Archive for March, 2011

The Show Must Go On

When I finished my shift in the cab, it was 5:30 in the morning. The sun had not yet pierced the horizon over Brooklyn, and air traffic was already piling up into LaGuardia as I pulled into Taxicab Central. By the time I gassed up and paid rental on the vehicle, I had eighty dollars and some change in my pocket; enough at this rate to pay the rent or eat for the rest of the month, but not both. I peed, handed the cab off to Omar, and took the F train home, feeling blurry and stretched thin.

I was running a little late, so by the time I got home I just had time to shower and shave and check my email before my show. I get a ton of email: most of it complimentary, and most of it from horny gay dudes; but I also get a fair amount from girls, and those are the emails that give me the most pleasure.

Sometimes women send me pictures of themselves (or purporting to be of themselves, this is the internet after all). Sometimes they ask me to come on their pictures in my show, and I always oblige them. The weirdest one I ever got was a girl who asked for my address so she could send me a pair of her panties. She wanted me to come on the crotch, and mail them back to her so she could wear them around with my come-stain pressed against her pussy. I gave her my mailing address (she lived in Oregon, and I didn’t use my full name, so I guess I figured no harm could come of it), and sure enough a week later, I received a little black pair of size 7 string bikini panties, along with a padded return-addressed envelope.

I obliged her. At the end of my show that day, I wrapped those panties around my cock and pumped myself hard, riding them straight into long-delayed bliss, and squirting my sticky white come all over the crotch. I put them, still wet, into the SASE, and dropped it into a mailbox.

It’s kind of funny to think about some girl out in Oregon wearing those dirty panties, walking around with my dried-out come pressed up against her pussy. Maybe she masturbates through them, or sniffs them while watching my show. Or maybe it’s just some weird dude with feminine handwriting, wearing them on his head and jerking off. Who knows.

After I checked my email (there were some nice compliments about the previous week’s show, and one nice picture of what some girl said were her own sticky fingers after enjoying my performance) I adjusted the lights and turned on the webcam.

There is a little counter in the bottom-left of my screen that tells me how many people are tuned into my channel at any given time. When I started doing my show, almost a year ago now, I rarely ever broke through the two-digit barrier. This morning I was already up in the low hundreds, and I hadn’t even gotten naked yet. I wish there were some way I could parlay this into some extra income for myself; but there is no way -no way- that anyone is going to pay to watch some rotund twenty-something guy jerk off.

I undressed for the camera; certainly not a strip-tease, but definitely taking my time about it, playfully getting naked. I don’t always. Sometimes I’m a tease, sometimes I do the whole show, start to finish, fully dressed. I’ve even come inside my pants before. I got a ton of emails about that one!

After I was completely naked, I stretched and lay down on my bed, ignoring the camera. I tweaked my nipples with my thumb, yawned, and warmed up some lube in my hands, spreading it all over my fingers, and my still soft penis. It’s funny, I’ve been jerking off for years and years of course, but it’s only since I started doing my show that I’ve really gotten creative about it, started paying attention to what I’m doing, trying different things, and really enjoying masturbation.

I fished out a small lipstick vibrator from my toy box and lounged on the bed, dragging the buzzing little toy lazily around my body: stimulating my nipples and the tip of my tongue, then along my sternum and down my belly, up and down my not-quite-so-soft penis, around my floppy balls, raising one leg and running the vibrator across my perineum, very briefly stimulating my asshole with the buzzing tip, and then back up the way it had come, back up to my penis, which was now, if not exactly erect, thick and floppy. It felt nice. A tiny pearl of pre-come had formed at the tip, which I plucked with one fingertip and brought to my lips.

I’d had this one fare last night, about one in the morning, and I thought about her as I played. She was about my age, more or less, a petite little pixie of a girl with dark hair and big sticky-out ears. She kind of reminded me of a muppet. She said her name was Heather. She’d just gotten off work, and she’d wrecked her bike; the front wheel was folded over like a taco. Between the two of us, we wrestled the bicycle into the trunk of my cab, and I took her home to her place in East Williamsburg. Normally I barely ever talk to my fares, but Heather and I chatted the whole way home. She is a waitress, but she wants to be a writer, and she is working on a novel. She rides her bike everywhere. She’s lived in the city almost two years, and she doesn’t have a boyfriend. She wore a stretchy black t-shirt, and I wondered self-consciously if she could see me checking out her boobs in the rear-view. They were on the small side, and exceedingly cute.

I thought seriously about asking her out; I probably should have asked her out, but the fact of the matter is I’m too damn shy. I dropped her off at her apartment building, helped her get her damaged bike out of the trunk, and watched her carry it up the steps and through her front door. She had a sassy little ass that wiggled as she walked, and just before she went inside, she turned and waved at me.

Back on the bed in my own apartment, live and streaming, my cock was now fully erect, glistening with moist lube. The head was sharply defined, like a storm trooper’s helmet, and it seemed to strain up and out. I like to think I have an attractive penis, even if it isn’t the biggest thing ever.

I set the little vibrator aside, and fished my brand-new anal beads out of the toy box. There are twelve beads on the string, about two feet long, each bead the size of a large marble. I rolled over onto my tummy and, with the aid of more lube, I began the process of inserting the beads up my ass.

It’s kind of funny: these days I spend almost all my “disposable” income on sex toys, something that would have been unimaginable only a year ago. Live and learn…

I was kicking myself for not asking for Heather’s phone number or email. We even like the same kind of music: we’re indie rock geeks. She told me the name of the restaurant she works at; maybe I should swing by there tomorrow night. If her bike’s not fixed yet, maybe I could offer her a ride home.

I got the last bead stuffed up my ass. I felt pleasantly full and stretched taut and naughty. I got up on all fours, my stiff cock hanging down below my gut, and started moving my wet hands up and down my penis. I snuck a peek over at the counter on my computer monitor: at that moment just over a thousand people were watching me jerk off.

For the next ten or fifteen minutes, I delighted in teasing myself. I stroked myself slowly, softly, using my whole hand, or just my index finger up and down my length. I alternated hands; I cupped and squeezed my balls. I pinched my nipples, pulling hard and twisting. I licked my fingers and petted my cock, which was practically quivering with pent-up desire. Finally, I rolled over onto my back, squirting copious amounts of lube all over my dick and hands. My cock stuck eagerly up in the air, like some weird, horny toadstool.

My entire being ached for orgasm at this point, and still I continued to tease myself. I was moaning softly, more or less continuously, giving myself over to the sexiness of it. I never used to make noise when I masturbated; lately I’ve discovered that it magnifies the intensity of the sensations. Now I’m not even self-conscious about it: I let myself make whatever noises I feel like when I’m turned on. My ass felt full to overflowing with the anal beads, and they seemed to squirm around inside me like a nest of snakes. I gripped my penis with just my thumb and forefinger, forcing myself to hover agonizingly on the very edge of release.

I lifted one leg straight up in the air, turning slightly so I was directly facing the camera. One hand reached around my back, finding the little ring at the end of the string. My other hand wrapped firmly around my over-eager cock, barely restraining it from galloping away.

With agonizing deliberateness, I pulled the string, slowly removing the fat beads from my ass. Each time one passed through my puckered asshole, my entire body received a blissful jolt of pleasure. I pulled harder, faster, pop, pop, pop, at the same time increasing the speed of the hand sliding up and down my slick, wet cock. I felt myself slide inexorably past that delicious brink of no return. I heard my moans increase in volume and desperateness, becoming the roar of an oncoming freight train.

As the last beads popped out of my hyper-stimulated asshole, my hand was a virtual blur on my cock. My back arched and my body clenched, and I came, hard, squirting come all the way up my belly onto my chest. A few drops flew all the way up to my face, catching me on the chin. My body shook with pleasure as I came and came, pumping slippery white come all over my torso. It went on and on, like rolling summer thunder. I rode it like a surfer, enjoying the wave as it crashed and tumbled, rising again and breaking, slowly subsiding.

Finally, I resumed breathing. I let my spent cock flop down against my thigh. Smiling for the camera, I scooped up a glob of come and brought it to my lips, carefully sucking my finger clean. I don’t mind the taste really, it kind of reminds me of yeasty wet bread dough. Actually I find it curiously sexy.

With my finger, I spread the slippery pool of semen up and down my chest and belly. Once more I licked my finger. I smiled sleepily at the camera, and finally signed off. I was ready for another quick, hot shower, and then bed.

Maybe I’ll swing by Heather’s restaurant before my shift. Maybe I’ll sit at one of her tables. Maybe it won’t be busy and she’ll have time to sit down and chat with me for a while. Maybe I’ll ask her out. Maybe she’ll look at me intensely, head cocked to one side, arms folded under her small, pert breasts. Maybe she’ll ask me if we’ve met anywhere before, if we have friends in common or went to college together or something. I’ll tell her ‘no, I don’t think so’, and then maybe she’ll say “I know what it is! I know you from the internet! I watch your show every week. I’m a huge fan, I never miss a performance!”

Maybe she’ll agree to go out with me. Maybe I’ll drive my entire shift with her phone number in my pocket, an unquenchable erection in my pants. Maybe we’ll go out for dinner, and have a great time together, and end up coming back to my apartment. The possibilities are endless.

END

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Dad Quest

After my mom passed away, I did go a little crazy.

It had always been just the two of us together: single mother and only daughter.  Her parents had cut her out of their lives when she got knocked up, and the guy who made her pregnant, my dad, was just never a part of the picture.

The cancer started out in her left breast, and it spread like a dirty rumor, until her whole body was cancerous.  Even her tumors had tumors.  About the only positive thing I can say about her passing is that she didn’t suffer very long.

I dropped out of college; I simply stopped attending my classes. I started collecting knives and Japanese throwing stars. I made myself a garrote, a three-foot length of sixteenth-inch diameter aircraft cable with a swaged loop at either end for handles, wrapped in duct tape, that I carried with me at all times, coiled up in my purse. I stopped taking my birth control. I studied anatomy textbooks with bad intent. I masturbated myself to sleep late at night to Green Beret field manuals and practiced throwing my shuriken at male pornography taped up on my apartment wall.

Like I said, I’d gone a little crazy. I’m better now. I’d like to think I achieved some kind of catharsis.

Mom never finished high school; she dropped out before I was born.  I graduated at the top of my class, and at the time my mom died I was the only female math major at my university.  (That’s not actually saying that much; there were only seven math majors in the whole department.)

I decided to find my dad: find him, fuck him, and kill him.

Getting his name was the easy part; I had my mother’s yearbook from when she was a sophomore, the last year she had gone to school.  They had signed each other’s pictures.  “Love Always’ she had written; “Yer a babe!” he had scrawled under her photo.

I guess I could see why she had been attracted to him.  He was a Bad Boy, obviously.  In the photo, he wore a defiant sneer and a backwards-facing baseball cap, and his head was tilted back at a sardonic angle, just daring the camera to come a little closer.  He was a skinny little dude with a face that reminded me of a ferret and the shadow of a mustache haunting his upper lip.  He looked like the type of guy who might carjack you with a switchblade.  I looked and looked at the little black-and-white photograph for a long time, but I couldn’t see myself in that face, not at all.

Finding his name was easy; finding the man wasn’t so simple.  It wasn’t as if he had a Facebook page, and there were three Dan G_____s listed in the city white pages, none of whom was he.

Fortunately for me, Pops had a bunch of credit card debt; and a friend of mine who was a computer science major was able to extract his home address and place of employment.  He lived in an old industrial town about 90 minutes upstate, and he worked at a metal extruding factory. He was the second shift foreman.

I started hanging out in upstate redneck bars. I guess I was surprised at how little I got hit on, but in retrospect I suppose I shouldn’t have been. A twenty-two year old girl with an obvious chip on her shoulder, wearing an old army jacket and black jeans and combat boots drinking jack-and-cokes alone spells one thing: Trouble.

Anyway, it didn’t take me long to find him. It was the Easy Street bar, a rather banal little dive a few miles down the road from his factory, where they had classic rock on the jukebox and Budweiser on tap.

When he came in, I didn’t recognize him right away. The years had not been kind to him. He had probably put on a hundred pounds since that ratty-ass sophomore picture had been taken 22 years ago; it wasn’t concentrated in a big beer gut, his body had just gotten thick. He had a high forehead and thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and he wore a gold stud in his left earlobe. It looked like he’d done a lot of rough living since he’d knocked my mom up.

The thing that gave him away were the eyes. As soon as I saw those sad, deep-set, sea-grey eyes, I knew it was him. They were the same eyes I saw every morning when I looked in the mirror.

He wasn’t popular with the crew. I’d already heard talk in the bars: he was a hard-ass boss, a tough case, a prick to work for, an intolerant, humorless sonofabitch. Looking at him, I doubted that he had any friends at all. He came to the Easy Street most nights after his shift, eight-ish; sat by himself at the bar; had two beers; and drove home. Alone.

I watched him and watched him, over the course of a week, and then I put my plan into effect.

I left my car sitting at the park-and-ride, and walked the three or so miles along dark, sidewalk-less back country roads to Easy Street. The bartender recognized me by now, and set me up with a jack-and-coke.

He was late. I was worried that he wasn’t coming at all; some nights he didn’t.

It was nearly ten before he showed up, wearing a frown that could sink a battleship. He sat down heavily at the bar, emitting a long drawn-out sigh that reminded me of the hydraulic brakes on a big rig.

“Rough day?” I asked.

“Rough day,” he snorted. His hands reminded me of bear paws: huge and hairy, stained black with oil and metal grease. “Rough day. Two guys call in sick and one shows up drunk, and of course we get a big order in late in the day.” He looked at me quizzically, “Who’s askin’ anyway?”

“Let me buy you a drink” I nodded to the bartender, who fetched Pops a tall, frosty cold one.

“So we get this big order for box-tube, and of course the freaking die breaks, and I have to change it out myself, which is a freaking bitch, and then it’s late and none of the guys want to do overtime, so I’m stuck running the freaking machine myself, which is hard work and freaking dangerous… safety third, that’s our company motto.”

While I listened to him talk, nodding sympathetically at appropriate pauses, I was picturing him fucking me: me flat on my back with my legs wrapped around his pale ass, his big dick pistoning in and out of my pussy, humping me like a big hairy cartoon ape, grunting and snorting as he fucked. I wanted to murder him, to feel him blow his last breath in my face even as his cock twitched inside my cunt.

My panties were now distinctly moist. I shifted the way I was sitting on the barstool, bringing my knees close to, but not quite in contact with his. He finished his beer and got another. He bought me a drink too, and that was when I knew I was in. I let my hand settle on his thigh. He jumped, startled, at the touch, but didn’t move away.

“Could I get a ride?” I asked when he had finished his second beer.

“Where you going?”

“Where do you want to take me?” I asked.

I sat next to him in the passenger seat of a tan Ford station wagon that was older than me. I wondered if he’d owned that car when he was dating my mother. I wondered if he’d fucked her in the back seat, directly behind where I was sitting.

Of course I’d fantasized about doing it slowly, getting him to let me handcuff him to his bed, and then sitting astride him, engulfing his cock with my cunt before taking fingers and toes and ears and maybe his nose with my knife while he screamed and bucked and protested beneath me, unwittingly bringing me to orgasm after orgasm as he struggled. I knew it wasn’t going to go down like that; I intended to do this and to get away with it, and that meant doing the job quick and quiet; but it was a nice fantasy.

I wasn’t sure if I would call his place a house, or a shack. It was a tiny, single-story structure, overhung with trees. In the moonlight, the roof looked like it was sagging dangerously.

“I don’t bring many women home with me,” he allowed, “’scuse me if the place is a mess.”

It actually wasn’t that bad, for a single dude’s apartment. There were a bunch of hot rod and heavy metal posters straight out of the ‘80s. Tidy stacks of magazines: Popular Mechanics, and Hot Rod, and Penthouse, and Hustler. A very dusty, very old bowling trophy. A couple of plastic model cars. His clothes for the remainder of the week were laid out folded on top of his dresser. It was kind of cute, actually.

He wanted me. I could tell, and he was nervous about it, he didn’t know how to proceed. Ha! Of course I was going to fuck him, why else would I have let him take me home? I wondered how long it had been since he’d been with a girl. My handbag felt heavy with the weight of my marine Ka-Bar knife and the garrote. I had a Sog tactical dagger in a boot sheath in my Doc Martins and a tiny illegal switchblade in my jeans pocket. I felt like I was ready for anything.

I imagined Pops fucking me, skewering my juicy young pussy on his gnarly old dick, huffing and puffing as it slid in and out, the veins in his forehead bulging out with the effort. I imagined fucking back against him, whispering encouragement, playing with my clit and pulling on my nipples as he fucked me. I imagined him coming, his eyes locked on mine, his face red, his belly jiggling, his cock pistoning spasmodically. I imagined grabbing the marine combat knife out of my handbag by the bed just as he squirted his incestuous sperm into my cunt, and sliding the huge sharp wicked blade deep into his solar plexus, just under his rib cage, seeing those sad sea-grey eyes bulge out with shock and confusion right in middle of his orgasm. I imagined myself coming, bathed in his sticky red blood, as he croaked out his last breaths, his cock still frantically jerking around inside my cunt as his bulk settled on top of me, dead.

I imagined letting him fuck me, and after he was done, asking him very sweetly to go down on me, to lick his hot daddy come out of my tight little girl pussy. Of course he would. I’d set my legs on his shoulders and let him do his thing. He might be pretty good at it too. When I felt like the time was ripe, when I was good and wet and close to coming on his tongue, I’d fish out the switchblade knife. I’d reach down and stick it into his neck, breaking the skin, pressing the tip of the blade up against his carotid artery. “Lick me good Daddy,” I’d purr at him, “Lick me real good.” And he would. He’d lick my pussy frantically, hoping that if he did a good enough job it would save his life. When I came, I’d give the knife a vicious jerk, severing the artery, and he’d look up at me with wide, wide eyes, mouth silently opening and shutting, face covered in my slimy juices, his life blood squirting out of his neck with every pump of his heart, squirting up and onto me, all over my heaving tits as I rubbed myself off to a long, body-wracking, protracted orgasm.

I imagined letting him fuck me, fuck me as long and as hard and nasty as he wanted, letting him do whatever he pleased with my lithe young body, until his come was all over me and inside me, and he was tired and satisfied. I pictured him getting up to use the bathroom, and me sneaking up quietly behind him, and slipping the garrote around his neck and throttling him while he peed. I imagined leaving his lifeless naked body crumpled across the toilet in his dingy little bathroom, and me hiking quietly back to my own car. I wondered how long it would be before someone found his body.

He asked me if I’d like a drink, a beer or some water or anything. I pressed myself boldly against him, bolder than I’d ever behaved with a guy before, letting my breast brush against his chest and putting an arm around his waist. I told him I could think of something I wanted. I let my hand traverse down the front of his jeans. He smelled of work: hot metal and oil and sweat. I kind of liked that smell. It was kind of sexy.

There was a nice bulge in the crotch of his jeans, and I gave it a friendly squeeze. His hand found mine, and our fingers interlaced. He was so nervous he was trembling. I could feel his heart beating, and it was fast, fast. Wouldn’t it be the ultimate irony if the poor guy had a heart attack on me?

We maneuvered into his bedroom. It was pretty neat and tidy for a guy’s room. The bed was made. There was an open Penthouse magazine lying on the floor by the bed, and I made a point of squealing and picking it up. “Oooh naked girls!” I flopped onto his bed. The mattress was small and rather hard and lumpy. I flipped the magazine open to a spread of two heavily made-up models with scary long fingernails getting it on in a hot tub. The blonde girl’s tongue was outstretched, close to, but not quite in contact with the brunette’s carefully manicured pussy. “Oooh, sexy!” I cooed, “Do you think it’s hot when girls do that? I do.” I looked up at him, suddenly mock-concerned. “Do you like girls with big boobs?” I indicated my own not-exactly tiny rack.

“I think what you’ve got is just fine,” he said, “As a matter of fact, I think you’re beautiful.”

“Really?” I said, tossing the porn mag aside, “You really think so? Do I remind you of anyone?”

He looked thoughtful and confused, a look that quickly evaporated as I took off my top and bra and wriggled out of my jeans.

I went to work on removing his pants. He had tighty-whities on underneath. My pussy salivated as I tugged them off, exposing my Daddy’s goods to the harsh light of the incandescent overhead light.

He was only halfway hard. His cock hung down, thick and sluggish, in front of a fat pair of balls. The head was purple, and a long strand of pre-come was leaking out the tip. His balls were heavy and hairy.

I playfully flicked my tongue, licking the salty head of his dick, and his cock jerked at my touch. I was going to enjoy this immensely.

I took the whole, semi-soft thing into my mouth, sucking hard and swirling my tongue around, making popping and slurping noises with my mouth. I cupped his balls with my hand, squeezing gently. My other hand caressed his backside, exploring his crack, petting bolder and bolder into the forbidden territory of his ass, daring him to beg me to go further. His cock responded eagerly, swelling like a nature-documentary time lapse, blossoming into full hardness until my mouth could no longer contain him. It was nice and big, and had an upward curve, and the head strained eagerly out toward me. I softly tickled his asshole with one finger and dragged my tongue up along the underside of his cock, tracing the big vein, from the base all the way up to his pee hole. I looked up at him and grinned toothily.

He took off his shirt and pulled off his socks. His belly wasn’t really that big, he was just a thick man. There was a tangled nest of dark hair on his chest that straggled down to his crotch in a furry, meandering line. He had a long, white scar on one shoulder.

I pulled off my own panties. The crotch was definitely wet, and my cunt was pleasantly squooshy. My clit felt hot and swollen, nestled in between my pussy lips.

I should have made him use a condom; I had no idea what I’d do if he got me pregnant and who knows where he’d stuck that penis of his in all the years since he’d impregnated mom; for that matter he should have insisted on a condom: he had no idea where my pussy had been and what I might be infected with. But that wasn’t the way I wanted it, and apparently neither did he.

I lay flat on my back on his lumpy single bed, my legs splayed obscenely apart. He clambered on top of me, guiding his erection carefully with one hand, aiming it with the care and concentration of a skilled mechanic.

I sighed involuntarily as he penetrated me. His cock entered my body slowly, steadily, inexorably. It had been rather a long time since I’d had an honest fucking, and no matter what they say, it feels totally different when the guy isn’t wearing a condom. I could feel every texture of his cock as it moved inside me. My own father was fucking me and I was so turned on it ached. I could now officially register myself as a pervert.

He started fucking me, excruciatingly slowly, like a steam engine chugging up to speed. His eyes were narrow slits focused on mine. His thrusts were powerful, they made the bed shake, they made my tits bounce up and down. My cunt was humping back against his cock, meeting his every thrust. I could feel his balls slapping against my ass. His breathing was hard and ragged, and so was mine.

Shit, I was going to come! I couldn’t believe it, but it was sneaking up on me, overwhelming me. Penis-in-vagina sex doesn’t usually get me off, especially without a lot of extensive, kinky foreplay first. I wanted him to come along with me. I wanted his DNA inside me, for it to meet up with my DNA, and for my egg to kick his sperm’s ass. I kicked my legs frantically, lolling my head from side to side, arching my back and gurgling incoherently as he chug-chugged along, fucking my slippery wet pussy like a god-damned pussy fucking machine.

I don’t know when I’ve come that hard or that long before. My whole body tingled pleasantly; all the hair on my arms was standing on end; my nipples stuck out like sore thumbs; my clit felt distended and hyper-sensitized.

He was still inside me, still hard, but he was no longer moving.

“Did you come?” I asked.

“No,” he said sounding a little embarrassed, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to. It’s been a very long time since I’ve done this.”

“Take me from behind” I said.

I rolled over onto all fours, and he slid his dick back up my juicy pussy. He started over again, fucking me like a potato masher. I encouraged him to fondle my breasts and slap my ass and tug on my hair. I wanted him to fuck me straight to hell. I wanted him to take me and use me the way he had taken and used my mother. He obliged, fucking me for what seemed like hours on end. He fucked me until it started to hurt. Still, he showed no sign of slowing down or getting off.

“Do you want to fuck me up the ass?”

“You mean anal sex?” he asked.

“That’s right,” I said, wiggling my butt seductively.

“I’ve never done that before…”

“I think you should do it to me now” I told him.

“I’ll be gentle” he said.

“Just fuck my ass” I said.

He pulled out of my tender pussy and nudged his slick cock against my puckered asshole. I blew out a long breath as the thick, bulbous head muscled its way through my tight sphincter.

I buried my face in the pillow, panting and growling as he butt-fucked me. I was stretched taut, filled up, invaded, pummeled from behind. I reveled in the pervertedness of it, my own daddy was sodomizing my asshole. My fingers found my swollen clitoris and I was coming again, coming in choking, gasping jerks as he fucked my ass.

“I can’t,” he panted at last, “I can’t come. I’m not going to be able to. I’m sorry.”

He carefully pulled his cock out of my poor battered little asshole. His face was all red and covered with a sheen of sweat. He was breathing hard, and the veins in his neck stuck out.

“Then masturbate for me,” I told him, “jerk off onto me.”

I lay on my back and he straddled my chest. He took his cock in hand. It was shiny wet with my juice, and red from the exertion. He squeezed it tight, painfully-looking tight, and started stroking himself with that vise-like grip. Slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster until his hand was a blur and the head of his cock looked like it was ready to explode. His big balls and his belly jiggled as he pumped. His penis was aimed at me like a loaded shotgun.

Finally he croaked out “Oh… oh… oh!” His hand froze, mid-stroke on his cock. His back arched and his eyes went wide.

The first squirt caught me on the cheek and across my nose. The next splashed onto my neck. More landed on my breasts. It was an awful lot of come. He milked the last pearly-white drops out of his shrinking dick onto my tits. I felt like I was covered in the stuff. He sat next to me on the bed, breathing hard. I dipped my finger into the slick of come on my breast, and brought my finger to my lips. His semen was salty and bitter and warm. I licked my finger clean and swallowed. My father was inside me.

We fell asleep side by side on the narrow bed. He snored like an old V-8 engine idling. One of his heavy arms was thrown across my chest.

We only slept for a few hours. When we woke up, grey light was filtering in through the window. The sun was just rising behind a heavy layer of clouds.

“I gotta get ready for work” my dad said.

“I’ve got to get going.” I said.

He sat up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. “Will I see you again?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Listen,” he said to me, “Listen. I’ve got a little girl out there somewhere, a daughter I never got to meet. She’d be about your age now. I’ve wasted my life. Don’t waste yours.”

I got dressed and left him there. I walked the three or four miles back to the park and ride. My dad’s come was dry on my face and chest, sticking to my shirt and flaking off. The clouds were low and grey and heavy, and it started to rain. The cold drops mixed in with the warm salty tears that ran down my cheeks.

END

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