VOYEUR DADDY
I HAD JUST FINISHED CHEM LAB when I realized I was going to be late to work. I called Morgan and, as per usual, she said we'd deal with it when I got there, which usually meant she was saving her breath so she could yell at me in person.
Not the nicest lady, but she was fair.
And this time really was out of my control.
I mean how was I supposed to know that mixing sodium metal and water would create a fire? I'm not a chemist.
By the time I get to The Pitt, it's in the usual organized chaos, and Morgan is on the platform with her headset and twelve computer monitors. This is last-mile delivery, not the Situation Room, but for her it’s all the same. The second I walk in she zeroes in on me.
"Nolan!"
Every head in the warehouse turns for half a second before immediately deciding this isn't their problem.
"We should use our inside voices," I say.
"You should have been here an hour ago," she says.
"I know, but there was an incident at school—"
She cuts me off even though I had this whole explanation ready to go.
"You have another delivery at the Freemont."
"What do you mean 'I have a delivery'?"
"It's on the package," she says, handing it to me.
To Be Delivered by Nolan James.
Well there it is, in black and white.
"This doesn't seem sketch to anyone?" I ask.
But the warehouse is a chaotic mess and no one is paying attention. Which they probably learned a long time ago was the safest option around Morgan.
"And since you're late you get the Heights."
"Morgan—oh god, please, no!"
The Heights is where the bad part of town meets the worst part of town and throws a party. It has a myriad of nicknames—Gotham, Sketchville USA—but there are always packages to be delivered there.
And it's bad.
I mean, my mom let curfew slide a few times growing up, but these are the kids who are allowed to do meth on the front porch.
"You know the deal, so take this to the Freemont and skedaddle on over there and hopefully Oliver Queen meets you when you get there."
We often joke that not even vigilantes risk it down there. It's usually half a pallet worth of packages. The people can't afford decent housing but everyone out there somehow has an Amazon Prime account.
Oh—and they never ever tip.
The only upside is that whoever runs the Heights route gets to use the company van and, with the price of gas, that's always a good thing.
"Well what are you waiting on?"
"Ya know Morgan, you just might be my thirteenth reason."
She doesn't skip a beat.
"Honey, I'm half the people's in here's thirteenth reason."
Like that was something to be proud of.
I put the package in my satchel and by the time I get to the garage where we keep the van, a few guys have just finished loading the packages in the back.
"I was wondering who'd be risking their life today," one of them says.
"Your thoughts and prayers are appreciated," I say.
I hop in the driver's seat, start the engine, and navigate to the Freemont.
By the time I park the van, grab my satchel, and pull the package free, the warehouse chaos has finally started wearing off.
Which is when I actually read the signature slip.
I pull it from my bag.
Well, I'll be damned.
Michael Drum aka Daddy.
Well too bad I can't hang around—he was a good time the last time I was here.
I cross the lobby. It's somewhat busy, but not so much that I spend more than five minutes waiting for the receptionist.
"Can I help you?" she asks.
"Yeah, I have a delivery," I say handing her the signature slip.
She punches a few keys, reads the screen, then looks under the keyboard where she finds a note.
"You're Nolan?" she asks.
"I hope so, that's what people have been calling me for the past 20 years."
She doesn't laugh at my joke, instead, she hands me an envelope. My name is scribbled across the front.
How does he know my full name?
I open it and pull a small card from it. It's hand written.
Open the package when you get upstairs. Give your keys to Tiny—he'll finish your route.
I have so many questions.
Like how does he know I have multiple deliveries? Usually we don't take more than three deliveries at a time. Sometimes four depending on how they're clustered on the map. And we're technically contracted by the bigger companies, so if they get too many complaints about missed or late deliveries, it puts our contract in jeopardy.
So Morgan would rather send three people to the same geographical region than just one just in case.
"Um, who's Tiny?"
Before she can answer, I hear a voice behind me. It's deep and raspy.
"I'm Tiny," he says.
I turn around and the man standing in front of me is at least 6'4" and 240 pounds and absolutely the antithesis of 'tiny'.
"Well, that's an ironic name," I say.
"I'll take the keys," he says.
"You will?"
"You have a job to do, and so do I," he says, his hand still outstretched.
The only reason I hand him the keys is because Daddy has carefully orchestrated all of this and I'm not about to screw with it after the oh-so-generous tip he dropped on me the last time I was here.
In the elevator, the same bellhop turns the key to the penthouse and we're moving. He doesn't say anything, just watches the numbers tick up.
When the doors open, it's dark and dimly lit.
"Have a good day, sir," he says before pressing the button to close the doors as I step into the foyer.
As soon as the elevator closes, a light to my right turns on.
It's a small restroom.
I open the package and check it for any other hidden notes. It's a small box. I open it.
Inside is something I wasn't expecting to find—a jockstrap.
At least now the restroom makes sense.
I go in, shut the door, and notice a small basket sitting on the toilet.
Just big enough to fit all my clothes.
Something tells me that when Daddy sees me, all he wants to see is me wearing this jockstrap.
And if he's tipping like he was last week, I'd walk in there naked.
I strip down, put all my stuff in the basket, and slide the jockstrap on. It fits snug. It's white with a thick waistband. I adjust the straps under my ass, check myself in the mirror, and step back into the foyer.
Then one of the recessed lights above turns on.
It's a soft amber glow.
It turns off and one a few feet away lights up.
Then another.
What are we on—an airplane?
Nevertheless, I follow the lights. They round the corner and go past the room I was in last time.
The light stops a few doors down.
I turn back and notice the sequence of lights doing the same thing.
They've stopped at this door for a reason.
Do I knock?
I should knock.
No—I shouldn't knock.
He would've said something by now.
Am I about to meet a serial killer? Because if I die in a jockstrap—I guess it wouldn't matter, but still.
I open the door.
The room is dimly lit and the music is a little louder. It's a large space with floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, and a king-size bed in the middle.
The lights turn up, but just a little, and there's Daddy, sitting in a chair next to the bed.
"Well aren't you a sight," he says.
He's wearing a silk robe that's not closed, but his legs are crossed so I don't really see anything.
"Are you coming over?" he asks.
For some reason I can't bring myself to speak—at least not aloud.
As I get closer, I notice a tray on the table next to the chair.
There's three pictures in the tray.
Each is a headshot of a guy.
They look close to my age.
And there are numbers at the bottom of each.
"What's this?" I ask.
"Just a few guys who like to come around," he says, sounding ominous.
"Of their free will I hope?" I ask, half serious.
"You don't recognize them?" he asks.
I look at the pictures again.
"No—should I?"
"Well they all go to your school and they all picked you."
"What do you mean they picked me?"
"There used to be ten, and these three picked you. I assumed because of the ten, these three went to school with you."
I look at the pictures again.
Nothing.
It's a big school and I tend to keep a low profile.
Well at least when I'm not trying to set the Chem lab on fire.
He leans in a little closer.
"So which one do you pick?"
"Pick for what?"
I look at the photos again.
They're all good looking—correction, they're all hot.
And not just hot as in 'wow,' I mean 'does this guy also work as an Aeropostale model?' hot.
"Daddy was hoping for a little show."
"A show?"
His smirk matches my own and I don't even realize I'm smirking until I see my reflection in the mirror next to the bed.
I look at the photos again. They're just headshots so I can't tell what their bodies look like, but if they're here somewhere and got roped into something with Daddy, then they have to be fucking studs.
I sit on the arm of the chair and put my hand on Daddy's thigh and, in this almost innocent voice, I say, "Daddy, why don't you choose for me?"
And the smile that forms across his face—it's the same smile they talk about on those Dateline specials where they say the dead person had a smile that really lit up the room.
He picks up the phone and mumbles something I can't quite make out.
A few moments later, a door on the other side of the room opens and a guy steps inside.
He's about my age, maybe a little older, a little shorter and a little leaner than me. Strong features. Dirty blond hair. Broad shoulders without being bulky.
And even though he's leaner, he's still got enough muscle and a nice rack of abs to make me immediately aware of the fact that I'm standing here in nothing but a jockstrap.
He stops just inside the doorway like he's waiting for instructions.
Or permission.
Then his eyes land on me.
And just like that, the whole room somehow feels smaller.
"Hi," he says gently.
A beat.
"Um, hi," I say, a little reticent.
He walks over tentatively and I get a better look at him. He's also wearing a jockstrap and his has is filling it out just nicely.
Damn.
He's hot.
Not in the polished, intimidating way Daddy is hot.
This is different.
Softer.
Approachable.
Like the kind of guy you accidentally develop a crush on halfway through the semester and then spend three months pretending not to stare at during lectures.
"Do you wanna sit down?" he asks, gesturing to the bed.
I don't answer. I just get up from the arm of the chair and walk over and sit next to him.
The mattress dips beneath our weight.
"You're cuter in person," he says.
"Thanks, uh, so are you," I reply.
He smiles at that.
Not cocky.
Almost relieved.
"I'm Matthew," he says.
"Nolan."
"Can I tell you something?"
I don't know if he wants to tell me something or ask me something.
"Sure," I say.
"I was really hoping you'd pick me," he says. "I've seen you around campus a few times. I always wanted to say something but never really had the nerve."
"Really?" I ask, incredulously.
"Yeah, I'm kinda shy," he says, placing his hand on my thigh.
I look down instinctively and then back to him.
There's a glint of something in his eye.
Nerves maybe.
Or anticipation.
He goes to move his hand, but I grab it.
"No—it's okay," I say.
His fingers relax beneath mine.
"Are you sure?" he asks, tentatively.
"I'm sure," I say leaning in to kiss him, but then I remember that Daddy is watching and I pull back.
I look over my shoulder. His robe is open and his hand slowly stroking his cock.
Fuck.
Now I'm starting to stiffen up.
"Just pretend I'm not here," he says, then he picks up a remote and dims the lights.
I've never kissed another guy while someone else watched like this, and somehow that makes everything feel more electric.
Not embarrassing.
Not awkward.
Heightened.
Like every sound in the room suddenly matters more.
"Where were we?" I ask, and before I can answer my own question, his lips are on mine.
The kiss is anything but gentle.
He grabs the side of my neck and pulls me into him like he's been waiting all night to do it. His mouth moves against mine with this reckless familiarity that immediately throws me off balance.
There's a certain kind of confidence to it.
Like we've done this a hundred times before.
I barely have time to catch up before his hand slides along my waist and settles against the small of my back, pulling me closer across the mattress.
The kiss deepens fast. Teeth. Breath. The soft sound of our mouths parting and reconnecting in the dim room.
He's kissing me like we got married six months ago and I have to work to keep up.
The sounds of kissing, wet and rhythmic, are doing something to me.
"Fuck," I say between kisses.
I reach down and grab his ass.
Jesus Christ.
It's soft and muscular at the same time, the kind of ass that feels unfair beneath your hands. My fingers spread instinctively, pulling him tighter against me.
Wait.
I really want to bury my face in it.
I pull him farther onto the bed and roll over on top of him, kissing him deeper. He's moaning now, soft at first, then louder when I drag my mouth across his jaw and down the side of his neck.
The sounds he's making are making me even hornier than I already am.
"Mmhm, yeah, yeah," he moans.
Then I hear Daddy.
A low groan escapes from the darkness.
As I kiss Matthew's neck, I glance over and see him sitting back in the chair. He's mostly lost in the shadows, one hand stroking himself slowly, the other draped lazily over the armrest.
He looks like he's filming one of those anonymous interviews on 60 Minutes.
"Does Daddy like that?" I ask.
"Daddy likes it a little too much," he says. "I'm leaking all over myself."
Fuck.
That's hot.
If you would've asked me two weeks ago if I would ever be doing something like this, the answer would've been a resounding no.
But here I am, making out with a guy I met less than ten minutes ago while a man old enough to be my dad watches from the corner of the room and strokes himself like this is his favorite movie.
And honestly?
I get it.
I'd watched some daddy porn the last couple of days and yeah, it was hot as fuck.
But this—being here, hearing the sounds, feeling Matthew underneath me while Daddy watches us through the dark—this is something else entirely.
I lean down and start kissing and sucking on Matthew's nipple.
He lets loose another moan.
"Shit—fuck!" he cries out.
I look up and see Daddy stroking a little harder now. That big thick cock barely fits inside his hand.
Fuck.
How is this real life?
Matthew grabs me suddenly and flips me onto my back.
I was paying so much attention to Daddy, I let my guard down.
Matthew kisses me again, sloppier this time, hungrier, before he starts kissing down my chest.
Slowly.
His lips drag lower and lower while his hands move over my stomach.
I toss my head back and catch sight of Daddy again, still stroking himself, but now one finger is pinching one of his nipples.
Without even thinking about it, I squeeze both of mine in response.
My breath hitches instantly.
"Uh, fuck," I gasp.
Then Matthew kisses just below my navel while both hands reach for the waistband of the jock.
"Yeah, Matt, just like that," Daddy says. "Take your time with him."
Matthew glances toward him for half a second before looking back at me.
Then he slowly slides the jockstrap off and my cock springs free.
Cool air brushes against it for all of maybe one second.
It's already leaking precum.
"Uhmm, fuck," I cry out.
"Yeah, thatta boy," Daddy says, a little louder this time.
Matthew grabs my cock and strokes it a few times before licking the tip.
Slow.
Curious.
Like he's figuring out exactly what makes me react.
Then he swallows the whole thing.
"Arrugh, fuck!" I cry.
Matthew has one hand on my chest, and the other is stroking my cock, twisting it as he sucks me.
And damn can he suck a cock.
He's making these noises—sloppy, wet noises every time he pulls back down my length. My balls tense up each time he goes deeper, his throat working around me while his fingers tighten just enough to make me shudder.
"Shit!" I say. "You're so fucking good at that."
He hums around my cock and takes the hand that was planted on my chest and reaches into his own jock, freeing his cock and starting to stroke it.
Fuck that's—just fuck.
The sight of him jerking himself off while he sucks me almost short-circuits my brain.
"Daddy?" I say, tossing my head back. "You like the way he sucks my cock?"
The sentence gets choked off on a moan.
"Daddy likes what he's seeing, his two boys getting along, playing with each other," he says, stroking his cock. "You boys are having so much fun."
"Yeah, Daddy," says Matthew, coming up for air. "So much fun."
Then he drops his head back down and starts sucking my cock again.
And somehow he's even better at it now.
The way he works his tongue, the way he uses just the right amount of pressure, the way he moves me around every part of his mouth. The way he uses his spit to soak it up. The way he laps up the precum before it can drip.
There's hunger in the downstroke.
Something almost needy in the way he takes me back in.
He wants my cock in a way no one has in a long while.
And now I feel like I should repay the favor.
"Get up here," I say.
He sucks a few more times, his head bobbing a little longer like he doesn't want to stop yet.
Then he finally pulls off with a wet sound, spit and precum stretching in thin strings from his lips to my cock before breaking.
His chest rises and falls hard as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Fuck.
The sight of him like that almost does me in by itself.
I pull him into a filthy, sloppy kiss, licking his spit and my precum into both our mouths.
"You boys are really turning Daddy on!" he says.
"Bend over, and look at Daddy," I say.
He does as he's told. He crawls up the edge of the bed on all fours. Daddy's still stroking and I move into position behind him.
Using both hands, I spread his cheeks apart.
Damn, that's a beautiful hole.
I consider myself a bottom, but I've been known to fuck a guy or two's brains out every once in a while.
"You like what you see?" asks Daddy.
"Yessir," I say.
"What are you gonna do with it?" he asks.
I answer by spitting.
Right dead center of his hole.
I work it a little with my finger, watching it pucker under the soft touch of my fingertip.
Matthew lets out a soft moan.
"Mmhhmm, yeah, that feels good," he says.
"Know what feels even better?" I ask, like he doesn't already know what's coming.
"What's that—"
My tongue is in his hole before he can even finish the sentence.
"Fuck!"
"Holy shit," says Daddy. "Look at you."
I can't see him, but I can hear him moaning. I can hear the slick sound of his precum-soaked strokes.
Daddy's been edging himself this whole time and I'm gonna do whatever I can to send him right over the edge and straight into oblivion.
"Mmhm, yeah, mhm," Matthew moans.
I move my tongue in wild circles, throwing every move I know at him, even going so far as to use my tongue to write his name.
The salty, sweaty taste has my cock hard as a rock.
"Mmhm," I groan.
I press my tongue in and out of his hole, fucking him with it.
He tastes so fucking good.
He reaches back and pulls my head deeper into his ass.
"Ooh, I think you like that," says Daddy.
"Mhhm, fuck, yeah, Daddy, he's eating my ass so good."
I lick, I lap, I prod, I suck, then on top of that I smack his ass a few times.
His moans deepen, turning into pleas.
"Nolan, fuck me, I want you to fuck me," he says, begging me.
Yes, he's begging.
His nice wet hole is hungry for some dick.
No one has ever begged to be fucked like this. Maybe I've done some begging in my day, but he wants it.
He needs it and he needs it from me.
He needs my cock to fill his hole, to fuck him good.
To fuck him crazy.
I lift up, massaging his ass, mentally preparing myself.
I grab my dick. It's still soaked from where he tried to suck the soul right out of my body.
I spit in my hand, allowing it to mix with the precum that's already there and the precum that's beading up just from touching myself.
Or maybe it's not precum.
Maybe I've already cum a little.
But it still feels so good.
I line myself up and press my cock into his waiting hole. His hole that's been craving this since I first touched him.
"Fuck yeah," says Daddy. "You gonna fuck him good?"
"Yeah, Daddy," I say, pushing all the way inside, a moan bursting from his lips. "I'm gonna fuck him real good for you."
"Ahh, fuck!"
I thrust hard, again and again.
"Mmhm, ahh, ahh, oomph, mhm, fuck—fuck!"
Matthew's moans come in time with each thrust.
"Yeah, baby, fuck me harder," he says.
And I, being the civil servant that I am, oblige him.
I grab both his hips and drive my cock inside him. I watch Daddy. He's stroking harder and panting.
"Yeah, fuck him for Daddy! Fuck him for Daddy!"
"You like watching me fuck his tight little hole, Daddy? You like this?"
"Fuckin' hell!" Daddy yells.
He's stroking so hard right now.
And I'm fucking in time with his strokes, or at least I'm trying to. But the more I pump into him, the closer I get. His hole is slick and tight and it feels so good.
"Damn, you've got a nice hole," I say, still pumping away.
"Fuck! Fuck!" he cries out. "Fuck me! I love your dick!"
His hole feels like it was made for my dick. The way it feels inside, it fits like a glove. His muscles contract around my cock and I nearly come undone.
"Yeah, yeah, fuck, keep going, don't stop!"
"You heard him, keep fucking him!"
"Like this, Daddy?"
I fuck him some more.
"Yeah, just like that—shit!"
The next few unbelievable moments are truly the things dreams are made of.
We watch Daddy cum—hard.
"Holy shit!" he yells, as rope after rope of cum shoots up onto his chest and over the top of his hand.
"Fuck! I'm gonna cum," I say.
"Good," says Matthew. "Cum inside me, breed me!"
"Fuck!" says Daddy, who's nearly spent but still enjoying the show.
"Come on Nolan, breed me—breed me like I'm your little bitch."
My stomach tightens as the feeling coils inside me. My balls constrict and I feel the wave of everything I've been building toward come to a head.
I grip him tighter as the release comes.
"Oh shit! I'm cumming!"
I feel my load squirt deep inside him. I drive inside one last time and still, the pulsing wave overtaking me.
"Oh fuck!" says Matthew. "I feel it, fuck it's so much!"
I can't exactly tell, but I know it's a lot.
I look over at Daddy, his robe draped open, his cock starting to soften.
"Goddamn that was good," he says.
"Fuck, that was incredible," I say. "You liked that, Daddy."
"That was great. You boys sure made Daddy proud tonight."
Both Matthew and I are breathing heavy, slick with sweat in the cool air.
"Now, pull out, let's see that load," says Daddy.
I slowly pull my cock free to a light popping sound.
Matthew is still on all fours, and a few moments later, my load comes drizzling out, slow at first, then spurts of it.
Out of his hole, down the crack of his ass, over the back of his jock-covered balls, and onto the bed.
"Damn, look at that," says Daddy. "You feel empty without that load in ya?"
"Yessir," says Matthew, still panting.
"I'm gonna take a shower. Why don't you boys get cleaned up? I left something for ya by the elevator."
Daddy rises from the chair slowly, still flushed from the orgasm, his robe hanging open just enough to flash the heavy outline of his softening cock before he disappears into the adjoining bathroom. A second later the shower turns on behind the closed door, the rush of water muffled beneath the low music still drifting through the room.
For a moment neither Matthew nor I move. We just sit there catching our breath, sweat cooling against our skin while the adrenaline slowly settles out of us.
Then Matthew laughs softly under his breath.
"Well," he says, running a hand back through his messy hair, "that was definitely better than studying for midterms."
I laugh too, still a little dazed. "Understatement of the century."
Matthew and I take towels and wipes from the dresser and clean ourselves up. The wipes are warm somehow, probably heated ahead of time because apparently Daddy plans for everything.
I catch Matthew watching me once or twice while we clean up, both of us still standing around in nothing but jockstraps and post-orgasm haze. The tension between us is softer now. Less frantic. More curious.
Still in our jocks, we head out into the foyer. Our clothes are waiting in baskets just outside the elevator exactly where Daddy said they'd be. Everything is folded neatly, right down to my socks.
We get dressed mostly in silence, though it isn't awkward silence. More like the kind that settles after something intense—two people still trying to process what just happened.
At the bottom of both baskets are white envelopes.
Written in the same handwriting as the note from earlier.
Here's a tip. Thanks for the show.
I crack the envelope open.
Jesus Christ.
That is a lot of one hundred dollar bills.
"Damn," says Matthew, peeking over. "He really wasn't kidding."
"Daddy never kids," I say, like I've known him longer than two weeks instead of exactly two visits.
Matthew laughs under his breath while folding the envelope closed again.
The elevator arrives a few moments later with a soft ding. We step inside together and the doors slide shut.
The ride down feels strangely normal considering what we just did upstairs. We make a little small talk, talk about school, classes, where we usually hang out on campus. We exchange numbers too because honestly, who knows? Maybe this becomes a normal thing.
Maybe I want it to.
"Does this make us prostitutes?" he asks.
"Well we didn't pay each other."
"True."
"Besides, does it matter?" I laugh.
"Honestly, nope."
When we reach the lobby, we walk off in separate directions—him toward the parking structure, me toward the spinning door of death out front.
The second I step outside, Tiny pulls up to the curb in the delivery van like he's been waiting for me the whole time.
He climbs out of the driver's seat and tosses me the keys.
"All done," he says.
"Really?"
"You really still that amazed by how things work around here?"
I shake my head, laughing a little. "You're totally right."
I take the keys, hop back into the van, and pull away from the hotel.
Morgan thinks she punished me with a trip to the Heights.
Little does she know I just had the time of my life.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Substack.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
