Jay Spear Stories

Writer of erotic fiction, purveyor of porn. You’ll find a lot of my work here, and even more on Patreon. Enjoy!

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Better With Brandon - Part 2

I honestly thought nothing would happen again between me and Brandon after that crazy fuck on the couch. When it was over and our skin cooled down, we put on our clothes and went back to watching the game. He didn’t say anything about it and neither did I.

By the next morning, it almost felt like it had never really happened. It was hazy and remote, like a strange, distant dream. I chalked the whole thing up to some kind of weird moment that comes out of the blue—one of those weird flashes of pheromones and chemistry that ignites in an instant and burns out just as fast.

But less than 24 hours later, Brandon came up from behind as I was bent over unloading the dishwasher. He put his hands on my hips and started pressing his crotch into my backside.

“Mmmm,” he murmured.

He leaned down and laid his chest across my back.

“Sorry, but it looked so good,” he whispered into my neck. “I had to touch. And feel. Maybe we should repeat what we did yesterday.”

I don’t know what I said in response. Probably none of the things a wiser man would have said. Because within minutes, Brandon had my pants at my ankles and he was dragging his cock back and forth between my cheeks. His flared cockhead scraped my hole. Then two quick pumps of Ivory Liquid from the dispenser on the counter and he was inside me.

It was quicker and easier this time. Smooth, like it was practiced and natural. It’s crazy to say that, because I was still wigged out by the reality of bending over for my son. But he was a carefree jock who didn’t stop to think about any of that. He just fucked and kissed and went on with his life. And because it felt good—really good, despite the whole thing being so unexpected—I went on with it too.

After that it became something very regular, almost something unremarkable that we’d do—without either of us really talking about it. We just carried on with our normal lives. Me, the middle aged single dad, working 9-5 and offering his newly adult son a place for the summer. And Brandon, the fresh grad working full-time for the first time and crashing with me until he saved enough for his own place. That banal dynamic persisted.

But then there would be a change in the lighting, or a pause in the show we were watching, and I’d catch Brandon’s eyes on me. They’d have this look, deep and romantic. And just like that we’d start kissing. And the kissing would lead to fucking, which would lead us back to kissing…. It was a tight circle of activity and it could spiral for quite a while.

I should be clear that “us fucking” meant Brandon fucking me.

I did try to go after him one time. We were naked and rolling around, and I grabbed him by the hips, pulling his buns to my crotch and tapping my cock against his hole.

He swatted my hand away.

“Sorry,” I said to him. “I thought we might switch it up this time.”

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing my wrists and then flipping me over onto my back. He poked his cock between my thighs. “But this is working just fine as it is. Isn’t it, Dad?”

Brandon said it in a steady, certain voice.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” I replied.

“Good.”

Brandon pulled my legs up onto his chest and pressed his fingers to my pucker, testing. Then he spit on his dick and pushed it in.

“Because I think this is great.”

“Yeah, me too,” I agreed.

It wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t felt like this in years.

***

I first thought the change between us was just sex, but of course there was more to it than that. We fucked regularly, and we kissed throughout it all. Deeply. Hungrily. Tenderly. That combo couldn’t help but change things.

First the kissing and touching spilled over into everyday life. It became routine for Brandon to grab me by the hip, or pat my behind, or give me a long, slow kiss—all in the middle of the day, disconnected from sex and for no reason at all. These actions were no longer reserved for foreplay; they had become everyday affection.

I have to say, I enjoyed it. I hadn’t done much dating since Brandon’s mother and I split, and it felt good to have someone paying that kind of attention to me. Someone noticing when I looked good in a shirt and encouraging me to change into a better one if I didn’t.

“The black shirt you wore yesterday looked much better on you,” he might remark. I’d go check in the bedroom mirror and realize Brandon was right.

We started hanging out together, and not only around the house.

“Where should we go this weekend?” I’d ask. “I can make plans, get us some reservations.”

Brandon always had ideas, and I enjoyed executing on them.

And sometimes we’d hang out with others. I liked how comfortable everyone was around Brandon. They had first met him as child, but everyone spoke to him differently now. They recognized him as an adult in his own right.

“Brandon, can the two of you come help with the fundraiser on the 5th? Starts early.”

“No problem,” Brandon said with easy confidence. “I’ll make sure this one”—he jabbed me with his elbow—is up and moving by 6:00. You can count on us.”

I liked that he was grounded, mature. He was growing into a fine young man. And that helped lighten the load around the house. He wasn’t a wastrel son to support like some of my friends had. If anything, Brandon supported me as much as I supported him. We just did it in different ways.

I cooked most of the meals because I had more experience in the kitchen. And I loved that any time I asked him “What do you want for dinner?” Brandon always had a new challenge for me.

I shared my login with him and Brandon starting handling the bank account, the bill pays, my investments. He had been an Econ major, he was interested in finance, and he was working as a junior associate in a financial firm.

So it was complementary. Everything even and balanced in its own way.

I suppose it was about making things even when Brandon emptied half the drawers in the my bedroom and moved his stuff in. We had been sleeping together most nights, and it was awkward for him to continually run across the hall to his childhood room, with its narrow dresser and tiny single bed.

I was OK with my stuff being crammed into a smaller space; I didn’t mind the congestion. I was due to go through everything and thin stuff out anyway. I guess it was a welcome prompt.

But he did take my side of the bed. Without asking. The one I’d slept on for years and years.

Apparently it was his preferred side too.

After sex we’d pull apart and he’d roll me to one side and him to the other. He’d turn his head to kiss me again once before he fell asleep, snoring, on what had been my side of the bed.

But relationships entail compromise and they bring change, right? So this was to be expected.

“I mean, this is getting to be kind of like a relationship, right?” I asked Brandon one day.

I don’t know why I said it. I guess I was just feeling a little fragile in that moment.

“Like?” he asked. He put his arms around my waist and pulled me in close. “No. This is totally a relationship. The best there could be.”

I kissed him back, relieved. Then I wondered for an instant when my peace of mind had gotten so caught up in Brandon and what he thought.

“Why do you even worry, Dad?”

He placed a finger on my lips as if to shush me, then he leaned in, removing his finger at the last second and replacing it with his lips.

“Do you need some extra lovin’ tonight?” Brandon’s hands glided over the curve of my ass cheeks. “I can give you what you need.”

I nodded.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Brandon said, catching my chin with his fingers. “I love you so much. You’ll always be my best boy.”

I nodded again.

His smile arched into a smirk.

“Now get back on that bed. On your back, legs up. Get nice and open for me.”

My son fucked me until I forgot my fears, until there was nothing left but my whimpering into the pillow.

***

And without my even intending it, Brandon and I were together. We didn’t directly tell anyone, but they could see it. And they saw it well enough to know how it all worked.

When the doorbell rang, Brandon asked, “You ready, Dad?”

I nodded and he stopped to straighten my collar.

“Don’t be nervous, you look great.”

Some of Brandon’s friends were coming to dinner, along with a few of mine. We usually saw everyone separately but the time had come to meld our friend groups.

During their arrivals, Brandon changed the music.

The first playlist had been mine—old jazz standards playing through the speakers while I finished the risotto. At some point Brandon wandered through the kitchen, kissed the side of my head, and quietly changed it to something more upbeat and modern.

Nobody objected. Including me.

The apartment filled gradually. Michael and his husband arrived first, carrying wine. Allison and Stu from Brandon’s office. Then Greg and David, friends I’d known for nearly twenty years.

At 46, I was the oldest person in the room. Most of the gray hair belonged to my friends. Most of the energy belonged to Brandon.

He stood near the island talking to Allison, one hand wrapped around a beer bottle, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Every few minutes someone interrupted him with a question.

Where were the extra glasses?

What was in these appetizers?

Had he seen the game last weekend?

People treated him as the host. Even though we both were. Even though it was my house. Even though most of the guests had known me for years.

None of that mattered.

“Need anything?” I asked Brandon as I carried plates into the dining room.

Brandon looked up.

“Yeah. Can you go open the wine that’s meant for dinner? It should breathe a little.”

I smiled. “Sure.”

He gave me a little pat and went back to laughing with my friends. Telling a story about something funny I’d done a few days ago.

Half an hour later everyone was seated around the table.

I had spent most of the afternoon cooking. Brandon grabbed a knife and carved the roast.

Conversation moved from work gossip to politics to vacation plans.

At one point Greg leaned back in his chair and pointed his wine glass toward us.

“Oh, that reminds me.”

He turned to Brandon.

“Are you guys around Labor Day weekend?”

Brandon swallowed the rest of Cabernet and gestured at me to refill his glass.

“Maybe. Why?”

“We rented a house up in Sonoma. Couple of days. Pool, wineries, all of that.”

“Sounds fun.”

“You guys should come.”

I waited for Greg to turn toward me and get my take.

He continued talking to Brandon.

“We’ve got plenty of room. It would be great to have the two of you there.”

Brandon smiled.

“Sounds like fun. I’ll check the calendar.”

I opened my mouth to chime in and then closed it. Brandon hadn’t committed us, and maybe he had a reason for that. I’d ask him later.

The conversation moved on.

Ten minutes later Brandon reached across the table and stole the last

roasted potato from my plate.

I gave him a look.

He shrugged.

“You weren’t eating it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It absolutely is.”

Everyone laughed.

“OK, OK, I’m not going to fight you over a potato.”

“Because you know I’ll win.”

More laughter.

I blushed. I felt a twinge of embarrassment but also a strange kind of pride.

After dessert, everyone drifted back into the living room. Brandon opened another bottle of wine and topped people off.

I was carrying plates back into the kitchen when I overheard Greg speaking quietly with Brandon near the bookshelf.

“He’s different around you,” Greg was saying, “Lighter. Happier.”

“Yeah. The divorce was hard on him, even a couple of years later. But I think we’re figuring things out now. He’s finally moving on.”

“You’re good for him, Brandon.”

“We’re good for each other,” Brandon said, looking over Greg’s shoulder and giving me a grin. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

I blushed again. I felt warm and content.

“Well, it’s nice to see it,” Greg responded.

Later, after the guests had gone and I washed up the pots and pans, Brandon came up behind me and slipped his hands around my waist.

“You did great tonight, Dad. The food was excellent and everyone had a great time.”

“Thanks to you. You kept everyone happy and drunk and laughing.”

He spun me around to face him.

“Yeah. We both have our roles. And we play them well. I appreciate that.”

He leaned in to nuzzle my neck. I wondered when my son had gotten so wise and confident.

But I didn’t stop to wonder why I needed that. I simply knew it was true.

Brandon kissed a little trail down my neck and started opening buttons. I shivered.

“You can leave the dishes,” he whispered hoarsely. “They can wait. I can’t.”

I nodded and let him pull me across the room, where he sat on a kitchen chair and pulled me into his lap. He pulled the shirt from my body and kissed the exposed skin, tenderly and with purpose. I could feel him swell down below.

I kissed back while my clumsy fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons. Eventually he took over, got his shirt off, and pressed our bare torsos together.

“You don’t think I’m too old for you?” I whispered.

“Old man, you are just right.”

He winked and I slid off the chair, came to my knees, opened his pants, and took him into my mouth.

Brandon’s dick was hard, in the way that a 22 year old is instantly ready for anything. Even so, I felt it swell bigger in my mouth, testing the limits of my throat.

“Keep going, Dad. Stay with me. I know you can take it all.”

I nodded and gulped him down deeper, inhaling the musky odor of his pubes.

He let me suck him until he was leaking like an old pipe about to burst. Then he pulled me up to standing, dropped my pants, and pushed me down over the back of the chair.

I gripped with my hands as his tongue dipped and dived between my cheeks, finding its way around my rosebud. It opened easily to him now; he had made me into the kind of eager bottom I had never expected to be.

I sighed with relief when he sunk his shaft into me. This is how I felt most alive now: speared on my son’s young, steel-hard dick.

He began to move. Hands on my hips, controlling my body and the rate of entry. Plunging in and pushing against my prostate in a steady rhythm.

Suddenly I flashed on a moment from earlier in the night. It rose up over my bliss and forced me to speak.

“Brandon.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

He didn’t stop his thrusts.

“Why didn’t you say yes to Sonoma?”

“I wanted to make sure it’s what you wanted for Labor Day weekend too.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s what I want too.”

“Good.”

His thrusts got harder.

“Kind of hot that Greg didn’t even ask me.”

“I noticed that.”

He fucked harder.

“They all know.”

“Know what?”

Brandon was panting. A bead of sweat rolled off his pec and splashed onto my back.

“That I belong to you.”

Brandon grunted and fucked hard, like an animal, I pushed back more.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it, Dad?”

“Yes,” I whimpered.

His dick had swollen to an impossible girth, fully plugging my hole.

“You got it, babe.”

He leaned his sweaty chest onto my back and bit the side of my neck as his cock started pulsing, spilling his load into me. It was so warm.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Always and forever.”

I thought back to that strange moment months ago when we simply watching the game and Brandon leaned in to plant on a kiss on me.

My boy knew just what I needed. And he made it happen.

I knew I would follow his lead. Always and forever.

END

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Better With Brandon

When my son Brandon came out, I never imagined we’d fuck. And it was even wilder to think that this young man would be the one to fuck me. But here we are.

It happened on a normal Sunday afternoon, the two of us on the couch watching football. We were relaxed, comfortable.

I had no problem with him commenting on the players as much as the plays. He had told me he was gay years ago, which didn’t surprise me at all. I even confided in him that I’d played around with some dudes in the year before I met his mother. I mean, anyone should be able to appreciate a pretty face, regardless of the anatomy attached to it.

So Brandon and I were sprawled on the couch, post-gym, in sweatpants and T-shirts, beers cracked open, with nowhere else to be.

I reached for my beer just as Brandon started shouting wildly about a play. His shout made me look up, and I immediately wished I hadn’t. The quick sharpness of the move triggered something in neck, and I sat back into the couch with a groan.

“Ahhh, fuck.”

“What’s wrong, Dad? Your neck?”

“Yeah, that’s where it hurts. But the problem is my traps. They’re tight as fuck and pulling on everything. Happens whenever I do those weighted dips.”

Brandon stretched his arm behind me and grabbed the meat to the side of my neck. He dug into my trap and squeezed, trying to break things up.

“You gotta take it easy, old man. Go lighter when you do that shit if you refuse to fix your form.”

“Fuck you.”

“Doss this help?”

“Yeah, it does.”

I should probably schedule a real massage sometime. Deep tissue or maybe some trigger point work. But this helped in the meantime.

Brandon worked one side and then did the other.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” I turned to face him. “Better. Thanks.”

He looked at me, real serious, and then leaned in slowly.

And just like that we were kissing. Not too long, but real slow and soft. Sensual. I got a funny feeling that ran throughout my body.

When the kiss stopped, we both pulled back a little. Not too far.

“What was that for?” I asked.

“Looked like you needed it.”

“But—“

He leaned in and kissed me again, stopping my words. But you’re my son, I said in my head.

Brandon didn’t seem to care. He kept on kissing.

After a minute, I didn’t care either. It felt really nice, even though it was unexpected, and definitely strange, and probably a very bad idea.

Brandon still had his arm around my shoulder and he pulled me in close. He dropped a hand down onto my chest and let it rest on my pecs. He rubbed a little bit and then he squeezed it while he kissed me. He pinched my nipple.

“You got your chest super activated today,” he whispered. “Feels nice.”

What felt nice was his hand on my tit. He was squeezing it again, and giving me another slow, wet kiss.

Things went from there. His hands roamed my chest, my shirt came off, then his. I ran my fingers over his smooth skin while he stroked the patch of fur between my pecs.

And then he dropped his head into my lap.

Brandon yanked my sweatpants down and nuzzled me, his warm breath going through my cotton briefs. Just as things got plenty damp, he pulled them down completely and took me into his mouth.

Good God.

A slow, wet blowjob is a thing of beauty on any occasion, but it’s something else, totally wild, when it’s coupled with the thought that this is my son. This is my son on his father’s cock.

My head told me I should be uncomfortable with this, and stop it probably. But the sensation of that expert blow job overrode everything else.

Brandon pushed me down onto the couch, shifting me sideways and laying me on my back. He lifted my legs and put his head between my thighs. He tongued my balls, stroked my cock, sucked the head with his hand wrapped around my shaft at the base.

I moaned.

He pushed my legs up higher and tongued a line from my balls down to my taint, going slow and lapping long, wet lines along that ridge of nerve endings before he came to rest at my hole. His tongue swirled there for an eternity.

My hole.

I had never thought about it. It was just a place to shit. A sweaty region with too much hair.

But not to Brandon. He pulled my cheeks to the sides and ate my hole like it was a fresh, pink pussy.

I lay writhing on my back, legs in the air, while my young jock son showed me that guys could get eaten too.

If I wasn’t so naive I would have recognized this as prep. But I totally didn’t. Not really. It was a surprise when he laid his cockhead at my hole and started pushing in.

Jesus! My body winced and I snapped shut like a clam. I screwed my eyes up tight; they were wet at the edges.

“Relax, Dad. It’s gonna feel good.”

He stayed there. He was insistent. He took my cock in his hand and stroked me while he kept his cock at my pucker with constant, steady pressure until I relaxed enough to open up and start accepting him in.

I’d never had anyone inside me. Never anyone, anytime—except now, Brandon. Except my son.

He was patient but persistent, and he worked his cock slowly into me until I felt his balls touch the back of my thighs. He leaned down to kiss me and he stayed there, just like that, letting my body adjust to him.

Then he started to fuck.

He locked his eyes with mine, and he watched everything play out across my face. He was watching what he provoked, as my boy thrust his cock into his dad, going slow and smooth, with a mix of affection and the kind of goal orientation I had instilled in him from a young age.

I’d meant that goal orientation for school, for sports, for his career. But now he used that skill to take what he wanted. And it happened to be me.

My body was electrified. There were flashes of heat, waves that undulated through me, and panting little gasps that escaped when he sunk it deep and pushed against my prostate.

Brandon smiled when I came. I was firing off before I even realized it was happening. I sprayed a bunch of crazy splotches onto his smooth chest.

He laughed and kept pumping.

“Can you take a little more? I’m close.”

I nodded and watched him rut. Saw his face screw up tight as he tried to hold himself back for just a little bit longer. But he couldn’t. Fairly quickly he blasted into me, flooding his dad.

It took a few minutes for our bodies to calm down. Brandon stayed inside me, moving slowly and sliding his cock tenderly along that slicked up chute while we kissed and waited for our breathing to return to normal.

When it did, he pulled out his softening dick and sat up on the couch, pulling me under his arm. He laid my head on his sticky chest and stroked my hair while he drank his beer and we finished watching the game.

It was weird and wonderful and ill advised, and I was sure it would never happen again.

But again, I was wrong.

End Part 1. Stay tuned for Part 2!

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Power Play - Part 1

They were arriving on a Friday, early evening. I had the house spotless and staged by midafternoon.

“What are you even doing?” Andy asked. My husband spoke as if he’d caught me in a crime. “You should have just gone into the office today, Daniel, instead of fussing around here. The house looked just fine before.”

“Evan’s never brought anyone home before. I just want everything to be nice.”

“You mean you have nervous energy you don’t know what to do with.”

Andy was right, but I’d never admit that. And why was I so keyed up anyway? Evan bringing home a boyfriend should be no big deal. But instead it felt profound.

I adjusted the angle of the dining room chairs for the third time. Andy folded his arms across his chest and stared me down.

“It’s a home, not a movie set,” he said.

“I want it to look nice.”

“We just need to welcome the guy. We don’t need to impress him.”

Andy walked into the room and rested his hands on one of the chairs — Evan’s chair. He looked down at it for a moment, like he was picturing our son at eight, at twelve, at sixteen. Time had gone so quickly.

“Evan’s bringing a guy home,” Andrew said softly. “Yes, that means something. But it doesn’t have to mean everything. Just relax.”

“It means more than something and less than everything.” I swiped my finger across the table, checking for dust. “What kind of point do you think Evan is trying to make here?”

“I think he just wants us to meet his boyfriend.”

I rested my hand on the chair opposite Andy. The two of us had squared off.

“Twenty-six, Andrew,” I said. “The guy is twenty-six.”

Andy shrugged. “That’s not ancient.”

“It’s not eighteen.”

“Evan’s not a child, Daniel.”

The words landed hard. Our child was no longer not a child.

I wished I had some water. My mouth felt dry. “You read what Evan wrote about him?”

“Of course.”

“Evan said he was ‘intense.’”

“So what?”

“Intense is not a personality trait. It’s a warning label.”

Andy laughed. “You’re projecting.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” He leaned forward. “And I know someone else who was intense at twenty-six.”

“I was in law school.”

“You were unbearable.”

“That’s different.”

Andy studied me. “What are you actually worried about?”

I didn’t answer right away. The refrigerator hummed in the next room. Upstairs, a window thudded in its frame as the wind below.

“I don’t like the imbalance,” I said finally.

“Age?”

“And power.”

Andrew nodded. “OK. But Evan’s always been kid of drawn to that. He’s more of a follower than a leader. He likes structure.”

“Is that supposed to be my fault?” I thought of all the care I’d put into his upbringing. The activities, the schedules, goals and expectations.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t think it’s strange?” I asked. “A man that age wanting an eighteen-year-old?”

Andrew’s expression shifted. “You were twenty-seven when we met,” he pointed out.

“That was different.”

“How?”

“Because I wasn’t… looking to prove anything.”

“Why do you think this guy is?”

I hesitated.

Andrew gave me a minute to think while he went to the kitchen. He brought back a glass of water. “Here.”

I took a sip and Andy continued. “Look, we raised Evan to make his own choices. He’s doing that. Our job is to understand.”

“Our job is to protect him.”

Andy shook his head. “Not anymore. Our job is to support him. Lend help when he asks for it. And otherwise stay the fuck out of it. Do you think you can do that?”

“I need to meet this guy before I can answer that.”

Andy sighed. And then we heard Evan’s key turn in the lock.

I had barely a minute to reset my expression before they were down the hallway and came into the room. I stepped forward.

Evan entered first, looking a little thinner than he did in August, his hair a little longer now, his eyes even brighter. He bubbled with energy. His grin was far too wide.

Behind him, half a step back and appearing three times larger, was the boyfriend. He didn’t smile.

“Dads,” Evan said brightly, “ I want you to meet Dante.”

Dante Rivera’s eyes locked on mine before I could decide what expression my face should convey. I suppose it ended up somewhere between a forced smile and slack-jawed surprise.

As Dante stepped forward to shake my hand, I clocked that he truly was that much bigger than Evan: taller and broader, both thick and muscled. It wasn’t a gym body but it was a powerful one, stretching his T-shirt and leaving no slack.

Dante’s skin was an indeterminate tan color. The Rivera surname suggested Latino background, but I saw a mix of other features too. Thick Slavic musculature, square Germanic cheekbones. His gray-green eyes were steely, boring into me.

I could see his nose had been broken once—it was healed now, but still a little crooked. His hair was buzzed short except at the back where it was little longer and inched into a slight curl. He had a few millimeters of beard at the bottom of his chin, but his cheeks were smooth and there was no mustache atop his lip. It was like he had a chinstrap that couldn’t be bothered to go all the way up. The overall effect was an un-pretty sort of handsomeness, that handsomeness layered with enough details to suggest menace.

Dante extended his hand to shake mine and I noticed his arms—thick, no trace of softness, and roped with tendons and punctuated by a couple of fading tattoos.

I looked at him and saw what my son saw, and I realized what this was all about. Evan was indulging some kind of bad boy fantasy.

I got it. Despite my careful, professional, and goal oriented lifestyle—one where I was in firmly in control of myself, and most others—I understood the desire to give in to something different. To feel the thrill of danger and let someone else take control. I’d even indulged it once, finding my pants down around my ankles in the bathroom of a biker bar when Andy was out of town. But that was a momentary departure, indulging a fantasy. A boyfriend was every day; this was real life.

Dante’s handshake was strong, dry and unhurried. He gripped my hand, hard, for a few seconds longer than necessary. Not long enough to be rude, but long enough to make some kind of point.

“Daniel,” he said, his voice low and heavy.

There was no “Mr. Whitaker.” Just Daniel.

Behind me, Andrew called out, “Come in, come in. I’m Andy.“

Andy stepped past me and pulled Dante into a hug. Like all of this was warm and easy.

It sure as hell wasn’t.

***

At dinner, I watched Dante watching my son. Watching all of us.

He had chosen a seat next to Evan, but he angled himself in a way that allowed him to scan the entire table. He could keep an eye on all of us. And keep our eyes on him.

With our salads now finished, Andy brought out the roast chicken. We dug in and Evan launched into a story about a professor who “doesn’t seem to get contemporary politics.”

Dante listened with one arm slung over the back of his chair. Relaxed. Loose. He waited and watched while Evan talked. Listening patiently and carefully. He didn’t interrupt.

When Evan finished, Dante said, “Ev, you get worked up too easy.”

Evan flushed. He laughed a little. “I do not.”

Dante glanced at me. “Yeah,” he said, holding my gaze. “He does.”

There was something in the way he said it that irked me. A mix of possessiveness and amusement.

I took a sip of wine. Then I couldn’t help myself. “And how would you know that already?” I asked.

Dante shifted his gaze back to me. Slow. Direct.

“We spend a lot of time together. I know your son pretty well.”

The words sat there. As if they were innocent. He didn’t blink.

Evan kicked him under the table. “Ignore him, Dad. He likes to provoke.”

“Do you?” I asked.

Dante smiled at me—small, private. As if we were sharing something.

“Only when someone’s easy to provoke.”

Andy laughed, too quickly. “Careful, Daniel can be competitive.”

“Is that what this is?” Dante asked, still looking at me. Competitive.

I set my glass down carefully. “No. It’s just dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Sir. NOW he chooses a term of respect, I thought. But it sounded like mocking.

We finished the next few bites in tense silence. Andy changed the topic back to school and Evan chattered about his classes. Dante let him talk but kept an eye on me. I stabbed at my chicken.

After we finished, I helped Andy clear plates and load the dishwasher before we set out dessert. Andy usually did this alone, but I needed a break from the boys in the next room.

Andy shot me a warning look. “Your face is stuck in a glare,” he murmured.

“It is not.”

“He’s just confident. And you don’t like that.”

“He’s disrespectful.”

Andrew dried a plate. “I don’t see how he’s actually done anything wrong. And he really cares about Evan. He listens well.”

I glanced through the doorway. I could see them In the living room now, Evan showing Dante something on his phone. Dante leaned back on the couch, his legs spread casually and one arm draped along the cushion behind Evan. His fingers traced slow circles on Evan’s arm.

He wasn’t looking at whatever Evan was showing him on his phone. Or at Evan. He was looking out, his sightline cutting through the doorway.

He was looking at me.

He didn’t look away when I caught him staring at me and Andy. And he didn’t smile. He just held my gaze, far too long to be comfortable.

I turned away.

As soon as I did, I was angry at myself. I wasn’t about to let this interloper make me uncomfortable in my own home. To make me look away, like I was ashamed…of what exactly?

I turned my head to stare right back, to not give in, but Dante had already turned away from me, his face nuzzling the side of Evan’s neck.

When he finally broke it off, Evan was cooing as Dante turned his face back up. There was a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.

***

After dessert and coffee, the boys decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. Evan wanted to show Dante his old school, the field where played soccer, and other landmarks from his childhood.

Evan led the way, bounding down the front steps. Dante held back a second, lingering in the doorway. He turned back toward me.

“Nice house by the way,” he said. “You’ve built a good life here.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You don’t like me,” he added. It was quiet enough that only I could hear.

“It’s not about liking.”

He nodded slowly. “OK,” he replied. “Anyway, I don’t mind. It’s better when it’s not easy.”

And just as quickly as he spoke he was down the stairs. He and Evan walked away.

I watched them go. Evan was animated, gesturing enthusiastically at the sights around them.

Dante settled a hand into the small of Evan’s back, guiding him away from me.

My skin burned with irritation.

***

The dishwasher hummed in the background as I scrubbed pots in the sink. Andy stood by to dry.

The water ran over my wrists, a few degrees too hot. But I didn’t care.

“Well,” Andy said lightly, as he dried the roasting pan. “That went…fine.”

“Fine,” I repeated.

Andy waited for the next dish. And the words he knew I was holding back.

It didn’t take long for me to break. “You don’t see how different they are?”

“In what way?”

“Well, I’m sure they have a physical attraction, but what do they actually have in common? They’re in totally different places. Evan is exploring the world, still figuring himself out. Dante is already settled—“

Andrew snorted. “Settled? He’s just twenty-six.”

“He’s not flailing through freshman seminars and figuring out what he wants to be when he grows up.”

“So he’s decided, so what?”

“Yes.” Now it was my turn to snort. “He’s decided.”

Andy glanced up. “You are obsessed about his job. You asked about it three times.”

“I simply asked him what he does.”

“You cross-examined him.”

I dried my hands and leaned back against the counter. “He said he runs ‘logistics’ for a friend’s company. Plenty vague.”

Andrew shrugged. “It’s a small business. Warehouse distribution. I don’t see a problem.”

“He said he ‘moves product.’”

Andy finished drying the pan and he put it away on an upper shelf. “A lot of people say that.”

“And the tattoo on his forearm?”

Andy exhaled. “Daniel.”

“It’s a gang symbol.”

“It’s just a crown.”

“It’s a crown over crossed letters.”

“Did you Google it or something?”

“I recognize it.”

Andy shook his head. “From where? The nightly news?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is assuming that because he grew up different from you, he must be dangerous.”

I felt heat climbing my neck.

“This isn’t about where he grew up.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s about Evan.”

“Right,” Andy says quietly. “It’s always about Evan.”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice even though there was no one else in the house.

“Evan is in thrall to him. Meanwhile he’s watching the room like he’s mapping the exits.”

“That’s just situational awareness.”

“And he doesn’t defer.”

“To whom?”

“To Evan. To anyone.”

Andrew dried his hands slowly. “You mean that he didn’t defer to you.”

The words landed hard.

“I don’t expect deference.”

Andy raised an eyebrow.

“Just respect,” I corrected.

“He wasn’t disrespectful.”

“He called me Daniel.”

“That’s your name.”

“And he said ‘sir’ like he was laughing.”

“You’re projecting.”

I pushed away from the counter and paced across the kitchen.

“He’s controlling. He corrected Evan in front of us.”

“He teased him.”

“He diminished him.”

“All he said was that Evan gets worked up easily. And he’s not wrong.”

“He said it like he owns him.”

Andy’s jaw tightened. “That’s a leap.”

“Is it? Did you see the way he touched him?”

Andrew looked toward the darkened living room instinctively, as if replaying it.

“Daniel. Evan is going to date. And express physical affection. He’s already left home. You can’t control—“

“Dante is the one controlling,” I said. “He’s suggesting what Evan should do and not do….”

Andy folded a towel slowly.

“You’re afraid,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“That Evan can’t see it.”

“See what?”

“That he’s outmatched.”

“Outmatched how?”

“Experience. Influence. Power. And whatever Dante’s done in his life before this—it’s not dorm parties and midterms.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He didn’t finish college.”

“So?”

“So at twenty-six he’s dating an eighteen-year-old freshman.”

Andrew’s eyes sharpened.

“And when you were twenty-seven and dating a twenty-two-year-old grad student, what was that?”

“That was different.”

“Because you were the older one?”

The question sat there, pointed.

I looked away first. “It’s not the same.”

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t…intimidating.”

Andy threw back his head and laughed.

“You were terrifying.”

“That’s absurd.”

“You grilled me for two hours on our second date.”

“I asked questions.”

“You evaluated me.”

I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it.

Andy softened slightly.

“You see a young man who doesn’t apologize for himself,” he said. “You see someone from a background you don’t understand. You see tattoos and a job title you can’t categorize. And you’re making things up to fill in the blanks.”

“I’m not filling in blanks.”

“You are.”

“With what?”

“With crime. With manipulation. With danger.”

I stared at him. “You think I’m being racist. Or classist. Something other than being protective of our only son.”

Andy hesitated just long enough.

“I think you’re being…cautious with your critique, in a way that aligns very neatly with race and class.”

“I don’t want someone who talks about ‘moving product’ and ‘handling things’ deciding what our son should do with his life.”

Outside, I saw their silhouettes under the streetlamp as they came back to the house. Evan was still animated, his hands flying around as he talked.

Dante stood beside him—steady and unhurried. He put his hand on Evan’s back as they crossed the street. Guiding him.

I felt something tighten in my chest.

“He’s not a kid anymore,” Andy said softly.

I didn’t answer.

Because wasn’t sure which unsettled me more—that Dante might be dangerous, or that he might simply be strong enough to pull Evan into a center of gravity that no longer included us.

***

It was late.

Andy had already gone upstairs with a book. He kissed my cheek softly and left me to worry alone as I readied the house for bed. I lingered downstairs, putting things away and turning off lights.

The living room lamps were still on. I heard Evan laughing in there—soft, unguarded. It was the kind of laugh he hasn’t used with us in years.

I paused at the edge of the hallway. They were on the couch again.

Evan sprawled across Dante, his legs tucked up and his head resting against Dante’s shoulder. Dante curved an arm around him, wrapping it around Evan’s back, his hand trailing down to Evan’s butt.

Evan said something I couldn’t hear. Dante angled his head down to listen. Their foreheads touched.

My chest tightened. I wanted to smack Dante for kissing my son. And I felt uncomfortable by how watching it made me feel.

Evan shifted, now straddling Dante’s thigh and sliding a hand to caress his buzzed hair. Evan leaned in to kiss him—quickly at first. Then slower. Deeper.

I knew I should look away.

But instead, I stepped back and hid myself in the shadow of the hallway.

Dante moved his hand—slow and deliberate—along Evan’s spine, his fingers splayed out in a proprietary grip. Evan melted into it. Trusting. Accepting. Opening.

Their kiss deepened.

Dante directed everything without seeming to. He simply shifted and Evan followed instinctively. He adjusted. Aligned.

My stomach flipped—with recognition. I knew that kind of confidence Dante exuded. He knew exactly where to place a hand, how to tilt a mouth, how to make someone lean in and beg for more.

Evan curled his fingers into Dante’s shirt.

Dante pulled back. Not far. Just enough to look at Evan. To make Evan see him. And want him.

Evan pressed in closer. Breathless.

I tightened my hand against the doorframe.

I waned to step in. To clear my throat. To say something about boundaries or decorum or respect. To remind them that this was my house.

But what they were doing wasn’t indecent. It wasn’t outrageous.

Dante moved his hand to the side of Evan’s neck and he rested his thumb on Evan’s throat in the front. Protective. Possessive.

The sight of it triggered something raw inside me.

Dante shifted slightly, with his face turned enough that I could see his profile in the lamplight. Strong. Certain. Dangerous. He murmured something to Evan that only he could hear. Evan smiled with delight.

I shouldn’t be watching the way Dante moved. The way his hands controlled my son. The way he paused before giving more…and demanding more in return.

I felt the urge rise again—sharp, almost physical—to separate them. To interrupt. To reclaim something. To assert myself.

Instead, I stayed frozen in the hallway, caught between being a father and something far less noble.

Dante’s hand drifted lower down Evan’s back—right to the line of his shirt, slipping his fingers under to touch flesh. He drew Evan closer, closing up the space between them.

I watched them kiss, their bodies melding, until Dante broke it off and left Evan gasping.

Dante looked up. He looked out toward the dark of the hallway.

I wasn’t sure if he saw me. But then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Not a smile. An acknowledgment.

He knew exactly where I was standing. He knew I was watching. And he understood that I couldn’t look away.

Heat rushed into my face. I stepped back, my heart pounding.

I was embarrassed to have been caught. Caught watching with my eyes. And recording with my mind.

I had seen Dante in a way I was unable to forget.

***

The torture continued.

The bedroom walls were too thin. From next door I heard the creaking bed, each loud thump, every one of Evan’s moans. I had turn over onto my back so as not to break my cock.

Andy couldn’t be sleeping through this, could he? I tested him.

“Well, I guess we know who the top is,” I joked.

“God, Daniel.”

“I suppose that’s what he meant when he described Dante as ‘intense’.”

“They’re adults, and it’s none of your business. Go to bed.”

Andy rolled over. Andy was done talking. Done with me.

I tried to relax my mind, to get myself to sleep. Andy was starting to snore again. My cock ached.

It was disconcerting to hear Dante and Evan, but somehow less so than when I was watching them together downstairs. I was saved from the anticipation of their bodies coming together. Now it was simply fact.

But it was impossible to sleep while Dante railed my son. The lights were out, but the noises flooded my ears and ran through my body.

My cock was the problem. It was rock hard, aching for touch. Every sound made it clear that Dante was pushing his massive body into the gentle, pliable one underneath him.

I put a hand on it. Just to steady myself. Right? I took some deep breaths and tried to relax.

Andy seemed to have no problem with the noise; he slept through it. Maybe his pre-bed reading had relaxed his mind, or maybe the wine soothed him to sleep instead of holding his body in a libidinous state, like mine.

Andy snored louder.

My eyes flashed an image of them on the couch. I thought of the way Dante moved, with confidence and certainty, knowing exactly what he could compel. I saw it in the casual flex of his forearm gripping Evan.

I could grip too. I gripped my swollen cock and I thought of Dante, whom I wanted to hate, but the reality was something much more complicated.

I moved slowly, so as not to wake Andy. To not be caught doing this.

My cock was steel-hard and leaking at the tip. I smeared some around the head, working it across with my fingertips. I jacked the slick head slowly and carefully as I listened to Dante take what he knew was his.

I heard a whimper and then a low growl, and then Dante grunted twice. Hard and guttural.

I spurted quickly, surprising myself.

My belly was now wet. Slick and sticky with shame. And I had nothing to clean it up.

End Part 1. Find Parts 2 and 3 on my Patreon:

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Get more from Jay Spear Stories on Patreon

Get more from Jay Spear Stories on Patreon. creating erotic gay fiction. Support Jay Spear Stories and get exclusive access to their work.

[androtherika2]

[stachegar]

I would pay good money to watch the big guy fuck the smaller one

[mpreglover225]

Brody spread his legs and let his best friends step dad fuck him raw. He never imagined 8 months later he’d be carrying that same step dad’s son and ready to give birth in a few weeks.

[reallymyanchor]

Mr Johnson liked how much my body was growing and bulging.

“Look at those tits, Brody!” He said, “It’s like your body has been waiting to grow a baby.”

He kissed down my neck, his hands moving between my breasts and the taught skin of my baby bump. My dick went hard, his fingers toying gently with my nipples. A groan escaped my lips.

There was a knock at the bedroom door. Mr Johnson continued to kiss me, grasping my tits more firmly. I squeaked with joy, his firm cock against my back.

“Hey Brody,” Sam called from outside, “Me and the boys are heading out for some pool, you wanna join?”

His dad massaged my tits, and just as I started to say “No Tha-“ he squeezed harshly and milk spurted out onto my belly.

[jay-spear-stories-2]

Damn! This makes me want to write a story…

[jay-spear-stories-2]

Roommate Service (teaser)

The roommate service put us together, me and Rob. Now that I was a junior, I was finally permitted to move out of the dorms and live off campus. But I needed someone to split the rent.

I would have thought a friendly, outgoing jock like Rob would have plenty of roommate possibilities. It baffled me why he needed the service to pair up with somebody—until he confessed his habit of fucking his friend’s girls. Those guys wouldn’t share an apartment with him…not at the risk of coming into the kitchen and catching Rob with his hand down their girl’s panties during the five minutes it took for a morning shower.

“Haha that actually happened, bro. A couple of times.” Rob had no trouble admitting it. He was who he was.

He didn’t mind that I was gay. He used me for fashion advice before he went out for the night. “Does this shirt look good with these pants?” The answer was always No, and I’d steer him toward toward better choices. But it hardly mattered. People thought Rob was good looking no matter what he wore. I did too.

Right now he was in the living room, knocking out another set of pushups during a commercial break. “Eighty-nine, ninety! Whew!”

He stood up, red-faced and sweaty. His chest was all pumped up and stretching out his shirt. “Look at these titties!” he called out. He flexed and made them dance, knowing that I couldn’t look away when he did shit like this. “Come on, Calvin. Get your face in the there and tell me if I did good.”

He wrapped an arm around me and pulled my face into his chest, pressing me into the crevice between his mounded pecs. “Tell me the truth, dude. Do they feel bigger?”

“Definitely bigger than yesterday,” I mumbled into his sweaty T-shirt.

“Good. Give ‘em a little taste.” He pulled up his shirt and pushed my face onto the sweaty muscle. I lapped up a trail of sweat and tongued my way around his right of his nipple. He let out a moan and pushed me to the left to get on the other one.

I don’t know how this weirdness started, but Rob was in love with his body and he liked to show it off, no matter who was there to appreciate it. Maybe this was normal jock horseplay; I don’t know. The skinny physics majors I hung out with were a different breed.

“Come on,” he said, pulling me onto the couch next to him. “Show’s back on.”

These were the only two things we had in common: a love for Rob’s body and an unhealthy addiction to a seven season sci-fi drama. We were on season three now. I worried about how we would relate to each other when we got to the finale and it ended.

Rob and I went out at different times, with different crowds. But some nights we’d be in the apartment together like this. We connected the way we could.

Two months into living together, I came home on a Saturday night and caught him in the living room with his cock out. He still had his T-shirt on, but his pants were around his ankles and he was stroking the longest, whitest cock I’d ever seen.

“Oh hey,” he said. Like it was nothing. “Grab a seat if you want. I’m watching some porn.”

“Why would I want to watch your porn?” I asked nervously.

“There’s a guy in it too, of course. Not bad looking, I’d say, but I’m no expert. Anyway, take a seat.” He patted the couch cushion next to him. “Come on, dude. Feels good to take it out and stroke with a buddy.”

The story continues on my Patreon:

Get more from Jay Spear Stories on Patreon

creating erotic gay fiction

[jay-spear-stories-2]

Smooth Moves

“Hey, Brian, can you come here a sec? I need your help with something.”

It was a Saturday morning and Dad was calling me into the bathroom.

“Sure, Dad.”

I opened the door to find him standing in his boxers. Sunlight streamed in through the windows.

“Thanks, bud. Uh, your mother said she would like me to be smooth. You know. Down there. I thought you might know something about that.”

“Because I’m gay.”

“Well, yeah. The guys in my crowd don’t do that. Or if they do, they don’t talk about it. But I thought probably you and your friends—“

“Yeah, Dad, it’s fine. And you’re not wrong. That kind of trimming is standard for gay men.”

“Well, your mom wants me to try it. Says she doesn’t like going down on me with a bunch of hair poking her face, so…sorry. Is that TMI?”

“You already told me you’re going to shave your dick and balls. So I’d say you already blew past the TMI barrier.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. I guess. Sorry. But will you help?”

“Sure.”

I’d say Dad was…”supportive” when I first came out, back in high school. But in the years since then, I left home and started college, and he changed a lot, moving from supportive to actually comfortable. By now he appreciated having a gay son. I helped him to better understand the world, whether that was decoding gay humor in movies, explaining references in song lyrics, or even this: manscaping.

“OK, great. So how do I do it? He held up his razor blade a can of shaving cream.

“Whoa there. That might be a little advanced for someone starting out. Let’s go electric this first time, just a light trim. You can take on the higher degree of difficulty when you have more practice.”

“OK.”

“Do you still have that beard trimmer I gave you?”

“Yeah. It’s in a drawer here somewhere.” Dad opened up drawers next to the sink and loudly rummaged through them. “I don’t use it very often.”

I bought him the trimmer for Christmas a few years ago. I thought he’d look good with a closer cropped beard, maybe a little shaping. Dad tried it once and then went back to the fuller, bushier beard he’d had ever since I could remember.

“I mostly use it to touch up the sides,” he explained. “Like twice a year. If I think about it.”

It didn’t matter that he didn’t use it. Truth be told, Dad looked pretty good with that “regular guy” beard. He had solid baseline handsomeness, and the beard on top made him look rugged without trying too hard.

“Well, Dad, you can use the trimmer for this too.”

“OK, here it is. What’s next?”

“Well, I usually do it in the tub. Easier to clean up, because everything goes down the drain. Mom will kill you if you leave her a floor full of pubes.”

“OK.”

He stepped into the tub. A ray of sunlight cut across his furry chest.

“You gonna shave all that too?”

“What, my chest?”

I nodded.

“Nah. Just the dick. I don’t want to change myself. I just want to open the door to more oral.”

“OK, good. Because body hair is in these days.”

“Is it? Seems to me like everybody shaves it down, based on what I see in movies or in magazine ads.”

“Maybe some. But plenty of us appreciate a little hair on a guy.”

Something flickered across his face as he looked down at his hairy chest. “Good. Because I’m keeping it.” Then he looked tentatively at the trimmer in his hand. “And so now…?”

“Well, you’re not gonna be able to do it through your boxers.”

“Heh. Yeah, right.” He pulled them off and tossed them on top of the toilet tank. Dad’s cock hung long and low, snaking down from a tangle of curly pubes. Of course I had seen his dick a few times before—like in the showers at the gym, after playing handball—but this was the first time in my adult life I was looking head on, able to really study it. Dad had a nice piece: long, decent girth, color about three shades darker than his skin tone. And a nice big head capping it off.

Dad caught me staring.

“What? Is it too much hair for the razor?”

“Yeah, you’re a fucking gorilla, Dad. But we can deal with it.”

“Cool. So I…” he flicked the razor and it began buzzing.

“Turn it off. Let’s go over technique first.”

“Yeah, good idea.” He let out a shy laugh. “I’m a little nervous about this.”

“You’ll be fine. But practice first with the razor off.”

“Right.”

“So first, pull up your dick. Like to your belly. You wanna stretch out the skin. Make everything nice and taut.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah, like that. Then you’ll want to move the razor lightly along the surface. Go super slow. You don’t want to nick yourself.”

“But the balls. How do I handle the curves?”

“You just—“ I stopped, considering. “Do you want me to show you? Like, on mine?”

“Would you? Yeah. That would help.”

“OK. I peeled off my shirt and my jeans. I lowered my briefs and kicked them off to the side. The bathroom air felt cool on my newly naked skin. My balls started retreating, pulling up and in for warmth. I tugged them back down. Didn’t want to look tiny. Although I wasn’t sure why.

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh?” Dad said. I looked up. “Yours is almost the same shape,” he continued. “And about the same size too.”

“Nah. You’re bigger, I think.”

“Maybe. But you’re probably just cold. Only gotta warm up a little.”

I felt a jolt down below. Electricity. Energy. It was like a mix of nervousness and excitement shot through my body, similar to the excited jitters you get when you’re gearing up for a performance.

Haha, some performance. This was like making a TikTok for suburban dads to learn about manscaping.

“Here.” Dad handed me the razor.

“I, uh…I should probably get in the tub with you. I don’t want to get hair on the floor.”

“Right.”

Dad shuffled to the side and made room. I stepped in, next to him. It was a tight fit. I could feel Dad’s body heat radiate into the space between us.

“I shaved last weekend,” I explained to him, “so there’s not a lot of new growth to take off. But I can still demonstrate the movement.” I pulled my cock upward and stretched out the skin to show him.

“Looks pretty good already. Nice and clean.”

“Uh huh.” I switched on the razor, then pulled it slowly and carefully along my shaft, coming up from the balls. The razor buzzed along my skin, warming it up. The vibrations teased my cock, which started plumping. It wasn’t an erection, really. But holding my dick in one hand and shaving it with the other was typically enough to wake up my piece from in-underwear slumber.

I kept the razor moving and things were feeling good. My dick was stretched out longer and my balls were got warmer and hung lower. This was probably a good stopping point. Before I sprang an obvious stiffy.

“Now you try.” I passed him the razor.

Dad turned it back on. Nervously, he brought it to his stretched out dick. He looked at me for encouragement and I nodded. Then he proceeded, gingerly moving the buzzing tool along his own tool, and watching curls of brown hair fall to the floor of the tub.

“Hey, it works!” he exclaimed. “I was worried the razor would catch in the hair or something, but it sails right through.” He paused. “The buzzing kinda tickles, though.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“OK.”

Dad kept at it, going slowly and cleaning the sides of his long shaft.

“I think I’m missing some,” he said with concern.

“It’s fine. You can take as many passes as you need to.”

He kept going, moving up his cock with long, slow strokes. His dick started to swell and rise.

“Oh God,” he whispered. “This is giving me a boner.”

“It happens.” I shrugged. “Sometimes that makes it easier. It pulls the skin tight, lifts it up from your balls.”

“OK. Glad it’s not a big deal.”

But it kind of was. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I had never seen my Dad hard before, and it looked…kinda hot.

My dick started to rise too. And I couldn’t blame it on the vibration of the razor.

I kept staring.

When Dad finally pulled the razor off and let go of his cock, the thing was half-hard, protruding from his crotch and swaying at half-mast.

“Bri, I forgot. How do I do the balls?”

“Pass me the razor and I’ll show you.”

I had previously grabbed my cock and held it to my belly in an effort to hide my excited state. I pretended it was just prep for the ball work I was about to show him.

Keeping my cock pinned to my belly, I used one hand to flatten my balls, pushing my fingers to the sides to stretch out the skin. Dad’s eyes were on me as I did it.

Slowly, I moved the razor down my balls. I tried to ignore how good it felt, how hard I had gotten in front of Dad. Instead, I focused on giving instruction.

“You gotta go slow, work carefully. This is the place where you’re most likely to catch the skin and nick yourself.” I buzzed what little stubble I had and then handed the razor to him. “Now you try.”

“Damn, I gotta learn that. What you did looks so nice and smooth.”

Dad took the razor and stretched out his skin. He tried moving the razor in a curve around his left ball but he jumped back almost immediately. “Ouch! Jesus.”

“Did you cut yourself?”

“I don’t know. It felt weird. Like it caught the skin.”

“Are you OK? Do you want to try again?”

“Would you try it?”

“Try what?”

“On me. Like, show me what it’s supposed to feel like. I must be doing it wrong.”

I looked at the pleading expression on his face and then down at his cock. Dammit, I did want to try. And I didn’t trust my reasons for it.

“You sure, Dad?”

“Yeah. Please.”

“OK, but I gotta be able to see things better.” I knelt on the floor of the tub and used my fingers to spread out his ball sac. “Yeah, you’ve got a tiny nick there. We’ll put some neosporin on it when we’re done. But I can help you clean the rest up, with no nicks.”

“Thanks, sport.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything more. My tongue was swollen and my skin was hot. Here I was, kneeling with an eyeful of Dad’s cock and balls while my own dick raged down below. I was glad he couldn’t see it. I had to focus.

I kept Dad’s ball-skin stretched tight and I brought the razor to it. I moved slowly around the curve, placing and replacing my fingers to keep everything nice and taut as I worked.

Dad’s dick jumped a few times. I think it was when I got the razor too close and it vibrated the skin. Or maybe I was squeezing his balls when I spread out the skin.

But it kept happening and a droplet hit my forehead.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Holy shit. Dad had just spurted pre-cum.

“No problem,” I assured him.

I kept going. I lifted his balls up again and went back in with the razor.

“Does it always feel this good?” he asked. “Like when you’re doing it on yourself.”

“It can.”

“I mean, I’m sorry, but this has got me kinda boned up.”

“Me too.”

I leaned back and twanged my dick, letting it pop back up, shaking loose a little drop of pre as I did it. We were in the same boat: hard and leaking.

“We gotta take care of this. Stand up, buddy.”

I should have felt embarrassed.

But I didn’t.

I felt…

I stood up.

“Yeah, look at that,” Dad said. His eyes were glued to my dick. “You’re just as hard as me.”

“Yeah.”

“So don’t let it go to waste.”

Dad started pulling on his shaft with long, slow strokes. The skin moved in his hand like he was pulling on a glove.

I watched. And then I responded, mirroring his moves with my own. We stood close, in the tiny quarters of the tub, our shafts side by side and the heads poking out at each other’s bellies.

“Fuck, son. Stroke that dick. Looks good.”

“Yours too, Dad. Looks amazing.”

“You think? Bet you’ve seen a lot of cocks. So that’s like a real compliment maybe?”

“Well yeah, I have. And yours…I swear, Dad, it’s a really good one. Looks super hot when you’re stroking it like that.”

“Yeah?” He gave it a long, hard pull. Showing it off.

“Like, wow.”

“That’s cool that you think so. I dunno why, but it makes me feel proud or something. To know you like it.”

Dad squeezed his fingers around the head, milking out a couple spurts. He caught them in his thumb and rubbed it all around the pink cap. The liquid glinted in the light. I swallowed hard.

“You ever think we’d do this?” Dad asked. “Jack off together?”

“No.”

I gave my own dick a hard squeeze, trying to choke back my feelings.

“But did you ever imagine it?”

“No,” I lied. Then, “Well, maybe. A couple times. Just, you know. Curiosity.”

“You want to touch it?”

Was he serious? My mouth was dry. There was no way I could respond with words. I looked him in the eye, searching for a sign that this was a joke, or that he was fearful, or—I don’t know all the things I was looking for. But what I saw on his face was seriousness and intensity, mixed with a desire in his eyes. I didn’t know if it was fully his. Maybe it was just a reflection of mine.

But I didn’t care. I took it as permission. I reached out. I took his cock in my hand.

I held it in the palm of my hand, feeling how it was long and hard and heavy. I moved my hand up and down its length, until my fingertips reached his balls. I came back up and let my palm brush the bump where his shaft ended in his cockhead. I wrapped my fingers around it.

I felt a tremble deep inside me. I wasn’t sure if it was from the thrill of touching Dad’s dick, or if it was the realization that he taken mine in his hand. We were touching each other. Hands on cocks. Father and son.

I moved and he moved right along with me. Some kind of pent-up energy pushed us both, and we pulled our hands up and down each other’s cocks. I applied pressure—just enough friction—to make his breath catch and his skin tighten. Dad leaned in close and squeezed his hand tighter around me.

We stood close enough for me to feel the heat from his skin and sense the crackle of static electricity from the ends of his chest hair. We were close enough to kiss, but kept our heads turned 45 degrees to the side, our eyes cast down. It was easier to look down at our cocks than to face up to the reality of who those cocks were attached to.

We watched and we stroked. Dad’s long cock stayed trapped in my hand. I moved—sliding, squeezing, strangling. I watched Dad’s belly tense, sucking in and puffing out, as I made his breathing irregular.

“Fuck, son. You know how to work a cock.”

“Thanks, Dad. It’s…I’m glad to do it.”

“Fuck, you’ve got me so hot, Bri. I’m not gonna last very long here.”

“Go for it. Don’t hold back. Shoot when you’re ready. Let it all out.”

“You sure? It’s gonna be messy.”

“Bring it.”

I brought my other hand to his crotch, going underneath and grabbing his balls. They were keyed up, boiling hot and threatening to rise. I put my hand around them, squeezing the balls, pulling the sac.

“Oh, Jesus!”

Dad started to spray. Hot, heavy splotches nailed my chest in five staccato shots. Three longer, gushing spurts followed. Warmth dripped down my belly in rivulets.

And then it hit me. I was naked in the bathroom, wearing nothing but the mess of Dad’s cum.

That when things started to boil up in me too. Dad increased speed and intensity, his hands bringing me to the edge. But it was the thought of his steaming load coating my naked body that pushed me over.

I grunted and shot, pushing my hips forward and gnashing my teeth like I was about to tear something apart.

Dad caught my load in his hand, somehow knowing just the right size to make his fist. It caught and contained every spurt, all the liquid going inside.

After my last grunting spasm, he took his hand off. He rotated it open, palm up, cupping the viscous white puddle to show me.

“Wow, you done good, son. That’s a great fuckin’ load.” He laughed and smeared his hand across my chest, mixing my cum into his. “You’re gonna need a good shower for this.”

The last thing I wanted was to wash this off. I wanted to wear it as long as I could. It felt like a warm obscene blanket.

But I agreed. “Sure, Dad.”

Then I dragged a hand across my chest and used it to paint him too.

“But only if you’ll join me.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“Smooth move, my boy. But yes. I wouldn’t dream of anything different.”

END

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[jay-spear-stories-2]

Fighting For Life, Fighting For Love (Part 1)

My family was from the Old Country, high up in the mountains of Central Asia. Mom and Dad immigrated to the US when they were 18 and 20. They wanted a new life in a place with less poverty, less war. Yeravia had always been riven by factions. If the neighboring countries weren’t attacking us, my parents explained, Yeravians would use the moment of peace to turn on ourselves. Mom and Dad were done with that bloody history; they wanted out.

So I was raised in the States. Mom and Dad always hoped to get a foothold and then bring over the grandparents. But Congress kept a tight lid on the number of Yeravians allowed in each year, and my grandparents were unwilling to give up what they had for a risky bet on asylum. Grandpa was happy with his friends and his falcons and his hunting; Grandma tended her garden. It was not a big life, but they were happy with it.

We would visit them every four years. Dad put all our extra money into plane tickets, and we flew four or five legs to get there in the cheapest way possible. But then we would arrive, and we had family and our food and our language (although I could barely speak Yeravian—Mom and Dad spoke it to us but my sister and I responded in English).

“You must understand where you came from, Druiz,” Dad would tell me as he packed our bags. “You should know your roots.”

I enjoyed these trips when I was little. Grandma made huge meals to welcome us. I’d swim in the lake, pick fresh fruit from the trees, and run up the mountainside until I was out of breath.

But now that I was a teenager I was less eager to go. I didn’t want to leave my friends, go without TV, and struggle to speak with Yeravian. But it was good to see family, I guess.

Days were sunny and nice, but in the evening my parents and grandparents huddled around the radio and shook their heads. War was breaking out. Again. More conflict from the north, raids from across the mountains. It was not uncommon—this kind of thing ebbed and flowed. I had mostly stopped paying attention. But tonight my Grandmother’s face seemed more worried than usual.

Grandafther gave me a small hunting knife. “Keep this by your bed. In case you need it.”

I laughed. Nothing was going to happen. And if it did, what was I going to do with a knife? Peel an apple? My hands knew snacks and homework and video game controllers. I always turned away when Dad was skinning rabbits or deer that he hunted.

I should not have been so squeamish. I should have paid attention. Maybe I could saved some of them.

The men came all at once. There was a loud knock at the door. Before Grandma could even open it, men were stomping on the roof and crawling in through windows. Shots rang out. I watched my family fall. They had spent decades building and tending this small, three room house. In minutes it was overrun, their lives washed away in a hail of bullets. Blood pooled on the floor and soaked into the rugs.

The swarm of men wore black and green fatigues, mostly faded and worn. But their weapons were new and numerous. Giant rifles hung across their backs, pistols were strapped to thighs, and they wore shiny reams of ammunition like sashes.

The men ignored the fallen bodies and tore apart the house. They were looking for something.

I didn’t understand how I had survived. Why my body was standing while the others had fallen. The men seemed not to notice. They continued their search. I remained frozen in a corner.

A tall man with a scar on his cheek spotted me and whistled to his comrades. He extended his arm, leveling his gun at me.

“No!” another called out. “Leave him be. There is nothing here. We have the wrong house.”

Three of them started arguing, speaking loudly and rapidly in a combination of Yeravian and one of the neighboring languages I understood even less.

Then one grabbed me. “Come,” he said. He handed me a heavy satchel to carry and pulled me out the door.

That was the last I ever saw of the family home. Or my family.

***

We trekked into the mountains. The moon provided some light but not enough for my inexperienced feet. I stumbled on the rocky path. The men simply grunted and pushed me on.

After two hours, they stopped to make camp. We were high above my family’s village. Fires burned below. Would the whole village be ashes by morning?

I set down the heavy satchel. The men pulled out tents and blankets. They made a fire. Then they sat around and talked, maybe discussing the raid, maybe making plans for the next day. I wondered if I would be executed. Why had I been saved?

A burly, bearded man broke away to talk to me. He spoke in Yeravian and I was able to understand most of it. He apologized for having the wrong house. He said he didn’t believe in harming innocents. They were sorry.

I recognized him as the man who stopped the scar-faced man from shooting me. I was grateful to him, even as I was terrified.

“We will sleep now.”

Most of the men went into the tents while one stayed back to kept watch and tend the fire. The burly man gave me a blanket and left me to sleep under the stars.

I shivered through the night.

***

They fed me in the morning: a cup of tea and some kind of hard biscuit. The biscuit had little flavor but I knew better than to pass it up. I choked it down, rationing sips of tea to moisten the biscuit and get it down.

The men argued loudly over a map and then the scar-faced man gave the order to break camp. We packed up. And then we were marching again, trudging a narrow and winding path deeper into the mountains.

***

It was very late, already dark, by the time we stopped and set up camp for the night. The men made a fire; we sat around it and ate. The men talked and argued and joked while they took apart and cleaned their guns. I watched their expressions flicker in the firelight: concentration at the gun maintenance, scowls during the arguments, smiles breaking through at a good joke.

Through the day’s observations I had learned their names. Scarface was clearly their leader. The men called him Hakan, but to me he was a stern, scarred face barking orders and scowling with disapproval. Out loud I’d respectfully call him Hakan, but in my head he was always Scarface.

Boosh was the burly one—tall and broad shouldered, muscular but soft in the belly too. He was also the kind one, the man who saved me that first night. He was the one who would tell the guys to knock it off when their teasing got too cruel.

Lukal was second in command. If Hakan was occupied, it was Lukal who kept people in line. He was tall and quiet. He didn’t say much. He stayed focused on the work.

Yazi was a beserker, high strung and trigger happy. He would have been the one to shoot me that first night if Scarface hadn’t beat him to the draw. As it was, we’d be marching along and Yazi would spot a bird, then fire off a round just to take it down. Hakan and Lukal paid special attention to Yazi just to ensure our group didn’t boil over.

Naim was the youngest. He was slender and pretty, with delicate features. He was the least serious of the guys, always laughing and joking. In America he’d be the wisecracking best friend in some romantic comedy. But here he was deadly with a rifle and quick with a knife to skin rabbits.

I knew these men better now, but I was still uneasy. They were not like me. They were militia. Or mercenaries. Certainly they were killers.

When the fire died down, their conversation did too. The men repaired to their tents. I grabbed my blanket and tried to sleep. I was tired from marching and lugging around the packs they had made me carry. But I stayed awake, shivering in the cold. And I worried at where this was headed. How long would they keep me alive?

I shivered under the stars for probably two hours before I got up. I was afraid to do it, but what would they do? Kill me? That seemed likely to happen anyway. Or I would die from the cold first.

So I stood and too a few steps until Lukal, who was keeping watch, called out to me.

“Where are you going?”

“Please, I’m cold. Is there another tent? More blankets? Or something?”

Yukal argued back at me in his own tongue, refusing to speak Yeravian.

“OK, OK!” I put my hands up. “It’s fine.”

“He can share with me.” I heard those welcome words, in Yeravian, coming from behind me.

Boosh had left his tent and come up in the darkness. He argued with Lukal, who eventually grunted and turned away.

“Come,” Boosh commanded. He led me to his tent. The guy had saved me for the second time.

“Thank you,” I told him once we were inside. Boosh just grunted. I lay down to the side and spread my think blanket of top of me. My teeth still chattered.

There was a rustle of fabric and Boosh extended his blanket over both of us. I appreciated its extra weight and the way it trapped more body heat. I started to warm up.

“Sleep,” he told me.

And for the first time in 48 hours I started to feel secure. I drifted off.

***

By morning I was pressed up against him, our two bodies aligned and contributing to the other’s warmth. I stiffened. I was unsure if Boosh would be upset to find us so close. But his big body slumbered on. I closed my eyes. He smelled of sweat and sandalwood.

I started to get hard. I rolled onto my back so he wouldn’t feel it. But our bodies were connected still, only now at the side. Boosh’s body heat radiated into me and mine passed right back into him. We lay there in a closed circuit of warmth for a good half hour, until the voices outside grew loud enough to wake him.

Boosh stirred and I pulled away.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then he looked over at me.

“You sleep…good?” he asked in halting Yeravian.

“Yes. Very. Thank you.”

He smiled and rubbed my hair.

“Good, good. Let’s eat.”

We left the tent and went out to breakfast. Yazi and Naim watched us come out. The two whispered to each other.

The tea was already made. I took a cup for me another for Boosh. I brought his over to him.

“Thank you.”

Boosh took a big sip. I watched his bushy beard nearly swallow the tin cup.

Naim came up behind me and draped a napkin on my head. He and Yazi began whistling.

Naim called out in a high, feminine voice. I could make out a few words: Boosh, mountain bride, kisses.

Boosh scowled and grabbed the napkin from my head. He cursed at them and threw the napkin on the ground.

“Ignore them,” Boosh told me.

“Enough!” Hakan called out. “Come here.”

He gathered the men around him. They pored over a map.

Twenty minutes later we broke camp and were marching again. I was weighed down by their packs. I struggled to keep up during most of the day, but by late afternoon I was stumbling and falling behind.

Boosh saw this and he fell back. Without a word, he took two packs from me and hoisted them onto his broad back. He smiled and patted my now-lightened shoulder blade. We continued moving.

Over the course of the afternoon, some of the guys started to warm to me, not just Boosh. Naim caught my arm and shored me up when I stumbled. Lukal gave me a drink of his water. Only Scarface still scowled.

When we set up camp for the night I put down my pack and tried to help with dinner. Yazi let me assist him while the others set up the tents. Yazi made some kind of thin stew, which we ate with the same dense biscuits we ate at breakfast. I found them much better soaked in this broth, topped with some vegetables and few shreds of meat.

We sat around the fire and ate. The flickering orange and yellow bathed everyone’s face in a soft glow. Here, like this, they didn’t seem so bad. Yes, they were soldiers, killers—but they also talked and laughed.

When dinner was finished, Scarface—Hakan—started to sing. It was an old folk song. Some of the others joined in, adding their voices. Someone even sang harmony. I didn’t know the words but I hummed along. It felt like a moment to share.

For the first time in days I didn’t think about my family or my worries for the future. I just hummed along, embracing the moment and feeling at ease, content.

The night wore on with more songs under the stars. Some of us lay on the ground and stared up against them while we sang. Boosh was next to me. I listened to the low rumble of his bass as he sang along.

When things broke up and the guys started moving to their tents, Boosh motioned for me to follow him. I nodded and fell behind.

“Wooooooo!” Catcalls came up from some of the others. Boosh raised a hand in the air and made some kind of obscene gesture. They all laughed but then quieted down.

In the tent, Boosh took off his boots and spread his blankets on top of us. I lay still and tried not to touch him, although I wanted to. I listened to the sounds of his deep breathing and then I drifted off myself.

Our bodies came together again in the night. It was instinct, for survival, I guess, our bodies joining for warmth. I snuggled myself into the crook of Boosh’s big body and was grateful, both for the warmth and for him. He wrapped an arm around me.

I stared at that arm for a long time before putting my hand on top. I pulled him close. We breathed together, in unison, and I fell back asleep.

We were still entwined in the morning. Boosh’s beard bristled against the back of my neck. It tickled, but I lay very still as I felt him yawning and waking up. He didn’t let go. We lay like that until we heard the call to breakfast.

Boosh didn’t look at me when he cast off the blanket and put on his boots. But he turned to me and smiled before he opening the flap to the tent.

“Come,” he said. “Time to eat.”

***

We marched through the day and I wondered where we were going. We were far from my village now. We walked without rest until we reached a mountain valley in the early evening.

Again I helped with dinner. I felt more comfortable around the guys now. And they seemed more comfortable with me. Even though we were enemies of sorts. Even though they killed my family.

I tried not to think about it.

The men talked and cleaned their guns. Lukal handed one to me and showed me how to clean it.

“Tomorrow we will teach you to shoot,” he said in halting Yeravian.

I didn’t want to shoot. I was American. These were not my battles, these were not even my people. But I knew I didn’t have a choice.

Boosh and I went to the tent to sleep. He spread blankets over us and we pressed our bodies together. The day’s marching had left us tired, but my mind was awake with the details of every point where his body touched mine. It took me a long time to fall asleep.

I awoke hours later in the darkness. Boosh’s body was pressed into mine. It was moving. I felt him hard, pushing.

Was he awake? Asleep? Should I pull away? Call out?

I did none of those things. My body wiggled back, by instinct. His hands fumbled at my pants and pushed them down. There was more fumbling, and I felt skin against skin. And hair. Mounds of bushy hair at his groin scratched against my ass.

A fleshy pole poked at my backside. It slipped into the crack between my cheeks and he began to rub. Up and down. I moved with him. We made it slide together.

Boosh’s breathing grew ragged. My cock raged at the front. I grabbed onto Boosh’s arm and wrapped him around me tightly. He pushing.

Then an eruption. Warm sticky cum flooded into my crack. Boosh breathed out in a long sigh. We fell back asleep.

***

The next morning was the same as the others. Boosh was no warmer or colder to me than he had been the previous day. He opened the felt and beckoned me out to breakfast.

I delayed a minute in the tent. My butt was crusted up and I scratched it, watching the white flakes fall to the ground. I pulled up my pants and went out to breakfast.

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[tomhardygallery]

[jay-spear-stories-2]

When Dad is pissed and you gotta find a way to make it up to him…

[jay-spear-stories-2]

Wedding Bells

“Come on, old man. Push it! I want two more from you.”

My guy’s face was sweaty and red, and he huffed with the effort of pushing the bar to eke out a few more reps. Even so, it couldn’t disguise his handsomeness. Bright blue eyes, wavy black hair with streaks of gray, a strong jaw dusted with stubble. I would have kissed him right then and there if wouldn’t risk the weight crashing onto him.

He puffed out his next words in short bursts as he struggled. “I…Really…Hate you…Right…Now!”

“You don’t. Now come on, one final push.”

“Arrrgh!” He grunted and got the bar up to full extension.

“Nice, old timer. Just one more to finish the set.”

“Fuck you.”

“Absolutely. After you finish.”

He grunted and lowered the bar to his chest.

“We can even do it doggy.”

“RwwarrrRRRR!” He grunted and pushed the bar right to the top. Supporting it with my fingers, I helped guide it to the rack.

“So that’s the motivation you needed, huh?” I laughed.

“Well, yeah. You always want to be on your back. I rarely get to—“

“That’s because I love watching your face when you’re doing me. But sure, I’ll turn around for ya once in a while. Now get up. Your turn to spot me.”

He struggled to his feet, tired from exertion. But he looked just as sexy today as when I felt the very first stirring for him, years ago. Yeah, there was a little more gray at his temples and in his beard, and his stomach was softer than it used to be. But he was a six-foot-two wall of muscle, and a font of wisdom and experience, and there was nobody sexier than him.

“I gotta stop getting old. This gets harder every time.”

“I do too.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know, but it’s true.”

I brushed past him on my way to the rack, my shorts rubbing against his. My cock had swelled up in my jock, practically threatening to pop the waistband. I grabbed two 25s and added them to the bar.

“Bry. That’s a lot of weight.”

“You know I like it big. Big lifts, big meals, big guys.” I swept my hand across his crotch to make my point. Yeah. He was swelling up too.

“Shit…we’re never gonna make it through this workout.”

“We will. Just one more set. And then we go back to the hotel room. Deal?”

“Deal.”

I lay on the bench and got into position. He came around to spot me. His crotch hung right above my head and I could smell the sweaty funk from his balls. My mouth watered.

He was right. It would be difficult to finish this workout.

I raised the bar from the rack. Before lowering it I rolled my eyes back to look at him.

“Damn,” I whispered. “I fuckin’ love you.”

“Yeah. Me too. Now show me what you can do with this big boy.”

I pushed hard and grunted out my set. Then one more set for each of us, and we were done, grabbing towels and wiping sweat from the bench and from our faces.

“Damn, you look hot,” I said. “All pumped up and glistening.”

“You too. Maybe we should quit the gym. Do all our workouts at home.”

“Fuck yeah. Kiss me.”

He glanced sideways at the half empty gym.

“Come on. We don’t have to hide.”

“I guess not. Sorry. It’s like a reflex. Old habits are had to break.”

Dad leaned in and we kissed, long and slow. The stubble on his cheeks scratched mine. He smelled like sweat and a flood of pheromones.

“Uff! Come on,” he said, breaking it off. “Let’s get upstairs.”

“Lead the way old man.”

“Catch me if you can, squirt.”

We raced for the lobby and barely held it together in the elevator. When we got to the room, it was an explosion of kisses and clothes coming off. We fucked twice—once before showering and once again after.

That was pushing it, though. We nearly made ourselves late for the rehearsal dinner. And this wedding—between our friends Stan and Tony—was the whole point of this trip to Boston.

We got to the banquet room at the tail end of cocktail hour, just minutes before everyone was seated at the tables. All right, close enough to count.

I caught one Dad’s shirttails hanging out of his pants and fixed it before anyone could notice.

“Thanks, Bryce.”

“No worries, Dad. The last two hours were worth the rush and and a little mess after. I have no regrets.”

“Me neither, son. Me neither.”

***

The next morning we woke up hung over from all the toasts before dinner and too much wine during it. Sun pounded the blackout shades. A blade of light sliced through a crack where the curtains weren’t drawn fully enough.

I groaned and grabbed Dad’s naked torso like it could save me. My wobbly head was thankful for the solidity of his body. I breathed in the scent of his skin. It was warm from the blankets and the post-wine flush.

Something about this moment took me back. A sense memory, anchored in different hotel room, years ago. Back when this whole thing between me and Dad started.

I was a teenager then. We traveled east to start visiting colleges. We arrived late and the hotel was out of rooms with double beds. “But no worries, gentlemen,” the desk clerk said. “I’ll put you in a nice King. It’s not separate beds but you’ll have plenty of space.”

The room was fine and the clerk was right. The bed was plenty large, even for a big guy like Dad. He stretched out on his side, and I did on mine. We shut our eyes and tried to sleep.

My mind was occupied with the college visits tomorrow, imagining what that life would be like. I’d continue baseball. Maybe join a frat. I’d be with a whole new group of guys, finally accessing a wider dating pool than I had in my small midwestern town.

My mind replayed images from the college viewbooks. They were full of attractive students of every race and nationality. But my mind’s eye drifted past them and lingered on the professors. I couldn’t help it. I was drawn to men of age of experience, these guides who would teach students everything. I wasn’t supposed to want them, but I did. Glasses, beards, graying temples—all of it tripped my trigger. Made my cock swell.

I tried to put it out of my mind. That kind of thinking would keep me up, not relax me for sleep.

About an hour after I finally drifted off, the AC went out. I woke up sweating. The air was thick and damp. I went to the window and saw that entire block was dark. A power outage.

“Damn,” I muttered to Dad. The heat had awakened him too. He sat up in bed. “Power’s out,” I continued. “Hope this doesn’t last too long.”

“You never know. But damn, it’s muggy in here. Let’s lose the covers. We’ll be fine with just a sheet.”

“Could be fine, or it could be too much,” I replied. “Feels so swampy in here.” I stripped off my T-shirt and boxers. “It’s so hard to sleep when it’s so hot like this.”

“Yeah, but we should try.”

Dad pulled off his shorts too. We lay naked in the bed and pulled up the sheet to cover our waists.

I tried to sleep again, but it wouldn’t come. I tossed and turned. Dad did too. Every frustrated movement rattled the bed.

It shouldn’t be a problem to share the room with Dad, but right now I wished I were alone. In these situations jacking off usually helped. If I could blow my load, the oxytocin and serotonin flooding through me would reliably get me to sleep. Also I was still low-grade horny from thinking about those viewbooks. All the handsome students. And the professors.

Dad and I were on our sides, facing away from each other. Slowly, I moved my hand to my dick and held it. It felt nice, the flesh warm and half hard. I squeezed it, just to enjoy the sensation.

Dad didn’t seem to notice. Huh. Maybe I could do a little something. Stroke it a bit if I kept things subtle.

I had some experience with that. At summer camp I jacked myself off almost every night, even surrounded by bunkmates a few feet away. I knew how to keep the sound down and the movements small.

I gripped my cock-skin and slid it up and down my pole, very slowly. They were small moves, just a centimeter at a time, but it produced plenty of sensation. Sure, a hand-over-fist, explosive JO session is always fun, but I also enjoyed the challenge of a subtle build up. The excruciating torture of keeping everything slow and small.

My cock swelled thicker and I moved my hand faster. Did it shake the bed? I didn’t think so. But then I heard Dad clear his throat and I stopped. I felt trapped. I held still, hardon in hand and my breathing heavy.

And then, I detected was movement from his side of the bed. Subtle, but unmistakeable. Dad was working his dick right next to me.

The thought should have weirded me out, but it didn’t. I got that he wanted a good sleepytime release as much as I did. Everybody knows it helps, and we were in for a rough night if we didn’t do something.

I started to stroke again, now taking less care to hide it. What did it matter, if we were both doing the same thing? This was natural. Just men being men. I’d jacked off in the presence of buddies a few times, like when we were first discovering porn together. Or even later on, all worked up from sex talk, when buddies and I would talk about people at school we wanted to fuck. It hadn’t been a problem to do it with those guys around, so why not next to Dad?

I think he noticed my movements. He became less guarded about his own. I sensed his arm moving. He was making long strokes with his left hand. Vibrations through the mattress telegraphed what my eyes couldn’t see.

Our backs were to each other. And we didn’t talk. But we listened, and I swear our movements started responding to each other in some way. Almost like a call and response.

I heard him spit into his hand.

FUCK, that was a sound. It was deep and low, and there was a plopping sound when the glob of spit landed. Then, wet sounds as he worked it along his cock. I heard a pop when his wet fingers reached the head, trapping the air and then releasing it.

I wondered what his cock looked like, whether it was shaped like mine or different. I had seen it in the showers at the pool and the gym a few times, but of course it had been flaccid. There was way to know if it swelled up fat or long, if it was straight or crooked, or if it pointed to the left.

I felt a dirty shame in thinking about it, but that was overpowered by crazy-hot curiosity. I was dying to roll over and take a look.

I dared not. I stayed on my side, facing away for safety. For propriety. I pulled my knees up to ninety degrees as if that could put a lid on it, tamp down the flush spreading through my body. Doubled over and staying within myself, I jacked with small, tight, furious movements.

Dad was moving too. Our bodies touched.

I stopped. He froze. The room was filled with nothing but the sound of breathing, his as heavy as mine. Should I acknowledge it and pull away? Or pretend it never happened? Apologize?

Dad began to move again. Our skin was still touching, Dad’s body temp at parity with mine. Both of us sweaty.

It had been my fault. Raising my knees like that pushed back my butt, bumping against Dad. I felt coarse hair and a curve; I knew Dad’s hairy ass was touching mine. His butt thump-thump-thumped against mine with each stroke of his cock.

What the hell, I resumed stroking too. Dad hadn’t stopped. Neither would I.

It felt good to let go. Good to work my cock in the open and not care that my butt was thumping Dad’s.

His breathing got louder. Mine did too. There was some grunting from him as he really got into it. I spit into my hand and filled the room with my own wet smacking sounds.

The bed shook. We pushed on our poles and let our butts touch.

Dad came first. There was a long groan and then a flutter in his body as he unloaded into his hand. I worried he’d pull away, and I’d don’t want that, not yet. So I pushed up against him and jacked hard until I was coming too.

I tried to catch it in my hand, but it was a gusher. Some sprayed through my fingers. I was guaranteed to sleep in a wet spot.

Then, stillness. Quiet. Our loud breathing slowly calmed down. Neither of us moved.

If I had been alone I would have gotten up and rinsed off in the bathroom. I’d get a washcloth and clean up the wet spot.

But moving would have led to talking, and neither of us felt comfortable with that. So instead we both lay stiff and sticky ,just inches apart, until we fell asleep.

***

By morning the AC had come back on. We’d pulled up the covers and moved apart, each of us on our own side of the bed. Dad leapt for the shower before I could even open my eyes. We dressed and went to breakfast with not a word about what had happened overnight. But I never forgot it.

My eyes went glassy as I listened to lectures from the professors on the college visit. The same happened back home with the sexier teachers in my high school classrooms, or when I’d spy a good bulge showing through sweatpants of the dads shopping at Home Depot. My mind latched onto the images and spun them around, imagining things we might do together. But more times than not, and without my consciously willing it, superimposed over their faces or their bodies, would be images of Dad.

***

We didn’t touch again like that. Not for a very long time. I tried to forget about it.

But then, my sophomore year of college, I came home on break to celebrate my 19th birthday with some friends back home. We were hanging out at my place, drinking beers and watching movies. Dad agreed to supply the beer on the condition that he was in the house to make sure no one got messy and tried to drive.

He mostly stayed upstairs but I ran into him in the kitchen when I went in for a few more beers for the guys.

“Oh hey, do you want one?” I asked.

“I’ve already had two,” he started. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “But yeah. Why not?”

I opened a bottle and handed it to him. Our fingers touched and that contact sparked the feelings I’d trying to tamp down ever since that night in the hotel years ago. Dad seemed lost too. His fingers stayed on mine a little too long.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Didn’t want to drop it. Bottle seems slippery from the condensation.”

“Not a problem.”

I looked into his face and searched his eyes. Did he think about it too? Was he thinking about it now?

Maybe it was the beer buzz. Maybe it was like water caught behind a dam, searching for a way to break through or surge over. Before I could consider the consequences, I rose up on my toes and kissed him. It was quick, but right on the lips.

He looked surprised. And something else.

“Thanks,” I blurted out. His face had a quizzical look.

“Thanks? Was that for the beer?”

“No,” I blushed. “It was for you.”

“Bryce,” he said solemnly. Then he paused. Considering. He set his beer down. He took my face in his hands and kissed me.

Neither of us pulled away. We kissed long and slow. I tasted beer on his lips and felt the scruff on his cheek. I wanted it to never end.

Finally he pulled away. “You should get back to your friends.”

“Yeah.” But I didn’t move. We were inches apart. My heart was pounding. I could feel the heat of his skin.

“You want to come find me later? When they go home?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Joe came in to see what was taking so long with the beers. Dad and I pulled away. He took his beer and went upstairs.

The rest of that party felt like the longest night of my life.

Then I discovered that the longest night of my life was to come right after, when the guys left and I went upstairs to Dad. He and I explored each other for hours.

***

This time we didn’t face away. We didn’t pretend. We looked into each other’s eyes and didn’t hide the longing. Or the fear of what we knew we were about to do.

We didn’t let the fear didn’t stop us. Dad’s hands went to my shoulders. Mine wrapped around his waist. Our mouths connected, lips tasting lips and teeth clunking out of eagerness.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

Then, kissing again. Our hands started to roam. Our bodies had come close once before—during that sweaty, sleepless night in the hotel years ago—but we had dared not do more than lean into the accidental bumping of our butts.

We bumped on purpose now. I pushed my body against Dad’s and he ground his into mine. Our hands were finally free to get involved, exploring every curiosity that had built up over the years.

My hand traced the outline of his crotch. His rounded the curves of my ass. Our kisses left the mouth and went on to cheeks, chins, the curve of the neck.

Dad was as excited by my smooth cheek as I was by his rough beard. He moaned into my chest. “I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve thought about this.”

“Me too,” I whispered.

Our clothes came off in a flurry of hands, both his and mine. It was team effort; we raced through until we were skin-to-skin.

I touched Dad’s naked body. Traced the full line of him from cheek to chin and on down to his toes. I ran my hands over the fur on his chest, squeezed the firmness of his strong thighs, and glided across the soft skin on the underside of his feet.

Dad explored me with his own sense of discovery. He ran fingers over my nipples, raising goosebumps and making the points stand at attention. He rubbed the back of my shoulder blades and traced my spine, flowing down the curve of my back and fanning out over the curves of my butt.

We didn’t break eye contact. It was important to see him, and for him to see me. We both needed this visual evidence of father and son finally coming together.

I put my hand on his cock. It was hard, already pointing to the sky. I traced its long line. I took time exploring the head, my fingertips massaging the flared cap. I ran my thumb over a pearl of pre at the slit. I wiped it up but it was quickly replaced by another.

Dad grabbed my cock too, taking it in his hands and stroking slowly, looking at me with wonder. He put his other hand under my balls and rolled them around, sometimes pulling in them with a little squeeze. My breath caught in my throat.

He leaned in. “This OK?” he whispered.

“More than OK. It’s—“

“I know. For me too.”

We kissed and then pulled back again. I watched his face and he watched mine as we tugged harder at our dicks. They were full and hard and leaking.

Dad stroked me harder. It felt good, but I was boiling with excitement and I worried about shooting too soon.

“Dad. This is gonna make me—“

“Good. I want to see my boy cum. Wanna watch your face when you do it.”

He slid his hand past my balls and rubbed the ridge that ran from my balls back to my ass. He pushed up, hard, sending pressure through to my prostrate. I squirmed.

“Oh God, Dad…”

I squeezed his cock tighter, moving up and down as rapidly as I could. I was going to cum and I didn’t want to leave him behind.

I shot first, firing up and across his chest. Dad kept jacking me as I unloaded, the spray going everywhere.

Dad kept his eyes on mine and a huge look of satisfaction spread across his face. I squeezed his cockhead and his eyes rolled back and then he was cumming too. It gushed out of him and ran over my hand and down my fingers like an obscene fountain. It went on forever, like he’d been saving it up for years.

When it finally stopped he pulled me onto the bed and we lay in a sticky mess, our legs entwined and our chests pressed together enough for our heartbeats to sync up. We kissed. Many times, long and slow, stopping occasionally just to look into each other’s faces and confirm that we were really here. That I was kissing my dad and he was kissing his son.

Eventually, I broke the silence. “You said you’ve thought about this before.”

Dad pulled away and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah. I have.”

“Me too.”

“About doing what we just did?”

“Yes. Doing that.” I paused, unsure of what he was thinking. “And more.”

“More?” His soft cock seemed bigger now. It rose a bit. I took it my hand and felt it swell higher.

“Yeah, like…Like sucking you.” I slid down the bed and put my mouth around his cock.

“Ohhh,” he moaned. His cock grew bigger in my mouth. I held the base with my hand and slid my mouth along the shaft.

“I’ve thought about this too. Sucking you. And you sucking me.” He moved his hips, pushing up and into my mouth again. I sucked him for a couple minutes and then pulled back.

“Even fucking if you want to.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah. Hell yeah, I do.”

“Fathers and son aren’t really supposed to—“

“They’re not supposed to do any of this.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t care. I mean, it feels right. To me.”

“It… yeah, it does.” I went back on his cock. Dad moved his hips, letting himself get l into it.

“Well,” he finally said. “We’ve got the whole night, right?”

And that was how it started.

***

That was seven years ago. Dad and I have been together ever since.

I moved back home after college. To most, it looked like failure to launch. Son comes back home after college and never leaves.

But home was where I had love and sex and companionship, and Dad and I developed the deepest connection anyone could ever know. There was no reason to go elsewhere. For either of us.

We kept it quiet for a time. Neither of us was sure how something like this could work out. But love always shows through. Eventually it becomes obvious, and anyone who knew us could see that we were a couple.

Newer friends didn’t know the backstory. They knew us only as Bryce and Jack. But eventually they discovered there was something untraditional about our relationship. But that was after they had seen the love first. So no one questioned it.

***

It was day two at the Boston hotel. Stan and Tony’s wedding had been beautiful and the reception was in full swing. Dad and I enjoyed our cocktails, went nuts on the dance floor, and laughed with our friends.

“It’s great to see Stan and Tony finally make each other respectable,” Aaron said. “So when are you two gonna tie the knot?”

“Uh….” Dad said.

“Oh, shit. Sorry, I forgot.” Aaron hastily apologized. Sometimes they forgot that we were not just another mixed age couple. We were also family. Marriage was out of the question.

Back in our room at the end of the night, I took out my contacts while Dad brushed his teeth in the sink. His shirt was off and his furry chest glistened in the light. I marveled at how handsome he was. And how lucky we were to have trusted each other with those first moves that led to this.

“You know,” Dad said, spitting out a gob of toothpaste. “Aaron is right. I should make an honest man out of you.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m completely honest in my love for you. That’s all I need.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning serious and putting on his Dad face. “But you’re getting older. I am too. Even if the state won’t do anything about it, we could. What do you think, Bryce? Would you want to be married to me?”

I laughed, but his face stayed serious.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. Of course I want that. But how do we—“

“Like anyone else. We stand up in front of our families and friends and the world and we pledge ourselves to each other.”

“But neither of us can wear white,” I joked.

“I don’t care what we wear. I just want you to be mine. And for everyone to know it. Will you?”

“You know I will.”

He sunk down to one knee. “Then, Bryce Christian Davidson, will you do me the honor of being my husband?”

I knelt down on the floor across from him, at eye level. “Yes, if you’ll be mine.”

“Then it’s settled. We’re getting married.” He stood up and grabbed the dental floss. He wrapped several strands around my finger.

I laughed. “First order of business is to replace this ridiculous ring.”

“Deal. We’ll go shopping tomorrow.”

“Deal.”

And then I kissed my Dad, my future husband, and I thanked God and beer for the courage to have kissed him in the kitchen so many years ago.

END

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[jay-spear-stories-2]

Breeder

I became a dad at 16. They were the typical reasons: a combination of hormones and youthful carelessness. I was so amped up to finally put it inside. And damn, that pussy was tight. Hot. Wet.

Her eyes went blank as they rolled back in her head, and her words made me nut before I could think to pull out. “Give it to me, papi! I want to feel your load.” I hammered hard and hit it home, with no thought of the consequences.

The consequences came nine months later, when Carmen’s dad showed up in his truck and dragged me to the hospital to put my name to paper and make sure I’d hand over a chunk of my paycheck for the next 18 years. You’d think I would have learned from that, but no. It’s happened several times since.

Breeder. Yeah, there’s a word for it.

Generally it’s what gay guys call a straight guy—or a straight girl too, I guess. A fact-based insult to compete with the many slurs straights have for gays: Fag. Homo. Fairy. Etc.

“Breeder” fit me, but not for the usual reason. Because I wasn’t straight. A week after making it with Carmen I had her skinny brother sucking my cock, and then I put it inside him too.

So different. Mauricio looked at my cock with eyes as worshipful as Carmen’s had been scared. He squealed for more when I railed him. And he begged for my load just as much as she did, maybe more, and using practically the same words.

I felt really good after fucking Mauricio—in a way that I hadn’t with Carmen. And I even gave him a deep, sweet kiss that lasted long enough to melt time. Then it was clear, even for a blockhead like me. I wasn’t not straight. Not anymore.

I stayed with Carmen a few more months, but it was only to keep my access to her brother. He had soft lips and an ass that milked my cock for every last drop.

But I couldn’t with Carmen’s whining and her silly giggles. And I discovered there were plenty of slutty twinks beyond the walls of the Ramirez household. So I moved on. After that, I only saw Carmen at court appearances and supervised visits with my little rugrat.

Things were so much better with the boys. They kissed like they couldn’t get enough. I’d slap them around and they’d crawl back for more. I’d rearrange their guts with a monster fuck and then parade them around town, laughing at their struggle to control the cum leaking from their holes and dripping down their pant legs. I’d expose those little whores in front of their parents, teachers, and friends.

Yeah, I was made to fuck boys. But I was born to breed too.

Sure, I could approximate it with boys. I always fucked raw and they’d always take the load. Little bitches would usually cum hands-free when they felt me unloading inside them. They got off on talking about it: “Breed me, Daddy! Fill me up. I’m dying for your load.”

I’d give it right back: pounding hard and telling them to be a good little bitch and take it. Daddy’s making you a mommy now. Gonna fuck a baby right into you.

It was hot. And it was almost enough. But when I’d lay my hand on the guy’s belly and imagine my seed swimming up there for a new life to take hold…well, I knew I was lying to myself. The fantasy could go only so far.

I needed more. And so I’d fuck pussy from time to time—just to get that rush. To feel that thrill. And lock in the result. I notched two more pregnancies before I graduated high school. I was a teenage dirtbag dad.

Fast forward a couple years.

Dylan and I had been dating for nine months, a lot longer than I’d usually go before switching a boy out . He was a college freshman with wide eyes and soft lips. I was a swaggering 25 year old with two jobs. No college for me; I had to work right out of high school to pay child support for all my kids. And to save up for more.

Dylan was a good fuck, sweet and submissive. He liked it from behind, with me pulling his hair and him arching his back. His horny squeals got louder and louder when we slipped into pregnancy talk. The kid was into it; he would have borne twenty kids for me if he could. I guess that’s why we stayed together so long. But then I met Terry.

Terry was pretty too, but he had a totally different look than Dylan’s choirboy vibe. Terry had an angular face, all sharp lines capped with a shock of black hair. Red, full lips were the only thing to soften his features, a crazy juxtaposition. It made him look both pretty and dangerous, like a baby Mick Jagger.

I zoomed in on him at a party. I had come there with Dylan, but I didn’t let that stop me. I made a beeline to Terry when I saw him standing at the punch bowl.

“Here, let me help you.”

I stepped in and took the ladle. The kid could have handled it of course, but I was testing his willingness to let a man take over. He passed.

“Drink it slowly, baby,” I cautioned. “The guys poured a lot of booze in earlier.”

“I can take it.”

“I’m sure you can. Just don’t want you to be all sloppy when we’re fucking.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Is that your plan?”

“Of course you get a say too.” I leaned in to whisper into his neck. “You can tell me if you want it from the front or from behind.”

He giggled and put a hand on my chest. “Why not both?”

“I like the way you think, baby. Drink up.”

He smiled and raised the plastic cup to his lips. I put a hand on his hip and pulled him in close. He put his hand on mine and slid it down onto his butt. His ass was full and round, like a swollen, late summer melon. I forgot about Dylan completely.

Ten minutes later, I was pulling the kid upstairs and looking for an open bedroom. We ducked in and I threw him on the bed.

I was on his tight body in an instant, pinning his skinny frame under my 210 pounds. I held his wrists against the bed while I rubbed my crotch into him.

“You gonna be a good boy and suck it? Get me nice and wet so you have a little lube for the main event?”

“Yes, sir,” he murmured.

I stripped off my shirt and unbuckled my pants, sliding them down and unleashing my cock. Terry was on it in a flash, eager to lick, to suck, to swallow me down.

The kid had a hot mouth. Warm, wet, experienced. Perfect technique. I let him go nuts, no need to push his head down or anything. He brought the enthusiasm.

Terry stroked my balls while sucked me.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “They’re so big.”

They were. I was blessed with big, low hangers that earned me the nickname “Balls” back in sixth grade, when my body began to change.

“And they’re loaded with cum, baby. Got a steaming hot load to pound into your pussy tonight.” Terry froze for a minute, like the thought scared him. But then he went nuts, sucking even harder. He deep throated me, gagging on it, while his delicate fingers coaxed the cum in my balls to a boil.

“Time to get naked, my boy. It’s not fair that it’s just me.”

I pulled off his shirt and kissed a line from his mouth to his neck to his nipples, then the rest of the way down his chest. I tore into his button-fly with my teeth, unhooking it and pulling his jeans down. Terry kicked off his shoes and I yanked his jeans down to his ankles.

Terry flipped onto his stomach and wiggled his butt. The rosy red color of his briefs made it look like a ripe apple and I took a bite. He squealed and I bit again. I pulled the fabric in from the sides and pushed it into his crack, kissing and biting my way across his creamy cheeks, leaving marks. Terry moaned and pushed back, begging for more.

I grabbed the wad of fabric from his crack and pushed it to the side so I could get my face into his hole. I ate him vigorously, getting everything wet and sloppy, my tongue going everywhere and my face slicked with spit and ass funk. I tapped his pucker, striking hard with two fingers and I watched the bud twitch as I triggered his nerve endings. Then I hocked a good sized glob and rubbed it into his hole. I climbed on top and pushed myself in.

I held Terry’s shoulders while I rutted. Terry was a pro; whatever I gave he returned, pushing his butt back and taking in more and more cock.

“That’s a good little bitch. Make your ass swallow it. Let’s get everything in.”

He whimpered into the pillow and pushed back with his hips.

My heart beat fast, my blood was pumping, and my thrusts got faster. I could feel the cum boiling inside me, building up to blast pressure. I started to talk.

“Gonna flood you soon, baby. Daddy’s got a nice hot load for you.”

“Give it to me!” Terry screamed.

“You’re gonna get it, baby. Push those hips back and get yourself ready. Gonna flood that pussy full. Make you a mommy tonight.”

“Ohhh my God…” he moaned.

And then he reached back and pulled my cock out. It was just for a minute, but I was taken aback. Didn’t he want this?

And then he put my cock back in. Back into the warmth, but things felt slicker now. Like I could push a lot harder. Like I should.

I grunted and slammed into him. The angle was different. I was hitting a deeper, smoother spot. His hole spasmed, gripping me and wrapping me up in its soft envelope.

“Do it,” he murmured into the pillow. “Give me your load. Put your baby in me. Make me a mommy.”

The softer, smoother friction, the new angle, the words—all of it together broke the dam and my cum flooded him. It was a long, extended orgasm, with my cock pumping ounce after ounce of my swimmers.

“God, that’s so hot,” he whimpered. He squeezed his pelvis, desperate to milk all of my load.

“I came already,” he said, “But I think I can come again. Let me turn over?”

I pulled my weight off him and Terry flipped over, looking up and kissing me. He grabbed my hand and pushed it under his briefs. My fingers were drenched where he pushed them against his flesh.

It felt strange. Everything was wet and fleshy, but there wasn’t much of a dick, just a little mound…

I looked down. My fingers were pulling on his clit.

Oh….

My face lit up. My fingers grabbed and squeezed it lightly. I ran my thumb across, stroking him with practiced moves from my past experience with women. I built up speed, rubbing his clit rhythmically. Wet smacking sounds filled the air and waves of pleasure rolled across his face.

Then Terry was cumming again, rolling his head from side to side. He moaned and thrashed against the pillow.

I looked in amazement at hot little Terry and his bright pink pussy.

“Well, that was a fun surprise,” I remarked.

“What was a surprise?” His eyes snapped open with fear.

I was immediately on alert. Shit. I didn’t mean to offend him. I definitely didn’t want to scare him away.

“I thought we’d just fool around just this once,” I covered. “A quick fuck at a party. But damn, baby, that’s not good enough. I need to see you again.”

His lips curled at the edges and then a giant smile spread across his face.

“Perfect. Because that’s what I want too.”

***

Dylan wasn’t mad about me fooling around at the party. He knew I was a dog; he was used to it. As long as I kept fucking him, he didn’t require exclusivity.

But fucking Dylan tapered off as things heated up between me and Terry. We started seeing each other on the sly. Clandestine meetups at first. The sex was wild, our chemistry was hot, and eventually what built up between couldn’t be hidden.

I was neglecting Dylan. And I couldn’t get enough of Terry. The boy had everything. Pretty face, deep voice, hair where it mattered—a dusting on his chest, some stubble on his face—and a super tight ass, with a bonus hole to boot. I didn’t have to go back to girls to have a pussy to play with.

But more than all that, I fell for the beautiful dissonance of his sharp features and soft, full lips. And his eagerness to please.

Terry begged for my loads as much as I demanded he take them. We did it raw every time, narrating the act as we did it. Our words grew dirtier, our bodies pushed harder, and the idea crept into his head and mine. He was willing to go there with the pregnancy talk, and he was the rare one who could put a pussy behind it.

Things with me and Dylan petered out, and Terry and I were now dating openly. I paraded him around like a possession. Terry burrowed himself deeply and demurely into my arms and into my heart. I wanted to take care of him. To make a family with him.

It was his idea to go off the T. No objection from me, of course. I loved the idea of his body going into that sensitive state, becoming fertile. I got off on the risk that this might be the time for my fuck to swell him up and make his body big with my baby.

Terry was nervous about it. Not about the fertility—he wanted that as much as I did. But he was scared of getting soft and moody. He worried about losing the manhood he had worked so hard for. He feared I wouldn’t want him if he slipped off the pedestal of being my beautiful boy.

I reassured him with each animalistic fuck. I was a monster now, going for gold each time, desperate to breed the bitch, to knock him up with my child.

It took seven months but we did it. He came out of the bathroom one morning and showed me the plus sign on the stick. I picked him up and swung him around the room.

“You’ve made me the happiest man alive,” I reassured him.

“Things will be different now,” he whispered. There was a touch of fear in his voice.

“They will,” I agreed. “They’ll be even better.”

Terry had a boy. And the next year, a girl. And two more after that. I always let him go back on the T for a bit, to get his bearings and feel secure in his body again. But soon enough there would be a gleam in my eyes and a glow in his body and we knew we’d have to do it again.

I was made to breed and Terry was made to bear. We were made for each other. I’d finally found the one thing to make me stop fucking around.

Tonight we’re doing it again. It’s been five months off the T. Probably a little early to expect too much, but my boy can do anything. And my sperm are nothing if not insistent.

I’m not fucking his ass tonight. I’m fingering it from behind—my boy loves ass play, for sure—but my real attention is on his front hole. I’m licking, sucking, playing with his clit. Getting his body warmed up, priming his ovaries to release their treasure and meet my gift. When he’s moaning and thrashing on the bed, I straddle him and push my cock into the flower of his pussy. I slide back and forth between the lips, reveling in the combination of my spit and his natural lubrication.

I push my cock fully in, sink it deep. Terry cries out and begs me to fuck him. Fuck him hard and plant my seed at the back end of his fertile pussy.

“Make me a mommy,” he whispers. “Do it again.”

It’s the only time we use a feminine pronoun. My boy is all man, except when I’m breeding him. Then he’s my fertile bitch, ready for what nature lets him do and dying to make me a dad again.

“You feeling good, baby? You think this is going to be the one?”

“It has to be! It feels so good. It has to make a baby this time.”

“Good boy,” I whisper. “Make another baby for Daddy.”

And then I’m nutting inside, flooding him with the kind of monster load I know few men can provide.

“That’s it, baby. I’m fucking it into you. You gonna give me a boy or a girl this time?”

It’s just talk, but his hit rate has been really good. He’s guessed all but one of our kids correctly.

His eyes get wide.

“Both!” he cries out. “You gave me such a big load, I’m sure it’s gonna be twins this time.”

And you know what?

It was.

END

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[jay-spear-stories-2]

Brother’s Back: Vic and Theo

The old window groaned when I shoved it, the wooden frame swollen with humidity. Even when it was dry, multiple layers of paint were enough to make it stick to the sides. I had to throw my shoulder into it, with my palms flat and pushing hard until the thing finally gave. It jerked open one inch, then two, then it finally slid the rest of the way up.

I pushed myself up on flat palms and swung over one leg, then two, and I crawled out onto the roof.

“Vic? You out here yet?” I whispered.

“Yeah. What took you so long? Come on over.”

I waited a few seconds for my eyes to adjust the darkness. Then I made my way slowly along the roof ledge. I went up and over the electrical box, to get to the flat part of the roof that lay between Vic’s window and mine.

My bother and I had been doing this for years, ever since we sneaked up that first time to experiment with cigarettes (disgusting, don’t try it). This was our escape from Dad and Mom, and from the world. Up here we shared beers, confessed secrets, shared our dreams and worries, and cracked late night jokes.

“I brought one for you,” Vic said. He passed over a cold bottle and I twisted off the cap. “Don’t forget to put it in your pocket. Remember that time you let one roll off the roof and into the yard? Dad spent days trying to figure out where it came from. I don’t want him to know we’ve got a little hideaway up here.”

“Me neither.”

“Enjoy it, Theo. We’ve got less than a month of nights like this before I ship out.” Vic slung an arm around me. “I’m gonna miss you, bro.”

“Me too.” I took a sip of the beer and let the suds wash down my throat. “Are you scared?”

“I’m more excited than scared.” He downed some of his beer looked out into the night. “Well, maybe a little bit.”

Vic was home from Basic Training. College hadn’t worked out for him; he left after one semester. He spent the next year-plus working in an auto body shop while he figured things out. An Army recruiter brought his car in for repairs one day, and things fell into place for him.

“How was Basic?” I asked. Vic had talked about it a little bit over dinner, but out here, alone, I hoped to get the real story.

“Hell on Earth. But also pretty cool. I feel like part of a real brotherhood now.”

“Uh, you’ve had a brother most of your life.”

“I know, dumbshit. That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, I feel like I’ve got a sense of purpose now. And people lining up with me to do the same thing. It feels like being back on the team or something. It’s nice.”

Vic had been a football star in high school, and he enjoyed the popularity that came with it. Girls pursued him, and guys too. He had a group of friends from the team at the ready whenever he wanted to do anything.

“I get that.”

“So, how’s college for you?”

“Good.”

It was going much better for me than it had for him. But I was always better than Vic at school stuff. I was studying marketing and communications, and I was pretty good at it.

“You’re sure to finish,” he reassured me. “Good thing. One dropout in the family is enough lol.”

I know Vic had wanted to make college work. But he never found his place. He was good at football but not good enough to make the team at a D-1 school. He didn’t do so well in his classes. And without that identity as a football star, without having a team around him, he got lost. I guess it was good the Army was helping him to feel found again.

“Well, if nothing else, Basic seems to have gotten you into shape.”

“Yeah, man!” He patted his gut. Six months ago it had been soft and a little round from drinking and partying. But now his stomach was as flat as his shoulders were broad.

“You got so thin. And jacked.”

“5:00 AM rucks took care of the flab. And then I’d hit the weight room with some of the guys after training was done. To really go for it. We had some huge guys in my group, and everybody would push each other. It was like being back at Lincoln again. Except there were no cheerleaders to reward our efforts. Just a bunch of sweaty dudes.”

I snorted. I knew my brother would be just be fine whether he was surrounded by cock or pussy.

“Well, it looks really good on you.” I grabbed the big melon of his shoulder muscle and squeezed it.

Then I went in for a kiss.

Vic kissed me back—at first. It was warm and soft and familiar. But too quickly he turned his head and broke it off.

“Come on, Theo. We gotta grow out of that kid stuff sometime, right?”

I leaned back against the wall. I tried not to show the hurt.

Vic and I had started horsing around as teenagers. It began with punching either, wrestling. Normal brother stuff. But we’d get hard. Vic’s hand brushed against me once and his eyes went wide when he felt it. “Me too,” he whispered. And then he moved my hand on top of his crotch. We felt up each other’s hard bulges, kind of amazed, tracing along the outline and squeezing to gauge the girth. It didn’t take too much more for us to take them out. To jack. And to kiss while we did it. And things progressed from there.

“I didn’t think it was something to outgrow,” I pouted.

“Come on, bro.” He pulled me in tight. “It’s been fun messing around with each other. And I’ll always love you like a brother. But we’re adults now. We’ve probably got to put our romantic energy into other things now, right?”

I didn’t see why. I had missed Vic something crazy during Basic. I couldn’t wait for him to get back home. And he was shipping out soon. I had been certain we’d make the most of our time limited time together and then transition into some kind of long-distance thing. I didn’t expect him to be exclusive or anything, but I did think he’d continue being into me. Like I was into him.

I drank down half my beer while I tried to think of a response. The beer was good and cold, but it tasted sour.

“I guess,” I said. My voice was non-committal.

“You got anybody special right now?”

“No.”

“Me either. I fooled around with a few guys in Basic. Just keeping the engine oiled, you know? But now’s not the time to make attachments. Life is moving all of us on to different places.”

Fuck. Of course that was what life was about; circumstances pulled people apart all the time. But I always thought that when you’ve got somebody you care about, you figure out some glue to keep things together. You hold on to the things that matter.

Still glum, I steered the conversation back to Basic. I asked about his training, what skills he thought he’d use on assignment. But they were all empty words. They came out of my mouth but they came up from what felt like a hollow spot in my chest.

“Here, you can finish mine,” I told him, handing him the rest of my beer. “I’m going back in.”

Vic seemed surprised, but he just said “Suit yourself.” And then he stared back out at the stars.

I crawled back over to my window and went in, leaving Vic alone on the roof.

***

I moped around the house the next morning. Vic was already gone to the gym. I ate three bowls of cereal, started some laundry and then forgot about it, and stared blankly at the pages in my marketing book. I had to reread them several times.

Maybe I should transfer to a different college. I stayed local, because our university had a great reputation and I could save money by living at home. And Vic was home most nights after his shifts at the body shop.

But today, being in my hometown and staying in our family house was a painful reminder of everything that Vic and I had shared over the years—and apparently would not be sharing any longer.

***

The week rolled on in that fashion, with me in a foul mood: sad about Vic and angry at him for changing things. And that awful baseline was further fucked up by moments of reflexive lust. I’d see his biceps bulge when he opened a jar of pickles for Mom. Or I’d catch the bright gleam of his smile when he cracked a joke with Dad. I’d see his chest puff out when he yawned and stretched his arms after a TV movie ended.

So sometimes, when the house was quiet, I’d close the door to my room, slide down my jeans, and tug on my cock while I replayed the image of whatever mundane thing Vic had done today that made my dick pop.

He caught me once. He came back from the gym and threw open my door, ready to tell me some shit about seeing my ex-boyfriend at the gym, who was trying to make a move on his ex-boyfriend, and—

“Oh shit, dude.” He laughed when he registered the sight. “I’m sorry. I shoulda knocked.”

I shot him a dark look and struggled to pull up my pants.

“Don’t bother, bro. Looks like you’re halfway there. It’d be a shame to be waste it.”

I stopped moving, unsure of whether to abort or continue. “Scoot over,” he said. “I’ll rub one out too. I was watching Dylan McGrath do squats in these tiny shorts and it got me fucking horned up.”

Vic stretched out next to me and he pushed his shorts down. He gave a himself a few strokes and his cock quickly swung up to its full height, locked and loaded.

My dick had gone soft when Vic surprised me with his entry, but now it stood straight up, hard as steel, just from seeing my brother work his tool.

“Come on, bro. Let’s rub one out together.”

“I thought you wanted to move past ‘kid stuff.’ Break the attachments. Be totally free.”

I was pointing out the hypocrisy of what he was doing. But my hard cock showed the hypocrisy of my own statement. I still wanted to see him. I still wanted us to do it.

“Yeah. But this is OK. It’s like routine maintenance. You know, keeping the engine running. And we can stay side by side. I don’t touch you and you don’t touch me.”

It was a lot less than I wanted. I wanted our bodies to touch, our mouths to press together. But even so, I’d take it. I was turned on by seeing my brother’s cock, the cock I’d touched and tasted and sucked so many times. I had feared I’d lose access completely.

“But we should totally blast at the same time, Vic said. “See who shoots the farthest.”

We stroked in tandem. We did it with the same rhythm and the same occasional tug on our balls, using the left hand to hold them while we jacked with the right. Over the years we’d developed similar technique. I knew what he liked and he knew the same about me. At some point, we ended up liking it the same way.

“Not gonna last long, Theo. Dylan was looking so damn nasty as he flexed and tightened that little ass of his.”

And what about my ass, I thought to myself? Vic had fucked me a handful of times over the years, and he always seemed satisfied by it. How could no longer want that? It pissed me off. I pulled harder on my cock.

“Whoa, you’re starting to fly, little bro! I gotta catch up. If it doesn’t give me a blister to do it!” Vic jacked harder.

I didn’t to give him the satisfaction of coming in tandem, as he suggested. As we used to do. This time, I would come first.

I went at it hard and thought about the last time I fucked Vic. It was usually the reverse, but even that big gorilla liked to squeal like a girl from time to time. I imagined myself spitting on his hole, pushing in, holding him from behind and twisting his nipple while he lost it, making him whimper and cum before I’d even worked my cock fully inside.

Damn, that was a hot thought. And so this time, I was the one coming first, fast and hard. I hit a poster on the opposite wall, my load making a couple of big splats. It slowly dripped down.

Vic was trying to keep up, but I had left him behind.

“No fair, Theo. You can’t leave me hanging like this. Show me your cock, bro.”

I stood up and looked at him from the foot of the bed, my cock still hard, bobbing swinging as I moved.

“Yeah, that’s it. Show me your cock. Grab it for me, bro.”

I turned away and went to the hamper. I pulled out a spent cum rag and brought it to the poster. I took my time wiping it off, keeping my back to turned all the while.

“You fucker,” he hissed. “But I’m still gonna cum. I’ll do it from watching your ass, if I have to.”

He spit into his hand and jacked harder. Wet smacking sounds filled the room. Then he blasted off and I felt his spray hit my backside. There were splotches on my shoulder blade and middle back. It started to drip down my spine, running down the line and into my crack.

“I’m going to shower,” I told him. I grabbed my towel from the back of the door.

“That’s it?” he called out from the bed. “You’re gonna just leave?”

Yeah, that’s it, I thought. That’s all you get.

I went down the hall and ran the shower. I waited for the water to heat up. I put my hand behind me and felt Vic’s spooj running down my back. I wiped some of it onto my fingers and pushed them into my hole. I worked my brother’s cum inside me and I listened to wet sounds it made when I pulled my fingers in and out.

And dammit if I didn’t cum a second time before the water was even ready.

***

It was the weekend, and Vic insisted on us going out to bar where some of his old friends from the team hung out. “It’s my last chance to see these guys for a while. Just two more weekends before I’m gone for at least six months. Maybe more. My deployment might get extended.”

I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t want to mope around the house either. I had done plenty of that already. And if Vic was really going to be away for more than half a year, I wanted to spend time with him while I could. Even if it was killing me.

I invited along some of my friends too. The football guys could get real insular and I didn’t want to be left out. Rafa, Kara, and Sarai all showed up and we got a couple pitchers. The music was loud, my friends were around me, and I downed beer after beer until I had a good buzz going. Then I had some more.

Vic kept mostly to his friends, but he’d circle back to me every now and then. He’d throw an arm around me, ask how the night was going.

“Fine.” I shook him off. I loved his touch but it no longer led where I wanted it to.

Why had everything changed for Vic? We had had this powerful, secret bond that I thought would last forever.

I guess nothing lasts, I thought as I looked glumly at my shoes. People ship off, they leave town. They wouldn’t be around. I had to think about my own future.

“Theo,” Kara murmured. “That guy is giving you serious looks. Like he wants to eat you alive. He’s either a serial killer or the best fuck you’ll ever have.”

Kara could be crass, but at least I always knew what she was thinking. Not like some other idiots I knew.

“I saw him,” I replied.

“And…?” she prompted. “Verdict?”

“Fuckable,” I admitted. He was at the other end of the room, leaning against the bar and looking out at the crowd with his hips protruding. Total top posture. He was older than the guys I had been with. Late 30s, maybe even early 40s. He wore a tight black T-shirt and had a smattering of tattoos across his left arm and running onto his hand. The guy sipped his beer slowly, keeping his eyes locked on me.

“Go talk to him, you idiot.”

Yeah, sure, why not? Vic was busy with his buddies. At least one guy here wanted me. I approached him.

“Wondered when you’d say Hi,” the guy offered casually. His voice was deep but friendly.

I had noted his thick, wavy hair from across the room, and up close I could see his bright blue eyes. A huge bicep popped as he lifted his beer bottle and took a sip.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure if you were watching me out of hormonal interest or just sizing me up for taxidermy.”

“Haha, why not both? You’d look great on my wall.” He tried a quick smile and then moved on. “Kidding. I know, not funny. Listen, you’ll have to excuse me if I looked too intense. It’s just that you’re the best looking guy in the place. Forgive me for staring.”

“Maybe I can forgive you. In exchange for a kiss.”

“Definitely.”

I stood on my toes to get my mouth up to his. He made the kiss soft and respectable, romantic rather than lustful. But he was standing close and I could feel heat radiating from his tightly muscled body.

The kiss went long, our lips threading together and our tongues darting around. He nibbled my bottom lip and sucked it in for a moment, then released me.

“Wow, you kiss like a pro,” he pronounced. “What’s your name?”

“Theo.”

“I’m Jackson. Go by Jax.”

We talked for a bit, exchanging flirty banter peppered with some life details. I learned he was 41. A personal trainer. A Taurus, not that he believed in that, except it described him so well. Crqzy about tattoos and he wanted a lot more, except it took him forever to decide on each one.

Jax was easy to talk to and he slipped an around me as we chatted. It felt nice to be held. Like someone wanted me. Like he’d take care of it all.

“You’re here with friends?” he asked.

“Yeah. And my brother too.”

“Which one is he?”

“The big guy over there. Dark eyes, square jaw, buzz cut. He’s going into the Army.”

“Your brother has a nice build,” Jax admitted. “But clearly you got the looks in the family.” He grabbed my chin and pulled my face to his for another kiss.

“And even so,” Jax continued, looking over at Vic. “He’s not all that big.” Jax stretched his arms and flexed the muscles in his chest, sending ripples through his tight T-shirt. “Plenty of us here could give him a run for his money.”

I laughed and wrapped my hand around Jax’s bicep and squeezed. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Good boy,” Jax smirked. He spun me around and pulled me back into him, with me facing out into the bar and his frontside pressed into my backside. He wrapped me up in his body and whispered into my ear. “Besides, if it’s big you like, I can certainly take care of that.” Jax pushed his hips forward, letting me feel his size.

“So, not all your muscles are for show?” I giggled.

He grabbed my hand and brought it around, laying it on top of his bulge. “Definitely not.”

I squeezed it. He was right. The dude was packing some serious equipment.

“Well, you’ve definitely made me curious.”

“Just curious?”

“Interested.”

“Good.”

“Listen, I should reconnect with my friends for a minute. Want to come over with me?”

“I absolutely do. But let me hit the head first, then I’ll be right over.”

“Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.” He leaned in for another steamy kiss and then excused himself. I went back to my group.

“See?” Kara crowed. “I told you.”

“You were right. And he’s hot.”

“Definitely,” Rafael chimed in. “When you’re done with him, send him to my place.”

We were all laughing and then Vic pushed his way into our group and rounded on me.

“What the fuck was that?” he demanded.

“What was what?”

“You and that guy? He’s like twice your age!”

“So?”

“So I’m concerned for my brother, that’s what. That guy was all over you.”

“What’s it matter to you? Why do you even care?”

“Because I do.”

“Really? It feels like you’ve bent over backward these last weeks to say you don’t care at all.”

We stopped talking and stared at each other angrily. My friends backed away.

“Let’s give these two some space,” Kara said diplomatically.

“Again, if you don’t want him, Theo,” Rafa called out, “I do!”

“Shut up, Rafa.”

“Gurl! Okay…”

Kara pulled him and the others back, which left Vic and me still squared off. And still pissed off.

“What’s gotten into you, Vic? I don’t need a protector.”

“I’ve always protected you.”

“I don’t need to be protected. I need to get fucked.”

“By that guy?”

“Why not that guy?”

“Because…”

“What?”

“Because—“

“You don’t have a reason.”

“Because you’re better than that, Theo.”

“I don’t see why you think you have any say.”

“Because I’m your brother.”

“So what?”

“And we…”

“And we what?”

“Look, we’re more than brothers. You know that. I just want the best for you.”

“Except we’re not more than brothers. You’ve made that clear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe we were more than that once. But you said that was kid stuff and it’s time to move on—“

“You think it’s because I don’t care.”

“Seems so.”

“That’s not why I said that.”

“Then why?”

“Because…because…because it can get so intense between us, Theo. And honestly, that scares me. How can I move ahead with my life, go on deployment, if I stay hung up on you?”

My mouth dropped open.

“You’re hung up on me?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want you to say it.”

“Fine. Yes. Since you’re making me say it. I love you. I’m probably in love with you. I have been ever since we started fooling around. It was just fun, at first. At least that’s what I thought. We were just playing with our cocks, taking care of business. But then when you kissed me…Theo, I felt things. Things I’ve never felt with anyone else. Despite everyone else I’ve ever kissed. I felt things that feel so right I don’t have to put them into words. I only had to be with you, and you be with me, and everything seemed to just work out. Without anything being said. We just understood each other. But fine, I’ll say it. It’s love. It’s been love the whole time, right from the start. I love you in a way I can probably never love anybody else.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought I was the only one.”

“Well, you’re not.” He shook his head. “So don’t fuck this guy. Don’t even kiss him.”

“Who am I supposed to kiss?”

“Me.”

We stared at each other for a long minute and then he leaned in and kissed me, right there in the bar, in front of everyone. I was stunned, but Vic kept on kissing me. And so I kissed him back.

“Wow,” I said when we finally pulled apart. “All our friends are staring. Other people too.”

“Let ‘em stare. I’m gonna kiss you again.” Vic put his arms around my waist and held me in place while he kissed me. I put arms over his shoulders and traced the hard ridges of muscle on his back.

“Fuck, Vic,” I whispered into his neck. “What are we doing?”

“What I should have done from the moment I got home from Basic.” Vic slid his hands under my T-shirt, his warm fingers raising goosebumps every place they touched. Vic pulled my T-shirt up and over my head. He kissed the side of neck and worked his way down to my nipple. That got me going. Vic’s tongue hitting my nips always did.

I hooked my fingers into his shirt and pulled it off him too. We stood bare-chested, flesh on flesh, as we made out. From the corner of my eye I caught Jax staring in disgust before he spun around and walked out.

Vic and I made out like teenagers, and I could hear murmurs from the crowd around us.

“Hey, aren’t those two brothers?”

“Eww!”

“I don’t care who they are, it looks fucking hot.”

Kara’s voice broke through the din. “I guess they’re working something out,” she deadpanned.

“So Jax will be available after all,” Rafa mused.

“Come on, bro,” Vic said. He put three fingers under my waistband and tugged me toward him. “Let’s get away from all these eyes.”

Vic led me to the bathroom and pulled me into a stall, locking the door behind us. I was on him in a flash. Our mouths locked up together, as if they were magnets, and our hands roamed each other’s body.

“God, you’ve gotten really big from Basic,” I murmured. I slid my hand across the giant mound of his pec.

“You like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“I’m gonna get even bigger for you.” He dropped his hands to my waist and pressed his thumbs into the soft skin just above my hips. He pulled me to him, banging my body into his. Boom, boom, boom, our crotches bounced off each other. I could feel how hard he was. How hard I was.

Vic lowered his hands to my butt cheeks and squeezed them. “Would you have let that guy fuck you?”

“Probably.”

“Don’t. Keep this for me.” He squeezed hard for emphasis. “Keep that sweet ass just for your brother.”

I mumbled into his neck. “You were my first, you know.”

“First and best. And always.”

“Yeah.”

Vic unbuttoned me and slid my pants down. I fumbled with his and got his cock free.

“We gotta be quick, bro. Before they send someone in after us.”

“I know.”

“But tonight back at home, I’ll come into your room and we can take it slow. Do it right.”

“Sounds perfect. But, Vic?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t wait for that. I need to feel you inside of me now.”

Vic pulled back and grinned wide. “With pleasure, Thee.” He hadn’t used that nickname in a while. It took me back to the earliest days of us, when I was first developing feelings for him. And him for me. Feelings that had become love. And now we’d both said it, out loud.

Vic spit into his hand and used it to lube up his cock. Then he turned me around, pulled my cheeks apart, and spit on my hole. I braced myself against the wall and pushed my butt out. I knew exactly where to place myself for Vic’s height, how to set up the angle just right. Vic was right there. He pushed in.

God-damn!

It always feels like heaven to be split open and entered. Taken. But even more so when it’s someone you care about. Even more so when it’s your brother, and you’re both drawing on a deep well of history, affection, and forbidden lust.

Vic began pumping. I flexed and grabbed him with my sphincter, tightening my ass walls to milk him, pulling him deeper. I wanted his load.

Vic pressed his sweaty chest into my back. He bit the side of my neck. I tuned my head around enough to catch a kiss, which he indulged. And then he was pounding again.

I leaned out and focused on the rhythm. That push-pull, the sensation of catching his cockhead in my sphincter and holding it so tight he’d maybe never came out.

“Maybe you can fly out when I get a few days leave. Meet me in Greece or Turkey so we don’t have to go too long without this.”

“I’ll come,” I promised. “I’ll save every penny for the tickets.”

“That’s what I want, Thee. To move ahead with my life but somehow keep you in it.”

“I want that too. I mean, I love you, bro. I’m fucking in love with you.”

“Oh God. Me too. I’m in love with with you too.” And then his body shook and he unloaded into me.

I was coming too. Maybe it was from the sensation of my brother flooding me, but more than that I think it was that we were finally speaking our truth aloud. The words were powerful. They shook me to my core.

Vic held me for a long time—his cock in my ass, and mine leaking onto the floor—while we panted and tried to catch our breath.

Finally, he spoke. “We should probably get back out there.”

“Yeah, but how? What do we say? What do we do? Everyone just saw us strip off our shirts and make out.”

“I dunno. Let them think what they want. I’m not afraid to face them or anyone.” We pulled up our pants and put on our shirts. Everything was sticky inside my underwear.

Vic kissed me again. “I’m sorry I was so weird a couple days ago. I was scared and trying to protect myself. And you. But fuck all that.” He grabbed my hand. “I’m gonna be straightforward about it all from now on. And not apologize for anything. And I want you to do the same.”

“OK, yeah. Sounds good.”

“Then come on,” he said, opening the stall and pulling me out, still holding my hand. “Let’s show them what brotherly love looks like.”

We did. We did that night, and for the rest of our lives.

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[jay-spear-stories-2]

Belonging to Omar (Teaser)

Afternoon light filtered through the curtains, painting the sheets with golden stripes, like a tiger. Omar and I were tangled up together, naked and sweaty, in the aftermath of a lunchtime romp.

Omar looked impossibly sexy. His olive skin glowed, and every plane of muscle was sharply defined—from the broad sweep of his shoulders down to the tight line of his abdomen. His dark hair had gotten mussed into playful disarray. And his jaw—strong, angular, sharp enough to cut glass—carried the kind of half-day stubble that made me want to scrape my cheeks on it.

Omar shifted and propped himself up on one elbow. His eyes—deep brown, nearly black—locked onto mine with the same commanding intensity that had swayed me at the party where we met six months ago. That had been the tipping point, one that took me from a stable and predictable existence into something thrilling but much more dangerous.

His lips curved into a half-smile. He reached down and delicately brushed my chest with his fingertips. I felt the familiar thrill, a wild mix of desire and trepidation. Omar’s passion had a way of unsettling me.

“Come with me to Dubai. Maybe we take a side trip to Egypt,” he said. His voice was low and husky. “Two weeks. Just you and me.” He smoothed his palm over my ribs as if confirming that my bones have properly caged up my heart for him.

Reluctantly, I sat up and let his fingers fall away. “You know I can’t,” I said softly. “I have Tom at home. Responsibilities. I can’t just disappear for two weeks.”

Omar frowned. He rolled onto his back and pulled me back down, putting my head to rest on his shoulder. He snaked an arm around my waist, pulling me tight to him and squeezing. “I’m tired of sharing you,” he murmured. His thumb stroked my hip. “I need you all to myself. You focus on him too much.”

“He would say I haven’t been focusing on him at all.” I lay my hand on the hard muscle of Omar’s chest, watching everything rise and fall with his breathing. “I’ve been committed to you—from the start,” I protested. “As much as I can. But I can’t just ignore my life at home.”

He sat himself up abruptly, and I fell out of his warm embrace, onto the cool sheets. His face darkened. “Am I not your life too? You’re disrespecting me,” he said. His tone was clipped; the Egyptian accent of his upbringing slipped out with his frustration. “I give you days and nights like this, bring you gifts, I share every part of me. And you still try to choose him over us.”

My pulse pounded. I rose up and wrapped myself in the sheet as if it could protect me from the harshness in his voice. He was close, and his body radiated heat. The taut muscles on his neck and arms flared.

He left me in bed and stood up. My eyes took in the full sweep of him: the ludicrous V-shape of his torso, the solid strength of his thick thighs, the confident bearing of his posture. He walked to the armoire and took out a new, crisp shirt.

“I don’t need to compete with your marriage,” he said, dressing. He buttoned the shirt slowly and deliberately, each movement perfectly controlled. “You admit that you belong with me when you’re here. But then you keep choosing to belong elsewhere.”

I got out of bed and reached for him, touching him gently on the cheek. His expression softened for a moment. “I love you,” I said. “In this room it’s all so easy. And I feel it. Stronger than anything.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into my hand. “Then prove it,” he whispered. “Stay. Don’t go back to work. Or home tonight. Or ever again. Come to Dubai with me.”

My heart twisted. His demands and the tension between us—desire, possessiveness, competing loyalties—it was all combustible. He was being exactly what drew me to him in the first place: powerful, unyielding, and utterly certain of what he wants. And right now, he wanted me to choose him alone. I swallowed hard. I was torn between two worlds.

Omar finished dressing. He fastened the last button and turned to me. His eyes burned with intensity and he moved forward, backing me against the wall.

“What do you decide, baby?” He put a hand around my throat and held it—squeezing firmly—while he kissed me again. This was the same shit that drew me to him in the first place: his unabashed confidence and a presumed ownership over me. His invitation to travel with him, a not-so-subtle demand, hung in the air.

I knew I couldn’t say yes. But I also knew that leaving him—walking away from this—would destroy everything I had come to need. Something I might never get back.

So I said yes. Not to skipping work this afternoon, and not to leaving my husband—but yes to Dubai at least. Maybe that would be enough to keep things going. For now.

***

Omar and I met at a party six months ago. Tom and I were friends of the host, but we didn’t know the rest of the crowd. They were finance bros, Wall Street types. Tom and I were nonprofit people: he managed HR at a human rights organization and I worked on policy for a UN agency. But Tom’s college roommate Freddy was an investment banker, and a few times a year we rubbed shoulders with these big boys of the global financial system.

They were all of a type: gregarious, posturing, money obsessed. We didn’t have much in common with them, but Tom was close with Freddy and I was happy to have the free flowing booze and some world class canapes. It beat the hell out of crackers and salami back at our place.

Tom and Freddy were trying to catch up over the loud music that made it difficult for me to join in. No matter. I happily downed glasses of champagne that were well beyond my budget. Then I saw Omar.

He definitely stood out in the crowd. Tall, athletic, handsome. Omar’s white teeth flashed against his olive complexion as he laughed, smiled, and regaled his crew with a boisterous story. There were loud guffaws, lots of backslapping.

Omar caught me looking. He looked right back at me and chuckled delightedly; I had been made. I lowered my eyes to my drink and took a sip. When I allowed them to come back up, he was still looking. Right at me. Almost through me. I shivered.

He smiled and winked. I took another nervous sip, hoping the glass would hide my flushing cheeks. My skin felt hot.

Omar cut a path through the crowd. Within seconds he stood in front of me. He was only a few inches taller, with approximately the same narrow waist as mine, but his broad shoulders and chest packed on enough muscle that I felt like a small child by comparison. I swallowed hard.

“Hi, I’m Omar,” he rumbled. He extended his hand and folded my slender fingers into it.

“Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. Which bank?”

“What? Oh. No. I’m not in Finance. We’re friends with Freddy.” I jerked a finger at Freddy and Tom, still caught up in conversation.

“You have a beautiful smile, Alex. Even if you’re too shy to show it.”

His compliment prompted more blushing, but it also reflexively prompted a grin.

“See? There it is. Beautiful. So what do you do, if not finance?”

I babbled the details. His forward confidence still had me shaken. That and his open flirting in plain sight of my husband.

Omar listened and nodded as I talked. He was engaged in a way few of Freddy’s crowd ever had been when I talked about myself.

“Are you familiar with the UN system, then? You’re interested in our work?”

His eyes sparkled and he laughed. “No, no. I have no idea about it. I’m just interested in what you have to say.”

I shifted my weight onto the other foot. Tom was right next to us.

“Well, the UN does a lot of great things.”

“I wouldn’t know. My country can barely get a voice there. I don’t pay too much attention.”

“Your country?”

“Egypt. I grew up there. My family is still back there. I came to New York for graduate school. Then stayed to make some money.”

“Money is good, I suppose.”

“Money Is good?” Omar back his head and laughed. “It’s everything!” Then he leaned in. He kept his voice low. “Maybe not everything, Alex. There is money and there is sex. And most of all, love.” He winked “Now you have everything.”

My collar felt tight.

“You’re cute when you blush,” he continued. “Can I get you another?” He took the empty glass from my hand. I had drained it without noticing.

“Thank you,” I murmured as he strode over to the bar.

“Who’s your friend?” Tom asked.

“Omar.”

“Omar’s a great guy,” Freddy added. “We worked on a deal together last month. He was on the another side. The guy’s a fierce negotiator. Fucked us over good. But I admire him for it.”

Omar reappeared with a full glass of bubbles and handed it to me. Tom looked down at his empty glass.

“Omar!” Freddy cried. “Looks like you’ve met Alex. And this is Tom.” The two shook hands vigorously. But Omar kept his eyes on me.

We all made small talk. It was awkward for me and Tom but easy for Omar and Freddy. They slapped backs and traded war stories of their latest skirmishes on the corproate battlefield.

Five minutes into it, Omar grabbed my hand. “Come on, I want to show you something.” He pulled me away from the group before I could voice an objection.

“Back here,” he said, leading me down the hallway. He tried the first doorknob but it was locked. The second one he tried opened up, and he pulled me in and shut the door. We were in Freddy’s study. There was a computer on the desk and bookcases lining the wall. Some few acrylic awards and photographs with famous people lined his ego shelf.

“What did you want—“

Omar took my face in his hands. His lips went to mine. The kiss was long and warm and deep. He tasted of scotch. I kissed back, unable to resist. The stubble on his cheeks scratched the sides of my face.

“There,” he said, releasing me. “That’s what I wanted.”

I knew I should have left the room. Explained that I had a husband, that I couldn’t do this. But I was carried along on the buzz of too much champagne and too little food. That, and the heat coming off his skin and the rising sensation in my pants.

So I didn’t do what I should have done.

I let him kiss me again. And I kissed him back. I pressed my body into his, aching with a need that was in no way rational. It was pure chemistry, animal desires. Maybe fate.

The kissing got more intense, harder. Omar’s lips played with mine. He bit them.

Then he put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me to my knees. I fumbled with his zipper, pulled him free of his briefs. I took him in my mouth.

Omar let out a low moan that rippled through my body. Eagerly, and with a hunger that surprised me, my mouth made love to his cock.

I sucked him enthusiastically, vigorously, voraciously—forgetting our location and the inappropriateness of my husband and the host being in the other room. I sucked Omar while he held my head in his hands and fed me the most divine meal. I grabbed the back of his thick thighs for support. He rammed himself in.

Within minutes Omar was blasting down my throat. I drank everything down, greedily savoring the taste. I knew this was a one-time slip up, and I was determined to make the most of it.

When I pulled myself off to catch my breath, Omar yanked me to my feet.

“One more kiss, baby. Before they come looking for us.”

He kissed me and I let my hands trace the muscular cords of his back.

“Thank you, Alex,” he whispered. “Will that hold you for now?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” He pulled a card from his blazer and tucked it into my back pants pocket. His hand rested there, cupping my buttocks. He squeezed.

“Be a good boy. Call me.”

“I will,” I promised.

I don’t know why I said it. I couldn’t call him. I was happily married.

“Let’s go back.” He gave my butt a little slap. “You go first,” he said, zipping himself back up. I want to watch that little behind walk down the hall.” I left first, aware of his eyes glued to my ass. I felt a reflexive twitch down there that stayed with me the rest of the night.

***

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Dad, Divorced and Desired

After the divorce, my dad got hot. First came the sleek haircut, then stylish new clothes, and finally a monstrous intensity when he hit the gym. His middle-aged dad bod transformed into a seriously sculpted frame, getting both lean and strong in all the right places.

“Single life forced my hand,” he told me when I tried to tease him about it. “A guy doesn’t try as hard when he’s married. Maybe he should, but you don’t, and that’s part of how the relationship slides away. So, having a “comfortable” body doesn’t fly when you’re single. Not at my age anyway.”

“Well, seems to be working, old man. You’re looking good.”

I couldn’t help but notice, and once I noticed, I had to compliment him. He was dedicated and he got really great results with this change. And not just with his body, although that was the most visible part. But really, between the new look, his nice management job, and the wisdom he accumulated in his 43 years, he’d made himself the complete package for some lucky woman. Mom had no idea what she lost.

Dad smirked at the compliment. There was a towel slung around his neck and his chest glistened with sweat.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low, confessional. “You’re not the only one noticing. I’ve been getting lots of attention lately. More than I ever did in my twenties. It’s kind of cool.”

I teased him about making up for lost time, and we bantered back and forth. He was relaxed and surprisingly open about his new single life. And then I caught a slip—something about the “kinds” of people checking him out. I pressed on that. I did it playfully but I was legitimately curious. And then he admitted it: some of the attention came from men. After a pause, he added that he doesn’t mind that. In fact, he’s been…exploring it a little. Quietly. Casually.

“Holy shit, Dad. Are you gay? Or bi?”

“Bi, maybe. I guess. I mean, I must be, given how I’ve responded to it. How it made me feel. What I sometimes did.”

And just like that, he opened up and responded to my questions. He admitted that he’s always had some bi tendencies but he kept it all under wraps while he was married to Mom.

“But I’m gay!” I protested. “When I came out to you, didn’t you think you could also confide in me?”

“No way. I wasn’t going to burden you with my shit. And I was still married to your mother, denying myself—well, all of that. So it’s only recently that I’ve done anything about it.”

He didn’t offer a lot of details, but he responded to most of my questions. And gradually he got more comfortable confiding in me. No, no dates yet. Like not real ones. But he had kissed. Hooked up. It was easiest on the apps, but he was getting tired of how transactional that felt.

I thanked him for trusting me, and I told him i was glad he’s coming to terms with it. And I validated his exploration, getting out there and having some hookups.

“That’s all part of gay culture. Bi culture too, I suppose. When you get with a guy sexually those first few times, you can’t help but to suddenly know something about yourself.”

He nodded.

“But you know, if you’re tired of the apps, you should take it out in the real world. Be with people face to face. Like out at a bar, where you can have a real conversation. Where you have to come up with something more than “Into?” before you can stick it in a guy.”

Dad laughed. He looked more at ease right now than he had through the entire conversation.

“I can take you, if you want. Show you a good place or two. Help you break the ice.”

“Really? Yeah, sure, Ben. I’d like that.”

“Just don’t hog all the attention or I’ll really feel like shit.”

“Never gonna happen, son.” He slugged my shoulder. “You inherited my looks. And frankly you’re the younger, better model.”

We’d see about that.

***

The music was upbeat, thumping loud enough to feel it in our chests but quiet enough for conversations at only a quarter-shout. In a few hours the lights would go down, and the music would come up, and men would pack themselves onto the dance floor for the most physical kinds of conversation. But right now the bar was in social mode. Men clustered to talk and flirt, and the lights were still up enough to see and be seen. The bar light had that flattering glow that made everyone look a little bit better, a little more dangerous.

Dad stood beside, nursing a beer and scanning the room like he was trying to memorize it. He wore a black tee that clung to his chest, and his jeans sat tight on his hips. With his full, dark hair streaked silver at the temples, a pair of thick forearms, and a quiet confidence…yeah, he stood out. And guys were looking.

“You see him?” I asked, leaning in. “Over by the jukebox. That guy’s been staring at you for five minutes straight.”

Dad laughed and his eyes flicked over.“ Which one?”

I gestured discreetly. “About 25. Blue shirt. Sleeve tattoo. Built.”

He raised his glass in mock salute. “Guess I still got it.”

“You more than got it. And he’s not the only one looking.” I scanned the room and noted how many guys were staring at us. “You’re kind of killing it.”

Dad turned to me, just slightly. “It feels good, I’m not gonna lie. I never thought guys would be into me. They had never looked before, and…. Well, I guess that was before the divorce and all of…this.” He waved a hand in front of newly jacked body. “But I see that they look now. And it’s different. Intense.”

I watched his eyes follow another man who came our way; he made an effort to brush against Dad on his way to the bar. Dad shot me a look; there was a glint in his eye. “You didn’t say it would be this fun.”

“Better to see you finding out for yourself.”

Dad smiled at that—slow and a little wicked. “You’re a smartass.”

“You like it.”

He didn’t deny it.

We stood in silence for a moment, letting the horned up, flirty energy of the bar soak into us. Then he leaned in, close enough for me to feel his body heat.

“You get off on this attention?” he asked, his voice low.

I blinked. I was unsure how to answer. Then I realized what he must be asking. “From the guys in the bar?”

He nodded.

“Sure. Especially when I’m out with someone and we’re both pulling the looks. Like we’re the hottest ones in the room.”

He looked at me as if he were deciphering something. He held my gaze. “Yeah.” His voice was low. “That’s how I feel. Like you and me are the hottest ones in the room.”

Something crackled between us. I felt it—like the static that makes your arm hair stand on end. Dad was still looking out at the crowd, but more and more, I felt his attention sliding back to me.

“You’ve been getting looks too,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” I made eye contact with him. “But I’m not the one they want to take home.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

And just like that, we weren’t talking about the other guys anymore.

The energy between us was a live wire—vibrating, pulsing, crackling. Every time our arms brushed each other or our eyes locked a little too long, I felt something tighten in my chest. Dad looked good. No—dangerously good. And he saw that I saw it. How I took it all in, which only made it harder to be standing there.

We tried to stay engaged with the bar scene. Or at least we put on a show of doing that. We were laughing about some guy’s spastic dance moves when someone stepped up beside us at the bar.

“Hey there.” It was a warm voice, deep and smooth. I turned to see an older man, late forties at least. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, and his shirt was open a few buttons, chest hair spilling out of it.

He smiled at me and ignored Dad completely. “I couldn’t help noticing you. You’ve got a beautiful smile.”

I blinked. He had surprised me but I was flattered. “Thanks,” I said, taking a sip of beer. “You’ve got good taste.”

He laughed. “I try. Can I buy you another one?” He gestured at the last inch of beer in my glass.

Dad was quiet beside me. I could feel him listening.

I glanced at Dad and then back at the man. “I’m flattered, really. But I’m kind of here with someone.”

The man looked at Dad and raised his eyebrow slightly. “Lucky guy.” He tipped his glass to Dad before sighing and moving off.

As soon as the guy was out of earshot, Dad said, “Well, *that was something.”

“What?”

Dad gave me a look. “He was my age.”

I shrugged. “So?”

Dad sipped his drink, then gave me a cautious glance. “You into older guys?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I am.” Dad shuffled his feet. I continued. “I mean, not exclusively. But I’ve been with plenty of older men and we had a lot of fun. I don’t discriminate.”

Dad stood still for a moment, like he was working through something. Then he laughed under his breath. “Huh. Didn’t expect that.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno,” he said. “I guess I figured…you probably liked something different.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Maybe I shouldn’t have thought that. It’s just funny, because… Well, most of the guys I’ve…tried things with—they’ve been younger. Much younger. So I get it. But I also worry it makes a walking cliché.”

I smiled. “You are a cliché: the divorced Dad who decided to get hot.”

He huffed a laugh. “Don’t flatter me.”

“Too late. You’re the one who walked in looking like an ad for Daddyhunt. And you know it’s working.”

He rolled his eyes as if it was nothing, but his cheeks got red. He looked to the side for a moment, then back at me. “You really like older guys?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Especially ones who can take a hint and run with it.”

He sucked in his breath. Moved even closer in. There was a little space between us, standing together at the bar—but only the tiniest bit. Just enough to leave room for plausible denial. And for possibility.

***

Tonight at the bar was a weird moment for me and Dad. We had gone well past our everyday.

But at the same time, I realized it wasn’t completely new. There had been some past occasions when I’d felt something like this. Maybe he had too. They had been little moments that pulsed briefly, like the flash of a firefly’s tail before it goes dark. And then disappears.

I thought back to one of those times, to last summer. It was a hot evening, with dusk about to give way to darkness. The fireflies started to come out, to dance and glow.

Inside the house, a friend and I were hanging out. I was half-watching a game and half-scrolling my phone while my buddy raided the fridge for snacks. I was sprawled on the basement couch, barefoot, with my legs stretched out. It was too hot for anything but shorts and a tank.

Dad came down the stairs, toweling off his sweat after a run. Jogging was one of the start/stop fitness efforts Dad had made prior to the divorce. These efforts were partially motivated by him and partially a response to Mom’s nagging. He had tried tennis before. Swimming. Rock climbing. He was trying running now. In the end he would try just about everything before discovering his true love was the discipline of the weight room.

Sweat dripped from his face and darkened the collar of his T-shirt. The damp shirt clung to his chest and stomach. His skin was flushed, radiant with post-workout heat.

“I didn’t know you were still here.” Dad walked casually past me and toward the laundry room.

“Jake came over,” I explained. “We decided to hang here until it’s time for the movie. He’s upstairs, grabbing food,” I explained. I tried not to stare.

But I was staring.

I couldn’t help it. Dad was as familiar anyone should be, but his post-exercise glow put him in a new light. I appraised his body in a way I hadn’t really before.

His belly was a little soft—that’s what the running was supposed to fix—but his arms and shoulders were still pumped from last month’s rock-climbing mania. I hadn’t realized he’d put on that kind of strength and size, but now, with his sweat soaked shirt clinging to him, it was obvious.

I watched a drop of sweat slide roll off his cheek and slide down his neck, further soaking the collar of his shirt. He grunted and peeled the shirt off in one quick move, turning away as he did it. I faced his

a broad back, all sweaty and shining the low light. His shoulders shifted as he moved, flexing without effort.

I told myself it was just curiosity, me looking at him like this. But then I felt a low ache in my crotch. The unmistakable pulse of arousal that came up out of nowhere.

I looked down. I was embarrassed that I was getting hard, and by how fast it was happening. I put a throw pillow over my lap. My heart was racing like I’d done something wrong just by feeling it.

I mean, it was my dad.

He bent down to toss his laundry into the machine and get it started. He hooked his fingers into his waistband and slid everything down, shorts and briefs and all. It was a quick, casual movement but Dad was now buck naked, his ass on display. My dick twanged higher.

Fuck. I had to look away. I worried that I’d start to spurt if he swung himself around. I could picture his cock smacking his thigh on the off beat. No way.

So I stared at the TV, trying to focus on the game, on the score, on anything else. I forced myself to think about mundane things—homework, errands, junk mail—the least sexy thoughts I could summon.

By the time Dad walked past again, he had pulled on a loose pair of gym shorts, clean from the dryer. His bulge pushed its outline into the shiny fabric.

Dad called out a “See ya later” on his way to the stairs, but then he paused for second. He turned back and looked as if he was trying to decode my facial expression—and like he found something there to make him smile. Or smirk. He absentmindedly scratched his balls, then caught himself. He stopped his movement, made his face blank again, and looked away.

“OK, have fun at the movie.” He hurried out.

When Dad’s footfalls hit the last stair and I knew he was gone, I exhaled hard. And then I sat very, very still, trying to calm myself.

I had felt something today, something surprising, but it was raw and real. I knew to bury it deep.

And I was successful with that. For a good long time.

***

Here in the bar, Dad swirled the last bit of beer in the glass, watching it like the suds held answers. His jaw flexed reflexively and he avoided looking directly at me. We were hyper aware of how close we were standing, but neither of us was willing to move away.

“You know,” I said, nudging his elbow, “for someone who’s supposedly just figuring things out, you do a damn good job of acting like you belong here.”

Dad smirked but he didn’t turn his head. He continued looking out at the crowd. “Is that a compliment, or are you accusing me of being a flirt?”

“Both,” I said, sipping my beer. “You’re adjusting to this scene a lot faster than I would have thought.”

He turned toward me, making eye contact again, and coming in close. “And what about you?” His voice was low. “You always this smooth when you’re out with older guys?”

“Only when inspired.”

“Inspired to try out your material on me, then?”

I gave him a once-over, slow and deliberate. “Yeah, I’m trying it out. Is it working?”

Dad’s lips twitched. “Careful,” he murmured. “You keep that up and I might start thinking you actually mean it.”

I shrugged. My shoulder brushed his. “Maybe I do.”

Dad went very still. He tilted his head, looking at me like he was trying to make a decision.

Then he reached out and casually—too casually—picked a bit of lint off my shirt, right near my collarbone. His fingers lingered a beat too long, his knuckles brushing my bare skin before they pulled back.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“And you’re pretending like you don’t like that.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t say that.”

There was a pause. It was long enough for our eyes to lock, long enough for the world to fade around the edges.

Holy shit.

Then he pulled away a bit, took a breath. “We should probably—what? Mingle? You know. Be social.”

“OK,” I said. I tried to keep my voice easy. “But I’m kind of enjoying this.”

He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “God. What are we doing?”

“Just…talking. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

Dad looked at me sideways. “Not yet.”

I leaned in. I was close enough to feel his body heat. “You say that like it’s inevitable.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t answer. He just smiled—a small, private smile that made my stomach tighten.

The music shifted to something slower and deeper. The lights dimmed.

Dad’s face fought with itself and then he turned it back out to face the bar. So I turned out too. But our shoulders were touching now and his forearm rested next to mine. Not quite touching. But it was close enough that any small movement from either of us would bring us together.

“You know,” I said, still facing out, “if this is your midlife crisis, it’s a pretty good one. Hottest one I’ve ever seen.”

He let out a breath that was part laugh, part groan. “Kiddo, you’re gonna get me into trouble.”

“Like you need me for that.”

He didn’t respond for a little while. We just stayed there. Not talking. Barely touching. Just standing side by side while the space buzzed between us like a live wire.

***

Eventually Dad broke the silence. He suggested that maybe this was enough for one night. Part of me felt let down that we were leaving this space where Dad had felt free and something interesting started to build between us. But another part of me was relieved.

We left the bar laughing. The warm buzz of beers and bar music hummed under my skin, but the cool night air cut right through it. Like a reset. Things were quieter outside, calm rather than charged, the vibe intensely ordinary. We stepped onto the sidewalk and walked. The glow of the bar lights faded behind us. It was like stepping out of a dream.

Dad stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, and I shoved mine into my jeans. We walked side by side, not touching, the space between us suddenly vast again. We were just two guys leaving a bar. Like friends. Like nothing had happened.

“Thanks for bringing me,” Dad said after we’d walked almost a block. His voice was lighter now and a little guarded. “That was…interesting.”

“Interesting That’s the word you’re going with?”

“What do you want me to say? The bar was…wild? Hot? Eye-opening?”

“I mean, all of those could be accurate.”

He nodded, looking down at the sidewalk as we walked. “It felt… easy in there. Like I could just let things go. Be real, and open up to stuff.”

“Yeah. That’s the point, right?”

“Right,” he echoed softly.

We stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. His shoulder bumped mine and lingered there, but neither of us acknowledged it. The quiet hung between us.

Then he looked at me. Really looked.

“Can I ask you something?” His eyes searched mine.

“Sure.”

“Was that all… part of the game? The flirting, the compliments, the looks. Or were you actually…?”

I didn’t answer right away. I thought about laughing it off or changing the subject. I could’ve pretended we were just two guys one-upping each other. That I was just showing him the ropes at his first gay bar. But I didn’t.

“I meant it,” I told him. “Every bit.”

He swallowed. His jaw clenched, just briefly. “Damn.”

“What?”

“I was doing a really good job of convincing myself you were just being nice.”

“And now?”

He glanced away and exhaled slowly. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that.”

“OK.” It hurt to put myself out there and then feel a wall come up. But I understood it. Even though it was disappointing.

Things were quiet in the car as we rode back. Not exactly uncomfortable—just contained. It was the kind of silence that presses on your chest a little. Lets you know it’s there. Heavy.

The glow of the dashboard lit Dad’s face in soft tones, making his features look smooth and calm. Like nothing was happening. Like we hadn’t just spent two hours flirting under colored lights with music and heat pulsing between us like a quasar.

At the bar we had jokes and smiles and thumping music. Everything felt easy between us. But now, without the music and the lights and the safety of being surrounded by strangers, everything felt sharper, magnified, more real. And a hell of a lot more dangerous.

Dad’s hands were steady on the wheel and he kept his eyes on the road. I sat straight up in the passenger seat. I was hyper-aware of the space between us, a much bigger gap than at the bar, but still one that crackled with energy.

Approaching a red light, Dad reached for the gearshift. His hand bumped my knee.

Not just bumped, but pressed, hard enough to jolt me. Then his fingers froze.

“Shit,” he muttered. He pulled his hand back fast, but my hand caught his wrist without thinking.

He looked at me, surprised.

And then—God, I don’t even know how it happened.

One second we were caught in that look. And the next second we were leaning in at the same time. Like gravity had shifted and pulled us in together with no choice.

Our mouths met awkwardly—a little off-center, too sudden. But then things evened out. And deepened. Dad’s hand found my jaw. He held my face to his firmly, determined not to let me get away.

The car behind us blared its horn. Dad pulled away and blinked. He glanced at the green traffic light and swore under his breath as he hit the gas.

The rest of the drive was a blur. We didn’t talk. Didn’t touch again. But the silence between us was deafening—buzzing, loaded. It vibrated in my skin.

Dad pulled into the parking lot of his condo complex and cut the engine, but he didn’t move. For a second, we just sat there, bathed in yellowed light of street lamps. I wasn’t sure if I was breathing right.

“You want to go in?” he asked.

His voice was rough and hoarse. Like he’d swallowed the words and made himself cough them back up again.

I nodded. “Yeah. Definitely.”

His apartment was spare. Divorce had stripped things down to the essentials. Basic furniture. A few lamps. No pictures, because they were still at Mom’s house and he hadn’t made copies yet.

But that meant everything here was his, and his alone. It was all part of his new life, not the past. His new clothes, some free weights, a bar set up with a bunch of whiskeys Mom had said were too expensive to buy on a family budget.

Dad closed the door behind us and turned to say something—probably something neutral, like want a drink?, or make yourself comfortable.

But he didn’t get the words out.

Because I stepped toward him at the exact moment he turned—and then we were on each other. There was no hesitation this time.

Our mouths crashed together in a kiss that was nothing like the one we’d shared in the car. This one was all heat and teeth and breathless urgency. There were hands in hair, on faces—we clutched at each other’s clothing like we were afraid the other might disappear.

Dad pressed me against the wall just inside the entryway. One hand gripped my right hip and the other curled around the back of my neck. He pulled me deeper into the kiss like he worried I might escape.

Dad ground into me. I could feel him, hard, through his jeans. He made a sound with his throat—half growl, half groan—and his hands roamed my body like they couldn’t decide what they wanted to touch most.

“This is—” he started. But I put my mouth on his again. Whatever has going to say died on his tongue.

We stumbled into the living room, our lips locked and fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers. We were greedy, consumed.

Dad’s hands were on my chest, my waist, under my shirt. Mine went to his back and traced the taut muscle under his tee. He pulled back long enough to look at me. His eyes were a little wild and his chest was rising and falling hard.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the bar,” I admitted.

He leaned in and put his forehead against mine. “I’ve wanted to do that since you complimented me in the kitchen last week.”

We both laughed.

And then we weren’t laughing anymore.

Because we were kissing again—deeper, rougher—fully caught up in each other. And dragging ourselves to the bedroom.

We were kissing so hard now it was clumsy—teeth catching, tongues colliding, our lips swollen and slick. Dad tasted like beer and hormones.

Our clothes came off in uneven bursts. My shirt hit the floor. His followed, unveiling a chest that was somehow even hotter in this light than it had been under the bar’s perfect glow—broad and hard, dusted with dark curly hair that my lips begged to taste.

“You’ve been hiding this?” I murmured. My fingers grazed his torso, trailing down the ridges of his abs.

“You’ve seen it before.”

“No. No way. Not like this. And not able to do this.”

I dropped to my knees without thinking, looking up at him while one of my hands pawed his chest and the other one unbuckled his belt. Dad’s eyes widened, like the sight of me down there unraveled something in him. A hand went to my hair, just holding it, like he needed to anchor himself.

Dad was rock-hard when I freed him from his jeans and briefs. It was thick. Heavy. Gorgeous. I stroked him slowly. I watched his face twist and his jaw tighten as he tried to keep control.

“Jesus…”

I took him into my mouth, inch by inch. It filled me, and I made the effort to stretch my lips around its girth. Dad groaned—a low, broken sound that sent fire straight to my crotch. Dad’s hips twitched once. But he mostly held himself still, trembling a little as I worked him, tongue flicking, lips tightening, my hand stroking whatever I couldn’t fit.

“Fuck, you’re—” he exhaled, cutting himself off. “You don’t have to—”

I pulled off with a wet pop. “I do. I do have to. And I want to.”

His fingers grabbed my hair tighter. I licked the underside of his shaft, going slow and teasing him until he started cursing a blue streak and then pulled me roughly to my feet.

He kissed me again, giving me everything in that kiss: hunger, gratitude, need. He turned me toward the bed with his hands on my hips, shoving my jeans down and pulling his off the rest of the way too.

“Wait,” he said, pausing. “Let me get a condom.”

“You don’t have to, Dad.”

“We should be responsible.”

“We are. I’m on PrEP, and I can tell you about that later. But more important: you’re my Dad. I don’t want a condom between us. I don’t want anything between us. I want to feel you bare.”

“Jesus, son.” His cock twitched and spurted at my words. “You’re asking for your Dad’s raw dick.”

“No,” I said, stopping him with a kiss. “I’m insisting.”

We kissed harder. Both of us were turned on by the admission that we were about to fuck. Skin to skin. Father and son.

Dad broke off the kiss. He gave me a playful shove. I fell back onto the bed while he grabbed a small bottle of lube from his nightstand. I watched him slick himself up, greasing the fat dick that 24 years ago had made me.

He climbed onto the bed and pulled me into an embrace. His lubed-up cock lay against my cheeks.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured into my neck.

“It won’t be.”

Dad pushed in, slow and careful. We both groaned. The shock and delight of entry. Dad then filled me inch by inch, plugging me thick and deep. His cock stretched me until I gasped and my eyes rolled back in my head. One of my hands flew out and clutched the headboard.

“Jesus, Ben,” he muttered. “You feel so…I mean, oh my God.”

He started to move. It was tentative at first, his hips pushing out his cock with shallow thrusts. But that hesitation didn’t last long. Soon his hands gripped my hips hard; his rhythm and aggression built up. I pushed back against him to take it deeper. I matched him stroke for stroke.

We found our pace, and it was nothing graceful. It was rough, messy, desperate. The bed creaked under us, skin slapped skin, the smells of breath and sweat and sex filled the room. Dad reached out to stroke me, his hand pumping me in time with his thrusts.

“You like that?” he growled.

I could barely speak. I just nodded, moaning into the pillows.

“Yeah, I can see you do,” he rasped. “And you’re so fucking tight. My son’s tight ass is taking the cock that made him—”

That sent me over the edge.

I came hard, gasping; my body clenched around him. My spasms tipped him over too. A second later he groaned low in my ear and jerked against me, burying himself deep inside while he unleashed a gusher.

We collapsed, panting, our bodies tangled. The room was quiet except for our breathing, which gradually started to slow. Dad wrapped an arm around my chest, warm and solid.

Neither of us said anything for a long time.

Eventually, he spoke. His voice was soft and he sounded a little dazed.

“I think I’ve been waiting to do that for a lot longer than I realized.”

I smiled into his arm, then burrowed my face into his chest. “Yeah. Me too.”

***

The light was soft when I woke—still gray and slow, filtering through half-closed blinds. The air around us was cool, but the warmth of Dad’s body behind mine made up for it. He had an arm draped around my waist and his breath was steady against the back of my neck.

For a long while, we didn’t move. Everything felt still. Everything felt real.

Eventually, Dad stirred. I felt his breath shift before I heard his voice.

“You awake?”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretched out again, not quite comfortable this time. But not awkward, either—just thick with the knowledge that now everything was different.

He pulled back a little, just enough that I could roll onto my back and look at him. His hair was a mess. His eyes were still soft with sleep. And yet, the moment our gaze met, I saw it there—the question he didn’t quite want to say.

I voiced it for him.

“So…what now?”

He exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand across his face. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want it to happen again?”

His hand stopped moving. He looked at me, serious now.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something as much, but I’m worried about it at the same time.”

I gave him a small, wry smile. “Yeah. Same.”

He sat up slowly and rested his elbows on his knees. He stared at the floor.

“I feel like I should be freaking out more,” he admitted. “But I’m not. Not really. I’m just scared of anything that might drive us a wedge between us at some point.”

“I get it,” I said. “I don’t want that to happen either. But maybe this doesn’t have to mean anything yet.”

He looked over his shoulder at me. “So what, we just… pretend it didn’t happen?”

“No,” I said firmly. “That’s definitely not what I’m saying. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. I just—think we should be honest. About wanting it. And about not being sure what if means. And about being ready for us to not be ready NOT to do it again.”

“That’s a lot of ‘nots,’” he said, laughing. “I’m too confused to respond to that. But…in all seriousness”—his eyes searched mine—“You really think we could just… see where it goes?”

I sat up enough to look him in the eyes. To give him another kiss.

“Yeah. Because I think we already are doing that.” I reached over and grabbed his cock. It pulsed in my hand. Or am I wrong?”

“No,” Dad said as I squeezed him. “You’re definitely not wrong.”

END

Find more stories on my Patreon:

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[jay-spear-stories-2]

The Furnace of Faith - Part 1

I wasn’t the only graduating senior to do a gap year. Plenty in my social set had both the means and the desire to push back college by a year while they volunteered or explored the world.

Let others opt for volunteering. Not me. I was going to explore the world.

I started in Asia because it was the farthest away and the most different from what I knew. Still, I’m embarrassed to say that even there I stuck with the familiar: big cities, loud clubs, expensive hotels.

After Asia I moved on to Europe—an easy place for a privileged American to be. I had been there before, and it was easy to make my away around. English was spoken pretty much everywhere. I still stuck to major cities and blowing time and money in trendy clubs, but I downshifted my lodgings from luxury hotels to short term apartment rentals. That made things a little more affordable. But even so, the money started to run out.

I had been gone ten months now, and I should have started to wrap things up, prepare to come back home, get myself ready for college and adult responsibilities. But I wasn’t ready for that. I decided to stretch things out another six months at least, or an entire second year maybe. I reasoned that I could start college anytime. But when else in my life would I be this free? At that point, I thought freedom was all I wanted.

I asked my parents for more money and they said no. They had provided a lump sum that was supposed to last me a year. They made it clear there would be no more money from them.

I couldn’t work legally in Europe, and I didn’t want to risk doing it under the table. Or maybe, if I’m being honest, it’s that I didn’t want to work at all. I wanted to be drinking and dancing in the bars, not sweeping them up and taking out the trash.

So with my revenues fixed, I’d have to lower my expenses. I left Europe for the Middle East.

The region hadn’t been on my mental map for this year, but it was cheaper than Europe and I still found ways to get into trouble. There were underground gay clubs in Turkey and some raging night spots in Dubai. But living like that couldn’t last very long. I needed to go cheaper. I moved on to Qatar, Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, Yemen. I targeted small and mid-sized towns in countries most Americans preferred to avoid. With a few critical apps and a WiFi connection I could still hook myself into some semblance of the life I had been living.

But something started to change as I stayed in those smaller places. Gay life and gay activities were much more sparse: an underground gay club just once a week, maybe a cruisy tea house if you knew the right things to look for.

Life slowed down, and I started to open up to the cultures I was living in. I explored historical sites, read up on the history, walked for miles shooting photographs—anything to fight boredom and go easy on my wallet. This was different; a real change.

You ask, How does change happen?

This experience taught me that change starts slowly at first. And then it comes at you all at once.

***

The sun was high over the old quarter, bleaching the ancient stones and turning the narrow alleys into ovens. I wandered without direction, my camera slung over my shoulder and sweat running down my back. I walked without a map or itinerary, following twists and turns through the dusty corridors of the old town.

It was then that I heard the voice.

It drifted through the hot air, deep and strong and deliberate, like a powerful river pushing over and around rocks, determined to break out to the sea. Its force was compelling, and I followed the sound, drawn in by a strange thirst. I stepped through a shaded archway and came into a small courtyard.

There were rows and rows of men. Some sat, others stood—and they all faced a single figure in front of the carved mihrab of a mosque wall.

The speaker’s white robes were searingly bright. A dark beard cut a notch into the blinding white collar, drawing my eyes down over his body before I forced them back upward. The man’s face was animated, his tone serious. He didn’t yell; he didn’t need to. The voice carried his power—every word punching into the crowd, clear and deliberate. His gestures were pointed and precise. They emphasized his speech and amplified its call.

I couldn’t look away. The man was in his late 40s probably, but there was a vitality that made his age irrelevant. His presence commanded the space.

His body was thick and solid beneath the layers of robes. It stretched across his chest and shoulders; it rippled with each gesture of his meaty arms. Robes had always felt feminine to an American like me, but he was undeniably masculine—brawny, burly. He was built for purpose, a man whose physical strength reflected a deeper spiritual power.

The beard covered his neck and a good deal of his face, but it couldn’t hide the intensity of his expression. His eyes were dark and deep, burning through everyone around him. And when he spoke, his voice was deep and unyielding—each word like a hammer strike, penetrating and impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t just the words that drew me in. It was the way he said them. Like he was not merely preaching but actually living each statement. He moved the crowd—and possibly could move mountains—with unwavering conviction.

He transfixed the crowd, his gaze sweeping over us and lingering on certain faces. When his eyes landed on mine for a brief moment, I felt something electric rush through me. Like a connection had been made.

I couldn’t look away. His command of the space, his very presence—everything about it was magnetic. It stirred something inside of me, something I didn’t know was there. A need. A desire to be closer. To understand more. To submit to what he was offering.

He continued, and I realized I was doing more than witnessing a sermon. I was in the presence of a man whose existence resonated with a depth I hadn’t encountered before. It pulled me in.

I didn’t understand a word of the sermon. But somehow that made the experience stronger. I let go of the words, finding that the rhythms of his speech triggered things inside me, something beneath conscious thought. I felt his voice not just in my ears—it was in my chest, my gut, somewhere even deeper.

The men around me were mostly young. Fit. Focused. Some sat with arms folded, some with their hands on their knees. Every eye was trained on the the cleric like he was saying something that could change their lives. Their skin glistened in the heat and their shirts stuck to their backs. When they shifted, their arms, necks, and profiles were all etched with intent.

I felt stupid in my loose shorts and faded linen shirt, like a tourist who took a wrong turn. But no one looked at me like I didn’t belong. And the atmosphere itself held me in place—firm but gentle. It was like a hand at the small of my back, telling me to stay.

I kept looking at *him. The cleric. There was something magnetic about him. It was not just his voice or the crisp lines of his robes. It was the way he stood so utterly sure of himself, like he had gravity all his own. His eyes blazed with belief and his voice didn’t just preach, it commanded. He was anchored. Disciplined. Powerful in a way I didn’t fully understand but craved all the same.

Then he looked right at me.

It was just a second. A single glance. But I felt it land. Hard. Like someone had thrown a stone into a still lake inside my chest. Ripples spread out and washed over me—a series of reverberations. Pulsing through me.

He didn’t look away, he didn’t dismiss me. He held my gaze. He let it settle.

Then he continued speaking.

My fingers twitched at my sides. I didn’t know if it was awe, or longing, or something more dangerous that had crept into my blood. All I knew was that I didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

The crowd began to shift when the cleric’s sermon drew to a close. Some of the men remained seated, their heads bowed in private reflection, while others stood and exchanged quiet words. The heat had settled into my skin, making me itchy and uncomfortable, but I didn’t move. I was still watching the cleric, who now stepped down from the platform and disappeared into the crowd with a few followers trailing behind him.

“You understand the language?” a voice beside me asked.

I turned. The speaker was young, probably just four or five years older than me, with olive skin and a close-cropped beard. His accent was gentle—not native, but he was clearly fluent in English.

“No,” I replied. “But… I felt something. Even without the words.”

The man smiled, a warm, amused curve of his lips. “That’s a good start. You listened with your heart, not your ears. I’m Sami.”

“Eric.”

We shook hands—firmly, but with a softness that lingered just a second longer than necessary. Sami’s eyes were deep brown, earnest, searching. He wore a plain shirt, but his posture, the stillness in his presence, reminded me a little of the cleric. There was something completely centered about him.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Sami said. “We meet often—after prayers, sometimes at night too. We talk, read, reflect. It’s more than just religion. It’s brotherhood.”

I hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Sami nodded, pleased. He gestured for me to follow, leading me to a shaded edge of the courtyard where several men stood in loose clusters, talking quietly. One of them turned as we approached—another young man, unmistakably Western. His pale skin had been bronzed by the sun, and his hair was trimmed short, but the sharp lines of his jaw and the faded tattoo curling around his forearm marked him as someone from my world.

“Hey,” the man said with a nod, his tone casual but curious too. “First time?”

I smiled. “Yeah. I didn’t expect to…stay this long.”

“You’re not the first,” the man replied. “And you won’t be the last.” He reached out a hand. “I’m Adam. From Pittsburgh.”

“Eric. From…Palo Alto originally. Now I’m from nowhere. Still wandering I guess.”

Adam gave a knowing smile. “That’s what most of us say before we find somewhere we don’t want to leave.”

I looked at Adam and Sami, then back toward the space where the cleric had stood. I could still feel the echo of his words, like a drumbeat in my chest.

“So, what happens now?” I asked them.

Sami looked at me, his eyes warm. “Now? We break fast together. We talk. You’ll see.”

The sun dipped lower, casting gold tones across the stones and making long shadows in the square. I felt myself drawn in—not just by the words and the beauty of the men around me, but also by the quiet gravity of something deeper. Something I couldn’t name yet. But I was ready to follow it.

We went into a room that was dim and cool. It was a welcome relief from the heat and dust outside. There were cushions spread across a worn carpet, and low brass trays with dates, figs, warm flatbread, and a fragrant lentil stew. The air buzzed with conversation and the occasional clink of metal on clay.

I sat cross-legged between Adam and Sami, the food warm in my hands and the scent of spices and mint tea thick in the air.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” I said quietly, watching as one of the older men poured tea with an elegant, practiced tilt of his wrist. “It’s… peaceful. I thought everything here would be louder somehow.”

Adam chuckled. “Most people think that. But the real heart of it all—it’s this. The quiet. The brotherhood. You learn to slow down, to sit with it.”

Sami nodded, tearing a piece of bread and passing it to Eric. “Discipline is a kind of beauty. You taste everything more when you don’t take it for granted.”

I accepted the bread, my fingers brushing Sami’s for a moment—they were calloused but warm. A flicker passed between us, something barely acknowledged, but definitely there.

I took a bite, then glanced up. “The cleric—who spoke earlier. Who is he?”

Sami and Adam exchanged a knowing look.

“His name is Sheikh Hamid,” Sami said. “He’s not from here originally. He studied in Egypt, then in Yemen. Now he teaches, leads prayer, and sometimes he speaks at gatherings like today.”

“There’s something about him,” I said, my voice a little lower. “It wasn’t just that he sounded convincing…I don’t know, he felt bigger than the words somehow.”

“He is,” Adam said. “But not in the way you think. It’s not about power. It’s about surrender. You stand near him, and you feel how little you need to be anything other than honest. Obedient.”

I blinked. “Obedient?”

Sami smiled, soft but serious. “Obedience isn’t weakness. Not when it’s freely given. That’s where the strength is. Letting go of pride, of noise, of your old life. The Sheikh knows how to show you that. When you’re ready.”

I swallowed. The warmth of the food was suddenly layered with something even hotter under my skin. The way they spoke of the cleric was reverent—but also intimate. And I felt that pull again, the same as in the courtyard, when my eyes had met the Sheikh’s. Even absent, I felt like he was watching me. Taking my measure.

“So… have you studied with him? Either of you?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

Adam shrugged, his eyes were distant. “I’ve sat with him. Spoken. It’s not like a class, though. You don’t ask for his time—he offers it. If he sees something in you.”

I said nothing, but the ache my his chest grew. I wanted to be seen as well. Chosen. Touched by that fire.

I shook my head and tried to focus on the food.

Later, as the meal wound down and the men rose one by one—some to pray again, others to embrace and quietly leave—I stepped into the night. The courtyard was silvery in the moonlight and the city was hushed. The smell of jasmine flowed through the warm air.

I turned just in time to see Adam a few steps away, now standing beside an older, bearded man in a long dark robe. The man laid a hand gently on Adam’s shoulder. Adam responded with familiarity—his body language shifting, softening, as though he had stepped into a role rehearsed many times.

Without a word, the two turned and disappeared into the archway across the square. Their forms were swallowed up by shadow.

I watched them go, my breath shallow. A pulse ticked at the base of my throat. The intimacy of the gesture—the way Adam leaned into the man’s touch—was unmistakable. It was nothing overt but the whole thing felt deeply charged.

Behind me, Sami appeared at my shoulder, his arms folded loosely over his chest. “You’re wondering,” he said softly.

I nodded, my eyes still on the place where Adam had vanished.

Sami didn’t smile this time. “There are many layers here. The surface is beautiful. But what’s underneath—that’s where the truth lives. Although not everyone dares to dig.”

Eric turned toward him. “And you? Have you?”

Sami looked at him a long moment. “Some truths aren’t spoken aloud.”

And with that, Sami left me alone in the moonlight, the silence of the courtyard now thick with the echo of possibilities.

***

The next evening, I returned.

I didn’t even pretend I was wandering this time. My steps knew where to go, guided by instinct—or maybe hunger. The courtyard was fuller tonight, lit by lanterns that hung like captured stars. The same circle of men had formed, the group tighter this time, expectant. The air was different, thicker. There was something about the way people sat, their backs straight, eyes sharp, hearts ready.

At the front, beneath the arch again, stood Sheikh Hamid.

He spoke—not calmly like before, but this time with urgency. His voice struck the air like iron on stone. It wasn’t rage, exactly, but something just shy of it. Passion honed to a blade’s edge.

Sami sat next to me, providing intermittent translation.

“You cannot claim to seek truth,” the Sheikh declared, “while still bowing to your desires. You cannot pretend to surrender, while your ego whispers behind your ribs. Do you think Allah does not see the lies you tell yourself? The masks you wear?”

The words hit me like waves, each one scraping something raw inside. I didn’t understand the theology. But I understood the feeling: I felt exposed.

The crowd was still, captive to the spell of the Sheikh’s voice. I found myself moving forward, step by step, like I was being pulled by a string. I slipped between men who barely noticed me, until I stood close enough to see the sweat shining at the Sheikh’s temples, the way his chest rose and fell under his robe, his breath heavy from the intensity of his speech.

Then, silence. The Sheikh looked up—and saw me.

I froze. Our eyes met.

And then the Sheikh spoke again—but this time, to me.

“You,” he said, calm now, his words in accented English. “You’ve returned.”

I swallowed. “I have.”

The cleric took a step down from the platform, his robes rustling and his gaze never leaving mine. The space between us shrank until I could feel his presence like heat from a fire—controlled, but immense.

“What is it you seek, ghareeb?” he asked, using the Arabic word for stranger. “You do not speak the tongue. You do not follow the rites. Yet you return.”

My mouth was dry. “I don’t know. But I can’t stay away.”

A pause. The Sheikh tilted his head slightly, studying me—not just with his eyes, but with something deeper. His voice lowered, almost a whisper.

“Desire is a poor guide,” he said. “It leads men into fire.”

“I’m not afraid of fire,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected.

A flicker of something passed through the Sheikh’s gaze—approval, maybe. Or amusement. Or interest.

“You should be,” the cleric said. “Because here, fire does not only burn—it refines.”

I stepped closer. “Then refine me.”

A silence fell. Thick. Charged.

And then the Sheikh’s lips parted, just barely. “We shall see.”

He turned and stepped back up onto the platform. The crowd remained still, as if the moment hadn’t happened. As if I hadn’t just confessed something in front of them all that probably should remain unspoken.

But still. The air had shifted. A current now ran between us, live and waiting.

I knelt down, slowly, my eyes never leaving the cleric.

I was ready to burn.

End Part 1. Follow Eric’s journey into the heat on my Patreon:

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[pittlover]

Jesus 😳

[jay-spear-stories-2]

Your uncle looks back, feeling a little sheepish about what the two of you just did.