Date: Sat, 1 May 2021 18:46:39 -0500 From: David Ashley Subject: Conquering My Friends' Dads Chapter 8 Back with Chapter 8. I figured some of you would be horny for more of John's conquests, and I'm pleased to bring you more. Some of you noticed (and were kind enough to email me) that I made a slight error last chapter. John's last name is Field. At one point, earlier in writing, I was going to have it be "Young," but I ended up changing it, and missed one. My apologies! So, just to clarify, both John and his dad are named Jonathan Field. So John is, of course, a Jr. Regular disclaimers: This is a story of incest, featuring underage characters, and graphic sexual content. I do not endorse such acts. If you can, please donate to Nifty at http://donate.nifty.org/ You can email me at bupdash [at] gmail.com. Also--this is a story I'm happy to write, but it's not exactly one I can publish for pay. My cash app is $Bupdash and any donations would be deeply appreciated. Now, let's return to some perverted shit. Chapter 8 I'm not entirely without a conscience. There were times I wondered at the fucked-up things I had done. After taking advantage of the sleeping Mr. Lee, I actually held off for a bit. Partly because I felt guilty for fucking a man for about six hours while he was in and out of consciousness. Mostly because that was such a hot experience, it staved some of my hunger for daddy hole. At least, for a while. When I lay in bed at night, thinking (and jerking) to the memory of the shitty things I'd done, I took some comfort in knowing that they had WANTED it. Each and every one of them had, at the end of the day, wanted my boy cock. I was simply taking the initiative and giving them the freedom to give in. That's what I told myself, anyway, before blowing a hot load over my chest at the memory of Mr. Lee's unconscious body. Or Mr. Vane's sobbing throat. Or Mr. Grayson's cries. But you probably know me well enough, by now, to know that I was never sated for very long. I had a teenaged body of desperate hormones--and I had a father with the hottest body and the sexiest face I had ever seen. It was inevitable I'd find more holes to fill. "Son, can you give me a hand?" I looked up from my phone, and Dad flashed a grin at me. Look: my dad was a very professional guy. He was almost always in shirt and tie, and when he wasn't, his tee-shirts were loose and thick, masking his body rather than displaying it. But as I stared across the room, I discovered a man wearing a shockingly tight tank top--and tighter jeans. He had a toolbox in one hand and had the other on the basement door. I cleared my throat, which had gone very dry. "Sure. What's up?" He nodded to the stairs, and I got up to follow--thanking Christ I wasn't going commando today. My cock filled my boxer briefs as I followed Dad, my eyes wandering down to his perfect ass. I'd like to think I'm an expert, by now, on ass. Hell, I had forced my way into nine of them, most of them grown men. And I gotta say: my own dad's ass was the most glorious thing I had ever seen. Proportionally, his was the most impressive--sure, Mr. Johnson's was bigger, but HE was bigger, so I don't think that counts. And against my father's tight build, I would have sworn his cheeks stuck out farther in the back than his feet did in front. It wasn't fair. I didn't just chub up walking after him down those stairs--I boned hard. And those JEANS. They were old and faded, but that made the material thin and flexible, catching between his cheeks with every step. I had never been envious of a piece of clothing before, yet here I was, wishing dearly I could have been that bit of cloth. Hugging his legs, pushing between them, into his ass, taking a deep whiff of his taint-- "Hold this," said Dad, offering his toolbox. I blinked. Part of our basement was unfinished, and we stood on the cold concrete of one of these rooms. Dad had fixed a large peg board to one wall. "What's this?" I said. "Well," said Dad, now drawing several pegs from a bag, "you're working out so much lately." This was true. Mostly it was just to get out of the house, away from the tempting and increasingly heavy drive I had to rape my own father. I was working out more than ever. My evenings after practice saw me go straight to the gym, where I would pump out a furious set of bench presses or squats. The burning felt great. It was the only thing that came close to the feeling of sex for me--I could pretend the ache was not from working out but from laying a man twice my age flat. From forcing myself inside him. Splitting him in two. "Anyway," said Dad, "I figured you might like it if I transformed this room into a home gym. It'd be basic, at least until we get more equipment, but I'll get you a bench." "Really?" "Of course." He had to grin at me, didn't he? He had to hit me with those long, deep dimples, framing his mouth and lips, as if to say "Your Cock Here." He had to turn those soft eyes and the tiny crow's feet and the dusting of gray temples on me. He had to look so proud of me while I contemplated destroying him. "Besides," said Dad, as I set the toolbox down--crouching to hide my aching boner--"I could probably use it, too. I can't compete with you in the muscle department, but I could at least try to keep up." "You really don't need it, Dad," I said, straightening up. "Oh?" Innocently--pure, sweet, adorable, fatherly innocence--he flexed his arm. He made his bicep pop, offering it to me. His action was obvious--he wanted me to feel. "I'm doing alright?" I felt it. Here's the thing: my dad, though graying at the temples, and despite the lines beginning in his face, was not OLD. You could probably have done the math by now, but I was only fifteen. I was their only child, and my dad had married my mom at twenty-two. He had just hit thirty-eight. For context, I had compared him before to a young Harrison Ford--most closely, the Harrison Ford of Temple of Doom, who had been forty-two at the time--but that comparison was unfair to poor Harrison, and frankly insulting to Dad. Harrison was hot, but he could not have hoped to live up to my father. Dad was in his prime. He was beautiful, and masculine, and a living piece of pure energy. And his arm--his skin, his muscle, his everything--felt it. I pressed my fingers eagerly, wrapping them around his slightly pale skin. I couldn't help letting my forefingers stray behind and under, brushing his armpit--I would sniff my fingertips, later. Then continuing my squeeze down his forearm, feeling the wiry sinew and the tight skin and disrupting his arm hair-- "Yeah, Dad," I said. "You're really doing fine." The basement was usually cool, but it was currently so very hot. What was my dad thinking? What could be going through his mind? He did not withdraw his arm--if anything, he leaned closer as my hands felt every inch of him he would offer. He had no idea, could not know, what danger he was in, getting so close to me. At last he said, "I'm nothing on you." So, of course, I took that invitation. I flexed, the same way he had, pushing my sleeve up to sit around my shoulder. And Dad's hands were on my arm, exploring ME, and I kid you not I was actually edging in my pants. His fingers touched that divet between shoulder and bicep. They stroked down, spreading across my sizable arm, and he may as well have been stroking my dick. He set both hands around the widest part of my bicep, but he could not connect his fingers on the other side. He squeezed, and I felt my cock throb, flexing, getting far too close--Oh, how I wanted to force his lips around it-- "Amazing," Dad's deep, low voice rumbled. "Just amazing, Son." I have a damn good poker face. And it's a good thing, too. I fuck you not--I came. As my dad's deep voice rumbled and his rough-but-soft hands held my bicep, and I did everything in my power to not shove him into the wall and force-fuck his skull--I actually fucking CAME in my pants. My arm was flexing so hard it shook as I came down, off my orgasm. My vision returned, and there was Dad, clueless as ever, still focusing on my flexing bicep. Eventually he moved to my shoulders. Which he clapped, then he leaned in. His lips touched my forehead. "I'm proud of you, Son." Then, suddenly, it was all business again. "Oh!" he said, clapping his hands to his jeans now, "I forgot the screws. Be right back." "Yeah," I croaked. "I need to--I'm gonna change. You know, so I can help out, and not get dirty." And change out of my pool of cum, of course. I followed him back up the stairs, refusing this time to stare at his ass. Was it any wonder I went to the gym so much? Sometimes my workouts were cut short by the appearance of Mr. Johnson. Sometimes we would only nod to each other while he hit the weights and I would resume my set--after all, I wouldn't want him going soft, and he did not have that enormous body for nothing. Other times he ignored the weights completely, giving me a lewd lick of his lips in the mirror, and I would get the hint. We'd hit the showers, and I would do my best to ruin his hole. Anything to not fuck my father. Frankly, Mr. Johnson's hole was getting sloppy. A few other men occasionally appeared at the gym, too. My teacher Mr. Anderson, hilarious in his attempts to pretend he didn't want me, showed up once to work out with his wife. He flushed like crazy upon seeing me, but I enjoyed walking up to him, shaking his wife's hand, and introducing myself to her. He found me later. While his wife finished her round on the treadmill, he ducked into the shower, where I was removing my dick from Mr. Johnson's hole. "Come on, Mr. Anderson," I said. "Why don't you clean me up?" I gotta hand it to Mr. Johnson--he had just cum, spraying a huge load onto the shower floor, but he was more than willing to get it up again. He helped spitroast my math teacher, and I gotta admire his unforgiving technique. The Coles next door invited me for a threesome now and then, when Mrs. Cole was out, but I did not always take them up on it. Of course, I could not help giving in once or twice, especially if my dad was around, but I think I was afraid to participate too much in their incest. It would make it too easy for me, too easy to think that was okay to do to my own father, as I watched little muscular Andrew rail into his daddy's asshole. He was getting pretty good. Certainly Mr. Cole was satisfied--his face was a mask of dopamine. But I couldn't. So, I held off. As much as I could. As far as I was concerned I needed new blood. New men to break in. Maybe that would stop me imagining Dad's hole. I realized one day that I had already fucked the dads of seven members of my team--Dan, Andrew, Julian, Brad, Taylor and Tyler, and Kay. Not a bad number. And, I realized, what a convenient list. Ready-made and available, practically begging me to work my way through it. Eighteen members of the team. Seven down; that's eleven more dads to go. NO--ten. I would not, could not, fuck my own father. Funnily enough, I got my first opportunity to knock some names off the list courtesy of my dad. It turned out he had made some friends at the Christmas party. While these men chatted him up, their wives bonded over some sci-fi tv show (my mom was a huge nerd). The wives started to arrange watch parties on Friday evenings. This left the husbands to get together, and Dad was more than happy to host a poker night. I had to laugh--my dad was such a bro. Dad had not finished our basement project yet, so I came home that Friday with my muscles warm and achy from a long two hours at the gym. Unfortunately, as Mr. Johnson had been absent that entire week, it had been a while since I had gotten my rocks off, resulting in a particularly grueling workout. But I was intrigued to see so many cars parked in front of our house. "Hey there," I called, hovering at the entrance to the dining room, where three other men had joined my father. "There's my boy, come here," said Dad. I laughed, and walked in, feeling every set of eyes latch onto me. "Ah, John Junior," said Mr. Etter. He cast a wide grin at me. I stood by my dad's chair, leaning forward to shake hands with each of them. I was very pleased I was only wearing a sleeveless, sweaty top and my bike shorts; they showed off my glistening arms and my bulging semi. "You know most of these guys, right?" Dad glanced around. Oh, Dad. He was so clueless. Did he not see the hunger in these mens' eyes? I suspected, at once, there was more than one reason these men had been so eager and willing to come to our place, so eager to befriend my father in the first place--they were, each of them, men who had been giving me eyes at practice. I was so lucky to have such a considerate dad, putting them all in one place. And with beer in hands to lower their inhibitions. On the team, Sam Etter was a nice kid with a wide, smiley face. I knew he was part Mexican, part Native American; well, Mr. Etter was the Mexican bit. He was a wide-shouldered man with black hair and a short, clipped goatee that almost made up for his encroaching neck. He had a true dad bod, but in the best way, with burly tits and a slight belly that complimented his swarthy skin and big physique. He raised his beer to me. "Good to see you, Field." To Dad, he said, "He doesn't drink yet, does he?" Dad chuckled. "Oh, he probably could handle it, but no. I'm not risking my badge so my underage kid can try to get a buzz from some shitty beer," he said. "Spoil sport," I said. Dad clapped a fond hand on my back. Nevermind how sweaty it was; at least, Dad didn't seem to mind, for he didn't move it. "Want to pull up a chair?" said Mr. Vreeland. I liked Mr. Vreeland's son, Tom, okay. He was a sort of reserved kid, who I think was shy from a rough battle with acne. Mr. Vreeland, however, I had never met, only seeing a couple of times. He was very young--had to be about thirty-five, maybe--and looked up at me with wide, boyish eyes. A dusting of blonde hair, an angular, clean-cut face; Mr. Vreeland was handsome, and he blushed at me as I looked at him with interest. "You could join us," said Mr. Vreeland. "Play a hand?" Was that a slight lisp? He spoke in a tenor, though perhaps that was his smallish frame. Still, the affectation was unmistakable. And look at that wedding band! He was a closeted homo, no doubt about it. I flashed him a grin. "I dunno," I said. "I don't want to interrupt Dad's man night." "Nonsense," said Dad. His hand rubbed across my wide shoulders. "You'd be welcome. Be my good luck charm, these guys are gonna rob me blind." "With any luck," said Mr. Ishida. Now, look--I know I'm a pervert. I know I was looking at these married dads and I know I WANTED to see hunger, because they were all sexy as fuck. I know I had a tendency to exaggerate. But dammit, I swear Mr. Ishida--Japanese-American, smooth-skinned, face with pronounced, handsome cheekbones--was looking up at me with the biggest Fuck-Me eyes I had ever seen. As I stood on Dad's left side, I was on Mr. Ishida's right, and God help me, the man was tiny. Puny. "I--sorry, I'm just surprised," I said to Mr. Ishida. "Your son Joey is--" "Tall, yeah," said Mr. Ishida. "I know, it's crazy. I'm 4'8"." "No shit." "Really," he said. Either it was the beer or embarrassment, but his face was flushed red. He jumped to his feet, and I swear it made no difference; he barely reached my ribs. "See?" he said. Fuck. He was just too, too small. God forgive the horrible things I imagined doing to this tiny man. "How tall are you?" Every man looked at me. At my size. At my body. I couldn't help my smirk. "My boy is 6'3"," said Dad. He gave me a side-hug, pulling me in. "Can you believe it? Two whole inches taller than his old man." "Woof," said Mr. Etter. He laughed. "That's a lot of boy." I am such a little shit. But I felt on display. Who cared about cards? They lay forgotten on the table, unable to distract from the big, impressive meat that was my body. I was so turned on by their collective gaze. "Six--foot--three," I recited. "Two hundred and thirty pounds, as of this morning. And, what was it?" I looked at Dad. Dad's grin was dopey and buzzed. And very proud, like he was displaying a prize stallion--which, in many ways, he was. "Less than ten percent body fat, last we checked." I lifted my shirt, displaying my abs. Just for effect. "Jesus Christ," lisped Mr. Vreeland. God, it was so easy. These men had their eyes on me, and I felt sexy and risky, and Dad was leaning down to pull another beer from the cooler at his feet. So, while his head was under the line of the table, I pulled the front of my shorts down. A collective, tight intake of breath. I was almost completely hard, and there was my cock, on display for the room to see. All three men's mouths fell open, taking in my size. "Almost two pounds of all that," I said, quietly, "are right here." "Hnn?" Dad's head popped back up, just as I finished putting my cock away. I leaned forward--the table was stacked with junk food, and I grabbed a bratwurst. "Right here," I joked, taking a bite. "I eat too much." Dad was so fucking clueless. I had just dangled my cock out at the dining table in front of his poker buddies, like a perverted fishing lure, and he was talking about dealing me in next round. Yeah, fat chance. I was going to be busy tonight, Dad. I was going to systematically fuck every single one of your friends. My own teammates' DADS. And you should be thanking me, Dad. Because it means I won't be fucking YOU. "I'm gonna shower," I said. "Might join you later." Before I left the room, I took a final look at the mens' faces. Mr. Vreeland looked horrified, his face beet-red; he was too ashamed to meet my gaze. Mr. Ishida simply stared after me with wide, stupefied eyes. But Mr. Etter winked shyly at me. So I winked back. Maybe ten minutes? Who knows. In any case, it wasn't long before big, swarthy Mr. Etter was wrapped around my cock. I really did get a shower ready, turning on the hot water and tossing my clothes on my bathroom floor. The sound would tell him where to find me--and block out any moans if he was loud. But I did not step in right away, instead leaning against the counter. I watched the door. Mr. Etter opened it about a minute later. He peaked in, then opened wider to take in the image of my entirely naked body. "Hi, Mr. Etter." He cast a final glance back down the hall. Then he entered, closing and locking the door behind him. "I had to fold my hand," he whispered. "Is it true?" I frowned, amused. "Is what true?" Mr. Etter swallowed. I watched his goatee twitch, watched his eyes on my cock. "You--" he said, still whispering, "and Mr. Johnson. Is it true you--ah--" I smiled. So word was starting to get around. "It's true," I said. "You want some, too?" "I'm no Mr. Johnson, but..." "Come suck my cock." He practically fell to his knees, and I felt his rough, goateed lips against my cock. Mr. Etter pressed against my stiff member, his lips at the base, and he simply breathed. He sniffed long and heavy, taking in the sweat of my workout, the ripeness of my testosterone. "Oh, kid," he gasped. "Suck it." He did not need to be told. He slurped me in. What a rush. It had been a long week; I was so hard, and this man's tongue was eager to taste every bit of me he could. He sucked on the head, then down, and a moment later the head of my cock was pressing into his throat. Immediately he gagged. These straight dads. When would they learn? Completely inexperienced, but that determination was admirable. "You sexy fucking whore. Take your time," I said. "You can't deep-throat me all at once." Mr. Etter coughed before looking up at me with watery eyes. "Do you like it? I--I want to taste your cum, but your dad's downstairs, we have to make this quick--" As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. I couldn't take the time I wanted for him, much less the rest of the dads downstairs. I let him carry on a bit, just to really give him a taste of what being a cocksucker meant. But there was no way I was going to be able to get off to this. I can appreciate his effort, but I couldn't teach him, not right then. So I ordered him to stand. "What--what are you going to do?" he said. "I'm going to give you what I give Mr. Johnson." The man almost swooned. Meanwhile, I removed his shirt--something that made him flinch. But I wanted to see that dad bod. Those big, juicy tits. Muscular, but not entirely--just that little bit of extra fat at the end, enough to swell up those big nipples. They jiggled a bit, big and tempting as they poked through a--surprisingly sparse--amount of black chest hair. The little body hair he did have, though, was tough and wiry and felt hot in my sweaty hand. I couldn't help taking one of his tits in my mouth. Mr. Etter moaned as I did, and I pushed up his arm to really give that tit a good suck. One hand on his belly, the other pressing his wrist to the wall, I attacked his chest. "So sexy," I breathed. "So fucking sexy, Daddy." "R--really?" Mr. Etter's voice shook as I bit down on his second nipple. "I--oh, god--you think I'm sexy?" Now see, this shit pisses me off. Look, I'm not a moral guy. I would've called him sexy right then ANYWAY, because I was horned up and my dad was downstairs and I was getting so hard at the idea of fucking his married friends. But dammit, I'm at least fucking HONEST. Who the hell made this man think he wasn't sexy? My dad and I were proud of my muscular body, and sure--I love the fact that my body fat percentage was currently under nine. But that doesn't mean a man with some weight can't be fucking sexy. Mr Etter was a prime example: he was a MAN. He was a dad. And he didn't have abs, so fucking what? Didn't make a difference when you're forcing him full of cock. Maybe I should thank his wife, actually. She obviously was not giving this big, succulent man the attention he deserved. It made it a hell of a lot easier for me to get him wrapped around my dick, of course, but it was almost sad. "Mr. Etter," I said, "you are sexy as hell." "Oh god, Field, I--" "Call me John. Turn around." Mr. Etter did, not really realizing what I was about to do. When he did, looking in the mirror, seeing my big hands grab his hips, he flinched. He tried to pull away. "No--John--I don't think you want to, I'm not like Mr. Johnson, I--" "Mr. Etter. Daddy," I said in his ear, "you know what would make you soooo fucking hot? Even sexier than you already are? Taking my big cock." "You really--" I gripped him, my hands going back around to cup his burly, manly tits. I felt the muscle there tense up as I lined my cock up to his asshole. "I have to get off," I said. "But you came here to taste my cum. Don't worry, I'll let you eat it." "Shouldn't I just--" "You said yourself we don't have time." I could tell he wanted to get fucked--wanted it bad. He was arching his back, sticking his ass so far back he was practically bent. But I dunno--I guess he was worried about how he'd look. How vulnerable he would be, with that mirror right in front of his face while I looked over his shoulder. While I fucked him from behind and he watched his naked body take it. So he hesitated. I, however, did not. My still-slick cock pushed inside him. Mr. Etter squirmed, but good on him; he did not scream. I massaged his chest, slowly pushing more of me into him. He relaxed as I filled him, gasped as I nudged his prostate. "Holy shit." "I know, Daddy," I said, buried into his fleshy neck. "Mmm. So sexy, taking me like that." "You feel so good." He was catching his breath. In the mirror, I saw his cock leak onto his pants, bunched around his ankles. That was nothing to his face, flushed, eyes watering. "John. You're filling me. This feels so good." "Take my cock, Daddy." Why was I calling him `Daddy?' Was I trying to pretend this was my own dad? Stupid. But I fucked into him, and the word kept coming back up. Daddy. Daddy. DADDY. Take it, Daddy. Daddy. "Oh god, John, I'm gonna cum!" His load hit so hard and fast it took me by surprise. It splashed in heavy globs against the sink and the fogging mirror. I wasn't close, so I sped up. Poor Mr. Etter had to endure several more minutes of my dick rutting into him while his load sat, spent, on the sink. While his ass throbbed and his dick shriveled up. It had to be too much, and I should have slowed down. But I needed that nut. At long last I was close. "Take it, Daddy," I said again. I pulled out with a messy pop. Lucky Mr. Etter. He was going to be blessed with my seed, though it'd probably be messy. He whimpered as I pushed him to his knees again. But again, he surprised me, slurping my cock right back into his mouth. I shot. Damn. At least half a week's load, all into his mouth. And he ate it. He savored it. "You better get back to the game," I said, pulling him up. I gave his ear a wet kiss. "And send Mr. Vreeland up, I think that man needs this dick pretty bad." Dazed, off Mr. Etter went. I wiped the sink and mirror real quick, then stepped into the shower. It didn't take long. I could hear the game as I stepped out, freshly cleaned, only wearing a towel. Look, it's a great feeling. That post-sex. That energy, your own body telling you you're a stud. I got cocky. Well. Cockier. I listened as they finished a round. Their voices carried up the stairs, just barely. My own dad's low rumble, his laughter as he realized another of his new buddies was about to fold. I lay back on my bed. I had the door to my bedroom open, and it was like Dad's voice was directly connected to my manhood. I got hard. "Yep, I fold," said Mr. Vreeland's tenor. "Listen, I need to piss, where--" Mr. Etter this time. "I think our boy John's out of the shower," he muttered. "You can use that bathroom." What a wingman. My dad was grunting in agreement, sending pulses down my cock. "Go ahead. Now, Ishida, this time I know you're bluffing..." More murmuring. Joking voices. Laughter. And the sound of a man on the stairs. Of him approaching, slowly, down the hall. I grinned at Mr. Vreeland through the door, buck naked, still holding my cock straight in the air. Those wide eyes. That humiliated face. I immediately knew my approach would have to be different. Less complimentary, and a lot more forceful. "Come here," I said. Mr. Vreeland came. He entered my room, shutting the door behind him. He was shaking, but his eyes were alight with shock and desire. "Oh fuck," he breathed. "Kid. What are you doing?" I couldn't help the question. "Have you ever been with a man before?" Mr. Vreeland swallowed. His eyes were icy blue, and practically shone as they absorbed every detail of my body they could. "No," he whispered. "I--I'm straight. I would never..." I flexed behind my navel, making my cock bounce. "Never been curious?" I said. He blushed. God, that pink was so cute under his bright blonde hair. He nodded. "Yes," he admitted. It looked like it killed him. I'm a dick, so I teased him. "You shouldn't experiment with me, you know," I said. "I'm only fifteen. I'm so young." He hesitated, but he did not stop moving forward. He was unbuttoning his shirt now, fingers shaking. Eventually he just lifted the whole thing off. How cute. A different kind of daddy--Mr. Vreeland would have been a "twink" at his son's age, but that's another reason I like older men. They filled out. Their shoulders, their chest. He had a runner's body, fit and shapely, with a light dusting of golden hair here and there. Just enough muscle. "Mr. Vreeland," I said--again, I'm a dick, and teasing this guy was hilarious to me. "I'm only a kid. Are you really going to do this? Are you going to take advantage of me?" He nodded furiously. He was still blushing, but with his face set. His hands twitched toward me. I let my cock bounce again. "You want it that bad? Enough to take advantage of a teenage boy?" I said. That look of horror on his face. That crushing guilt. Man I swear that almost got me off then and there. He crumpled, stepping away. I got up, crossing over to him. "Shh. You idiot, you can't cry, my dad will hear." I pressed a heavy hand against his mouth, my other at the back of his neck, while he collapsed into tears. How sick was this--I swear, feeling his silent sobs against my palm made my dick twitch. His reluctance was so hot. I had to break him. "Listen, Mr. Vreeland," I said, my voice low as I pulled him against me--almost a hug. "You're going to have sex with me, aren't you?" He nodded, with more tears. "Shh. Good. You're going to rape a teenaged boy, aren't you? That's what you want?" He nodded again. I had to kiss his forehead. He was wrapped in my arms, this closeted married dad, and he was fucking putty. "Then I need you to be a fucking man about it," I said. "Be a man and fucking take what you want." That worked. Like a switch. Mr. Vreeland kissed me, forcing his tongue in my mouth, then he was kissing my neck and chest and every inch of me his lips could reach. He made his desperate way down. Funny how he thought any of this had been his idea. His hands explored my body, touching every muscle and squeezing what he could hold. Honestly, he was a natural. I let him carry on, let him think he was in charge. "Hey, Vreeland! Did ya fall in?!" By now Mr. Vreeland's lips were locked around my cock, and I felt my balls throb as my dad's joking voice floated up the stairs. Gagging, he choked me back out. "Be right out!" Mr. Vreeland had clearly been ready for this. He had waited his whole life to have gay sex, and was a much more natrually talented cocksucker than Mr. Etter. He shuddered and moaned, sending that moan down, making me feel it in my balls. "You fucking rapist," I said, still fucking with him. "I can't believe you're doing this to me." "I love it," he gasped, voice muffled by my balls. "Oh, fuck. I can't help it. I can't fucking help it." He was seated on the ground now, his face bent back, neck against my bed as I fucked into him. He took me like a champ, his shaking hands slowly shucking his pants. Meanwhile, I listened. Dad was laughing again. Then I heard his voice craft some questions. "...everything okay?" Mr. Etter chimed in. He must have been facing the stairs, as his voice was a lot easier to hear. "Hey, we're low on beer. Should we take a break? Make a quick run?" Fucking stud. He really earned that orgasm I gave him. I heard Dad ask another question, and heard Mr. Vreeland's name. "It's fine, I'll text him," said Mr. Etter, as Mr. Vreeland gagged around me. "We'll be right back." I heard movement. More voices. They died as the front door opened and shut. Perfect. Maybe twenty minutes later my phone rang. I reached over, and had to stretch to grab it from my nightstand. Mr. Vreeland's leg stood straight up, and I practically bent him in half as I did so. It was Dad. I answered, putting the phone to my ear as I bottomed out in Mr. Vreeland's ass. "Yeah?" "Hey, Son. Everything okay there?" I increased my pace, my balls slapping Mr. Vreeland's cheeks as I spoke. "Yeah, Dad. All good here, why?" "Bit of a line here at the store," said Dad. I wondered if he could hear Mr. Vreeland's moan. "If you see Vreeland, let him know we went on a beer run, but we're wrapping up now." "Got it," I said. I completely removed my cock, let Mr. Vreeland stare longingly at me and feel empty, then impaled him again. "Understood, I'll let him know." "Good. Mr. Ishida too." That actually made me pause. "Mr. Ishida?" I said. "Yeah," said Dad. "He volunteered to stay back, should be downstairs." See, Mr. Vreeland had already cum twice by now. And he hadn't been quiet, because we thought we had the house to ourselves. In fact, he had yelled. Loudly. "I see," I said. "Well, I'll tell them both. How long?" "Fifteen, twenty minutes," said Dad. "Okay. You know," I said, shifting Mr. Vreeland's leg beneath me, "I think it's great you're making friends." Dad chuckled. God, what a sexy noise. It brought me close. "Yeah," he said. "I really like these guys. They're cool, I'm glad we're buddies." Fuck, this was hot. I scooped up a glob of Mr. Vreeland's cum from his tight belly, lifting it to my lips. "They really are," I said. As Dad spoke, I ate his friend's cum. "I really respect these guys." "Me too, Dad." "I'll see you in a few, Son." Almost there-- "I love you," Dad said. I came, shooting deep into Mr. Vreeland as my dad spoke. I shook, load after load filling this poor man's hole. "I love you too, Dad!" I hung up, just so I could roar. Just scream my enormous orgasm. Mr. Vreeland was yelling too, but that slutty idiot thought I was yelling for him. I came down, my bellowing, feral roar still scratching my throat. My dick finished twitching out the last of my cum, then I pulled out. While Mr. Vreeland lay dazed, I stepped with shaky legs to my door. I moved too quickly for him--I opened it, and there was Mr. Ishida. "Mr. Vreeland," I said, "go downstairs. If Dad comes home, make sure he doesn't interrupt us." Mr. Vreeland nodded, his face still flushed, as he pulled on his clothes. I turned my attention to Mr. Ishida. "Your turn, little daddy," I said. I don't know what was wrong with me. For all the context I can give, I have to explain just how small Mr. Ishida was. The man might have looked like a middle-aged man--gray in his hair, scruffy chin, distinguished lines in his face--but he was the size of a child. Seriously, look up what a 4'8" person looks like next to someone 6'3". He looked up at me with the biggest, most frightened eyes. But it's like I was on something. Like a drug, my dad had entered my veins, pumping my cock to twitching and re-energizing my sore, bloated muscles. He was so small. TOO small. But I didn't care. "Take your clothes off." I didn't coerce, didn't invite like I had with Mr. Etter. I didn't even tease like I had with Mr. Vreeland. I was beyond that. Mr. Ishida mutely removed his clothes, unable to disobey. He stood at last, his cute naked body giving off waves of heat. What a little stud. He wasn't in perfect shape, but the little guy had some respectable muscle. Sure, I could have encompassed both of his pecs in one hand, squeezing both nipples at the same time--but they were decent for a man this size. I ran a hand across his face, cupping it to look at me--Jesus, I could hold his head in one hand, too. "Get on your knees," I said. "Suck my cock." Mr. Ishida obeyed. Of course he did. But man. He couldn't fit it. Alright. I've said I'm a sizable man. My cock is nothing to be ashamed of--but fuck it, I'm no Tim Kruger. In length I'm maybe 8 inches. But I make up for it in girth. My cock is 6" around, easily. And poor Mr. Ishida barely could open his mouth wide enough to fit in my HEAD. Of course, I wasn't going to let that stop me. I was determined--and so, it seemed, was Mr. Ishida. I forced more of myself into him. About halfway I hit his throat, and he gagged, his eyes bulging. Sorry, little daddy. I pushed in more. I forced his throat open, feeling it part around my girth. Mr. Ishida was flailing--I almost didn't notice his hands pounding at my chest, pleading for air. I withdrew with reluctance, letting him gasp and gag, spraying his face with spittle. Okay, fine. I wouldn't succeed here, I might as well back off-- Then Mr. Ishida was back. He was on my cock, and this time HE pushed himself down. HE forced his throat around me. Holy fucking shit. What a wild sight. His jaw was open so far I wondered if he had dislocated it. To accommodate my size his mouth was open so wide, his lips stretched so tight, I swear it was more than half the size of his own skull. And still he pushed down. I felt my cock curve down. I felt his teeth touch the base of my cock. And--no fucking WAY--his tongue licked my balls. That was it. No way I was holding back. I was going to break this tiny man. I withdrew, and fucked his throat. I swear I could watch his neck expand. It felt so, so good. I watched him bulge around me, almost less man now. Mr. Ishida had turned himself into a fleshjack. And hell, I was more than happy to use him. I held his little skull in both hands, giving myself some purchase, then fucked harder. His hands grasped my wrists--not desperately, to pull me away, but lovingly. To hold on. What a fucking trip. I was destroying this man's throat, shoving something down there that was practically as wide as his neck, and he took every inch. How far would he let me take this? "On the bed." So obedient. He didn't hesitate, his face still red and bloated from the beating I gave it. He didn't even need to be positioned, just lifted his legs right away, exposing his tiny hole. Again, let me express how small this man is. I let my cock fall onto his belly, just to measure in size. I lined up my balls to his anus, and watched as my rod smacked heavily upon him. The tip reached far past his navel. I should give him a final chance. After all, sticking my dick in this man would've been like fisting Mr. Vreeland or Mr. Etter. Or double-fisting someone like Mr. Johnson. It was, I knew, a violation. I should at least give him the chance to back out. But what could I say? "You want this cock?" See, that would've given him the impression that he actually COULD back out, and I knew that wouldn't actually happen. I knew, one way or another, my cock was going to rearrange his insides. It would've been a damn lie to suggest he could stop me now. But as I hesitated, it seemed he didn't need the choice at all. Mr. Ishida grabbed the lube, mechanically spreading copious amounts down my cock. He used both hands to rub it around me. Then, he lubed up his hole. I was amazed. I let his little hand grab my cock. I watched his lined face, that sexy man scruff quivering, as he put the head of my cock against his cherry. I looked at him, an image that would never leave me. The enormous pole, positioned to enter him. How his ass cheeks looked about the size of my goddamn BALLS. He nodded. So, I pushed in. I can't imagine how much I must've hurt him. I was forcing a wine bottle into a keyhole. But that keyhole opened for me. It had to. Dude, the human body is fucking amazing. I felt every pulse as his sphincter expanded. Every twitch of muscle as his outer lips parted, then his inner sphincter pushed around me. It felt fucking incredible. But that was only the head of my dick. I forced my way in, feeling that lovely, open rectum--that, for Mr. Ishida, was not open at all. Less tight than his rings, sure. But even his rectum had to expand a bit to take my size. About halfway. Mr. Ishida was panting, a sheen of sweat making his entire body glisten. I had reached the end of his rectum, but was not in all the way yet. A kinder man would have stopped here. Started fucking in and out here, letting his dick only go about halfway with each thrust. But I am not a kind man. And that moment I heard the front door open. "Hey! Got the beer." My dad. My father. My daddy's voice, echoing through the house. Calling. I looked down at Mr. Ishida. "I'm sorry, Sir." I forced my hand over his mouth. His eyes were enormous, looking fearfully up at me. Inside, the head of my cock felt that place--the point where his rectum ended, folding away into the sigmoid colon. His second sphincter. I pushed, letting my head rub against it. A squeak through my hand. Another call from downstairs. "Ishida? John?" Oh, dad. I pushed. His colon opened for me. A tight muscle, relaxing around my cock. The head of my dick pressing into his abdomen. I was in all the way at last. My balls were up, against his cheeks, and I swear to god I could see the bulge of my cock head bulging out of his belly. I fucked. Holy hell I fucked. Mr. Ishida truly was just a cock sleeve now, but the tiny slut loved it. He loved being used, loved being fucked by me, my hips slamming into him like a machine. I watched his little, distended penis twitching, watched him shoot a load while I rutted his guts. His orgasm never ended; his cock would periodically twitch, sending another squirt of cum to join the copious puddle on his belly. "John?" Holy shit, dad was just on the other side of the door. I pressed harder against Mr. Ishida's mouth, ensuring no sound could come out. "Yeah, dad? I'm changing." "That's fine--just wanted you to know, we're gonna get started downstairs." His voice was so close. He was only feet away, and I was so deep inside his friend. I could feel his voice in my chest. In my cock. "Okay, Dad," I managed, the pace of my fucking increasing. "Whenever Mr. Ishida's done in the bathroom, of course," said Dad. "Right! Right." "Wanted to let you know, in case you wanted to join us for a round, Son." That was it. For the second time that night his voice sent me into orgasm--my third, and most intense. Honestly I think it was the most intense orgasm of my life up to that point. "I'm coming!" "Great," said Dad. "We'll see you downstairs." He left, his feet padding away down the hall, as I shot load after load inside his buddy. Holy fucking shit. At long last I withdrew from Mr. Ishida. I watched my cock exit his body, half-worried what I would see. But he was, remarkably, fine. Exhausted and spent, and a little stretched out, but damn that man was a trooper. "I'll go first," I told him, wiping my dick clean. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt. "When you're ready, come on down. Say you've been in the bathroom. GI issues." Mr. Ishida's fingers touched his open hole. His smile was enormous. "Not far from the truth," he said. Funny. I smiled as I entered the kitchen. I sat on my dad's right hand side. I felt him fawn, his hand on my shoulders, his lips at my temple in greeting. Soon Mr. Ishida was back, and I joined the game. Frankly I was amazed at the poker faces. Each man's expression was so perfect. So impassive. None letting on that they had all taken my cock. That my seed was still inside them. And then there was my dad, his smile proud and inscrutable as ever.