Oscar - 19. Part 19

For a moment, he sat still.

Said nothing. Did nothing. Just kept staring at me through his sexy brown eyes as my suggestion of a tour trailed off into the silence of his dark and empty house.

It was in that moment, as memories of my past evaporated away, replaced by a ball-tingling present as powerful as his hairy legs open a metre away from my hands and mouth, I realised there could be an issue.

A big issue.

It had happened before, and like a complete idiot, I’d forgotten all about it.

Remember that silver daddy? The one who had taught me the invaluable lesson of sexual cleanliness? Who had delighted in driving me out of town to the city to get me to bury my face in the soft, spotless white pillows of a king-size bed so he could pull my arse cheeks apart and eat me out like he was dying of starvation?

That slice of heaven came to an end thanks to my chequered past. One minute I’d been riding his face, delighting in the scratch of his beard against my hole. Then, on a break, he’d asked me a few personal questions and the next thing he wanted to use his mouth for was talking.

Yapping on about my past. Asking all kinds of questions. Holding me close. Cuddling.

Gross.

But I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe I’d done the same to Pricey. What if, after I’d shared my pathetic tale of woe, the insatiable hunger that had made him pump his nine-inch cock in and out of my eighteen-year-old throat was now replaced with an innate, paternal concern?

I’ll be screwed and not in the good way.

The thing is, with some older guys, once the boy in front of them stops being a horny, care-free teenager willing to do whatever they tell them, and starts becoming a real person with real problems, there’s nothing like the potential of exacerbating adolescent psychological trauma to make a hard cock flaccid.

I already knew a story like mine was the kind of story that did exactly that. Turned daddies into father figures. And it wasn’t going to happen again. Under any circumstances. Especially with Mr. Price.

Fortunately for me, the ex-teacher still knew a thing or two about teenage boys. Namely that we’re tougher than we look.

‘You’re right. How rude of me. It would be my pleasure,’ he said, standing up and clinking his beer bottle against mine with a wink.

Walking next to me he placed his free hand on the small of my back and gestured with the other in no particular direction.

‘After you,’ he said.

‘But it’s your house,’ I said, pushing my body an inch closer into his and twisting my neck so our nose and lips were almost touching.

He smelt extraordinary. Sweet and salty and musky all at the same time. So good my saliva glands kicked into overdrive and I had no choice but to swallow their fresh batch straight down before it dripped out the corner of my grinning mouth.

‘Well done,’ he said, skimming his hand down my back and onto my arse.

He cupped a feel of my right cheek. A full feel. So full his little finger slipped between my crack, warming my hole through the flimsy fabric of my running shorts.

‘But how will I be able to watch this if I’m showing you the way?’ he said.

‘Excellent point, sir,’ I said, arching my back a little.

Enough to let him know I was happy with the way we were heading.

‘I like it when you call me sir,’ he whispered into my ear.

‘Good to know. Sir.’

Leading the way, I checked out the kitchen first. It was nothing special. Just your average English terrace layout, modernised with a matt-finish chrome worktop and a stainless-steel fridge-freezer. The only nonessential additions were a collection of multi-coloured cook books neatly stacked on a corner shelf next to a surprisingly full spice rack.

‘I’ve been teaching myself to cook now that I’m fending for myself,’ he said.

‘She did it all?’

‘All of it. She wanted to. I never lifted a finger in here,’ he said, leaning on the worktop with both hands; his biceps and triceps bulging alongside the thick veins in his arms as his mind was momentarily lost in thought. ‘It’s funny though.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘I fucking hated her cooking.’

We laughed in unison. Loud and boisterous, fuelled by the prickle of alcohol.

Our beers were almost empty so we drained them. He passed me his empty bottle to throw in the recycling while the fridge suctioned open for a third time and a brand new, icy cold bottle was passed my way.

‘You any good then?’ I said.

‘At cooking?’

I nodded.

‘Awful,’ he said.

‘Well,’ I said, lifting my bottle. ‘Here’s to eating out.’

‘To eating out,’ he said with a mischievous wink as we toasted; glass on glass clinking and echoing gently against the gleaming white splashback tiles.

‘The garden out there?’ I said gesturing to a curtain-less window, that in the darkness of outside and the brightness of in, showed nothing but mirrored versions of ourselves and the kitchen around us.

‘Yeah but it’s a shit tip,’ he said, maintaining his stare at our reflection. ‘Another thing she looked after.’

Reaching out he pulled me into him. Back first so we could both see ourselves. My arse finally pushing into his groin.

I watched his huge arms wrap around me. One hand over my pecs and the other on my stomach, tracing my six-pack down. Down under my shorts but over my briefs.

My body shuddered against his as he squeezed my package. His fingers dancing over my shaft, expanding by the second under my white cotton briefs and running shorts. His lips kissed my neck. My cheek. His own package growing and pushing into me.

‘This view is much better,’ he said.

‘Much,’ I said, wriggling out of his hold and smirking: I wasn’t done with the tour.

Next was the living room. Again, I led the way. Him no more than a foot from me. Close enough so we could still feel each other’s heat and smell each other’s scents. But far enough so he could cock his head to the side and burn his gaze all over me.

Flicking on the light I saw a blend of cream walls and slate grey carpet materialise. Like the dining room and kitchen, it was nothing special. Larger than both (separately, not combined) it had everything you’d expect to find in a living room.

TV. Bookcase: empty bar three indistinguishable hardbacks. An old fireplace, bricked-in and replaced with a modern gas burner. A coffee table.

The sofa, however, was the perfect place for a pit-stop. Great size and plush looking fabric. Three seats in a masculine light grey. Unmistakably new.

Perching on the armrest I faced him and hooked my legs around his thick calves. Reached out towards his towering body and grabbed a hold of his t-shirt. Bunched it inside my fist and pulled him into me.

We kissed. Hard and deep. Our tongues playing and our hands exploring. Only the soft slurps of our lips and the occasional, uncontrollable moan escaping my mouth filled the room around us.

A few minutes later he pulled back. Only a fraction.

‘This tour’s going to take all night at this rate,’ he said.

‘That’s fine by me.’

He came at me again and we kept kissing. Raising my chin, I let him at my neck. Relaxed my spine and shoulders and sunk into his hold. One hand on my waist, the other on my neck. His kisses soft but ravenous. His grip tender but strong.

Pushing myself backwards off his thick pecs, hard and strong like warm maple, I landed on the plush cushions of the sofa with my legs dangling over the armrest. Following me around he stood, crotch level with my face and looked down.

‘What are you smiling at?’ he said, grabbing hold of the thick mound of pushed-up fabric running from his groin to pocket.

‘Nothing, sir,’ I said, trying my best to stop my eyes popping out of their sockets at the vision in front of me.

For the first time that night, in the light of another bare bulb blazing behind him, I could see just how impressive his bulge was. Rock hard and almost ripping open the seams of his shorts. Shorts designed to withstand the strength and strain of a team of rugby players grasping and gripping at them at full speed.

‘Really?’ he said, keeping his grip on himself and reaching out towards me with his other hand.

It landed on my crown. Ran through my thick brown hair and down my cheek. Across my chin. Over my mouth.

Then his thick fingers pushed open my lips, my teeth obeying simultaneously, and smeared the delicious saltiness of his skin down my tongue.

Wrapping my lips around them I sucked. Nodded.

By the time he was almost done playing with my mouth, his shorts and boxer briefs were down by his ankles and his knuckles were resting against my front teeth. My shirt was off and my own shorts and briefs were by my knees, locking my legs together over the armrest.

His eyes were on fire. Searing over every detail and movement. My tensed biceps as I slowly jerked myself. My convulsing abs each time he pushed his fingertips down my throat and flicked upwards to make me gag. My free hand slowly rubbing my overflowing saliva down my chest and over my six-pack.

His free hand full of himself, stroking up and down at the same speed as me.

Then he pulled his fingers out. Replaced them wordlessly with his cock. My eyes rolled into the back of my head and time ceased to exist.

‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Just like that.’

In the darkness, I listened to his commentary. Like I’d done at school, back when I had no choice but to attend PE classes. Back when I still wondered why every time I saw him I’d felt a weird feeling in my stomach.

But now, instead of blushing at the blood running south, I abandoned myself to the sound of his deep and commanding voice. I let it fill my ears as the tastes and textures of his throbbing cock filled my mouth.

‘Fuck, Oscar … You are such a good boy. Such a good boy … That’s right, keep stroking yourself … Slower. Yes. Good boy. In time with me … Yes … Open wider. That’s it. Take it down. All of it. Hold your breath … Good boy. Gag for me. Good boy. Good boy.’

I had to stop my hand. The last time I’d blown was almost twenty-four hours ago and each time he’d told me how good I was my balls had contracted and my cock had almost burst. Each time he’d praised me my load had rumbled, ready to be free.

Way too soon.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said, sliding out of my mouth.

‘I’m going to blow if you keep calling me a good boy,’ I said, licking up his glaze from my lips.

‘In that case,’ he said, pulling up his shorts, bending down and filling my mouth with his tongue to taste himself. ‘I’d better take you upstairs and finish this tour.’