Peter had never been a demonstrative man. He was not a man who took joy in the rhythms of life. Peter didn’t care for surprises, or challenges, or changes.
He was a quiet man in his early fifties, a substantial man with a small bookshop. His day was full of repetition. The same customers would shop at the same time every day, buy the same kinds of books, have the same conversations.
On Monday, Peter always wore his Monday shirt, a faded striped button down shirt. He brought his Monday lunch, a tuna fish sandwich, and ate quietly, listening to the Monday concerto on the small transistor radio near the register.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday were all the same. Day in, day out, for so many years.
Peter followed a routine as he prepared for bed every night, setting out the clothing for the next day on his dresser. On some nights, Peter took a long look at the dusty mirror in his bedroom.
He looked at his thickening body, ever thickening, covered with a light dusting of ginger. A thought, a pang of hunger, escaped from his mind, from his lips.
I want to be touched.
He glanced at his reflection once more, before turning off the light.
Peter had marched slowly through his days, one after the other, year after year, marching on as sure as the spinning of the Earth itself.
But that hunger kept knocking at Peter’s door. He ignored it, ignored the hunger calling his name, demanding his attention. The knocking continued, insistent and louder.
One Friday, as he walked around town after lunch, Peter saw a billboard for an app. The name of the app was in big orange letters.
Release. A meeting place for men.
Peter almost fainted.
He knew such apps existed, but this billboard seemed to be calling out directly to him, with a message FOR him. To have an app on his phone where he could touch a screen and….meet a man? Talk to that man?
Be touched by another man?
Peter had to sit down on a bench and catch his breath. His hands shook hard as he downloaded the app, signed up for the app.
He had to list his age, his height and weight, and upload a photo, and answer a few questions to indicate his desires and interests.
Peter’s hands shook, all sweaty and slick, as he clicked the check boxes. The terms he knew described him, the things he feared and wanted in equal measure.
Submissive.
Seeking soft dom.
He closed his eyes and wiped his brow. His fingers gently touched his phone, as if he was whispering a secret to a friend.
Hungry. So hungry. He checked another box.
Bareback.
The hunger. Peter’s hunger. It had been buried for so long, so deeply.
It would not be denied.
Peter put his phone back in his coat pocket, and went back to the bookstore.
He spent the rest of the day in a distracted fog. Gave customers the wrong change. Rung up a $50 book for $5.
At home that night, he felt the hunger getting closer, getting more urgent. In bed, Peter reached down to tweak his right nipple, to touch his cock.
Saturday was filled with Saturday things. Errands and yardwork, laundry. Peter made pasta. He arranged flowers for the small table in his entryway, in the small cottage where he lived by himself.
At midnight Saturday, Peter’s phone dinged with a notification.
Peter had a message on Release.
Marshall. 40. Soft dom. Looking for inexperienced older submissive for exploration, the man’s profile said.
Peter replied.
Marshall’s message didn’t relay much information. He demanded Peter’s address with little explanation or fanfare. To Peter’s own surprise, he provided it without question.
Marshall would meet Peter at 2 pm the following day.
Sunday came quickly, a cloudy, drizzly day.
As the clock struck two, Peter’s doorbell rang.
When Peter opened the door, Marshall stood before him, wearing a hoodie and jeans. He smiled - a warm, strong smile.
Everything about Marshall seemed to be warm and strong. His brown eyes. His commanding physical presence. A dusting of beard that Peter wanted to reach out and touch.
Marshall extended his arm to shake Peter’s hand. When their hands clasped, Peter sensed an electrical current, felt pressure as a bright white light filled the space between them. He lost his balance as the intense energy knocked him to the ground.
Darkness enveloped Peter for a few moments. When he sat up, Marshall and Peter were seated inside the cottage.
Peter rubbed his eyes, and scanned the room. He felt tremendously disoriented. None of the items he saw were his. The couch, the bookshelf, the table, all were different. Only the flowers near the door looked the same.
Peter looked at the clothes he was wearing. They weren’t his clothes. He was dressed in a hoodie, a tight hoodie a few sizes too small for him. He was in a t-shirt, his substantial torso spilling out of the bottom.
Where had his pressed pants gone? His starched shirt? His penny loafers?
Marshall looked different. This was not the same young man in casual wear Peter had just observed at the door. He seemed older, bigger.
Marshall radiated an essence of paternal confidence. He was wearing glasses, a thick striped tie, a freshly pressed shirt, a thick belt nearly wrapped around his waist. Marshall reached down to adjust his cufflinks as he smiled at Peter.
The table was filled with small blue books, student essays. Marshall’s professorial hands had touched them, written comments in all of them.
Peter’s eyes followed Marshall around the room, gazing at a bookshelf full of titles Peter knew he’d sold at the bookstore before. City of Night. The Swimming Pool Library.
Books about hunger.
Peter’s intense gaze landed on a sculpture, two bodies intertwined. A poster for an Argento film hung on the wall nearby.
This was definitely, decidedly not Peter’s cottage.
“Welcome to my home, Peter,” Marshall said.
Peter hadn’t heard Marshall’s voice before. A deep voice that came from a deep, deep corner of Marshall’s chest, some part of his essence. Hearing it made Peter’s cock instantly hard, aching for that voice’s owner.
Marshall got closer to Peter, closer, closer, until he finally rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“Ggnngh.” It was all Peter could manage to say.
“I’ve been waiting for you, sub. It’s very bad to make Daddy wait.”
Peter couldn’t speak. Marshall continued.
“Actually, I don’t think ‘sub’ adequately describes you.”
Marshall observed Peter as he paced the room, arms crossed over his chest, his thick hairy forearms touching. Peter wanted - no, needed - to know what those forearms felt like, what they tasted like.
Marshall smiled. He’d found the word.
He leaned into Peter’s ear.
“Cocksleeve. You’re daddy’s little cocksleeve.”
Peter felt a great shudder riding through his body. A frightening shudder. And yet Peter knew it was true.
“Yes, I am.”
Marshall’s hands landed on Peter’s thick neck as his mouth grazed Peter’s ear.
“Yes, what?”
Peter cleared his throat.
“I’m so sorry, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, daddy.”
Marshall’s hand caressed Peter’s head, his fingers running through Peter’s hair.
“Good boy, Peter. You’re a good little cocksleeve for Daddy.”
Good.
Boy.
Peter heard those words. Really heard them. He smiled, felt the sensation of flying through air.
Hearing Marshall say those words was like touching light itself. Peter wanted to grab a pillow and curl up in the chamber where those words lived, where they echoed.
Every single fiber of Peter’s being wanted so much to be Daddy’s good boy.
Peter was lost in thought, in the searing want of Daddy’s touch, the masculine, paternal scent of Marshall filling the room.
When Peter snapped back to focus, Marshall was next to him.
Marshall gently reached his arm around Peter, resting his hand on the ridge of Peter’s massive shoulder.
Peter shuddered at the touch, and Marshall turned to him and smiled.
The wall in front of them shone, fragments of light sparking, sparkling, and Peter could see a reflection. His reflection.
The wall became a mirror and then a screen. Marshall smiled and pointed at the screen.
Marshall nibbled at Peter’s ear and then whispered. “Are you daddy’s little cocksleeve? Do you know what you want?”
Peter shook so hard he almost fell off the couch. All of the words wanted to escape his mouth at once.
He looked at the screen and saw himself. Saw Marshall. It wasn’t a reflection….or was it? A dream?
A vision of Peter and Marshall?
A vision of Peter on all fours, bent over the couch, Marshall holding Peter’s huge shoulders.
Peter begging Marshall, begging, begging, pleading, fat tears pouring down Peter’s face.
His brain provided the soundtrack. Touch me, daddy. I need you to touch me, claim every spot as yours. Can’t take a single second more without daddy touching me, being inside me, filling me up, feeling dad’s huge cock. Take what’s yours, dad.
Peter closed his eyes and looked at the screen again. He could see Marshall inside him, could feel Marshall inside of him, feel Marshall's hands on him. The scent of Marshall’s primal fuck musk filled the room. Peter’s senses were filled with Marshall’s insistent, pulsing cock.
Peter’s mind continued its plea. I need you, dad. Need to taste your essence. I want every drop of everything that comes out of your cock. I’ll be a good boy, daddy. I promise. Please, dad, don’t hold back. Fuck me. Breed me.
The image on the screen shifted.
Now Marshall was standing in front of Peter, opening Peter’s mouth with his fingers jammed inside, keeping Peter’s mouth wide open to stuff his cock inside, easier access to his hungry cocksleeve, knowing Peter always needed some part of a man in his mouth, his cock, his fingers, his feet, to feed that insatiable hunger.
The images drove Peter wild, blurred his senses, and it seemed for a moment as if Marshall was ramming, filling, taking him from both ends, filling and claiming both openings at once.
Peter could hear a hum, a low hum, slowly building in intensity and volume until it became a ragged, desperate noise, a primal rasp, a chorus of begging, a scream, and then realized it was coming from him.
Images flashed on the screen and Peter knew.
Knew he was no longer Peter of the Monday lunch and the Monday shirt.
That Peter was gone, long gone, left behind, never to return.
Peter knew who he was. What he was.
He said the words.
Dad’s hungry meaty fuckhole. A fuck slot for dad’s powerful cock.
Peter had a moment of clarity and an understanding. A deep knowing that he was the type of man who'd always been there, there for men like Marshall to claim as a trophy, a wellspring of pleasure.
A pleasure Peter handed to Marshall willingly, because giving another man pleasure brought Peter his own release.
Peter looked at his own body on the screen, glistening and completely nude. Peter had carried the weight of his protective shell as a burden for years, but he suddenly saw the expanse of his body not as a barricade, but as a temple of joy, every molecule attuned to sensual pleasure.
Peter saw on the screen Marshall’s strong, firm hand on the back of his head and neck, resting on his firmness.
Peter had a new understanding, a knowing that he too had power, power in the tips of his fingers, the velvet of his tongue, the layers of masculine softness and thickness pouring from his body. Power in his hunger.
Power in all of the spots Marshall wanted to claim, soak with his seed, mark as his.
When he glanced back at the screen, Peter saw himself restrained with rope, Marshall between his legs, his tongue relentlessly licking and fucking Peter’s hole, eating and lapping at Peter's hungry hole. It felt like Marshall's fingers, his tongue, were inside Peter at that very moment.
Peter squirmed and shuddered and moaned, as he looked away from the screen and directly at Marshall. Marshall leaned forward to kiss Peter’s thick lips, gently.
Marshall’s thick fingers loosened his tie and stroked Peter’s face. “Daddy’s home, Peter.”
Peter felt Marshall’s arms wrap around him, holding him tight, so close. Peter relaxed, water pooling in his eyes.
Peter closed his eyes, could see Marshall in the darkness of his line of vision, holding him tightly, spooning him, running his fingers through Peter’s hair.
“Good boy, Peter. You’re such a good boy for daddy.”
The water could not be denied. It spilled over, down Peter’s face as he held tight to Marshall.
The room was silent now, but Peter could hear Marshall’s voice, that deep voice, echoing in his ears.
“Mine,” Marshall said. “You’re home now, Peter. You’re daddy’s good boy. You’re claimed, Peter. You’re mine now. Every inch of you is mine. That cunt is mine, Peter. All mine.”
The room shook, quaked, thrummed with bolts of power, the charge of Peter’s hunger colliding with a deep knowing.
In the distance, Peter could hear the sound of stone and metal vibrating, thrashing, collapsing, bricks falling, as dust filled the air, as a blinding white flash filled Peter’s line of sight.
When Peter woke up, it seemed as if he’d been sleeping for days. He sat up, rubbed his face, heard birdsong.
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
Peter’s cottage looked like his cottage again, with his own things in their own places. The same flowers from the day before.
Peter felt disoriented, trying to understand what happened.
The doorbell rang.
It was Marshall. His warm eyes. His warm smile. He shook Peter’s hand.
“The rain’s stopped, Peter. Should we go for a walk? There’s still time to claim some sunshine today.”
At the word “claim” Marshall’s hand landed on Peter’s shoulder. He reached over and stroked the side of Peter’s face, fondly and gently.
Peter smiled.
Marshall grabbed both sides of Peter’s face and landed his mouth on Peter’s, a gentle kiss teasing Peter with the promises of things to come.
Marshall smiled, the hints of a smirk at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you know what you want, Peter? Are you willing to ask for it?”
Peter leaned into the hand stroking his face, where Daddy heard his begging, his pleading, and was touching him, just like he always wanted, just like he desperately needed.
“I think we should stay here,” Peter said, in a quiet whisper.
“Good choice, cocksleeve,” Marshall declared. “Such a good boy.”
Marshall grabbed Peter’s hand and walked into the cottage, locking the door, drawing the curtains, turning off the lights. It was time for Marshall to take what he wanted, what Peter wanted to give him, every bit, every inch, every molecule.
