Date: Sat, 14 Oct 2023 15:58:15 -0700 From: Jay Spear Subject: Dad's Degenerate Friend (adult-youth) My stories are fiction and intended for readers 18 and up. All characters are assumed to be legal, consenting adults. If you like this story, check out my Patreon! Lots more content there: patreon.com/jayspearstories The Nifty Archive has been a fantastic resource to all of us! Please consider supporting them with a donation: https://donate.nifty.org/. Dad's Degenerate Friend By Jay Spear I overheard Mom and Dad fighting about him. "Johnny is coming to town," Dad said. "He needs some help, just for a little while. I thought we could offer him the downstairs unit." "No! Frank... We'll lose out on some rentals. You know that income is an important part of our budget." "We can make it up." "Besides, I don't really want that man staying with us. He's a degenerate. And a criminal. I'm not comfortable around him. And think of Michael." "I get that you've never really liked him, but we grew up together. He's an important part of my life. He did things for me, took care of me, when I couldn't fend for myself. I owe him." "How long, Frank?" "What?" "How long will he stay?" "A couple of weeks. A month, tops." "OK." She sighed. "Out in a month then." "Thanks, honey." "You're lucky to have me. Don't mess it up." He laughed. "I know, baby, I know." *** And so Johnny moved in. I barely knew who he was. He was just some guy from old photographs when my dad was a kid. Ianni "Johnny" Kalafankis. One of seven kids in a big Greek family. A tough guy from the tough neighborhood my dad grew up in, before Gramps got everybody out and moved the family to the suburbs. "Johnny used to look after me," Dad explained. It was Saturday afternoon and we waited outside the in-law unit for Johnny to arrive. "How do you mean?" "It was a Greek neighborhood until the Puerto Ricans started moving in. Then some others. Italians, Irish. The Greek shop owners ran the neighborhood and the Greek mafia ran the shop owners. The Italians and the Irish played along. For example, Gramps paid in. Kept quiet. He didn't want any trouble. But the Puerto Ricans had the numbers. Almost big enough to rival the Greeks. And so there was tension with them. Posturing, fights." "You got in fights??" "I tried to stay out of them," he sighed. "But the fights found me." "How?" "The Puerto Ricans took over my block. I had to walk through them, the kids, on my way to school. They'd push me around, shove me into the street. They knew that Gramps was allied with the Greeks." "Did you fight them?" "I tried to defend myself." He looked at the ground. "But I wasn't very good." "Did you get beat up?" "At first. But that's where Johnny came in." "How?" "Gramps told the bosses that his boy was getting harassed. Old man Kalafanakis put his boy on me. Johnny became like my protector. He was a tough kid, and Juan and Diego and the others only messed with him once." Dad looked at me and gave a wry grin. "A broken bone makes you think twice." "Jesus! Johnny broke their bones?" "He warned them to leave me alone. Threw some punches. Got in a scrap. Diego kept at it, so Johnny wrestled him to the ground. He pinned the guy's arm behind his back and pulled it tight until he got the promise to leave me alone. When Diego stood back up, we could see it was hanging funny." "Holy shit. You never told me this." "I don't like to talk about it. It was a long time ago. But Johnny kept me alive." "What did you do for him?" "I was his friend, I guess. But I also helped him out a little. Ran errands. Kept watch." "Wait, like in a gang?" "It was the old neighborhood, Mikey. Everyone was in a gang. That's why Gramps moved us to the suburbs as soon as he could." "So how come I've never met this guy, if he was so important to you?" "Different worlds, Mikey. I went to college, he went to prison. For a little while. He was in and out. Petty stuff." "Wow." It was hard to imagine my straight-laced bank manager dad in a gang. Or having friends who had done time. I wanted to ask more questions but we heard the roar of an engine. A large, black motorcycle pulled into the driveway. "Johnny!" Dad called out. Johnny dropped the kickstand and turned off the engine. He pulled off a black helmet with a flaming skull on the side and set it down. "Stinky!" Johnny called out to Dad. He swung his leg over the motorcycle and hopped off. Johnny was tall and lanky, his whole body sinewy, covered in tight, taut muscle. Black tattoos on his arms and chest peeked through his white tank top. One tatt inched its way up the side of his neck. He flashed a smile at Dad, showing glints of metal among the white. A scar tan from the bottom of one eye to mid-cheek. He looked strong, dangerous, sexy. "Can we help with your stuff?" "Haha, Stinky. I travel light." He hoisted a duffel bag off the back. "Just this." "I shoulda known," Dad said. It was strange to hear his grammar slip away. Like someone else was talking. "This is my boy, Michael." Johnny sized me up. "Not bad, Stink. You and Carol did real good here." He eyed the house and let out a low whistle. "You've made something of yourself. Nice house, a family. Didn't spend your years drinkin' and whorin' like me." "Yeah, Carol's a real good influence." "I bet. Anyway, thanks for letting me crash for a bit." "Yeah, of course. Let's get you inside. You can wash up a bit before dinner." "You mean Carol's gonna make me put on a shirt." "Just do your best, Johnny ." Dad laughed. "Here, kid." John threw his bag at me and clapped his arm around dad. "Make yourself useful." I carried the bag and followed them into the in-law unit. *** "So, John," Mom asked. "What kind of work are you planning to do? Maybe I know someone." "Dunno," Johnny scowled. "Odd jobs. Construction. We'll see." He seemed uncomfortable at Mom's dinner table, with the delicate dishes and lacy placemats. He'd cleaned up for us, or at least tried to. His hair was slicked back and he had thrown a blue collared shirt over his tank top. It was wrinkled from being wadded up in his duffel bag and he didn't bother to tuck it into his jeans. He sawed off a big chunk of pork chop and stuffed it into his mouth. He was still chewing it while he spoke. "Don't you worry, though, Carol. I always find a way to make money." Mom grimaced and took a sip of her chardonnay. John shot a mischievous smile at my dad and grabbed the bottle of red. He filled his wine glass back to the top and took a big swallow. "Won't take long to get back on my feet and then I'll be out of your hair." "No rush," Dad said. I felt Mom kick him under the table. "I'm sure," Mom began, "you have family and friends you'd like to get back to." "Not really." John shoveled creamed corn into his mouth and swallowed. "Pops is dead. I see my sisters sometimes, but we're not close anymore. When I spent all that time `away' upstate, it made it hard for us to stay close." John tore into a dinner roll, taking a huge bite and ripping off the rest. He grabbed his knife and spread mounds of butter on it. "And my best friends are still in the slammer. So not much there. A phone call once in a while. These guys don't write letters." He chuckled. Mom's voice was slow and strained. "It must be hard not to be able to count on close relationships. You know, to help you through things." "I'm not really a relationships kind of guy." He spoke through his last bites of pork chop. "More of a love `em and leave `em type." He flashed a wolf grin at us before swallowing down that last bite. Johnny pushed away his plate and sat back in his chair. "That was really good, Carol. Haven't had a home cooked meal in quite a while." He rustled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He removed one and put it between his lips. "You can't smoke in here! You'll need to go outside." Johnny shrugged and stood up. He looked at my father. The unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. "No worries. I know who the boss is here." He turned back to Mom and smirked. "Happy to play by your rules, Carol." I watched him saunter to the door, his lanky frame hanging off those strong, wide shoulders. *** Mom and Dad spoke in hushed tones while I washed up the dishes. It was hard to hear over the running water, but I strained to listen anyway. "How long, Frank? He makes me nervous." "It will be fine." "But what about..." I couldn't make out the rest of her sentence. "He doesn't do that anymore. He says been clean for two years now." "Still, this is our house and we have a young kid." "He's not that young. Michael can take care of himself. He's got a good head on his shoulders. Johnny's not going to make a difference." "The minute he--" "He won't. And besides, I grew up in that world, and I turned out fine." "One month, no more." The roar of an engine made us all stop and look up. It revved a few times--Johnny's motorcycle--and then took off down the street. "Of course," Mom muttered to Dad. "He doesn't have enough for his own place, but I suppose he's got plenty for booze and whores." Dad winced and Mom just shook her head. *** The roar of his motorcycle woke me up. 3:10 AM. Muffled voices and feminine laughter. Fumbling at the door. The house's in-apartment was right below my bedroom. I could hear everything. The thumps, the groans, the moans. The banging of the bed frame against the wall. Some growling from him. Moans from her. She made a shrieking, screaming sound when he was really giving it to her. There was a loud roar from him when he came. I couldn't hear what sounds she made when SHE came. If she came. I sensed that Johnny was the kind of guy to just go for his nut. Maybe she came, maybe she didn't come; it was probably all the same to him. I heard the door close. She wouldn't be staying over. I turned on the lamp and looked down. There was a puddle of cum on my sheets. I had come too, just listening to the whole performance. *** I kept an eye out for Johnny all morning but he didn't show. It had been a late night and he slept through lunch. He finally resurfaced in the afternoon. I spotted him in front of the garage, working on his bike. I went out with a glass of lemonade. "Here. Thought you might want this. It's hot." He looked up and wiped some grease on his jeans. "You got anything stronger than that?" "Stronger?" "Like a beer." "I don't think we have any beer in the house. They only drink wine." "Figures," he muttered. He went back to work. "Need any help?" "You know anything about motorcycles?" "No." "Not much of an offer then, right, bub?" "I guess. I was just being nice." "Yeah, you seem like the nice type." He worked in silence for several minutes. I didn't know what to say to him, and he wasn't helping. Maybe I should go. But... "What is prison like?" "Why does a good kid like you wanna know about prison?" "I don't know. You see it in movies. On TV. Is it really like that?" "Depends on the show. Some of them get it right." "Was it difficult?" "Difficult? No. It's fuckin' boring. Nothing to do all day except do your chores, jack off, and wait for the next meal. And dream of freedom again, wishing you had some pussy." "I'll bet." "Was it scary?" "At times. Plenty of bad dudes in there. Gotta have a protector." "I heard that you were Dad's protector growing up." He laughed. "Yeah, I guess I was. But he saved my bacon a couple times too." He took a drag from his cigarette. "But in prison there's always a bigger guy. I mean, there's not much to do in the joint except work out. So some of those guys end up really jacked." "That's what I need." I held out my thin arms. He guffawed. "I don't recommend prison as a `get fit' plan. Easier ways to do it, buddy." He went silent for a minute and his eyes studied me. I felt my mouth get dry. "But yeah," he said, eyeing me up and down, "a skinny guy like you would get eaten alive in prison." I shivered. It was like he could dig into my brain. More than once I had imagined myself in the prison showers, surrounded by Johnny and a bunch of muscled inmates, all of them eyeing me as the soap suds ran down my young, smooth body. "So don't get yourself in prison unless you want to get fucked. Constantly. And I mean used hard by every brute in the place." I blushed. I was like he was reading my fantasy. Or writing it. "OK," I stuttered. "OK, I won't." "Unless that's what you want." His eyes locked on mine as he brought the cigarette to his lips, took a drag, and exhaled. The smoke was right in my face, but I was determined not to cough. "You smoke?" He pulled out the pack and offered it. "No. My mom hates smoking." "You gonna spend your life doing what she wants?" "No." He laughed. "Good boy." "OK, give me one." He pulled one out and handed it to me. I put it in my mouth and he handed me his lighter. I flipped it open and pushed to spark it. But my fingers fumbled. No flame. I tried again. Nothing. I felt my face grow red and flustered. He laughed and took the lighter back. "Here, little man. Like this." He was quicker with his thumb, had the right pressure, and the flame was lit. "Now lean in to it." I moved toward him and brought my mouth up to the flame. "Suck in, take a puff to get it lit." I drew hard and heard the crackle of the tobacco catching fire. I exhaled, releasing a small wisp of smoke. I tried not to cough. "Yep, that's it. Got no problem with the sucking, huh?" Johnny laughed. My cheeks flushed red. "There you go." He stepped away and I tried to ignore the swelling mound in my jeans. "Enjoy your smoke, kid." I didn't. It was kinda of gross. But I did enjoy the moment we'd shared. "Now hand me that wrench." *** My mother smelled it on me later. "Michael! Have you been smoking?" "No. I was helping John with his bike." She sighed. "Please don't hang around him. He's not a good influence." He wasn't a good influence. But he was hot. My cock swelled up at the reminder of the afternoon. The veins on his arms popping out when he tightened a lug nut. His hand touching mine when he took the lighter from me. The way he sized me up when I asked what prison was like. "He's too busy to hang out anyway," I said. "Just stay away." *** Mom got her wish, but not for my lack of trying. Truth is, Johnny wasn't around much. I kept an eye out. Even knocked on his door once to check if he was home, but no answer. He spent his days working, or looking for work, or whatever it was he was doing. And at night he roared out of the driveway and I wouldn't hear him again until 2 or 3 AM. Sometimes it was just the shuffle and bumping of him coming home alone. Other times it was the moans and screams of some woman he brought back. I'd stick my hand down my boxers and listen in as best I could. The sound of the bed knocking against the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump. God, those women were lucky. *** My parents' anniversary came up and they had long had plans to go to a resort for the weekend. "We can still go," Dad said. Mikey is old enough to take care of himself." "I'd think so too, if that degenerate were not here." "Johnny is barely around. And Mikey's a good kid. It's not a problem. Let's go, you deserve this." "We'll, I have been looking forward to it," she admitted." "Come on, Carol. We need our time too." *** They left me with the keys to the car and a couple hundred bucks for groceries. I paged through my cookbook collection. It was a good time to make a classic roast chicken. It would be delicious tonight and I'd have leftovers for the next days. Maybe even make a soup from the bones. I rubbed down the bird with butter, stuffed the cavity with oranges and thyme sprigs, and salted the fuck out of everything. I prepped some vegetables to go in the roasting pan and made a batch of mashed potatoes. The house began to fill with the rich aroma of chicken cooking. The fat rendered down into rich juices that coated the vegetables. My mouth watered. "Smells fucking good!" a voice called out. I whirled around. Johnny. "How did you get in here?" He laughed. "I went to prison, bro. You think I can't open a locked door when I want to?" He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and settled into it, leaning back and splaying his legs. Casual indifference. Entitlement. Confidence. Masculinity. "So what are we having?" "I'm roasting a chicken." "Fantastic. Haven't had much home cooked lately. Your mom hasn't had me back since that first night." "She doesn't like you." "Doesn't matter," he said, stretching back and loudly cracking his shoulders. "You like me, right?" I didn't know what to say to that. "There's enough for two, I guess." "You guess? Don't let your talents go to waste when you can feed a guy." "OK." He got up and rummaged around in the wine rack. "They've got a lot here. What goes well with chicken?" "I don't know. Anything, I guess." "Where's the opener?" "Did you talk with my dad about coming up?" "Do you ask you parents' permission for everything?" "No." "Then get the opener and bring me two glasses." It made me nervous to have him in the house, and I was uneasy that he felt so comfortable inhabiting it. But I didn't want to ask him to leave either. I brought him the cork screw and the glasses. He filled both up to the top. "Here," he said. I hadn't really drunk much before, just small glasses of wine my parents would pour for me at Christmas. I took a small sip and then set it down. I didn't want to lose control. He gulped down half a glass. "This is some good shit," he grinned. "Anyway, don't let me distract you. Finish up and let's eat." He sat back down. But it WAS distracting to have him sitting there, draped over the chair, lazily drinking wine and watching me cook. I didn't know what to say to him, so I tried to focus on meal preparation. "You wanna set the table?" I asked twenty minutes later. "This is almost ready." "Nah, you do it. I'm not very domestic. Besides, I don't know where everything is." That hadn't seemed to stop him so far. He seemed comfortable finding and taking whatever he wanted. I set two places and got out the cloth napkins, folding them in neat triangles on the plate. "See? You were made for this kinda shit." We sat down to eat. He poured himself more wine. I was still taking tiny sips from my first glass. He ate quickly, spearing the vegetables and devouring the chicken. He picked up the leg with his fingers and cleaned it to the bone with just a few giant bites. "Sorry," he said with his mouth full. "I learned to eat quickly, before someone can take it away." He gnawed on the bone. "This is really good, though," he added. "Thanks." "You gonna be a cook or something?" "A chef. Someday. If it works out." "Plenty of work for a cook. People always need to be fed." He grinned. "It'll help you to stay straight. You won't fall into the business, like me." "It's a good career." "But you're not that straight, are you?" "I...I--" I stammered. "It's OK," he laughed. "You're not the first faggot I've come across." He grinned and pulled a splinter of bone off the chicken leg. He picked at some food in his teeth. "Uh..." "Plenty of them in prison. Some real ones too, not just the ones who will bend over to get some protection from somebody. It's always better to fuck a guy who enjoys it rather than force it on somebody." He flashed that wolf grin. "Faggots can take it much deeper," he smirked. He looked crass and dirty and kind of menacing. I shifted in my seat. This was uncomfortable and part of me thought to be scared. But dammit: I was also super hard. Johnny pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He inhaled deeply, took the smoke into his lungs, and then exhaled slowly. I couldn't look away. The cigarette dangling from his lips. The dark stubble on his cheek interrupted by his scar. The black ink of the tattoo creeping up the side of his neck. Johnny leaned back in the chair and spread his legs. "So. You gonna suck it?" I knew the answer should be No. My parents would be displeased with every element of this evening. And to do that...to blow this much older man, my dad's childhood friend, an ex-con, right here in the family kitchen... I stood up from my chair and sank to my knees in front of him. "Good boy," he laughed. "I knew you would." He took another drag from his cigarette as I fumbled with his belt and the button of his jeans. He breathed a cloud of smoke in my face and I tried not to cough. "Go on," he said, looking down at me. "No fucking teeth, alright?" I pushed his jeans open and fumbled with his briefs to release his cock. It stood up, long and straight. It was an even darker brown than the rest of his skin and it ended in a flared, pink cockhead. Beautiful. Gingerly, I tongued the tip and got it wet. Slid my mouth over the cap and tried to taste him. "Don't be such a pussy about it," he said. He put a hand on the back of my head and pushed me down. "Suck it down." The length of him jabbed at the back of my throat. I willed myself to relax. My nose was buried in black bush and I could smell his sweat and funk. When had he last showered? There was no time to think. His hand was on my head, pressing me down again just as fast as I came up. It was good, but too fast and I made gagging sounds. He liked that and pushed me harder. I gave myself over to it, trying to follow his rhythm. I swallowed him down, making my throat into a hot, wet chute for him to use. "That's fucking great, kid. You got a hot young mouth." I squeezed my hardon through my pants as I sucked him. This was so much more primal, so animal, compared with the naive fooling around I had done with my friends at school. I sucked vigorously, trying to match his energy, rewound to the force. The sounds from his room at night told me he liked it fast and hard. I was determined to be as good as any of those barroom whores he brought home. He continued fucking my throat for several minutes, long enough for him to finish his cigarette. "Get off," he told me, slapping my cheek. "Stand up." He ground out the cigarette on the edge of his plate. "Pants off." "My p-pants?" I stammered. "Yeah." He stood up and pushed his own pants down to the floor. His brown cock swung free, engorged and leaking. I stared at it, my mouth still drooling saliva. "I fed you the appetizer, little man. Time for the meal." I shuddered. As much I loved the sound of him fucking, loved beating off to it, the reality of him ramming his cock into me...I didn't have the experience for that. "Don't be cock tease, kid. Turn the fuck around." I hesitated, but I turned around. What else could I do? I shivered as he ran his fingertips across my ass cheeks. "Very nice...." he proclaimed in a low voice. He gave my ass a couple slaps. He chuckled as he watched my firm cheeks snap back into place after each one. "Been a while since I had a teen," he muttered appreciatively. "OK now," he said. "Come here." He led me into the living room and draped me, facedown, over the arm of the recliner. "This will be more comfortable for you." He stopped to laugh. "I'm an ex-con, not a monster." He laid his cock between my ass cheeks and slowly moved it up and down. The shaft was still spit-slicked from the blow job, which smoothed the movement. A million goosebumps prickled up on my ass cheeks. This man was going to fuck me. My cock leaked into the chair. He hocked a gob of spit and moved his cock out of the way just long enough to ensure it landed in my trench. He worked it in with his fingers and then put his cock back in place to rub back and forth. "Squeeze it with your ass," he commanded. I did and he pumped harder. I felt his cock force its way through the narrowed crack, hugged on both sides by my cheeks. "That's real good, kid." He kept pumping, and the sensation of his cockhead sliding back and forth against my pucker perked it right up. I could feel it was primed, like lips puckering up for a kiss. "Fuck yeah," he growled. "Got you in heat now, huh?" He did. I was scared, but I also wanted him. Wanted that cock. I whimpered. "Don't worry, princess. I'll put it in ya. Was always going to, but it's so much nicer this way, huh? Start off soft and then go hard?" I nodded. He brought his cockhead to my pucker and made soft little pushes. It barely poked in, just teasing. "That's it," he praised. "Opening up that pussy on ya." He pushed a little harder, going deeper. Getting the whole head in. "Oh!" I cried out. "Shhhh, honey. Let Johnny work your hole." He thrust the head in and out a few more times. Then he grabbed my hips, holding me firmly in place, and he pushed in. It was slow, but steady and unyielding. He held me against him as his cock breached me fully, as he slid in to the hilt. I felt his pubes scraping the back of my ass. "Yeah..." he growled. "Baby likes to feel it all, right?" I struggled to breathe. He was now fully in and my ass was clenched tight around him. "Right?" He slapped my ass cheek. "I asked you a question." "Yes," I whimpered. "I want it all." "Good. Because you're gettin' it." And then he began to fuck. Slow for just a minute. In and out, the whole length of him invading me and then retreating. And then faster. He built up speed and fucked me faster and harder. I was getting the kind of treatment I had heard through the floor. I was now one of his women, speared on his cock, moaning and whimpering underneath him. "Tell me, honey. What's it feel like for a man to fuck you? You haven't had this before." It was true. I had fooled around with fucking, sticking in some fingers, letting a guy try the tip. But nothing like this. Never anything like this. "It feels good, Johnny," I moaned. "So damn good." "Am I the first?" "You are." "Hot damn! Young virgin ass." He fucked harder at the thought. "Gonna ruin you for other men. You'll never forget tonight." I knew I wouldn't. He was really pounding me now. Pulling my hips up to change the angle, to plunge in deeper. "Ohhhh!" I cried out. "Yeah, princess. Even a good kid can go bad when conditions are right. When you ride the kind of cock that shows you what you are." Right now I would be whatever he wanted me to be. A good kid, his princess, his whore. Any of those. Just as long as he kept fucking me like this. Kept me under the control of his hands and his cock. He probably WAS ruining me. I didn't care. "Ruin me!" I cried out. "You got it, kid." And he began to buck wildly, driving his cock in so deep, hitting spots inside me I didn't know I had. "Now turn over, kid," he commanded. He pulled his cock out. "I'm going to paint that pretty face of yours." "Not inside me?" I whimpered. Health class said that was unsafe, but I wanted to feel his cum inside me. "I said turn over, bitch!" He slapped my ass and I flipped over. My ass felt empty without his cock, but it was nice to be able to see him: all sweaty, muscles tensed, and a clenched, angry jaw. "My choice, not yours." He slapped my face with his cock and my mouth opened up, trying to gobble it down. I wanted to be filled. He slapped his cock against my face again and then he was cumming, shooting ropy jets onto my cheeks, my forehead, my hair. My hand flew to my dick and I fisted it. Once, twice, and then I was cumming too, spraying my own load onto my chest. I was flushed and hot and breathing heavily, like I had just run a mile. Johnny threw back his head and laughed. "Pretty good, huh?" I nodded. "You're a good kid. But you'll learn that it's bad boys who fuck best." I breathed in and tried to regain my composure. "Turn over, kid. I wanna see what I did back there." I complied, even though my body was smearing cum onto the chair. He let out a low whistle. "Niiiiiiice," he said. "Got your ass lips all red and puffy. It looks like freshly fucked pussy." "Thank you," I murmured into the chair. "I'm hungry again. What did you make for dessert?" END