Oscar B.A. Part 3
I’ve always liked sucking cock.
A lot.
On my knees. On my back. On all fours while he fingers my hole. Through a gloryhole. In the passenger seat of his car; the gear stick poking me in the guts. Sixty-nine. Spit-roast. Even my own, when I’m feeling extra flexible.
But it’s not that sense of delicious mystery, over how and where I suck out my next mouthful, that gets me really going. Sometimes it’s the aspects that don’t change.
The constants.
Like the smell. That laundry detergent and sweat mix, with just a hint of cum. It radiates, warm and heavy, from his crotch as his fly comes down and his trousers splay open. Billows out in an invisible cloud of microscopic particles and hits my nostrils, igniting all the right parts of my brain and sending a shiver down my spine to my balls.
And how my balls tingle. All over like a beam of sunshine has suddenly shot through the roof, no matter the time of day, and magically pointed at my crotch. Warming the boys like a pair of gently cupping, angelic hands.
Then he’s in my mouth. Hot and hard with a hint of salt, like saline in a sea breeze. Pushing my tongue down. Gliding over every taste bud and coating them with his flavour. Stretching the walls of my throat and dripping a bead of pre-cum into my stomach.
His impressive chest swells and a moan of ecstasy fills the air around us. My cock grows full. Swollen and hard and aching to be touched.
Held. Squeezed. Pulled and tugged to the same rhythm beating in and out of my open jaw. Slow but powerful. Long, full strokes. His cock sliding all the way out until his wet, purple head rests on my thick, red lips. And then all the way back down. Controlled and deep and to the base.
In no time, he sees that I can take it. All the way. And more. No gagging. No retching. There’s nothing like a boy who can deepthroat.
So he speeds up. Puts his hands around my head and muffles my ears. In his audio cocoon, I relax my neck. He feels the weight of my skull shift in his hands and tightens his grip. Now my neck is like a candy snake. Malleable and delicious. He can turn and twist me any way he wants.
To the side, so he can see my cheek pushing out. Back, so he can rub himself over my tongue. Steady, so he can get the right position. The perfect angle for maximum depth and minimum teeth.
He finds it. Pulls out so I can take a deep breath. I hold it as he thrusts back in, relishing the feeling of my veins tightening down my biceps and forearms. Across my forehead and inside my body. Constricting and pulsing as my last, rapidly dwindling lungful of oxygen races through me.
His grunts and groans mingle with the muted slurps and sloshes cascading out of my mouth. Saliva rivers down my chin and chest and pools in the creases of my six-pack. Down further and through my trimmed pubes. Over my hard cock. Glazing my balls.
My vision blurry. My eyes watering.
My head begins to spin and my balls send a body-shuddering wave of pleasure through me. I convulse. He pulls out and lets go. I can guzzle up the air again. Sweet and air-conditioned it fills my lungs. Chills my insides like a gulp of ice water on a summer’s day.
In this instance, I was on my knees. Naked. Daddy Dick’s suit trousers were by his ankles with his black Gucci underwear; his dark navy socks still pulled up over his thick, tanned, hairy calves.
He was looking down at me. Over his wide, hairy pecs and down his defined, wide stomach. Down the V-lines of his abdomen and under his huge cock. Still gleaming and glistening and dripping with my spit.
I wiped away a tear.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said, playfully sneering down at me.
‘I can’t help it,’ I said, a cheeky smile spreading. ‘It’s just so beautiful.’
He laughed.
‘You like my cock?’ he said.
Coughing I cleared my throat. Said, ‘Yes.’
‘Do I live up to my name?’
Leaning forward I kissed him. On the side of his shaft. Closing his eyes, he moaned; his cock bouncing off and back onto my lips.
‘Not yet,’ I said.
Which was a lie. He lived up to his moniker and more. Daddy Dick AKA Richard Something certainly had the goods. But he didn’t need to know that.
‘Not yet?’ he said.
‘You can do better.’
Squaring his shoulders, he tightened his fists. Smiled. Then, taking me by the hand, pulled me to my feet.
‘Where?’ he said, linking his hands behind the small of my back and kissing my neck.
There was no question.
‘The table,’ I said, hanging my head on my shoulders and letting his lips and tongue taste and caress and bite wherever they wanted.
‘Excellent idea,’ he whispered into my ear.
The glass of the dining table was cold. It felt amazing.
Every inch of its spotless, shining surface cooled my skin as I laid down and hung my head over the thick, blunt edge. My view of his stunning apartment inverted and two powerful legs reached up to the floor-ceiling in front of me; the glass around me beginning to fog.
‘You ready?’ he said.
‘You have no idea.’
Then I couldn’t breathe again.
His balls were plugging my nostrils and his thighs were squeezing around my face. His hands pushing down on my pecs and squeezing at muscle. His cock back where it belonged.
He started slow. Made sure I was as comfortable as I was going to get, and he could thrust fully without crushing me or breaking my neck. He could. Found his rhythm again. Fucked my throat like I’d asked him to.
But deeper than before.
So deep I could feel him right at the bottom. Pushing up my muscles and tendons and skin from underneath, bulging my Adam’s apple, and almost slotting perfectly between the ridges of bone where collar curves to sternum.
Then I almost blew instantly: I’d opened my eyes. Between his hairy, powerful legs and rising mounds of flawless arse, I could see the kitchen behind him. Five or so feet back was a stainless-steel fridge. Shiny and expensive and reflective.
I could see him in it. Us. Smaller, because of the distance, and sheened in metallic grey, but there we were. His upside-down, defined back, wide shoulders and tightening, pummelling glutes. My mouth as wide as possible. My head dwarfed by the size of his thighs. His huge cock using my throat like it was my hole. His ball sack slapping against my nose.
I didn’t want to blow. It was too soon. So I forced my eyes closed again. Told my mind to store the image away. One for the wank-bank.
Then I gagged. I didn’t want to. I needed to ensure my hooks were dug deep. From his choice in restaurant, car and apartment, Daddy Dick was undoubtedly a perfectionist. I couldn’t show weakness. Couldn’t fail at pleasing him.
Sadly however, sometimes, when they get so deep and block you up so airtight, your brain takes over.
I had no choice.
But he had me. Wedged between a thousand-pound glass table and a hundred-and-eighty pounds of muscle. I couldn’t move. All I could do was lock my jaw open and let the retch roll up. Over my abs, through my stomach and into my chest. Every muscle in my torso tensing and tightening like I’d been poked with a cattle prod.
My hands shot up and my fingers dug into his thighs. My spine arched towards him and my head tried to pull to the left. He clenched his legs, locking me in place, and with one last, ruthless lunge he pulled out.
Twenty-five seconds later I could see straight again and my stomach had settled. He’d been busy enjoying the view. Stroking my thick brown hair and gazing into my teary, blue eyes as I’d gasped and gulped and spat up thick tendrils of foamy white into my hands.
Smiling and thinking and staring at me.
Staring at me like he liked the look of me. But not just my good genes supplied by bad parents or the reality that I was nineteen and he could do anything he wanted to me in his impressive apartment. But like he liked me being here. Like he wanted to carry on mercilessly ploughing my mouth, but hold me in his arms and kiss me softly and stroke my hair all at the same time.
I realise that’s quite a stretch. Telling someone’s intentions after twenty-five seconds. Most of which being spent preoccupied with clearing my airways so I could breathe again. But I knew that look. I’d seen it before.
I knew what it meant.
He wasn’t the first. The first older guy to look at me like that. Like he wanted to wrap me up in cotton wool. Protect me from the big bad world. Guide and inspire poor, lost Oscar.
Give me a break. I could see right through it. He pitied me. They all did. But just because I’d had a few shitty years didn’t mean I was broken or damaged. I was fine. More than fine. I was strong and smart and living a good life all by myself. I didn’t need anyone to look after me.
Especially not some divorcee off Grindr.
Fortunately for poor, lost me, and unfortunately for him, having been in this situation before gave me an advantage.
I knew exactly how to handle it.
I was going to take all that worthless, patronising pity and turn it into gold. Rinse Daddy Dick for everything he had. Meals, gifts, holidays, cash, clothes, drugs, you name it.
And the best part? He’ll want to give it to me.
No one pities me.
Licking my lips, I opened my mouth again. Wriggled back up the table, my naked back squeaking over glass and smudging my fogged-up outline. Hanging my head over the edge I took a deep breath and braced myself.
It was time to not only blow Daddy Dick’s cock better than he’d ever been blown before. But blow his mind.
And I would have. If things hadn’t have gotten really fucking interesting really fucking fast.
It turned out that, in the heat of the moment, neither of us had heard the jangle of keys or the turn of a door handle. Neither of us had heard footsteps through the hall. And neither of us had seen the man standing only ten feet away.
But he’d certainly seen us.
‘What the fuck, Richard!’
‘Shit!’
The next twelve seconds were a blur.
I remember almost puking because Richard had been so surprised he’d jumped, lurching his entire body weight forward and further than ever down my windpipe.
Luckily, he’d pulled out in time for me to retch up to sitting, swing my legs to the side, slump behind the table, cough, splutter, grab up my underwear and finally stand, a little nauseous but otherwise fine with the table safely between myself and who I assumed was the ex-husband.
What the fuck is he doing here?
I had no idea. He was still glued to the spot. Slack-jawed and shaking his head in disbelieve. Holding two black bin bags stuffed full.
Black haired with streaks of grey too he couldn’t have been much older than Richard. He was wearing light grey jogging bottoms and a tight white t-shirt. On his feet were light blue Nike trainers.
He was handsome. Maybe even more handsome than Daddy Dick but I couldn’t tell. My eyes were still watering and it was hard to come to a definitive conclusion when the person you’re aesthetically judging has a face like a slapped arse.
This guy was furious.
‘I can’t fucking believe you, Richard,’ he said.
‘What?’ Richard said, now dressed like me.
Undies only. Still hard.
‘You’ve had this place to yourself for one night and you’re already face fucking some twink on our dining table!’
Some twink?
‘I told you I was going out tonight and might be bringing someone home,’ Richard said, throwing an apologetic look my way.
I said nothing. I had no intention of getting caught in the middle of this category ten-thousand shit-storm.
‘Yes. Out to dinner,’ the ex said. ‘It’s not even ten and you’re back. Must have been a cheap date!’
Or did I?
‘So?’ Richard said.
‘You knew I’d be coming over to drop this stuff off.’
‘I thought you already had.’
‘Bullshit. You wanted me to see this.’
‘No, Josh, I didn’t.’
‘Whatever, Richard,’ he said, throwing the bags to the ground; their contents spilling slightly: work shirts and ties. ‘I’m leaving. Enjoy your rent boy.’
Rent boy?!
To be continued …
Head over to my website to learn more about Oscar, including exclusive content about my upcoming eBook series Oscar Down Under, as well as my first collection of Nifty stories title Oscar.
Copyright Jack Ladd 2017
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