After his kitchen wall came his dining table.

 

He threw me at it.

 

Turned me around and pushed with one, powerful palm against my back. Fast but not hard. Controlled, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

 

Like he'd done what he was doing before. But not just this, the penultimate scene: playing my body like a puppet master before the final act. The whole performance.

 

Finding lads like me. Sending us pics he knew we couldn't refuse. Taking us out. Making us laugh. Driving us back to his city apartment. Holding our hands. Leading us through a concrete, underground parking lot to a shiny elevator. Kissing us inside the mirrored box; his key fob setting off a high-pitched beep. Smiling wide as we open our eyes and laugh at the scene around us: Our embracing reflections multiplying off and beyond into infinity as the elevator rumbles upwards.

 

He pulls us through his apartment to his kitchen. Fixes us a drink. Kisses us again. Holds us again: both hands around slim waists. Strong, thick fingers meeting over cotton and smooth, toned teenage backs.

 

Fingers moving. Fingers exploring. Fingers peeling up t-shirts. Brushing over nipples. Pinching. Releasing. Taking hold. Pushing bare skin against kitchen tiles. Regaining hold. Regaining control. Tightening. Squeezing.

 

Throwing.

 

All slick. All rehearsed. All designed to make boys go weak at the knees.

 

If only he'd known.

 

If only he'd met who he thought he'd met. Who he thought he was laying the A material on. A teen twink maybe, itching to explore his daddy issues inside and out, or a mature student-type with an inflated ego but a nice face and even nicer twenty-something-year-old hole. Someone young. Someone hopeful. Someone who sees the best in people. Who isn't jaded and disappointed and angry at life.

 

At least he would have had an idea. An idea of what he was getting himself into. Or who he was getting into.

 

But he didn't. And how would he have? That night, Richard AKA Daddy Dick, was getting more than he'd ever bargained for.

 

Me.

 

Only, I had a problem.

 

Up until this point, other than the twenty-one questions at dinner, I'd been as pleased as a pig in shit. My steak had been tasty, the vodka had gone down well, and though the aforementioned inquisition had been pointless and tedious as hell, he'd known when to stop, and that was a win in my book.

 

Plus, his place was fucking huge.

 

Two-bedroom-two-bathroom (or so he'd said leading me through a wide, pristine hallway and throwing his keys in a blue glass bowl), the rest was open. Wide open with sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side looking over the twinkling cityscape and out and beyond to hill-shaped shades of blackest grey under a cloudless black sky.

 

The right side of the apartment was the living area. Sofa, chair, both stylish and undoubtedly expensive: just like the rest of the furniture dotted around. Sharp lines. Matching fabrics. Flat screen TV, surround-sound built into the walls. Pieces of art here and there.

 

The other side was the kitchen. A chunky L-shape of black marble worktop interspaced with high-tech chrome appliances and gleaming cabinets. A fat fridge-freezer. A wine fridge. What looked like a cocktail prep area.

 

This guy obviously liked to host.

 

In the middle of the apartment was the dining table: An eight-seater stretching between the two spaces and running parallel to the windows. All glass. Its surface was bare but gleaming. Polished to an immaculate sheen.

 

You can imagine my delight, then, when he'd pushed open the front door. My untold joy upon discovering this six-foot-one, smart stack of muscle I'd met mere hours ago was rolling in cash. Cash that could and had been spent on me.

 

I wanted to be subby. To be the boy to his daddy. To let him toss me around and use my supple, nineteen-year-old body like a toy. I wanted him to bend me over his table. Pull my cheeks apart and smear lube over my hole. Plough my arse like he owned it. Each thrust rocking my body with waves of ecstasy; my eyes gazing out to the twinkling world below when they aren't rolling to the back of my skull.

 

But I quickly realised, after my perspective of the apartment suddenly span wildly and his palm took position between my shoulder blades, my feet hadn't followed in time. I'd been too busy. Preoccupied with thinking up ways to get Daddy Dick hooked. To make him weak at the knees for me.

 

Like how many fingers I was going to let him put inside me. How hard I was going to let him fuck me. Where I was going to let him cum. In my mouth? Down my throat? Over my face? Over my chest or back? My arse? My hole?

 

Was I going to let him fuck me raw? Breed my hole with his forty-two-year-old seed?

 

There was a lot to think about.

 

But I wasn't thinking anymore. I was flying. Flying through the air with two lip-shaped patches of saliva cooling on my neck and two left feet. My hip two feet from a blunt, reinforced edge of solid glass almost an inch thick.

 

No time to reaction. Nothing to grab hold of or onto. Panic rising in my throat and vodka racing through my veins I closed my eyes and braced myself. Prayed there'd be no blood. Especially as most of it was already south filling my cock.

 

This hook-up was about to go from amazing to agonising. But then I stopped.

 

He'd caught me by my wrist.

 

For a split-second I was motionless. Frozen as our opposing forces were equalised. My forward velocity versus his remarkable body mass. Balanced in space.

 

I looked down at my hip. Inches away. Safe. Then I was hurtling back towards him. Towards his body. Rolling into him and over his arm; his thick forearm hair tickling my naked back and sending goosepimples up to my ears.

 

A full one-eighty later I was in his arms. His broad, muscled chest rising and falling calmly against my back. Me panting gently. Our necks twisted to face each other. His eyes, calm and serene and staring intently at mine, only centimetres away. Everything warm.

 

`Do you dance?' I said.

 

`What makes you say that?' he said, letting go of me but keeping his stubbled chin nuzzled against my neck.

 

He began to unbutton his shirt.

 

`Those fancy moves,' I said, rolling my head back onto his shoulder and closing my eyes.

 

In the darkness, a waft of warm air caressed my back, carrying the sweet, spicy scent of an aftershave I didn't know before the soft thump of fabric on floorboards reached my ears. Then a spark of electricity shot up and down my spine and into my balls. I moaned. His wide, hairy chest was touching my naked back.

 

He kissed my neck.

 

`I do,' he whispered into my ear. `Salsa.'

 

`With your wife?'

 

He said nothing but I felt him smirk. His cheek against mine. Then he ran his hands down my sides and pulled me into him. Grinded his groin into me. Against my arse.

 

His cock was hard. And thick. Bulging underneath his suit trousers like a third arm across his leg.

 

`Lucky girl,' I said.

 

`I'm not married.'

 

`No?'

 

I felt him nod. Said, `Recently divorced.'

 

`From a woman?'

 

`What makes you say that?'

 

`You used a fake name earlier. Just a guess.'

 

`Well,' he said, kissing my neck again. `What do you think?'

 

Leaning back in his embrace I swept my gaze from left to right. From the matching polycarbonate chairs lining the dining table, to the designer lighting hanging above, it was clear no straight woman had ever lived in this apartment.

 

`No,' I said.

 

`Bingo.'

 

`Where did you get married then?'

 

`South Africa.'

 

Gently wriggling out of his hold I turned and linked my hands behind his neck. Hung off him, pulled myself in closer and kissed him softly on the lips.

 

`But it didn't work out?' I said.

 

For a moment, he didn't say anything. But then his face changed. It was like he was morphing between Daddy Dick and Richard. Like when he'd changed from the twink-hunting muscle daddy with sin in his eyes to a normal bloke eyeing me sheepishly across a dinner table after prying out an unexpected tale of misery.

 

`I wouldn't usually talk about this kind of thing on a first date,' he said, still smiling, still holding me but his salsa hips no longer dancing. No longer rubbing his bugling crotch against me. `But seeing as I didn't let it drop at dinner, I feel like I owe you.'

 

`Please. Don't,' I said, placing my index finger against his thick, pink lips. `Pay me back next time you take me out.'

 

`Ok,' he said, his eyes widening as a large toothy smile stretched across his strong jaw. `I like the sound of that.'

 

`Do you know what I like the sound of?'

 

`Tell me.'

 

Leaning forward I whispered into his ear.

 

`The sound of your lips smacking against my hole.'

 

Thud.

 

Both my palms hit glass simultaneously.

 

Swoosh.

 

My jeans were pulled down to my ankles. White Calvin Klein boxer briefs too.

 

Boom.

 

Every synapse in my brain ignited at once. Each hair from my neck, down my chest, abs and groin rippled like corn in a windy field. Inside my body a bolt of burning pleasure shot through me. Right through the centre from my hole to my mouth and out.

 

And boy was I being loud. But I didn't care. His tongue was amazing. Thick and hard and then soft and subtle. I was on cloud nine, high above the world. I didn't give a flying fuck who heard me.

 

Not to mention the other sounds ringing out between my own. They set my senses on fire. His lips smacking and slurping as he ate. The slap of his hands on each of my pale, toned arse cheeks. The squelch and spit of saliva. His grunts and groans. The scratch of his beard against my crack. His hot, wet mouth muscle pushing deeper and deeper. Hotter and wetter.

 

I needed to see.

 

Resting the very top of my forehead on the glass table top and pushing up with my arms I bridged my neck and looked under and back. Saw my six-pack down to my dangling cock and balls. Saw my bare legs. My jeans and undies around my ankles.

 

Saw him. On his knees behind me. Topless. His head hidden. His flawless body showing either side and between my thighs. His cock out, jutting from his suit fly like a thick, fleshy spear. So thick it filled the entire hole: the metal teeth of his zipper hugging his shaft like a cock ring.

 

`Fuck!' I moaned.

 

The way he worked my hole was incredible. Almost animal. Ruthless. Pulling and stretching me however he wanted. Fingers playing closer and closer until eventually sliding in and out.

 

One at first. Then two. All the while his tongue and his lips danced to the soundtrack of a perfect evening. Filling the apartment and my ears with my all-time favourite music.

 

Minutes passed. Ten, fifteen, I have no idea. But then I couldn't wait any longer. I needed him inside me. Deep and ruthless and rough.

 

`Stop,' I called out.

 

Pulling his face from my hole with a slurp I sensed him look up. Felt his gaze on the back of my head. Twisting my neck, I looked at him. He seemed concerned.

 

`You ok?' he said, letting go of my arse cheeks and standing up; his cock now pointing directly at my gooey hole.

 

`I need you to fuck me.'

 

`Mmm ok.'

 

`Hard.'

 

`Of course. Let me grab a condom.'

 

`No,' I said, pushing myself back to standing, against his powerful, naked torso; his hard, thick, bare cock pushing between my cheeks and against my hole.

 

Turning I sat on the edge of the table and reached out. Undid his belt. His top button. Pulled down his trousers and black Gucci underwear. Wrapped my hand around him; my fingers and thumb barely touching over his veined, uncut cock. Looked in his deep, brown eyes.

 

`Fuck my throat.'

 

To be continued ...

 

Head over to my website to learn more about Oscar, including exclusive content about my upcoming eBook series Oscar Down Under, as well as my first collection of Nifty stories title Oscar.

 

Copyright Jack Ladd 2017

 

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