With the purest cocaine I'd ever tried surging through him, Richard talked forever.


About his apartment. His friends. He artfully dodged the subject of his job with a ten-minute spiel about his dealer, whom he'd met "at work" and was "very discreet", before dragging me head first into the deep end of his divorce.


Figuratively speaking.


He banged on and on about how he and Josh had become "different people". How they'd eventually stopped having sex with each other. Then how they'd stopped having group sex. When that had happened, he said he'd known they'd needed to end it, but had been too scared to admit it.


Then, for some baffling reason, his head whipping back from the coffee table and a loud sniff hissing through the room, he thought I wanted to know about his sister.


Apparently, she'd been secretly pleased about the whole breakup. When he'd told her the "glaringly inevitable" news that he and Josh were "throwing in the towel" she'd smiled. She was a homophobe his words. He said she'd hated him ever since she'd got pregnant at nineteen and Mum and Dad had made more of a fuss about him being gay.


Possible. Sibling rivalry is one of many peaks on the mountain of insecurity. But for some reason I doubted she was a fag-hater. Probably because by the way Richard loved the sound of his own voice, it was glaringly obvious to me that maybe she just hated him.


Maybe what had changed her, in his eyes, from being the loving sister to a "frustrated bitch", wasn't that she was a bigot. Maybe it was the way he never shut up.


He was endless.


As more and more cocaine burned away his nostrils and seared into his bloodstream like a Chinese dragon, fireworks darting off its tail and flaring inside his brain, he talked more bollocks than a fortune cookie.


Not that I objected. I'd only known him one evening. I could deal with his restless tongue because his restless hands were busy. Handing me a flute of champagne. Pouring me another. Stroking my skin. My hair. My lips. And, most importantly, when they weren't they were chopping up a seemingly infinite supply of coke with a black Amex.


The man was generous with his drugs. Every time his card struck the glass of the coffee table to rack up a line he racked up two. And the booze flowed cold and expensive. I recognised the yellow label: Veuve Clicquot. He poured it as free as his cock that rested full and thick across his open leg like a sleeping animal.


We were naked our comfy clothes having lasted less than five minutes and I couldn't take my eyes off him.


His cock was so thick and long and, frankly, beautiful. So much so I moved from sofa to rug to armchair and back to sofa, impatiently searching and finally settling on a favourite view.


The one I'd had all along. Corner to corner on the sofa in his living room. My feet on the cushions. Him one leg off and one on. His superb cock and balls on full display, framed by my kneecaps. His tongue still wagging.


I tried to listen. Mostly. But sometimes when he talked I couldn't hear what he said. All I could hear were fresh memories: the sloshes and gurgles of my throat being mercilessly stretched over his dining table. Or his deep, ruthless grunts as his balls had slapped against my face.


And, there were times, when I honestly had no idea what he was talking about at all, let alone what he'd just said. I was fixated on his cock. Waiting for me. Waiting to slide back down my throat and stretch my hole. Push me open deeper and deeper until the full weight of his body's grinding against my arse, forcing my legs open and my back to arch and my whole being to shudder.


The things I thought about. The sordid, degrading, ball-burstingly nasty fantasies my coked-up brain imagined. You have no idea.


But you will. Soon.


The gist of his tirade, however, I got. Mainly because I'd pretty much heard his story from various other Grindr guys before. He hated his old life and loved his new one. Suddenly felt twenty-one again and wanted to make up for all the lost time.


Blah, blah, blah, broken record.


In Daddy Dick's case, his new life meant being single again. Or, "being able" to be with me.


I have that effect on men.


`I'm serious, Oscar. You don't understand how fucking free I feel. Lying here in this apartment without him and with you.'


`You sure it's not the gram and a half of coke you just inhaled?' I said.


`We,' he said.




`No, it's not. You don't understand.'


`I do.'


`No. You can't. You're too young. You don't know what it feels like to be trapped.'


`Are you kidding?'


`No. What are you? Eighteen?'


`I'm nineteen. Or didn't you read my profile?' I said.


He winked, said, `Of course I did.'


`You've obviously never been to where I grew up,' I said, slowly rolling to sitting and reaching for my champagne on the coffee table. `That's being trapped.'


Taking a crisp sip, I offered him the glass. His was empty. Stroking my thigh with his foot, he jerked his head backwards, beckoning me to pour it into his mouth.


Six seconds later I was finished with the fake fuss I was making about moving. Then, standing, fully naked and almost fully hard, I turned and looked down at him, sat in the corner of his expensive, fancy sofa. Longer and wider and fancier than any I'd seen.


Worth it.


Kneeling between his wide-open legs and placing my empty hand on his wide, hairy, warm six-pack, I obliged.


The golden swell poured into his mouth and fizzed over his tongue. He swallowed it down but a tear-width band streamed over his chin, his throat and between his pecs to my hand.


He smiled. He knew I knew what he wanted.


Grinning, I lifted my wet hand and sucked the side clean. Then I bent down. Licked him from naval to neck. He moaned as my tongue glided over his six-pack, up his sternum and higher, lubricated nicely by the champagne, up to his ear.


Leaving my lips a millimetre away, I breathed. Once. Quietly. Then I whispered:




`You are,' he said, running his hands down my flanks over my hips and around onto my naked arse.


We kissed. Then, turning, I sat between his legs and in his embrace. Leaning against his abdomen and pecs I rested my head on his left shoulder as the familiar softness of the sofa cushions against my arse cheeks was joined by the softer, hotter flesh of his toned body scintillatingly mixed with the scratch of body hair against my bare back. My cock pulsed like a radar between my legs, aching the most I'd ached all evening.


Lying on him was the first time I got a real sense of his size.

Don't get me wrong, I knew from his Grindr profile he was six-foot-one. And I knew from sitting across from him at dinner and the car, and then being on my knees and back, that he was bigger than me.


But now I could tell just how big and broad and strong he was. Big and broad and strong enough to hold me in his arms. Wrap them around me and squeeze. Dwarf my own impressive albeit twinky muscles.


In his arms, for a second, everything slowed down. I was safe. Not that I didn't feel safe before. But for that moment, I was safer than I didn't even know I could feel.


Then it vanished. Replaced by the overwhelmingly obvious sensation of his cock digging into my lower back.


Back to blissful reality.


`If you're so free,' I said to the ceiling, his chest ever-so-slightly pushing me toward it and pulling me away. `What do you want to do to me right now?'


`Right now?' he said, his voice booming from inside his chest.


`Yeah. Think back to when you were with Josh.'


`Do I have to?' he said with a chuckle.


`Humour me.'




`Imagine all those nights you knew you wanted it.'


`Wanted what? This?'


`Sort of. A boy. A naked teenager on your sofa with the taste of your cock still on his breath.'




`Imagine all those nights when you wanted to get on Grindr or go to a club or cruising area to find one. Bring him here and wow him. Do all the things you know he would let you do to him after a few glasses of the good stuff. All those nights when you couldn't because Josh was here. Josh and your guilt or your fear or whatever it was that was making your life miserable.'


He said nothing. His cock still harder than stone against my flesh.


`Tell me what you would do to the boy,' I said.


For three long seconds, he said nothing. Then he said:


`I would tie him up.'




`My bed.'


`What with?'


`I have a harness. It attaches under the mattress. Holds your arms and legs open at each corner. Adjustable straps. Leather.'


Reaching down I wrapped my hand around my cock. Squeezed and moaned. Pushed my arsed against his crotch; his hands squeezing my pecs.


I liked the sound of that. A lot.


`Face down or up?' I said.


`Down. To start.'


`Fuck yes.'


`I'd watch first. Stand over him. Make sure he knows his place. Then I'd spit on his hole. Use my fingers. My mouth. Eat and finger him for as long as I want. Get him nice and relaxed and wet.'


I said nothing, daydreaming. Imagining the plush of his pillows against my face and the thickness of his fingers inside me. The heat of his tongue. The pull and grip of my bindings.


`Then I'd fuck him. Hard and ruthless until I nut.'


`Use him,' I said, pushing my head against his neck like a cat and kissing his chin.


`Yeah. Use him. Fuck his little hole whenever and for however long I want.'


`Just you?'


`No reason why I should have all the fun. After a few loads, I'm sure I could rustle up some friends,' he said.


`Whoever that boy is, is one lucky motherfucker,' I said.


He laughed. Deep and loud; his chest jostling me around like I weighed nothing at all. Our cocks hard. Our breath deep. Our skin alive with tingling sensation.


A second of sticky silence descended before Richard said, `Josh never liked it like that.'




`Yeah. He always wanted to make love. Which was nice. Sex in love is something else.'


`If you say so,' I said.


`But, you're right. That's what people think they should say. Love making isn't the be all and end all of sex. There's nothing wrong with two people fucking, right?'




`As long as there's communication and respect, it's perfectly fine to use one another for mutual gain,' he said.


`Sounds like my new personal mantra.'


`It does?' he said.


`Why wouldn't it?'


`Well, come on Oscar, you're nineteen. I know you've obviously been through a lot, and from that you're strong as hell, but I've never met someone your age who's not deep down secretly desperate for a boyfriend.'


Four seconds of contemplation later I said, `Fair. And I did want a boyfriend. Once.'


`What happened?'


`It didn't work out,' I said, the scars on my hand tingling.


A flash of red and black filled my mind. Hairy legs and a shaved head. Memories I wanted to keep hidden. Locked away deep down in the dark forever.


It was Richard that buried them again. In an instant. He asked what I'd wanted to hear all night.


`So, what's your idea of a perfect relationship then?' he said.




I'd been hoping the conversation would go this way. In fact, after I'd shouted at his ex-husband and he'd been pleased rather than angry, I'd assumed it would go this way. And for good reason.


Daddy Dick obviously liked having me around. He liked buying me dinner and he liked giving me drugs. And he certainly liked talking to me, among many other far more fun things. I didn't see why we couldn't mutually benefit.


`Well,' I said, still sat between his legs; my head still resting against his shoulder. `This.'


`As in?'


`As in what we're doing right now. You give me all the things I want, and I will let you do all the things you want to do to me and more.'


`You'd be my boy?'


`If you're my daddy.'


I felt his smirk against my cheek.


`Oh Oscar. I hope you realise tying you up is just the start.'


`Of course,' I said, sitting and twisting so I could look at his face and flash my bright blue eyes and signature smile. `Because there are plenty more things I want than coke and champagne.'

To be continued ...


Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter written! I've been non-stop with the final edits and cover art for my debut novel, Oscar Down Under, Part 1 (as well as a reworked eBook version of my first Nifty story, Oscar). More info to come soon.


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


Copyright Jack Ladd 2017


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