Stuart
It’sthemiddleofwinter, but it feels like spring. The maple at the bottom of the garden has yet to sprout a single leaf and the roses and elderberry still have an indignant look of shock from the hard pruning I gave them in early January. It’s been a cold winter for California. A cold and gray winter, yet I see signs of life everywhere, and it feels uncommonly warm in the house—and not just because I’ve caved and cranked the heat up higher than it’s ever been.
Ordinarily, I’m a firm believer that the heat should never be higher than sixty-eight degrees. Ordinarily, it’s a hill I’ll die on. The thing is, Elliot seems to like wandering around in nothing more than his fancy little boxer briefs and tight, long-sleeved white T’s when he’s home, and when you think about it, who the hell am I to stop him?
I can’t have him freezing, hence the heat, but I did draw the line at barefoot. When he told me he hates wearing slippers because they slip off his feet when he runs, I bought him a few pairs of those thick socks with the anti-slip bobbles on the soles and completely forgot to point out that there’s no reason to run indoors unless there’s a fire.
It’s a balmy seventy-four in here right now, and Elliot is in the kitchen making scrambled eggs to have with his smoothie. His socks are bunched up at his ankles, and he’s wearing a snug pair of superhero shorts with things like POW! and KABOOM! emblazoned all over them. The fabric is soft and stretchy, pulled so tightly across the swell of his ass the lettering is slightly distorted. It’s a little distracting, but they’re better than the pair he wore yesterday.
Who knew they made men’s underwear with adorable, pastel cartoon ponies doing unspeakable things to each other on them? Not me, that’s for goddamn sure. Needless to say, I had them around his ankles before he had time to say, “Good morning.”
Spanked him for indecency right there and then, and I won’t hesitate to do it again.
My palm is twitching while watching him now, and so is my dick. He looks over his shoulder, eyes vivid and hair disheveled from sleep, ass quaking gently as he scrambles the eggs.
“Morning, Daddy,” he says brightly.
“Morning.”
He hears it. The thickness. The strain. The subtle gruffness of lust in my voice. He turns the heat off immediately and sets the whisk down. He takes two steps toward me, and then he’s on his knees. The movement is so fluid it takes me a second to work out how it happened. He sits back on his heels and opens his mouth without saying a word.
You know how I mentioned that things have been coming to life? Well, my libido is one of those things. It’s come roaring back. Thundering in. So hard and strong that less than two weeks since the first time I fucked him, I can’t imagine how I ever lived without it.
I drag a dining chair to where he is and unbuckle before sitting. I spread my legs wide and motion for him to come closer. He crawls to me and takes me into his mouth hungrily, gulping me down and making me feel so good my legs go lame. I guide him up and down with hands knotted in his hair, leaning back, eyes closed as I revel in the sweet softness of his mouth. When I get close, I pull him off my dick and guide him to my balls instead. He licks gently, tongue sweeping across puckered skin.
He looks up at me the whole time. His eyes are huge, pupils big and black. I lean forward and run a hand down his back, digging into corded muscle as I work my way down. I slide a hand into his shorts and start groping involuntarily the second I feel the silky warmth of his ass in my hand. I lean forward more, using both hands now, kneading him hard, pinching, making him pink. I push his shorts down with one hand and feed him two fingers with the other. When they’re sopping wet, I reach down and hook them deep inside him.
The sound he makes is startled perfection. A small squeak that frays and turns into a groan. He latches back onto my dick as I stretch him. Panting and grunting as I work him open.
“Elliot,” I say, pulling out and raising his chin so he’s facing me. He blinks at me twice. “Go fetch the lube for Daddy.”
“Now?Really?”His voice lilts up happily, and he takes off at speed.
“Slowly up the stairs,” I warn.
Usually, I let him blow me in the morning, and then I make him sit on my lap with his underwear pulled down to his knees as I make a fist around him, edging him, whispering into his ear, telling him what I’m going to do to him after work if he’s a good boy all day.
Today, I can’t help myself. I want him so much that I could fuck him five times in a row and still want more.
When he got here, he seduced me with surly looks and thinly veiled acts of defiance. Eye rolls and an attitude problem. I don’t know if he knew what he was doing at the time. I don’t know if he understood how his actions affected me, but he sure as hell does now. He knows exactly what I’m all about. He gets it. He understands innately that as much as I love putting boys in their place, I have a weakness for bad boys who are good boys at heart.
When he returns, he hands me the lube shyly, looking up at me through thick, dark lashes. Waiting for me to tell him how I want him.
“Bend over, baby.”
He does as I say, bracing himself on the dining table. He looks back at me as he does it, and his eyes flare with precisely the same heat they did yesterday when I made him bend over for a spanking.
Every time I see the curve of his spine, the tautness of his creamy thighs, and the dark shadow of his little hole spread open for me, I feel a sense of rightness. Inevitability. Inescapability. Elliot is a Daddy’s boy, and I am a Daddy. What we do is what Daddies and boys do together. It’s what Daddies like me and boys like him are meant to do to each other.
When it’s daytime and he’s by my side, I feel sure that what we’re doing is right. Appropriate and good. That feeling stays with me all day. It’s with me at work and at dinner. It’s with me when I make his packed lunch in the morning. It’s there when he slides his hand into mine when we cross the street to take Sadie for her walk. It’s with me when I make him cry out, whether he’s crying from pain or pleasure.
It isn’t until late at night, when it’s dark and the house is dead quiet, that it finds me. When he’s safely tucked into his bed and I’m alone in mine. When I’ve fallen asleep and woken again, the tight squeeze of dread circles me, reminding me over and over: Elliot is Jeff’s son.
Jeff might have failed Elliot, but he’s never failed me. I love the man. He’s been in my life for so long that I can’t imagine my life without him.
In the night, my thoughts come at me hot and fast. Jumbled and disjointed.
Aside from the Jeff issue, Elliot is young. So young. I’m old for forty, and he’s young for twenty-four. I want to settle down. He’s at the height of his self-proclaimed slut era. I’ve been badly hurt. He’s never been in love before.
