My Son. The Fuck.

Author’s Note: This is my more sophisticated take on a short story I wrote and uploaded on here called “One Fucking Favor.”

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 Some guys are just fucks.

Okay, most guys are just fucks.

Then there are some guys who look like they might be real good fucks based on one or several attributes advertised. Only a fraction of them really turn out to be really good at what they do, be it throwing back their asses on a hard pipe or hone their sword-swallowing skills to suppress their gag reflexes. What do you say though to a young buck who says he feels like “a bitch-ass ho” ass-naked on your bed? What do you say to him when he’s your own flesh and blood, straight out of your own pipe?

With his ass up, head down, legs spread just kneeing the hell out of the Sealy Posturepedic, look him in his eyes and tell him “To go ahead and feel that way, son. Daddy’s got you” because he most definitely does. Don’t be afraid to tell him so if he probes. He knows he is, and deep down he knows he wants to be bitch-made for the right kind of man-meat–even for the long hard piece that spurred him into existence.

How did I get here?

It started twenty years ago, give or take. I was hot on the scene as a club promoter and there were guys always whoring out their girls to be put on. There was always a hot girl, but this hot girl had an even hotter cousin that just flipped legal. Let’s just say we had a good weekend. I unloaded in every hole they had to offer, and by the fifth day I happily moved on with my life. A few months later, I heard the cousin got pregnant and the dudes around the way clowning her for being such a whore. I didn’t think much of it. Because while she seemed a little slow to get with the program, by the time I got her open she seemed to clamor for the lead in her love of dick.

A few months back, I decided to get ahead of this gentrification thing by buying and fixing up a distressed property in a rundown neighborhood ready to change course for the greater good. Honestly, I was running through so much pussy I wouldn’t have recognized the bitch if my life depended on it. But she lived a few houses down with her mom. I didn’t know until a few months ago that she gave me her cherry. And with a blood test to confirm it, she also bore me a son nineteen years earlier.

I find Torrus standing on his usual corner three houses down clowning this rollie pollie kid who should have been out of his social league. Rather than stoop down to his childish level I called him out on it, calling his sorry-ass over behind my gate.

He tried to front like he was the man, like he was somebody totting around a double-tall can of malt liquor like it was his adult-size pacifier. Based on pure looks alone, he was handsome, thick solid boy that carried a hint of softness he couldn’t quite hide.

Torrus was the good kid. The honor roll student. The one his mom least had to worry about. He was the oldest, and the role model for his mother’s five other kids. His brother was the one who cut class, cut school. His brother was the one who always got into trouble. Getting suspended or expelled. It was his brother who fell into the wrong crowd, moving up from petty gangbanging to hard-time dope-slinger. His brother was the one who started his own crew and was doing eight consecutive life sentences in a maximum-security prison.

His mother told me their life story–hoping she could claim one of her baby daddies as her man finally.

Torrus was rattled by the indirect threats he received from his brother’s foes junior year. His younger brother was his greatest protector. He made sure Torrus made it home every night along with his books and daily lessons. Torrus was like most inner-city kids. He didn’t fear dying. It was a looming part of life with stray bullets almost always equipped with plenty of anonymous names. His greatest fear was getting robbed, because to get robbed in a bad neighborhood, your neighborhood, was to be a mark from here on out. Unless he had veins of ice or retaliated, his victim status would show every time he walked the streets with fear in his eyes. It was already hard. His brother made it worst stepping on some toes, peeing on some trees already peed on. Torrus was hearing across the way they were eyeing him and his siblings to teach his brother a lesson, beating them up or breaking a limb–or worse–rape.

Torrus told me everything except the latter anyway. It was too deplorable for him to mention, fearing if he spoke of it, it would be a case of Beetlejuice. I kept my ear to the street knowing prison was nothing more than grad school for most of these hoodlums around here. The way they throw them in there and spitting them out, the cons quickly learn that to humiliate a man to a powdery finest is to strip away his manhood, turn him out, flip him over. Make him fiend for blood-throbbing dick like a bitch in high heat.

It was enough to scare the shit out of him, make drop out senior year.

I saw the conflict in his eyes the first time his mom sent him over with a pie for us to bond over. He was curious with lust in his eyes, trying not to look too hard. One glance was all that was needed to give him away. Making up some lame excuse to stick nearby, prolong his visit with meaningless conversation.

If he told me what he wanted from jump, I wouldn’t have judged. All he had to do was ask his mother about my affinity for exploring new frontiers, especially those that milked my cock.

To his credit, he tried to gauge me, not so much as his father but as a potential suitor for his mother since I was a single, good-looking man and perhaps a de facto protector of both.

Torrus didn’t want to be bitched out. He just wanted a taste on his on his own terms, as a way to curb a possible addition. If he liked it, he liked it–on the down low. If not, no need to obsess over it. His only problem was that was enough to send him on his way with a few jack-off fantasies of his old man to last him a few months. Unaware the older I get, the less patience I have for young bucks, especially the trouble I have breaking them in. It doesn’t matter if their first-timers or experienced bitches (or even my son), I already know taking my dick is no walk in the park for their holes. It took me years to learn I was working with way too much to just ram it in at will without hurting them. Back then I was young, tapping some hungry ass. I really didn’t give a shit if they were swimming in pleasure or pain as long as I got mine in the end, ignoring every cry to “pull it out” or “it hurts” on and on and everything in between. Nowadays, I can get mine and whoever I’m with can get theirs, too. The downside of being considerate is it made me a more attentive lover. While it shored up the booty calls, it can be a disastrous even for newbies who catch hard feelings before unknowingly wising up to this being a fuck and becoming jaded to the scene…and being my son and all….

Torrus was smart enough to know that to stay close was to stay close in mind. So he bided his time by standing out on the corner near my house like a loyal little pup waiting for that “come here boy” call.

He knew better than to come across eager and hungry for it, setting himself up as a boy to be bitched, by his own father no less. He instead created his own little clique from around the way as a diversion. He was too sorry to go the route of his incarcerated brother. He knew there were booty bandits inside waiting to drill deep in the valley of his two ripe mounds. Because his brother and his legacy of going away as a “baaad motherfucker,” he was often courted by the local gangs to bring some of his “baaad” blood to the frontline. Torrus declined each and every time, keeping his alliance at a distance. He knew if he joined either a rival gang or his brother’s someone would kill him for bringing nothing worthwhile to the table. Torrus couldn’t go out like a punk. No sir. The streets were bound to speak. Torrus secretly envied his peers smart enough to finish school and go off to school to do their thing. He made his choice. He had to do his thing, too.

Rather than swim like a big fish in a big pond, Torrus remained a big fish in a small pond hanging around younger more impressionable rebels to feed his ego, instilling in them his philosophies about life and the neighborhood around. He knew as long as he stayed in his lane as far as the drug dealers and gangbangers were concerned, he had nothing to worry about, especially if he did some mild recruiting on the side for them. And it didn’t hurt either he was standing right in eyesight of my front step.

The neighborhood was rough but carried itself like an unruly family founded by love, with me being scored as the crazy-ass arsenal-carrying real OG (original gangster) uncle everybody respected, and nobody fucked with. The only father figure of sorts for a few blocks around.

It was the kind of street cred backup my son needed since he never served a day in his life. I had no doubt he packed some heat, a piece of steel his younger brother most likely left behind. Knowing the streets, like I do, it was only enough to scare. Otherwise, he was probably too broke to buy bullets for it and too much of a pussy to fire it off. Yet, it was just what he needed to make his wild, made-up anecdotes sound halfway plausible to a group of intoxicated brains in training.

When I called his ass over from behind the fence it was because I was growing sick and tired of his mouth cracking on his overweight subordinate out there. I figure if he wanted to play superior, I would take the time and show him what a real boss looked like. By the way he was sporting that big cheesy smile he was strutting up the sidewalk like he was due to collect some big cash reward. But the two of us knew what he was there to collect. He tried to make himself come off more willing by stumbling like he was drunk off his beer with that “go ahead, take advantage of me, Pa” look in his eyes.

Never being one to knowingly take it or get some while the other was under the influence, I sat his ass down in front of the television, giving his friend plenty of time to make a gracious exit home. My intent was to keep Torrus around for a sitcom or two, but these steady streams of good movies kept coming across the wire.

A few snacks and dinner later, it was a little passed midnight. I was ready to send my boy home when we saw that the gangbangers had stationed themselves in front of his house. Torrus was cool enough with the gang not to be bothered. However, he wasn’t cool enough to strut through their makeshift camp for the night. So, with no choice in hand, I let him spend the night. (I mean I could’ve walked him home without incident, but for a nineteen-year-old boy to be walked home by his estranged daddy was to suggest he was a real pussy boi which would’ve been equivalented to getting robbed.)

I tried my best to put Torrus on the sofa in the living room. He had other brazen ideas. Every fifteen minutes or so, he was barging into my bedroom bugging me about something or other. I forgot how he did it the last time, but I ended up “conceding” letting him sleep in my bed beside me.

The next morning as the sun made its way through the burglar bars, I found myself humping the air with this weirdest sensation as if I was going to pee. I realized it wasn’t so as I opened my eyes to find his sloppy wet hot mouth on the end of my pole. If I wasn’t so close to the edge of loosing it, I would’ve slapped him away. Instead, the primal beast inside me locked his gagging mouth in place against each hard kick of white-hot juice my cock shot out.

I didn’t bother to ask questions. I just catch my breath. I’ve been told for years I have the tendency to fuck in my slumber. My friends and pieces thought it was a plug for my insatiable appetite. I showed them my doctor diagnosed me with a real condition.

As I came down from my high, I stirred back to what just happened to find Torrus cowering on the side of the bed, crying, wiping the corner of his mouth. The beast in me wanted him to stew in what he started, let him ask what that what he wanted. Then the human side won out, climbing out of bed to console him, my son.

I apologized. I quickly reminded him however I was a grown-ass man that did grown-ass things with grown-ass people. And while the law told him he was legal, he was far from ready to play in the big leagues.

Torrus took my words to heart, or that’s what it looked like. He explained himself in a blubbering mess that he saw me get hard in my sleep. He tried not to give it much though, he sobbed. It was there and hard, the biggest he had ever seen outside of the porn-watching community. That didn’t say much to me, seeing he hadn’t had much experience in seeing them outside of room he shared with his half brother. He thought a quick touch would do, satisfying his curiosity. Once he got away with that, Torrus said, he thought he would get his hands around it. He was hypnotized his hand could barely fit around it. And with the foreskin peeled back showing off the head and some drool, he thought he would go for a taste. One thing led to another, and he was sucking it like his life depended on it.

It took me a moment to accept he wasn’t crying because he got caught or that I held his head down. It was that I came in his mouth that made him think he was a fag. According to street logic, he was a fag being on the other end of a spitting dick. Being the older wise man I am, I laid out for my son he was one long before he put my dick in his mouth. Forget about going through with it, I said, you was thinking about it long before, trying to work your way into my house, into my bed. Most of all, you’re the worst kind of fag. Not giving a fuck that I’m even your father! There’s no need to hoot and holler over spilled milk now. The deed was done and the best you could hope for was your little friends outside didn’t find out.

The first thing he asked was if I was going to tell. I assured him I wasn’t. I had no need to. However, seeing he sucked me off in my sleep, he was prone to dick, or to badly paraphrase him ‘the bigger the better.’ He was going to be his worst tattletale, gazing the bulge of every swinging dick that strolled by. Since mine was his first, no major leaguer was safe. He was bound to wonder the streets coping an anonymous feel.

He had to be prepared, I told him. He was setting himself up for the gamut. He could be called to perform a duty or get his ass whup–or both. And if word got out he was a bona fide cocksucker that load I unleashed on him might become the permanent aftertaste of everything else he ever stuck in his mouth.

I scared the shit out of him, telling my son all this along with the lingering threat I could still beat his ass. My son, the cock-sucking cum-loving slut! Torrus took it all in, wondering what he could do not to turn into a dick-fiend.

I sheepishly smiled at the reflection in the mirror, giving myself a gentle reminder, I didn’t start this, Torrus did. He stepped into the lion’s den, and I was ready to feast.

I looked down into his big brown eyes and told him it was okay if he morphed into a dick fiend. He just needed a steady fix. I told him until he was certain who was for or against feeding his addiction, like a good daddy, I might be a good fix for awhile. That didn’t mean, though, he needed to be at my door every waking minute of every freaking day. “Just play it cool like normal, and when I see you’re breaking out into seizures for it, I’ll call you over.” His body relaxed to these words as I made my way back to my feet with my dick hard in his face.

Torrus tried not to seem too eager. With my blessing however, he got back to work on it. Because I was mostly sleep throughout the first part, I took note of his lack of experience during the second round. Torrus had the unbridle enthusiasm that most first-timers have, making up for his lack of skill. I tried coaching him through, but Torrus was too caught up in his own play to pay me any mind.

How the hell I came the first time baffled me. Torrus had no skill or finesse. He was just a wet tongue with drool around the tip, ignoring the rest of my mighty shaft and big heavy balls. I was just beginning to get frustrated telling him neither of us was going to leave that bedroom until I got off again–even if it meant I had to be the one to pop his cherry, too. He seemed to be a bit confused by that as I explained it meant getting my dick up his ass.

Torrus tried his best to come up with things just so that wouldn’t even happen. Over the course of a few instances, he was beginning to masterwork his mouth just right. Since I had already talked myself into busting his cherry, I didn’t feed into his ego of a job well done. I just told him it was my duty to get in that booty!

Of course, Torrus tensed up. It wasn’t rocket science that a dick like mine wasn’t design for virgins like him. I agreed, letting him know about my distain for newcomers. I assured him though that I would probably be the best choice throughout the neighborhood because those gangbangers were probably three times as sadistic as I was at that age, telling him about when I used to run trains on the lames and the gays. And I was pretty sure those gangbangers weren’t above that either, fearing if word got out that my son gave head–pretty decent head at that–those boys out there would probably pimp him out to any man in need of his services.

Torrus knew it wasn’t passed them since they were always looking for a way to tighten their bonds. What a better way to do that with money and sex? There was another option I knew about that involved transporting things up his ass. As his dad, I was hoping he was still a bit green to know about those things. To my dismay, he wasn’t. Though to my pleasure, he was slow to catch on. Plucking away his virgin hole was a different story.

It took a little coaching, but I got him on the bed. Butt-naked, ass up, legs spread and kneeing the bed looking back over at me secretly wondering how he got from rubbing one out in his bed at home to being put doggy-style on his father’s bed.

I flashed him a smirk, answering his burning question: YOU PLAY TOO DAMN MUCH!

I wasn’t one to let shit ride. He had other well-thought-out plans to get my attention and he did, putting his mouth on a sleeping giant. He thought he was just going to play with his dad’s boner and bounce? No sir! I thought about sparing his fate for another day. Let him jack off a day or two about what he already done, circle back around before I did it to him again. Then, as I looked down, I saw it centered at the helm of his two smooth beautiful mounds.

I’m not one to get overly excited over an asshole. Many of them are a dime a dozen just like random fucks. This one here was special, and it had nothing to do with his virgin status or me playing a part in creating it. Most fucks who fuck don’t know that to have been in one asshole isn’t to have been in every asshole. Every piece of ass is not the same. Like dicks, assholes and tunnels come in different shapes and sizes specially made for different types of equipment. I was feeling a little honored looking at the type of slutty hole he had. In my lexicon, I call it the universal society, which is nothing more than a surprising long open slit in oppose to the standard round puckered abyss. To the untrained it would look like Torrus takes like a pro, the way it opened up on the outside and came together inside at its pale pink lips like sore of a double-entry.

What makes it most special than the rest is that it is hard to come by, and for a man with a big dick it is quite accommodating being if the man on other end of it is a virgin or not. His tell-tell sign of never being hit in the ass before is that as a norm if it had been pried open with some dick, it tends to gape over for some more. Regardless, I knew after a few good strokes of teaching him relax back there, of course, I would be sliding my way in and out of a really good time.

As I said, my son was assed out looking back at me telling me he felt like a “bitch-ass ho.” I hadn’t the heart to tell my only son he wasn’t just yet. I eased his fears by pulling his dick back between his legs and gently sucked him off. He was swimming in nirvana I don’t think he knew about my finger in his ass until I brushed against his prostate. He was telling me my blowjob was grand, but if I kept playing with his prostate he was bound to pee. Knowing it was a very slim chance he was, I told him to go ahead. I don’t think he heard me, though. My tongue was snaking up his undershaft to the long crack that housed his hole. I had him panting like a dog. Torrus was practically howling once I got his nipples involved with my fingers.

I guided Torrus over the nightstand where I kept some lube he tossed back at me, desperate for me to get back to rimming him. Not one to disappoint, I straight-up tongue-fucked my son all the while slipping in some lube.

I got behind him, mounting him, rubbing the head of my dick between Opening One and Opening Two before his mouth told his consciousness to fuck him. I played with Torrus a little more before giving him that long deep stroke. He screamed into his pillow, cried that I was splitting him in two. I told him to relax. Try to relax, I said, getting him to get into it. And like magic, my dick punched and stretched his hole to the point I had every inch buried to the nuts. Torrus got off on that, the sound of the rhythmic beat that only I could provide.

He was getting into it, and so was I, forgetting this was his first time out and he was my son. He was so caught up I had to remind him to breathe. We were both sweating hard about fifty minutes into it. I could’ve gone much longer but I had to remind myself once again he was still a newbie. The way we were going at it he was bound to be sore for the next couple of days. I held Torrus and dumped the same batter that made him inside him.

I pulled out and rolled on my back, taking the time to catch my breath. I guess my nineteen-year-old son took that cue to lie on top of me. Rather than that, I told his faggot-ass get gone, get his ass home. It wasn’t I was trying to be cruel. I just wasn’t going to let my own son to believe it was something more than what it was–a good fuck.