1. The Look
Paul was already sweating by the time he reached security. His sister, Jen, was somewhere ahead, wrangling her two kids like a professional sheepdog, but Paul had inherited the backpack, the neon pink carry-on, and a sticky half-open granola bar. He’d agreed to “play dad” for this trip—the reliable guncle—good for piggybacks, zoo dates, and the kind of jokes that made Jen roll her eyes but secretly laugh.
A week in, and the glow was fading fast. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his niece and nephew—he did—but the relentless chorus of “Uncle Paul, Uncle Paul!” had started to grind on his nerves. In his real life, he was used to dinners out, sweating gym sessions, and grown-up conversations that didn’t involve who farted in the car.
The layover, with its screaming children, rolling luggage clatter, and bad coffee, felt like a purgatory built just for him.
Dragging the carry-on past Hudson News, he saw them—a family so perfectly “American Dad” it could’ve been an ad. Four boys, all in various states of motion, and at the center, the dad: square jaw, tight t-shirt over a body carved from stone, a baseball cap pulled low, and a look of calm that suggested nothing fazed him.
His blond mustache was trimmed precisely, not a hair past or over his upper lip. It looked good on his square jaw, sharp and clean. What Paul’s knew of the military could fit on a cocktail olive, but the man’s hard body, his posture—Paul would bet money he was between deployments.
The mom was fit, made-up, athleisure-wrapped, and totally unbothered by the circus around her—the kind of woman who probably crushed it in her Peloton class the afternoon after giving birth. Feminine but tough as nails, every bit the match for a guy like that.
Paul’s eyes lingered, maybe a second too long on the dad. He was used to trading those glances—he was good-looking enough himself that he’d never felt shy—but this was different. The guy was a dad, and not just hot, he was mythic, the kind of man Paul’s buddies would whisper about after a beer too many.
And then it happened: the dad looked up. He took off his cap for a brief moment, ran a broad hand over his military buzzcut, then slid the cap back on with practiced ease. Their eyes met. Not a scowl, not a “watch yourself, buddy,” but something else—a half-smile curling at the edge of his mouth. Paul blinked, startled. The dad held his gaze a beat longer, then turned back to his sons, who were already wrestling over a bag of chips.
Paul felt a flush creep up his neck. For the first time in days, "Uncle Paul" subsided, and he felt more like himself. He grinned, the moment replaying in his mind as he hustled to catch up with his family, heart thumping just a little faster than before.
2. The Train and the Food Court
The security line felt like it might actually be the end of him. His nephew zigzagged under the stanchions like a wild rabbit, his niece was mid-meltdown over a confiscated juice pouch, and Jen radiated that particular non-reactive energy only single mothers and hostage negotiators can achieve. Paul tried to keep it together, shucking his sneakers with one hand and untangling a backpack strap from his niece’s arm with the other.
What he wouldn’t give for a cocktail in the airline lounge.
That’s when he saw the dad again, a few lanes over. Even from behind Paul would’ve recognized that body anywhere—shoulders broad enough to block out the airport fluorescents, a faded t-shirt straining against hard biceps. The dad was herding his own kids through the metal detector with military precision, voice low and calm, ending with, “At ease, boys.”
Their eyes met again. The dad’s mouth twitched just barely as he handed off his thick belt to a TSA agent. This time, Paul didn’t look away. He cocked an eyebrow, letting a little of his own confidence show through. The dad caught it, then turned back to wrangling his brood, but not before Paul caught the flash of recognition.
They made it through security in one piece, more or less, and hustled toward the airport train. By some cosmic joke, both families ended up crammed into the same car. Paul found himself standing, one hand gripping the overhead strap, the other clutching his niece’s wrist. The dad stood across from him, anchoring his youngest with an easy arm, cap still low.
The train lurched forward. The dad’s hips swayed, loose, bicep flexing subtly as he steadied himself. Paul tried not to stare but failed completely. He watched the way the dad’s shoulders filled his shirt, saw the thighs and hips made for breeding, feeling his mouth salivate.
Then the train made a sudden, jerky stop. Paul lost his grip on the strap and, before he could catch himself, stumbled forward—heading toward a face plant at the dad’s feet.
The dad barely moved—one hand catching Paul with a quick, firm grip at his arm. Paul’s niece squealed in delight, still hanging on him—but Paul was mostly aware of the heat and scent of the dad, the strength of the hand around his bicep.
“How’d you get those guns through security?” the dad said, voice low, a teasing edge.
Paul blinked, caught off guard. “What, these?” He lifted his arms a little, unsure if the compliment was real or just a joke.
The dad’s mouth twitched into a half-smile. “Be careful, city boy. Those’ll cause a scene.”
City boy? Hokey, but Paul’s cheeks flushed, and he grinned despite himself. The moment hung between them—warm, charged, a little uncertain.
At the next stop, the families spilled out and, by fate or chaos, wound up in the same corner of the food court. Jen was negotiating with the kids over smoothies; the dad’s wife was corralling her own four into a booth. Paul made a beeline for coffee. He was halfway through his first sip when disaster struck—a smoothie cup, launched by his nephew’s elbow, arced through the air and landed squarely at the dad’s feet.
Mortified, Paul scrambled over, dropping to his knees with a wad of napkins, right in front of the dad’s sneakers. He looked up, about to apologize, and found himself staring at the solid bulge, the dad’s thighs, the faded denim stretched just so. Paul’s gaze travelled up, meeting the dad’s eyes—amused, unbothered, the cap tipped back as he looked down, a hint of a smirk on his lips.
Paul dabbed at the puddle as the dad laughed—a deep, easy sound—and crouched down, helping mop up the mess. Up close, he smelled like aftershave and the faint travel sweat that couldn’t be masked entirely.
Paul grimaced, meeting his gaze. “Sorry about the mess—”
“No worries,” the dad said, glancing up with a sly grin. “Boys will be boys.”
His eyes flicked up and down Paul, and his voice dropped just enough for Paul to catch the real message: You too, maybe.
Paul grinned back, feeling the heat in his cheeks.
“You keep popping up at my feet, people are gonna talk,” the dad said, voice pitched low enough for only Paul to hear.
Then he heard his name in the distance. Then again. It was Jen calling for him. The moment broke.
The dad straightened, and slipped back to his family. Paul crouched there, heart racing.
3. The Proposition
The airport had that weird, timeless vibe airports always do—no day, no night, just a constant flow of travelers in questionable outfits and announcements crackling over tinny speakers. Paul was on guncle autopilot: racing his nephew down the long corridor, ferrying napkins to his niece, breaking up a Pokémon card war—but his mind kept drifting back to the dad: the look, the body, the laugh.
They were packing up to move toward their gate when Paul saw him again, just beyond the food court, standing near a row of vending machines. The dad’s wife was admonishing two of the boys; the other two were orbiting him, but he was momentarily unoccupied, scanning his phone. Paul hesitated, then found himself drifting closer, under the pretense of checking out the snack options.
The dad glanced up, caught him, and didn’t bother pretending. “Need a protein fix?” he drawled, eyes lingering.
Paul blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”
Rob smirked and nodded toward the vending machine column stocked with hard-boiled eggs. “That.”
Paul grinned, catching the joke. “Something like that.”
There was a beat. The dad looked Paul up and down, then tilted his head toward a nearby corridor, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “You got two minutes?”
Paul blinked, then shrugged. “Sure.”
They ducked around the corner, away from the main traffic, landing in the shadow of a bank of private work booths. The dad checked over his shoulder—no wife, no kids in sight—then fixed Paul with a look so direct it pinned him in place.
“I’m about to be locked in a tin can for ten hours with four little monsters,” the dad said, voice pitched low. “If I don’t get some relief now, I might not make it. You interested?”
Paul stared for a second, thrown by the bluntness, then laughed—part nerves, part disbelief, all arousal. “You’re not shy, are you?”
The dad grinned, stepping closer, their bodies nearly touching. “Not about this. You’ve been looking at me like you want to climb me since Hudson News.”
Paul glanced toward the hall where the dad’s wife was probably corralling the kids and asked with a smirk, “What about her?”
Rob shrugged, a lazy grin playing on his lips. “If I even look at her funny, she gets pregnant. So… we have an understanding.” He glanced back at Paul. “And you? You fit the bill.”
Paul laughed, feeling the weight of the unspoken agreement between them, and the moment shifted, charged with something more than just lust, as he texted Jen: “Coffee. Back in 5.” She replied with a thumbs-up emoji and a picture of his niece making a mess of her fries.
He looked up, meeting the dad’s full-jawed grin. “What do you have in mind?”
The dad reached for the handle of a work booth, glancing up and down the hallway. “Come on,” he said, voice soft but commanding. “Before someone needs to jump on a Zoom meeting.”
Paul barely hesitated. He slipped inside, the dad squeezed right behind, the door clicking shut behind them—kids and departures and guncle duties on the other side.
4. The Encounter
Rob grinned, body filling the cramped space, unbuckling his belt. “I’m Rob, by the way,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “Just so you know who to blame if your knees hurt later.”
Paul let out a short, surprised laugh. “Paul. And I’m not exactly fragile.”
Rob’s hands landed on Paul’s hips, big and steady, pinning him gently against the wall. “You look like you need this as much as I do,” he said, brushing his thumb along Paul’s waistband.
Paul’s breath caught. Rob leaned in, kissing him once, rough and sure. Then Rob’s hands pushed, a gentle nudge down. “Let’s see what you can do, city boy.”
Paul’s knees bent automatically. He dropped in the cramped space, hands gliding up Rob’s thighs. Rob looked down, then—grinning—turned his baseball cap backwards, the move practiced and cocky. “Don’t want to block the view,” he said, voice playful.
Rob shoved his jeans down just enough, and Paul’s eyes widened—okay, maybe the gym did not, in fact, prepare him for this—the thick, veined, hard cock. For a split second, Paul just stared, torn between awe and the sudden urge to laugh at the sheer, over-the-top masculinity of it.
Rob raised his t-shirt slightly, thick forearm flexing, the hard flat of his lower abs and his blond pubes exposed. “Careful—this thing only shoots Y chromosomes. Four boys. Doc says I’m practically a genetic weapon.”
Paul laughed, the sound vibrating against Rob. He licked his lips. “Figures. I always had a thing for dangerous men.”
Paul’s heart pounded as he leaned in, tasting the salty skin. Rob’s hand went to the back of his head, not forcing, just guiding, fingers threading through his hair. Paul took him in, slow at first, tongue teasing, feeling the weight and heat and hearing Rob sigh above him.
The booth was cramped and the risk only made it hotter. Paul’s own heart hammered as he worked, hands gripping Rob’s hard ass, pulling him in. Rob groaned, hips loose, sinking his cock into the hot, wet mouth, beginning a slow glide in and nearly out. He rocked, cap nearly slipping off. “Fuck, city boy. That’s it. You’re gonna get me off right here, aren’t you?”
Paul replied with a glance up, mouth still full, eyes sparkling—he loved the absurdity, the heat, the feeling of getting this ridiculously hot alpha dad off. He worked Rob with skill and enthusiasm, not caring for a second about the world outside.
Then a distant voice crackled over the airport intercom: “Beginning boarding call for Flight 542 to London Heathrow. All passengers, please proceed to Gate C7.”
The sound sliced through the cramped booth, a sharp reminder that time was running out.
The pace picked up, and the booth was filled with the sounds of their bodies: the wet, slick slide of skin, the rhythmic gunk gunk gunk of Paul’s mouth working Rob’s length, Rob’s low, guttural groans vibrating through the tight space, and muttered encouragement—“Fuck yeah, city boy, you’re driving me crazy. Keep that up and I swear I’m gonna miss my flight.”
Rob’s meat worked into Paul’s throat, lubed with thick spit and precum, and he began to thrust in the tight space, triggering throaty, wet sounds, the gunk gunk gunk filling the work station as Rob’s hips moved with mounting urgency.
“Fuck yeahhhh,” Rob groaned deep and ragged as he pushed deeper into Paul’s throat, filling it, then his hand tightened. “Gonna—FUCK! Here it comes—” and with a grunt and a shudder, his body stiffened, his cock swelled. There was a thick, sudden surge—a salty heat flooding Paul's mouth and throat, nearly his nose, making him snort and choke.
His body tensed sharply, hands reflexively pushing back against Rob’s rock-hard thighs as he gulped, swallowing, barely keeping pace with the waves of cum.
“That’s it, city boy,” Rob said, half words, half moans, a big calloused hand cushioning Paul’s head from the wall as his hips slowly pumped. “Take it all.”
Through sheer will and desire Paul kept swallowing, almost cumming himself as he sucked the last of the army dad’s load straight from his fat cock.
Rob pressed against the wall, catching his breath. He pulled Paul to his feet with one big hand. “Damn. Best layover I’ve had in years.”
Paul grinned, voice raw. “Glad I could help.”
His reply was cut off as Rob suddenly kissed him—hungry, confident, but with a playfulness that made Paul’s knees go a little wobbly. Rob’s hands slid down, fingers digging in.
When he broke away, a lazy grin spread across his face. He looked down, still catching his breath, and nodded at Paul’s obvious arousal. “You need a little relief yourself, city boy?”
Paul smirked, shifting in the cramped space. Rob’s schtick—”city boy”—on anyone else would be so cringe. But on him? “Wouldn’t say no.”
Rob gripped him by the hips and dropped to his knees—big hands moving with practiced speed, undoing Paul’s waistband before Paul even fully registered what was happening. His cap was fixed firmly backwards on his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he locked onto the prize.
Paul barely had time to brace himself before Rob’s mouth was on him, warm and confident, swallowing him down in one smooth, eager motion. The sensation hit him all at once—the wet heat, the firm grip of Rob’s hands on his thighs, the quick, skilled movements that made his breath catch. It was fast, almost too fast for Paul to process, but electric, raw, and consuming.
Paul bit his fist to keep quiet, hips pumping instinctively as Rob worked him expertly, a low, satisfied hum vibrating through the tight space. The absurdity of the hot army dad flipping the script, sucking him off so eagerly, made it even hotter.
He came with a muffled gasp, face pressed hard against the wall, shuddering as he pumped into Rob’s waiting mouth, Rob swallowing him down with practiced ease. “Fuck yeah.”
Rob straightened, chest rising, eyes bright with tears. Their breaths mingled, lips brushed, and then a hot, wet kiss—sticky with each other’s taste, the afterglow softening even the army dad’s usual tough facade.
Rob zipped up, eyes soft, fixed his cap, and slapped Paul on the shoulder. “Now that’s what I call a fair exchange.”
Paul grinned, still catching his breath. “Best layover I’ve ever had.”
They slipped out of the workstation, into the bright, humming anonymity of the airport, each adjusting their spent junk.
Rob winked, turning away. “See you in another life, city boy.”
5. Return to Normal
Paul rejoined his family at the gate, cheeks still flushed, pulse skipping. Jen looked up from her phone, eyebrow cocked.
“Geez, Paul, I thought you were gonna miss boarding.” She looked him over—the damp of his hair, the flush of his cheeks. “You disappear for five minutes and come back looking like you ran a marathon. You’re as bad as the kids.” She nudged him, smirking. “You sure you’re up for this whole ‘dad’ gig?”
Paul tried to muster indignation, but all he could do was grin, wiping a stray drop of sweat from his brow. “Trust me, Jen, I feel better than in a long time. Ready for anything.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, save some of it for chasing after these two on the plane. You’re the best guncle in the business, even if you act like a twelve-year-old yourself half the time.”
The boarding line was chaos: kids whining, as first class and military passengers boarded, Jen searching for the right group number. Paul juggling snacks and his niece, who clung to him like a baby koala. And then, as he squeezed through his aisle, he spotted Rob—already settled in an aisle seat, cap low, two boys wedged beside him, the other two and his wife seated just ahead.
Rob’s eyes met Paul’s. Then a quick, discreet two-fingered salute, the secret just between them.
Paul kept moving, niece on his hip, dropping into place a few rows behind, as if nothing at all had happened, but the grin he couldn’t contain. But the secret thrill hummed under his skin, making the crowded, noisy cabin feel like the most exciting place on earth.
As the plane taxied out, Jen nudged him. “What’s got you smiling, guncle? You’re way too cheerful for someone about to be trapped with kids for ten hours.”
Rob caught Paul’s eye one more time. With a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, he nodded back toward the mid-plane lavatory. His lips quirked, a private, wolfish grin. The unspoken dare: round two, if you’re brave enough.
Paul laughed out loud. “Guess I’m getting used to the chaos.”
He settled back, heart pounding, and let himself savor the ridiculous, intoxicating possibility of what might come next.
END
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