David and I: ‘Figure of Speech’

Everyone is a whore. Some whores just make more money than others.

 —Anonymous

I eased in to David. I wanted him to feel like he was being made love to, and not merely fucked.

Last night at the party, to as many as eight of my guests, David had been nothing but a dark, dilated hole punctuating a pair of pale buttocks. I wanted this morning to be different. I was gentle with him. As my cock slid in the remaining way I asked:

“You OK?”

David nodded against the pillow. “Uh-huh.”

He was game about it, that’s for sure.

So he didn’t have to spend another fifteen or twenty minutes on his well-worn elbows and knees, I had the boy lie face-down atop a stack of two pillows, ass in the air, slender legs spread wide. The pillowcases were black, as were the bedsheets. As were the Japanese-themed, lacquered furnishings decorating his room. I moved slowly in him, gently, though with the full length of my arced shaft.

“My guests really opened you up last night,” I observed.

David, his left cheek pressed to the pillow, said nothing.

“Were any of them as big as me?”

“No.”

“No? Bunch of old farts,” I muttered. As I plied David’s hole I said:

“And you said they all came in you?”

“I think so.”

I gave David’s firm right buttock a soft spank. Barely more than a pat, though I could feel, briefly, his sphincter tighten around me. “That’s a lot of sperm for one little pink hole to take up it,” I said.

David’s anus, in good light, was not so much pink as brown. A pinkish brown. Cute. Sweet. Adorable.

“You were a real trooper last night, David. You did good,” I added, slipping into the vernacular.

“You know what your reward’s gonna be?”

“No.”

“My big load. This morning. After that we’ll get busy cleaning up from last night. The place is still a mess.”

I fucked David in silence for a moment. Then:

“Are you enjoying this?”

“Yes.”

“You love being fucked don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You have a real talent for it,” the swat I gave his right buttock this time leaving an evanescent pink mark. “I’m not saying you’re a slut,” I was quick to add.

My taciturn young roommate finally spoke. In more than monosyllables, that is. “I like being a slut,” he claimed.

“You do?”

“I want to do it for money next time.”

I laughed. We’d just discussed this minutes ago, in my kitchen, when I asked my young charge if any of my wealthy guests had tipped him.

“I want to feel like a whore,” David said, before I could speak.

“OK. We can arrange that.”

I began moving faster in him; fucking him harder.

“How much do you think we can charge?”

I laughed again. “Hold on, son. These are my party guests, my potential investors. This isn’t a brothel.”

I continued: “As I said earlier...we can put a tip jar out by the bed and I can make a suggestion...But how much somebody tips you is up to them. Have you ever waited tables?”

“No.”

“Well, then, you wouldn’t know.”

“A hundred?” David wondered.

“That’s a lot, son.”

“For the use of my body?”

“Like I say, my condo’s not a whorehouse.”

My motion, the impact of my abdomen, was compressing David’s ass-cheeks now. I’d started out at an andante tempo, but was now up to allegro.

Frankly, I no longer wanted to hear from David about his sex-for-money desires. His cash fantasies. This could easily go too far, get out of hand. I’d preferred it when the boy was near silent.

He said, to my surprise, “I liked it just now when you called me son.”

“Did I?”

David nodded against the pillow. The boy was young enough to be my son, and then some, but I’d used the term without realizing it and it now sounded, to my ears anyway, somewhat patronizing. Here I was fucking the young man and—

“Call me son again.”

This is a game we haven’t played yet, I thought. Father-son?

Incest?

“OK, son,” I agreed.

“I’ll call you dad.”

I suppressed a laugh. One minute he wants to play being a whore; the next my son. Such is youth. And are the games really all that different?

“OK, son,” I repeated, relenting.

“Fuck me, dad!” he pleaded, with a frown. “Fuck me harder!”

I played along. “You want it hard, son?”

“Yes! Yes! Fuck me, dad!”

I tried to recall, as I rammed my cock into him, if I’d ever seen David display so much emotion before. Much of the time, most of the time, the boy was a cipher, a moody teenager alone with his thoughts, even during passionate sex.

“Cum in me, dad!”

“Not yet, son!” the words coming out as stuttering laughter. “Hold on!”

“I want it!” he went on. And on.

I was beginning to perspire. Somewhere I had a real son. One older than this boy. We’d been estranged for years. He was very conservative and did not like the fact that a) I’d divorced his mother all those years ago, and b) that I was now openly gay, and lived with other men. Other boys.

I had this ongoing, waking fantasy that the doorbell would ring someday and...my son Brent would be standing there, wanting to mend fences, waiting for a long overdue hug. Perhaps he was down on his luck, needed money. A place to stay for a while. Needy...

Was that why I’d invited several young boys, barely of age, to come live with me over the past few years? First Trent and then Barry and now...David?

“Oh, honey!” I heard myself exclaim. Wondering all the while if I’d ever used this term of affection on Trent—I mean David—before. Where had it come from, this—these—sudden tender outbursts? “Oh, darling! Darling!”

“Do you love me, dad?”

“Of course I love you, son. Can’t you see that I love you? Can’t you...feel it? Feel it?”

“Love me! Fuck me! Shoot your love in me, dad!”

I suggested, afterwards, that we shower together. For one thing I wanted to scrub his crack clean before he pulled on one of the silky, colorful (expensive) panties I furnished him with, in the center drawer of his black-lacquer dresser.

David, ever the obedient one, knew to wipe off my still-engorged but drooping penis as well. We hugged. I kissed the wet top of his head.

“What we were talking about in there just now...,” I began.

“Me playing the whore?” David asked eagerly. Over-eagerly for my tastes.

“No. The father-son thing.”

“Oh.”

David, who did not get hard when being fucked and had not yet cum, had an erection. It was pressed against me. Pressed against my spent balls, actually. “That’s not a place we should go anymore,” I said.

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not? I liked it.”

“It cuts too close to home for me, David. I have a son as you know. I haven’t seen him in years. Or even heard from him.”

There was a pause before David said, “It was just a game.”

“I know, but...”

“So don’t call you dad anymore when we’re having sex?”

“No. Please. Then or any other time.”

I sensed resentment in the young man as he attempted to pull away. I held on.

“You’ve been great the past...since last night. Helping with the party. My investors. Everything. You deserve something special.”

“What’s that?” David asked, I’m quite sure seeing dollars flash before his crystal-blue eyes.

I took hold of his penis. It was long but slender, like his body. “A handjob?”

“A handjob?” David asked doubtfully.

“Have I ever given you one before?”

“I...don’t think so.”

“You need one,” I observed, giving his erection a single stroke.

“I thought we had housework to do.”

I laughed. “You’re the only guy I’ve ever known who doesn’t like to cum. Especially one your tender age.”

“I can beat off later,” David said.

“Is that what you’d prefer? Your own hand?”

David shrugged.

“You’re the strangest boy I’ve ever known,” I told him, my hand still around his cock—still wanting to milk the load from his sweet little balls. “Turn around,” I said.

David, as always, obeyed. Reaching past him I shut the warm shower water off so it was no longer pelting my back. The same hand—arm—now wrapped around David’s chest as my right hand, down below, began stroking him.

“What?” I asked. “Is it the girly stuff I make you wear?”

“What about it?”

“It makes you feel...fem?”

“Having a man’s cock up me makes me feel fem.”

I laughed again. “And cumming—ejaculating...it’s not very fem is it?”

“No.”

“But still...,” I went on, “bottom line is you’re still a boy. You can’t help getting hard when you’re aroused. I bet you wake up with one every morning don’t you?”

David nodded beneath my chin.

“I know I did when I was eighteen,” I continued. “In fact I still do.”

My stroking hand was moving neither fast nor slow. As when I’d first started fucking him in the bedroom minutes ago, my tempo was andante. I wanted to stretch it out as long as possible, maximize his pleasure.

David’s back arched. I could feel it—curving away slightly from my own body. He muttered a single, somewhat effeminate “Oh.” Then the cock in my hand recoiled—and shot. David ejaculated powerfully—once, twice, three times. A less potent fourth.

As he let loose I said so loudly it reverberated off the tiles..., “Let it all out, son! Paint the walls with it!” At least that’s how I reconstruct it.

As we were drying off afterwards I said to David with a smile, “I didn’t realize you were such a quick cummer.”

David didn’t respond.

“That’s OK.” After he finished ejaculating I removed the shower head from its holder and washed the wall off. Washed his thick cum down it to the tile floor and then sent it swirling clockwise through the silver, perforated drain. There was lots of it. An eighteen-year-old’s big, pent up load.

I instructed David to take the towels and bathmat after we were done and throw them in the wash along with his soiled bedsheets from last night. He said he would. Then:

“You called me son just now?”

“What?”

“You called me son. You said we weren’t going to do that anymore, play that game but...”

“When?”

“Just now when you were jerking me off.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Son?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“You called me son.”

“It’s a figure of speech, David. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh.”

David looked disappointed as I handed him my damp towel.