From Part 1

"DUDE!" Tommy gushed at me. "I'm fucking serious. That big, old fucker fucked the fucking hell out of my mouth and had that horsecock halfway down my throat and practically ripped my ears off holding me so I couldn't get a breath until he blasted what felt like a fucking bathtub of spooge down my throat!"

Obviously, my Tommy was given to elaborate, though rarely embellished, notwithstanding the "bathtub" sized cumload, detail when recounting his sexual exploits.

"I'm serious, bud. I was fucking choking and thought I might fucking drown in that seed there was so fucking much of it and his cock was shoved so far down my throat so I couldn't breathe whatsoever." And yet, dear Tommy-stud, you're here to tell the tale . . . and will likely tell it over and over again. "That fucker's balls were fucking huge and I swear filled to the fucking brim!" he went on, and I just smiled.

"Oh and dude, he NEVER shut up!" I had to laugh at that, given the person making that comment. "I swear he shoved me down on my knees and said in this New YAWK accent, 'C'mon bitch, show me how you take care of a REAL man's cock!' and just kept on giving orders."

I had to bristle at the "REAL man's cock" comment, given that Tommy was my boyfriend and had been taking my own horsecock - though Tommy said it was thicker, more like a bull's cock - for almost three months. SOME OF THESE CLOSET CASES! I laughed to myself and let the annoyance pass.

"Oh, and his nuts, Ry, I'm telling you, they have to have bruised my throat swinging and SMACKING my throat like that. BIG fucking LOW HANGERS!" Tommy hyperextended his neck and leaned toward me. "Can you see any bruising?" he asked, brushing his long, muscular neck with his beautiful big fingers as if to clear any visual impediment to my assessment. "I fucking swear if his nuts weren't aching from that SLAPPING against my neck, then he's got fucking iron nuts!"

Tommy knew how to get me going. I had no doubt the "REAL man's cock" and the "iron nuts" comment were, indeed, directed toward my own desires. And whether they were or not, I took my Tommy by the back of his beautiful, long neck and pulled his head down into my sweaty crotch. "Let's see what you learned from Big Al or whatever you said that mook's real name was!" I told him, grinding my hardening cock into his face and moving his head so it was giving his face an all-over rub.

And then, later . . .

Cleaned up, and glowing from our earlier funtime, we got to Sun-Oil-Salt on the strip, having walked down in the glorious late spring night and found from the maƮtre d' that my parents were already seated. As we approached the table and my father stood as we neared, I noticed two things. The lively step and excited energy from Tommy suddenly felt like lead in my hand where I held his; and my father's face registered utter, total surprise and shock. As confused as I was, I remembered my manners, hard taught by my parents. "Mom and dad, meet Tom Greggson. Tommy, meet my parents, Miriam and Allll- uh, Alan Sorenson," and I was stammering because it all came clear and I realized. I'd refrained from using my dad's favorite nickname: Big Al.

And we pick up Part 2 . . .

I'd collected myself after the realization that Tommy's playmate that afternoon had been . . . MY DAD! . . . and made it through dinner progressing from shock to abject amusement. I never knew my uber-macho, prototypical male patriarch dad liked boys. Okay, that was uncharitable; Tommy wasn't a boy, in his early thirties like me. But compared to my late-fifties DAD???

In a completely hero-worship sort of way I'd always considered my dad a hunk of a man, and he'd influenced my own values regarding fitness and was a model for me; so I can see how Tommy, in his extra-curricular latitude within our relationship, would find him hotter than hot, particularly because I know one of Tommy's fetishes is DILFs. But still, six degrees of separation turning out to be one - or NONE, depending on how you count! - had been a shock, at least at first there, when we had gotten to the dinner table for me to introduce my pretty-permanent partner, my boyfriend of some time by then, to my - I THOUGHT! - rather . . . how to say? Well, I never thought my parents would be pervs . . . like their sons!

I couldn't actually take my eyes off my dad, for whom I have new respect, at least for his poker-face despite a slight realignment regarding his sexual proclivities! When we hugged goodbye after dinner, he told me loud enough for all to hear, "Son, we should talk soon - it's been a while!" Uh, yeah, right. And exactly how would that conversation go?
Me: So, dad, you like boys and have been fucking my boyfriend? What else is new?
Him: In fairness, son, I didn't KNOW he was YOUR boyfriend, just that he had one.

I laughed to myself as my dad and I parted and simply said, "I'll call you, dad."

As we walked back up the hill to my house, Tommy held my hand very tightly, but he said nothing other than to have said when we left, "That was a big step - meeting the parents. I'm happy . . . because we did that, Ry." He gave me a kiss on my neck, but the tight grip signaled that he knew there was a lot more to talk about.  When we turned onto the street that we would take to get to ours, I finally addressed the two thousand pound gorilla who was walking between us.

"So, Big Al, huh?" I felt Tommy flinch in my grasp.

After passing a house or three in silence, Tommy finally burst forth. "OHMYGOD, Ry, I had NO idea, I SWEAR! I'd never, ever-"

I squeezed his hand and cut him off. "Tom, I know."

"OHMYGODDDDD! You called me 'Tom'," he cried, mournfully. "I'm fucked, aren't I?"

I had to laugh at that. "Tommy, I love you," I told him with every bit of my soul, and I pulled him into an embrace. He was shaking, really upset, and I was laughing at him. I held him tight, there on the street outside some studio sound worker's house we'd partied at once I remember.

"Ry," he sobbed into my shoulder.

I stopped him. "Tommy, really. Stop it. You did nothing wrong."

And, as my wonderful, crazy, exuberant lover sometimes did, his mood changed on a dime. "One thing I'll tell you, Ry," he gushed suddenly. I couldn't wait to hear this! "There IS a genetic link to a man's virility! It's no wonder I fell helplessly in love with you, Ry, given the genetics there. And your mom, OH MY GOD, no wonder she's got that sort of subtly serene smile on her face."

I kissed Tommy again, and although it's always a pleasant action, I really just wanted to stop talking about my parents' sex life in any context! When we parted, he looked at me very seriously. "You're really not going to dump me because I fucked your dad?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAA, Tommy! STOP talking about it!" I moaned, shaking his shoulders. Tommy continued looking at me, very seriously.

"No, Tommy, not a chance," I told him. I could tell he wasn't certain that the "no" was computing. "You honestly think I'd give you up?" I asked him, and to my surprise he looked down. I pushed up his chin. "What the hell, Tommy? You think I don't love you? Seriously? You don't know that?"

"No, it's not that, Ry. It's not that," he mumbled.

I waited for him to continue, still standing in front of Tanner's little house. THAT WAS HIS NAME. Strange how your brain can be in crisis over something important - which if Tommy felt we weren't solid, it certainly was a crisis! - and still come up with some trivial knowledge tidbit that had escaped previously.

Finally, in exasperation or maybe desperation, I prompted him. "What is it?"

"You know I suck at this, Ry," Tommy admitted miserably.

"No, you don't," I corrected him. "You don't like these conversations, but you don't suck." And then, to lighten things a little, "Well, you DO suck . . . and are rather a champion at it! Just you don't suck at talking openly about our relationship, Tommy, and you know it."

He grinned widely, sheepishly. GOD he is a gorgeous man! Then, with more impishness added, "I do know it. But I'm in a hole here, and trying whatever I can not to get buried alive. I'd die without you, Ry. Seriously, I would."

AND we come full circle! I shook his shoulders again, gently, to make sure he knew I was dead serious. "Tommy, did you do anything wrong? I don't think you did - not even a shadow of a doubt in my mind - there never has been. You've always given me only reasons to trust you, and I do now, about," and with a gulp I got out, "My dad, A-K-A 'Big Al'." Forcing myself to say it, it was suddenly hilarious again, and this time, instead of forcing myself not to bust out laughing at the table at dinner, I let myself go and really laughed.

When I finally was down in a squat, propped with my elbows on my knees, head basically between my knees and gasping for breath, Tommy said, none too sarcastically, "I hope you're enjoying that laugh at my expense!" That just made me laugh harder.

Tommy finally pulled me up by an elbow. "OK, Jack Nicholson, let's get home before Spunky gets crazy for his walk."

As Tommy urged me up the hill, I tried to stop chuckling, but I couldn't. I snuggled into him, my arm now around his shoulder, and I kissed his neck. "I think we're stuck with each other, Tommy."

He didn't break stride, just said, "Probably, but is that good or bad?"

"Well," I began, choosing to ignore the ominous aspect to the affirmation, "I mean, who else but you would have conceded to let me name OUR dog Spunky because his fur colors looked like someone spunked all over him? And who else but me would GET the Batman reference that quickly? And, by the way, I prefer Heath Ledger or even that skinny bitch Frank Gorshem to Jack Nicholson - JESUS!"

Tommy laughed, and when he did, I felt the world settle under my feet.

We were back outside, walking our cocker spaniel - Spunky - up the hill toward the little park he loved, holding hands, as we often did. Tommy once told me, looking across from me in a decidedly lower-scale Mexican restaurant, farther southeast in the flats of Los Angeles, that touching my hands and knowing how I saved lives with them was almost spiritual. No, he didn't say that to get me into bed; I was already a sure thing by that point!

"How's it going to work from now on, Ry?" he asked. I knew what he meant, because we'd resolved we'd "talk some more" while we walked Spunky but then, not again - hopefully not ever, but that was too much to ask - until something else happened . . . like my "call" to my dad.

"It's going to work like this. nothing, and I mean NOTHING changes between you and me. EXCEPT that when we see my parents from now on, you're going to be a bit uncomfortable, and my dad's - BIG AL to you," I threw in playfully, "Will be a lot uncomfortable."

"What if, say, I did want something to change, Ry?" he suggested tentatively.

"What would you like to change?" I asked, hesitantly, feeling a knot start in my stomach.

"Don't worry, I don't want to 'grandfather'," he air-quoted that, "Big Al and allow him as a playmate because I did him not knowing he was someone you knew or anything like that."

"Well that's a relief," I retorted, with double meaning, leaning down and baggy Spunky's rather prodigious output. If I bagged, Tommy carried; if he bagged, I carried. I preferred to bag, and since I had, handed him the bag.

"Isn't that appropriate?" he laughed. "I handed you a steaming sack of shit earlier, and you hand me one now!"

"To be completely fair, yours will last far longer, for several people, than this, which you'll pitch in our garbage can when we get home."

"Yeah, yeah," he chuckled.

When we'd made our turn and were headed back and he still hadn't elaborated on his thoughts about change, I asked him. "So what would you like to change, Tom?"

"Oh, shit, there's that 'Tom' again!" He feigned dismay, but I knew he was teasing. He knew I was serious about whatever was on his mind. "Okay, well, here goes, Ry, and believe me I never thought we'd have this conversation with me holding a sack of shit!" We kept walking, and I waited until I heard him take a big breath. "I was thinking, maybe, we could do some renegotiation as far as our relationship goes."

I jerked to a stop. Despite knowing this would be the topic when he'd said "change" it was a shock the clinical way he said it. "Am I going to like this, Tom-Tommy?" He was facing me in the moonlight - there were no street lights on this road - but I could see him clearly, and his face was hopeful, not full of dread. Well, that was something. "Come on, out with it, boy!" I prodded, bolstered by that look on his face.

Tommy's eyes fluttered just slightly, a look I knew meant that calling him 'boy' had gone straight to his cock, as it always did. "FUCK, Ry!" he said finally. "Way to make your boy lose his train of thought."

"I really want to kiss you," I admitted. "But NOT until you tell me whatever it is that's on your mind."

"Well, there's an incentive," he laughed. "Okay, Ry, here goes. Would you consider us being not only exclusive but also closed?"

"Uh, as in monogamous?" I clarified.

"As in just you, just me, no more Big Al's for me, no more twinks for you, no more opportunistic anyones for either of us," he spilled out.

"Are you asking me to marry you, Tommy Greggson? Because if you are, you really need some coaching, and I'm not even addressing the dog poop bag!" I joked, not knowing what else to do.

Tommy let out a breath. Then very seriously he asked me, "Would you, if I asked you? I'm not demanding any of it, Ry. No demands, either of us, I got it. But I, well, I- OH FUCK IT! I AM bad at this, Ry. I'm fucking it all up," he said, miserably.

Spunky was tired of being stopped and had fully explored the length his leash made in a circumference as he'd checked out all around me. "Spunky, you might just become legitimate yet!" I told him in that ridiculously enthusiastic way an adult talks to a baby, to stay his impatience . . . and to let Tommy know he hadn't fucked anything up, quite the opposite!

I grabbed Tommy around his neck in the crook of my elbow, and we all started on down the road. "Should I just say YES or should I make you properly articulate the terms, counselor, and present them in an appropriate fashion in an appropriate venue?" I asked into the night air.

This time Tommy jerked to a stop and pulled me to face him, much to Spunky's annoyance. "Really? Seriously?" he gushed. "You're really serious?"

"It was a serious question," I parried, and he scowled with feigned intensity. "Come on, Tommy, take me home, and I'll show you just how serious I am!"

We almost ran down the hill and then up slightly to our block then down to my house . . . soon to be OUR house. Spunky thought it was great fun, barking and galloping along, trying to keep up with us.

As I got Spunky his expected treat when we got inside, I noticed that Tommy was pulling his silk Armani shirt over his head and saw him cast it off. Spunky was impatient, as my attention had been diverted by my lover's v-shaped torso and his abs and traps and everything in between as he pulled the expensive button-up shirt over his head. That was one of the things he did that just went straight to my nuts, probably all those times I jacked off when I was a kid over Harrison Ford when he did that same thing in Working Girl. I chuckled at the irony - Tommy was the indefatigable movie buff, but that scene in a movie from when I was a kid-

Spunky woofed gently at me to get my attention, and I turned from Tommy's rippling torso to give him his treat - and an extra to atone for my delay - and patted his head. Of course, by then, my four-legged companion had no use for affection, concentrating on his oversized biscuit and the chewy roll I'd given him. Decisions, decisions.

I turned back in time to see Tommy, having kicked off his Pradas (I'd changed to sneakers when we got back from dinner; how he could walk in those, I couldn't imagine!) and his Armani slacks were in a heap with the shirt, he was pulling off his second sock. Tommy's long, runner's legs are just as distracting as his torso, and I must have been completely stalled. "C'mon, Zack," he smirked, as he shucked his black boxer briefs. Turning and shaking his bubble butt at me, he headed into the house.

It took me a few beats to tune into the "Zack." Okay, maybe it was because by the time it clicked, Tommy was opening the slider out to the pool, and I knew that his oblique reference was to Showgirls with Elizabeth Berkeley riding Kyle MacLachlan, her boss, in his pool. YEAH! I'll be Zack. "COMING, NOMI!" I called, struggling out of my clothes on my way after him.

I took a running dive into my long lap pool, my trajectory directed to put me within a few strokes of where Tommy was languidly crawling toward the far end. The heated water was nothing like the heat in my loins as I caught up with my hot, wonderful lawyer husband-to-be from underwater and pulled myself up the length of him by grabbing his legs. As I passed his middle I rubbed my face on his fully-hard cock . . . and then made sure to drag my chest up his legs, over his hardon and up to meet him parallel to him, underneath.

As I pushed up to stop Tommy's crawl, he had similar idea and, with perfection of execution that some synchronized swimmer somewhere would have appreciated, he wrapped his strong legs around my waist, grinding our cocks together as he pulled sideways and upright. We both came out of the water with a splash and spray about us into the warm night air, our middles now ground together. We clumsily tread water a little, propelling ourselves as we did closer to the end of the pool.

When my feet finally touched the bottom of the pool our lips were locked together, at least one arm each clutching the other, teeth clattering inelegantly as we sucked face and humped each other under water. I was, by then, raging hard, and I was as ready to fuck my man as he apparently was to be fucked, given his other hand groping for my cock, bending it and then pushing it at his hungry hole.

He wasn't letting go of my tongue, and I couldn't protest and suggest getting him opened up. Instead he was grinding down onto me, holding my cock to ensure he mounted it, and before I knew it I was gasping from the feeling of his tight cunt swallowing my cockhead and continuing down the remaining inches.

"FUCK ME ZACK!" he huffed, taking a split-second break from chewing my face off.

I felt him working himself down on me, felt the much hotter sensation of his burning fuckchute swallowing my cock, wondering how he could possibly be that tight . . . again . . . after all the fucking we did, and some of it just hours before. But he was . . . as he always was, his mancunt consumed my cock and worked it like nobody else had.

Tommy was riding me now - bucking up and down, the pool water providing a slip-sliding sensation of bumping along as we got our rhythm. "Come on, FUCK ME!" he growled, having thrown his head back momentarily to let out a long yowl as he adjusted to the abuse of his fuckentrance.

I took my rather overt second cue and tip-toed us over to the side of the pool where we could get better leverage. Tommy knew this scene - his choice - and grabbed hold of the edge of the slate tiles of the pool deck behind him and began levering himself up and down on me, fucking himself with my cock before I had a chance to readjust my positioning.

"C'mon, Ry- FUCK! C'mon, ZACK! Own me. Make me yours all over again!" I had my hands on his hips to steady myself and was just getting my rhythm going pumping up into him harder. "OH FUCK YES!" he cried. "Just fuckn FUCK ME!"

I snarled and slammed up into him harder, and he used his grip on the edge of the pool deck to maneuver himself to meet and challenge me with every thrust. Tommy's head was thrown back in abandon then thrashing from side to side, his growls against my snarls, all the while his magical mancuntmuscles worked my marauding fuckpole like a crazed milking machine. I swear somehow he mastered his assmuscles to such degree that it felt like his cunt swirled on my head, nearly driving me out of my mind.

"That's it, baby. Knock me up. Fuckn KNOCK ME THE FUCK UP!" he shouted at one point, stoking the fire in my already-boiling balls. "THAT'S FUCKING IT - SLAM ME FULL OF YOU, STUD! FUCKN FILLLLLLLLLL MEEEEEEEEEE!" he yowled as I slam-fucked up into my man's talented cunt as hard and as deep as I could.

"OHHHHFFUUUUCCCKKKKKK!" I grunted before any further speech became impossible as my insides exploded into a fireball of sparks and jolts emanating from my cumtanks. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" I moaned as my cock, jammed up as deep into Tommy's fucktunnel as I could get it, began to blast my seed.

"OHHHFUFUFUUUUCCCKKKKKKKKKK!" Tommy sputtered, beginning to lose his own load as I pumped mine into him.

We thrashed and spasmed through our releases, clutching and groping at each other wildly as we writhed and, ultimately, falling into one another against the side of the pool. As our chests heaved we kissed, long, deep and passionately.

"I love you, Tommyboy," I said, softly, when we parted lips.

Tommy rested his forehead against mine. With a catch in his voice, which I felt in his chest against mine, he told me, "I love you, Doctor Ryan Sorenson. I love you only, I love you," and throwing his head back, howling to the heavens, he yelled, "I'M YOOUUURRRRRRRRSSSSSS, RYAN. ALL YOURS, ONLY YOURS, FOREVER YOURS! That's the way I want it to be." The last part he proclaimed quieter, his eyes locked on mine.

We were both startled so much that we almost jumped clean out of the pool when my father's voice boomed from behind us, on the opposite side at the other end of the pool, near the house. "Well, then, seems that tells me where I stand in this menage, doesn't it?" And then, as we both stared at dad, also known at some unfortunate times, as Big Al, however unfortunately that factoid now played in Tommy's life . . . and mine, he added, "Or . . . HAVE WE worked this SITUATION out?" with a plotting, devilish smirk. His look and his inflection signified the specter of our complications just beginning . . . as did his brushing grope of himself in his trousers.

"Holy, crap!" Tommy whispered, eyes wide.




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