A Caring Dad

- dedicated to those who so kindly express interest in my stories here -

My friend Youngman, his Grad School stipend having run out before he could complete his master’s degree, asked me for help.

“I can be flexible about the hours. Thesis work can be done around anything that pays well.”

I’ll back up. While engaged in my doctorate, we had met under pleasantly sexual circumstances. Now, out in the world and a man of some connections, I thought immediately of Youngman’s good looks, joviality, naturally nice body, and versatility in the sack.

Light bulb illuminated my mind. “Have you thought about providing personal services? Pay’s said to be excellent for blowjobs well given and butts well fucked.”

He sniggered, “You mean professional sex – oral? – anal?”

I let silence answer for me.

“You do, you fox! What, me date some non-hygienic, old trolls, florid-faced has-beens, quadriplegics – or, or fat blobs?” he petered out. “Anyway, I wouldn’t know how to get started.”

Friend that I am (and dependable), I telephoned another friend, Ryan, who had been in the business years back and got a few friendly pointers to pass along.

Youngman was off on his new part-time career   .

Among my first referrals to him was a gay man older than I. The guy and I had enjoyed drinks together – vodka and tonic for him, sloe gin fizz for me. Talked openly about sex. That led to his mention that, as a single parent, he was concerned about his teenage son, Junior.

“He’s a nice, if somewhat gawky, fourteen-year-old who wants to top a guy. You know, to show he’s manly. It’s okay by me but I don’t want him messing around at his age, catching some disease or having a bad experience. You know what I mean.”

 At this point, I’ll let Youngman take over. It’s his story after all, don’t you know?

“Thanks. I’ll relate it like it was, no fooling.

“In my first months of freelancing, the most fun came from the visitation of a skinny fourteen-year-old, possessor of a fairly long, skinny dick and small balls that hung low. Thanks to you, the kid’s dad paid up front for my service.”

“Junior’s desperate to fuck a guy, so you give him a good time, y’hear?”

Youngman interrupted himself, “Wait. This is kind of embarrassing. You tell it. You won’t be phased by admitting to what I submitted myself to. You write stories all the damn time.”

Yeah, like that was a qualification. Ahem! I’ve cleared my throat. I’ll write the tale.

Here it comes.

When, after a couple of enhanced beers and both were stripped bare, Youngman raised his legs in invitation, Junior squared his shoulders, studied the potential before him – Youngman’s uplifted bottom – and moved to mount him.

The effort at bravado charmed Youngman. I’ll play him a little.

Junior evidently envisioned himself as a prongster supreme, the way he jabbed at Youngman’s closed door and demanded his right to passage. “Dad gave you the money. Plenty. I saw him. So gimme what’s mine.”

He twisted about and rammed, angry.

Youngman, wishing to avoid being bruised, deemed the time propitious to activate his open-door policy. “You’re such a man, Junior, I can resist you not a second more,” Youngman provocatively moaned what passed for desire.

Junior banged in and came like the teen he was. Startled at the brevity, he looked down at himself, realized he had lost no more than his first load, and resumed.

I got lots more. 

 A good ride proceeded, that is, until a few subtle maneuvers by Youngman spiked Junior’s adrenaline flow. Ramped him up. Wildness pulsed through him like a strobe. He spurted with the force of thumps on a bass drum.

Boom, boom, boom, boom, boooom.

Squirt, squirt, squirt, squiiirt.

Ragged breathing.

Heart a-pound, Junior retracted himself, proud of his penis, his pelvic strength, and his Dad’s smile.

“Gee, did I turn you on?” he asked, eyes wide. Admiration, perhaps.

What loomed in Pappa’s pants caught Youngman’s eye, too.

“No freebies, sir.”

“I paid for an hour.”

“You did, for me to spend with Junior. But now he’s spent. No refunds.”

Papa glanced at his watch. “Okay Junior, it’s up to you. Time’s yours. Fuck him again.”

“I shot two wads already.” Suddenly, the kid sounded plaintive, defensive.

“Get over my lap.”

“Aw, Papa, c’mon, not in front of him,” he pointed at Youngman.

A smart snap of Papa’s finger and naked Junior sprawled face-down across the straining lap.

“Spit on my finger. Gonna prod your prostate.”

Junior spat, flinched and sighed and gasped.

Papa’s other hand had Junior’s balls from below.

“See? You’re hard again, son. This Papa knows how to play you.”

Junior leapt at Youngman’s junction, skidded in, and began skiddishly to gyrate – adolescent enthusiasm restoked.

In and out he worked, working up more sweat than producing the desired squirts.

Papa’s watchful eye gleamed before it informed his mid-part, steadfast as before. Off went his clothes. Cock at full mast, it was noted, longer and fatter than Junior’s junior model.

You’d think, he thought, my boy’d have a better idea about fucking by now. 

Junior was packing it in as fast as he could, frantic to get off one more time.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

But no big boooooomsquirt.

Tricky Youngman had relaxed completely inside. Devil!

Papa wanted to smack Junior, but a better idea sank from his brain to his cock. His mouth dropped a wad of its spit. It hit its plum-shaped, purple-pink target.  He rubbed it around, and approached Junior from behind.

Papa’s approach, viewed over Junior’s shoulder, gave Youngman cause to try to close his back door. He squeezed with professional strength.

Junior’s eyes sprang wide. “There you go!” he almost yelled.

But Papa, at that moment, skewered his unsuspecting son, who did more than yell. He whooped or screamed or – it was hard to tell, so loud was the noise. Papa’s penis pushed the boy’s prostate flatter than an unrisen pancake, driving out the last drop of whatever remained as well as Junior’s breath.

Youngman felt the squirt not at all. He did feel Junior’s cock jolt against the end wall of his rectum. His “Go for it!” bounded off Junior’s ear and went directly to Papa, who lit into the sonly fundament like a pachyderm at a waterhole.

On the receiving end of Junior’s skinny inches being pounded forward by his Papa’s mighty thrusts, Youngman quaked. Were sparklers going off?  Despite being flooded earlier, his innards became a sizzling, crackling, raging forest fire. As he gasped, he noticed the whites of Junior’s eyes, which had rolled up under their lids. The kid’s head was rising and falling – in time to the larger fuck.

Once properly positioned, Papa settled into a ponderous pattern like waves heavy at sea. Shifting weight to catch every contour of the passage he knew so well, he cruised, then plowed tugboat-style to ride the crests and troughs of his passion for Junior.

Desire billowed as a storm does, gathering forces with each jarring impact. His pubes rebounded from Junior’s resilient globes, crashed into them and withdrew to send another salvo – before all restraint collapsed and he exploded, his undammed balls releasing every fluid they had to offer.

Breathless and flushed after taxing his last reserves, Papa slacked off, kissed Junior everywhere he could – and did not know what to do. Exhaustion fogged his mind. He managed to stand.

Junior may not have been able to move or speak, but Youngman did. “Look, fellows, right on time!” he announced, his voice bright. “Gotta hand it to you. Yours was a superior use of my service. I’ll be happy to book a return.”

He gave Junior a smooch. “Up and out, young man. Say! Look at your dick. I think it’s grown,” he tried to joke, “being in my most fertile spot for so long.”

Junior’s deep breath accepted the compliment. He turned, big brown eyes shining with appreciation, to say, “Papa, I love you more than ever.”

Youngman watched as the two dressed. When Papa told Junior, “I was happy to grant your wish, son, and to help you reach your biggest climax,” Youngman beamed inwardly, smiled outwardly, and wished them much happiness.

“You related my story beautifully,” Youngman told me after reading it. “That I got well-remunerated is there, and you worked in how I helped improve the father/son relationship, but not what you got for setting us up. You should tell the readers. Go on, don’t be shy.”

Roses. Two dozen, peach-colored, in a crystal vase.

And a note: Thanks, old friend. Junior knows all about you now. He wants to show you his gratitude. Give us a call.

For a bodacious, generously proportioned, seamy-steamy read, try my novel on Amazon. For something hot-on-the-spot which you may not have read, this awaits you.

Appreciation is hereby expressed to stalwart friend Vic, who proofread my Dad's tale. 

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