Daddies, p.10
Daddies, page 10
Larry Wayne exploded with an outburst of renewed energy, shaking the bed violently enough to make Ralph jump. The flurry of movement widened the part in his bathrobe; Tag stole a look at the expanse of hairy flesh, the bloated balls, the swollen tube of the old fucker’s meaty dick. He even glanced at the twisting blue worm of the giant vein stitched along its topside. How often had he imagined that vein telegraphing Larry Wayne’s heartbeats while lodged deep within his asshole, their cadence pulsing through his core,
“Um…” Ralph stuttered, his gaze aimed between the legs of the struggling prisoner; even limp, Larry Wayne’s cock was impressive. “This shit’s what we call snap-set, meaning we need to follow a workable timetable, or all we’ll end up with is a blob that looks nothing like a dick.”
“What do you need?” Tag asked.
“For a start, he needs to be completely erect.”
“Not a problem.”
“I mean, ragingly stiff.”
“Let me reiterate,” Tag said, flashing a cocksure smile that was dangerous and determined enough to ease Ralph’s concern. “That won’t be an issue. What else?”
“Warm water. I’ve got the rest in my kit. I just need to mix, pour into the molding container, and then we insert his dick. Takes a few seconds to set.”
“Understood,” Tag said. “Give me a few minutes with my ex. You do what you need to do. You can use the kitchen. Heads up, though—it’s as big a mess as the rest of the place. I’ll call you back in when he’s good to go.”
Ralph shuffled in place. “You’re sure you can get him up?”
Tag drew in a deep breath of the male-stink in the air, swept his focus into the tantalizing no-man’s land between Larry Wayne’s spread legs, and grinned. Could he ever. “You’re talking to Taggert Lawrence, pal,” Tag growled menacingly. “Who once bottomed bareback for thirty-five hung tops in Tag, You’re It! and still has the asshole tightness of an eighteen-year-old virgin. Anybody else, their shitter would be flapping in the breeze. Can I fluff this mean son of a bitch’s meat into throwing the most amazing boner in the history of the planet? Fuckin’ right, I can!”
“Let me know when he’s ready. The rest should go fairly fast,” Ralph said. He hurried out of the room.
Tag watched him retreat from sight. Tense seconds later, he turned and faced Larry Wayne.
“Well, isn’t this something? How long has it been since the last time we were alone together, in your bed?” Tag asked. There was very little humor in the chuckle that accompanied the question. He forced his gaze to intersect with Larry Wayne’s cold blue stare. The angry man’s eyes were moist and unblinking but devoid of tears. Larry Wayne didn’t cry, never had. “Don’t look at me like that, like you aren’t going to enjoy knowing how many times I’ll be sticking that fat, fake dick up my cunt. Cunt. That’s what you always called it. Sticking it up my cunt and moaning your name when I did. Did you think I’d be able to forget what it felt like to have your dick tear through my asshole after I left this house?”
Larry Wayne’s frigid blue eyes didn’t blink, but they misted as they locked with Tag’s.
From the periphery, Tag detected a stir of motion from between Larry Wayne’s spread legs. The fucker was throwing wood, predictable as ever.
“I’ve sucked and ridden a lot of cock. Tag Lawrence, your former cunt, got filthy rich by letting horse-hung studs pop off in his sweet, young asshole. Hell, I’m a movie star. At last count, there are something like two hundred unauthorized fan sites on the Web devoted to me. To this—” He shook the reawakened bulge in his seersuckers. Then he turned around. “To this cunt.”
Tag pushed down his shorts, baring tight, gym-toned muscle. He spread his cheeks wide and backed the trimmed bullet hole at their center right up to Larry Wayne’s face. The old bastard grunted something that could have been disgust, or lust, or equal parts both.
“Take a sniff,” Tag growled, going as close as the edge of the mattress would allow.
Larry Wayne rocked his face toward the wall.
“Oh, come on, don’t be shy. It’s not the first time you’ve sniffed around there, like a rabid dog. I’d let you taste it, but I don’t want the trouble of shoving that dirty sock back in your mouth. I remember how much you love to bite…as anyone who’s jerked off to one of my movies can attest, since your dental records are still plastered all over my ass.”
Tag toyed with his hole. He licked a fuck-finger, inserted it, licked it again.
“I think there’s still some load up there from a dude who fucked me in the airport bathroom a few hours ago. Total stranger I met on the plane.”
Tag probed again, then smeared the moist finger under Larry Wayne’s nostrils. The old fucker protested and fought against his bindings. The bed quaked mightily. When he’d finished screaming himself raw and was again silent, Tag hitched up his shorts.
“It’ll be great to have that fake dick of yours to split me whenever I want. I have to confess, as sick as this sounds, you were the best I ever had. The most unforgettable. I’ve taken more than five hundred different dicks inside me, at one end or the other, since our last time together. But it’s you I think about when I jerk off, you nasty fucker.”
The bound man’s merciless stare narrowed; processing this revelation, perhaps?
Tag figured he’d have to go down on Larry Wayne to get him fully up. Just like old times. But all it had taken was that wag of bare asshole accompanied by his little dissertation to accomplish it. Larry Wayne’s cock had log-rolled down his stomach and was jutting straight up through the folds of his open bathrobe. Two enormous, loose balls oozed beneath a lush cover of silver crotch hair, looking to Tag like puddles of melted flesh.
“Fuck.” Tag sighed. Just as he remembered.
He sucked on Larry Wayne anyway.
The taste. The smell…this kind of stink wasn’t something you got in the scrubbed-clean world of gay porn, because men arrived to porn sets with their toenails clipped and their crotches shaved clean and everything neat and orderly. This was the musk of loads ejaculated and left to dry on hairy balls. The cheesy odor of a dick never shaken out after pissing. The sour-sweet smell of beer leaching through pores. The sweat and dirt of real sex with a real man. Larry Wayne was a real man.
It all came back to Tag as he lowered between his prisoner’s legs and wrapped his lips around the straining head of Larry Wayne’s monstrous dick. He’d once measured the behemoth: eleven long, almost six around at its thickest. No dick in the porn biz had ever made him gag, because by the time a sleazy director in North Hollywood had discovered him waiting tables, Tag Lawrence had had the tears and the gagging fucked or beaten out of him. Hell, Larry Wayne McCallister had even stuffed his policeman’s club up Tag’s cunt, and he’d taken it without so much as a whimper. After eleven inches and countless anal rapings, what was a length of polished wood? Tag could probably take a baseball bat up his asshole; he’d taken an entire baseball team in one of the director’s bestselling orgy movies.
Larry Wayne seized beneath him, grunting more sock-filtered gobbledygook as Tag licked his balls and toyed with his blood-engorged erection. Tag sniffed, sucked, and lapped his way higher, steadily climbing toward the magnificent cock’s summit. Once there, he brushed gummy snowmelt out of its piss-hole. Then it was a steady plunge down.
Tag took Larry Wayne all the way to the balls, and whatever limited protests Larry Wayne started to stage over the forced knob polishing ended abruptly. Tag glanced up to see the old bastard’s eyelids had finally lowered, and that he was smiling around a mouthful of sweaty black sock.
“He’s ready,” Tag bellowed.
Ralph hurried back into the room, holding the precious mold between gloved hands. The trance Larry Wayne had fallen into broke. He began to buck on the bed.
“You have to hold him still,” Ralph said.
Easier said than done. Tag did his best. In the process, he slipped a hand under the old fucker’s hard, hairy ass to steady him. Larry Wayne’s beat cop butt was still the square expanse of solid marble he so intimately remembered; he’d been ordered to lick the funk from between those cheeks often enough.
“Cut the shit, or I swear I’ll fuck you myself,” Tag threatened. “Right here and now, I’ll whip it out and pop you in the shitter and split you wide open, you fuck!”
To drive home this point, Tag drove in a finger. Larry Wayne howled through the sock at the unexpected invasion. Tag had never fucked and never would fuck another man’s asshole. He got fucked, not the other way around. But for a second, the threat had no small amount of appeal. It also worked. Larry Wayne settled back on the bed and allowed Ralph to pop the old man’s cock into the mold.
Tag withdrew his finger from the tightest asshole he’d ever encountered.
“We’re in business, my friend,” Ralph said.
“You’re sure you got it?”
“If I were a betting man, I’d wager right down to that fat blue vein on the top of his Johnson.”
Relieved, Tag sucked in a deep breath and smiled. “I love that fuckin’ vein.”
“I’ve done this once or twice, ya know,” Ralph said, no longer scaling back on the modesty. “I got enough of a body cast for his balls, too, and they’re about the hardest thing to get right on a man.”
“You rock, amigo.”
“Give me till the end of the week, once I’m home in LA and I’m caught up after this damn adult convention. I still have to finish up with the official Rolfe Rimmer dildo. You know Rolfe?”
“Yeah, he’s rimmed me,” Tag chuckled. “Twice.”
“So once that’s off my plate, I can give this puppy my complete attention.”
“Can’t wait. Safe trip, man.”
They exchanged one of those manly hugs—arms clapping backs, faces and more importantly crotches at a respectable distance. Then, not sure why, Tag pulled Ralph into a tight embrace, ground groins with him, and planted a hard kiss full on his lips.
He let Ralph try to blow him on the old man’s dirty couch, though after ten minutes of sucking and failure to arouse his dick out of its limpness, Tag offered up his hole. Then it was Ralph’s turn to go soft. Eventually, they dragged up their pants, two bottoms trapped between the sexual brackets where they—and gay society—had marginalized them.
“So, what…” Ralph asked at the door, his voice grim, barely above the whisper line. “What’s your ex-lover…dying of?”
“He’s rotting from the inside out,” Tag answered. “It’s been there, untreated, for a long time. But because of you, the best part of him will live on forever, immortalized in latex.”
Tag had no trouble getting his dick up after locking the door behind Ralph. Larry Wayne’s cock tasted funky from the casting alginate even after he washed it clean with a facecloth and warm water, so Tag took the first of the fucker’s loads up his asshole. The natural oils of his most private inner place made Larry Wayne’s monster tool taste better the next time around.
Tag worked two more loads of yogurt out of his prisoner. He swallowed the second and milked the third into a condom, careful to tie it tightly for his return trip to the Hollywood hills.
While Larry Wayne lay spent and spread-eagled on the bed, Tag tore through the rest of the house, cleaning, wiping up prints, and planting evidence. Luckily, the old man was still predictable, as he’d always been. In the hall closet, where Larry Wayne stored his uniform and cuffs, Tag found the gun belt.
He returned to the bedroom’s swampy stink brandishing the service revolver. Larry Wayne began to scream. By the time Tag had inserted the revolver’s barrel all the way up the old prick’s asshole, his voice had cracked.
“Bang,” Tag said, and pulled the trigger.
The package appeared on Tag’s doorstep the following Saturday morning. Hands shaking, Tag raced into his elegant bungalow high in the hills overlooking Hollywood. He hadn’t been this excited since Christmas morning when he was a kid. Well, not really—that was an expression for other people. Tag Lawrence hadn’t had any Christmas mornings growing up. Not a single one.
Tag tore off his clothes on the way to the master bedroom with its multimillion-dollar view, and very nearly yanked off the expensive blinds in his frenzy to close the room to the outside world. Getting the package open was another bitch of a task, given the shaking of his hands.
“Katharine-fuckin’-Parkinson’s-Hepburn,” Tag grumbled out loud. Eventually, he succeeded in tearing the top of the package open.
The custom dildo rested inside atop a nest of packing peanuts. A note was curled around its root, just above the fat latex balls, like a cock ring made out of paper. Tag tossed the note and the rest of the package onto the floor, spilling Styrofoam peanuts and not caring. Just seeing the cock bewitched him. He knew it intimately, every bump and vein. Ralph had done an impeccable job of reproducing it. It was perfect.
In a daze, Tag settled onto the bed, naked, his dick aroused to its full ten inches. He reached into the nightstand’s top drawer. Among the bottles of expensive lube, the little black book filled with phone numbers, and the framed photo of Officer Larry Wayne McCallister dressed in his police uniform that Tag often masturbated to, he found the sealed condom.
The condom’s contents had gone cold and sour, smelling like dirty sweat socks, since Tag had milked them out of the old bastard’s dick. Even so, Tag lovingly, carefully lathered up the head of the monstrous dildo with Larry Wayne’s final ejaculation. Then he inserted it into his cunt. The dildo filled him like an old friend.
“Fuck me, Daddy,” Tag moaned. “Breed my tight cunt, just like you always used to…”
MISSING DADDY
Xan West
(For B., my favorite cubby faggot)
I miss Daddy. It’s just that simple. And not just him—I miss who I was back then. A chubby cub novice, eager, hungry, open. We are supposed to graduate, you know. Those of us whose path to the top begins at the bottom. We are supposed to realize that we have now arrived at where we were headed all along. That we have grown from boy to Daddy in a way that is so fine, so right, where we paid our dues, and never look back with longing.
The secret truth of it is this: many of us who moved to the other side of the whip did it to approximate what we had longed for and rarely received. We did it not because we had grown up slowly, nurtured by Daddy and now mature, but because we decided to grow up on our own and stop yearning for that kind of Daddy, and get our pleasure instead from being that Daddy to some lucky boy. No one tells those stories, except quietly, to others who tread similar paths. It would not do to talk of the ways we suffered from neglect, betrayal, abandonment, and flat-out abuse as bottoms. It would rip open our mythology, and make our boys doubt our desire for them.
Theo was before all that. When I was fresh faced, and barely twenty-four. When I still thought that the hard part was figuring out I was a Daddy’s boy. When I was hopeful and certain in my desires. When I still felt whole.
Theo was my first Daddy. If he was still around, things might be different for me. He was forty-one, an experienced top, a large bear of a man with knowing eyes. This Daddy could see into me, past my bravado to my scared little heart. He could read me like no one since. He just knew how to reach right in and find that kernel of pride he wanted to grow in me. He was the sexiest man I had ever seen. In my memory, he is seven feet tall, but I know he was really five-nine. He had reddish-brown skin, chocolate-brown eyes, and a wicked grin. His beard was thick and wild, and that hair traveled all over his considerable frame. He had large precise hands, and if I close my eyes, I can still feel his paw resting firmly on the back of my neck.
I worshipped my Daddy, and he soaked in my adoration as his due. Daddy had been on T for four years. Until I saw him naked, I had not even imagined a transman could get so hairy. His legs were hulking trunks covered in fur, and his belly boasted a wiry wandering maze of hair that prickled my cheek when I rested my head on it. His gravelly growl of a voice rumbled danger. When Daddy talked about who I could become, it seemed very far away. A bare-faced transguy who had not even started testosterone, I wanted to be a boy forever. I didn’t see my future in Daddy; I just saw magic and power that I wanted to worship.
Daddy was a joyous faggot, fully comfortable in his fat body. His unshakeable fat pride steadied my own. He prized me for my size, for my strength, for my pride in myself, and for my ravenous appetite. Daddy was a hedonist, and he taught me the pleasures of indulgence. We could spend hours in the park, lazing in the grass, soaking up the sun, his paw resting possessively on my throat as my head snuggled his furry thigh. We unabashedly cruised together, and he was prone to offering me to his buddies, a loose tribe of faggots, some of them former dykes. They were tough as nails, pleasure seekers who thoroughly took every orifice he offered, and laid their marks across the expanse of my back as if they needed to claim every inch. They fiercely protected their own, and generously shared their bounty with each other. This tribe of queers was made of gloriously twisted kinky fucks, and I ached to belong.
It seemed like Daddy knew everything and everyone. He talked about the scene I only knew from books, and told the best stories, most of which involved some kind of gang bang. Daddy made me feel proud to be a faggot. That affirmation of self threaded through everything. He knew about my fantasies, the way I ached to cruise for public sex but was scared that no one would touch me. He made me jack off as I described being forced to my knees in an alley, being bent over the sink in a public bathroom, kneeling to service cock after cock at a gloryhole.
I was Daddy’s boy for nine glorious months. It’s mostly the little things I remember, like flashes, as I unconsciously imitate him, find myself staring at a boy who reminds me of me back then, or pick up a tool he loved. I am imprinted in ways I am not even aware. Sometimes I close my eyes and I am there, smelling Daddy, the scent of him grabbing me as my head rests on his thigh. When I fuck up, I can almost see him, the way he’d cock one brow and tilt his head when he thought I was overstepping. After a scene, I reach out and stroke my boy on his forehead above his nose, right where Daddy’s thumb would find me and bring me calm. I watch my boy touching the marks my teeth have left on his neck and remember the way I cherished how it would ache when I turned my head after Daddy’s teeth had thoroughly used mine. A delicious reminder. And a public claiming. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I can taste his tongue in my mouth, the raw abraded feel after he ravaged it. In quiet moments, I can hear him growl “Mine!” in my ear.
