, Lloyd, Terrence, and I found out – quietly consulted medical-patent and corporate attorneys. Research, development, and refinements resulted in a comprehensive range of HAULOVER BOYDICK CONTROL LLC products. We starred in a series of instructional videos – even made infomercials that cable TV runs repeatedly and which, for markets worldwide are subtitled in all the major language groups.

Adoptions by men with no sons of their own continue to soar. Orphanages report strong demand for teen boys, with younger ones being placed on waiting lists. A subsidiary corporation, DIX FOR DADDYS, is being incorporated for the gay community. Male juvenile delinquency is in decline as statistics regarding Sonly Compliance rise.

And the money is very good.

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