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The bed frame had started squeaking a shrill eek-eek-eek as we moved; I made a mental note to have Dad take a look at it later–if he could find the time, that is. He had been awfully busy in the past two days, ever since we got back from the gym. After I (I still couldn’t believe it) fucked him for the first time. Funny how the week suddenly seemed to be divided into “before the gym” and “after the gym.” Things had already been changing between us; when I pumped him full of my cum for the first time, everything escalated.
Outside the door, I could smell the eggs and bacon of my breakfast waiting for me. Morning light marched along the floor in neat little rows where the blinds were tilted. I smiled to myself. It was a pretty nice life, living with a full-time sub.
The past two mornings, Dad would wake before me, do his early routine, prep breakfast, and bring it upstairs. He would step gently into my room and tease apart my legs, tenderly greeting my morning wood. I had taken to sleeping naked so that he had all the access he needed. Once I was awake enough, he climbed on top of me and start to ride my cock in long, graceful strokes, rocking back and forth with that perfect soft hole of his. His cage flopped endlessly, torturously, as he moved. He leaked precum at all times.
He would keep working my cock with his hole until I started to actively thrust inside him; that’s when things really got started. He lifted off of me, getting onto all fours so that I could pound his ass doggy-style. His ass was nice and open by that point, so I slammed my cock into his hole as hard as I could, deep-dicking him. Once or twice, I could have sworn he was about to cum in his cage, but not quite–he assured me that he was just as pent-up and horny as ever after our fucks.
Two days. How many loads had he gotten out of me in two days? Ten? Fifteen? I had never had so much sex in my life–hell, I had never even jerked off this much before. I was amazed that I was still able to get a boner, let alone cum. But every time Dad started nuzzling at my cock, or lightly kissing it, backing his ass up on it, or just teasing it with his fingertips, it was like an animal awakened in me. It didn’t matter how, I HAD to cum. I used and abused Dad every way I thought of. He was a real trooper, I have to say–obedient to a T. I no longer needed to so much as get up to get a soda. I just said the word, and he went running. Soon I wouldn’t even have to say the word; Dad quickly learned to anticipate all of my needs. Mr. Jones had taught him well.
I still left some things to the imagination. There were still taboos that I wouldn’t cross. We never kissed, for example–that would be just too weird for me. I had him drink my piss again, but it was mostly so I wouldn’t have to get up off the couch. I thought of all the things Mr. Jones had made him do–the things that I had seen Mr. Jones do–and I wondered if Dad wasn’t bored that I was so benevolent. All I wanted was sex.
I did try to spice things up–channel Mr. Jones. I would taunt him for being caged, remind him that he was inferior to me. Oddly enough, saying mean shit to my dad made the sex way hotter, which surprised me. So I kept up the degradation.
I told him that he was never–NEVER–allowed to wear clothing at home without permission. His ass and his cage had to be accessible to me at all times. Sure, sometimes I had him wear a jock or a thong, MAYBE a pair of briefs (he did have to go out to get the mail every day, and he couldn’t be naked for that), but otherwise the rule was absolute. The risk of someone coming to the house was part of the fantasy–but no one ever did. We were too busy to accept visitors.
This morning, on the third day, Dad was riding me just as he always did in the morning. His powerful legs–newly muscled from Mr. Jones’ strength training regimen–flexed as he bobbed up and down, expertly squeezing and releasing my shaft to milk every drop of precum (soon to be cum) out of my cock. It felt amazing. I put my hands behind my head, enjoying the view of his cage bouncing uselessly against my stomach. Little gossamer strands of precum flicked out every so often, leaving shiny drops on my skin; Dad scooped these up to his lips at my order, making a big show of savoring the taste.
“Who’s the man of the house?” I asked him.
“You are, sir,” Dad panted. He brought himself down to the base of my cock, squeezed, rocked his hips–then he went back to those long strokes. I grinned.
“What do you want most in the world right now?”
“I want your cum, sir–I NEED your cum, sir–” he moaned.
“Not to be unlocked?” I teased.
His eyes widened a little bit, but he didn’t let up on my cock. He thought a moment, trying to find himself in his cockdrunk stupor. He shook his head, as if he was trying to dislodge the idea of unlocking from his brain.
“No, sir, not to be unlocked,” he managed finally. “Not if–not unless–you decide.”
He didn’t stop milking me with his hole.
That made my cock throb inside him like crazy. I felt precum flow into Dad’s Cebeci Escort pussy, coating his insides, making him wetter and softer for me. To think that five days ago, he was still my dad, my normal dad whose sex life was none of my business–to think that that hadn’t been the case for ages, because Mr. Jones had been training him to be a sex toy for months–to think that he was so compliant, so obedient that he would act out my most perverted desires–how things had changed in the past few days between us–
It was too much. I was going to cum. I couldn’t hold it back. Just before I felt those contractions burst forth, though, my phone started to ring.
Dad froze, uncertain. I felt my orgasm slide back into the abyss; my still-hard cock throbbed, then began to deflate. It turns out phones can be a real mood killer.
“Off,” I said shortly, and Dad pulled his hole off my dick with a nice wet *plop*. He handed me my phone.
It was my friend, Peter.
“Hey, Max. I’m outside. Did you just wake up?”
Wait–we were supposed to hang out today! Holy shit. I totally forgot. We had made this plan weeks ago. Obviously my mind had been other places… mostly Dad’s places.
“Uh–yeah,” I said, thinking fast. I snapped my fingers at Dad, and he darted out of the room. “Sorry, I totally spaced. Meant to set an alarm or something…”
He chuckled through the phone. “No worries, man. Can you let me in, though?”
“Sure, I’ll–I’ll be right down.”
I threw on some shorts and a tank top and went down the stairs. It was weird to be disappointed, wasn’t it? I mean, it was weird enough that Dad and I had done anything sexual at all. Weirder still that we had developed a habit of constant sex in the past few days. And now to have the real world burst in like this–to blow the fantasy apart… I already missed the freedom and control of ordering Dad around like my personal toy, and Peter wasn’t even inside yet. But this was to be expected, right? It was never going to be a constant honeymoon of sex and orders. Mr. Jones was going to come back eventually.
In that case, at least, I was hoping that Mr. Jones might share Dad from time to time…
When I opened the door, Peter looked at me with a confused look.
“What do you mean?”
“You look like someone pissed in your beer, my dude.” He stepped inside, slinging the backpack he was wearing to the floor.
“Long story,” I said, mustering what I hoped was a rueful grin. “What’d you bring?”
“Vidya games. Couple beers, in case your dad isn’t cool with us swiping his.”
“I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Peter looked at me, and I hoped that he didn’t pick up on anything in my voice. He was a bit taller than me, leaner, but more toned now that he had discovered the weight room in college. His hair was short, brown, wavy. His eyes almost matched his hair, brown but with a hint of hazel under the right light. They watched me for a moment, then pulled away.
“Cool,” he said, almost casual. “Should we set up in the basement?”
“Sure,” I said, walking in front of him past the kitchen. “Want some breakfast first?”
“Jesus,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “Did you win a contest or something? This is more food than I’ve ever seen in one place.”
Peter was always prone to hyperbole.
“Summers at my house,” I shrugged. “When Mom’s away, the boy will be pigs.” I meant it.
“I guess!” Peter grabbed some bacon. He had no idea…
“Hey there, Peter!” I looked, and sure enough, there was Dad, coming down the stairs. Wearing… oh, geez. I didn’t realize that he would take me so seriously when I told him he wasn’t allowed to wear normal clothes… then again, of course he would.
He would do anything I told him. Even if it humiliated him.
The first thing Peter and I saw was that he was not wearing a shirt. Of course, that alone wasn’t so bad–his hairy chest was more defined than it had ever been in my childhood, it would almost be a pity to hide away those newly grown pecs. But on his lower half was a pair of the smallest booty shorts I had ever seen–a pair that he definitely hadn’t owned when I went off to college. They came up well above mid-thigh, squeezing around his growing legs and bunching around–my heart sank–a print of plastic that a discerning eye could see was a chastity cage. As he walked past us, I saw that the bottom of the shorts came up just below the curve of his ass. If he bent over at all, it would slide up his cheeks. It was the uniform of a sub-boy, all right. It just wasn’t as… discreet as I had imagined.
Dad didn’t seem to notice my gaping stare. That, or he just didn’t care. Maybe he was beyond humiliation at that point. He had the air of perfect, friendly normalcy as he traipsed in.
“You boys want me to whip you up a snack?” he asked mildly.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” replied Peter, and my eyes widened–but he wasn’t talking about the shorts. He gestured at the food and laughed. “There’s Kolej Escort enough food here that we may never need to snack again!”
Dad just laughed good-naturedly and announced that he was off to skim the pool, leaving Peter and me to graze and catch up before going downstairs. Peter gave me a meaningful look as Dad walked away, but didn’t ask any questions. The subject quickly moved on to school, and living situations, and video games. Before long, things almost seemed like they had been before I walked in on Dad and Mr. Jones that night.
Dad stayed out of our hair for the rest of the afternoon; we spent it in the basement laughing, playing games, and drinking beer (first working our way through Peter’s contraband, then Dad’s stash in the basement fridge). By dinnertime, we were a bit giggly and sleepy with drunkenness.
“Dude,” slurred Peter, “okay, you’ve got to tell me, though… what’s the deal with your dad?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“‘Course you do, you just don’t wanna tell me.”
I raised my beer in an exaggerated toast, as if to say, ‘here’s to privacy.’
Peter sighed exasperatedly.
“If my dad wore those shorts in front of you–” he hiccuped as if to emphasize the point–“I would probably say something.”
My face felt hot, and not from the beer. My pulse quickened. He wouldn’t ask, surely he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t make me lie to him.
But he also wasn’t looking away. He wasn’t going to let me off the hook. I needed to say… well, anything.
“He’s been working out a lot lately.” Start small, with obvious truths. See if that works.
Peter nodded. “I noticed. Hard not to, with that much showing.”
“Summer bods, you know, he’s been showing off a lot.” Still technically true.
“And cooking a lot?”
I nodded weakly.
“And…” Peter sat up. “And the thing on his dick?”
I gulped. So he’d seen. The game was over before it began. He had given me a chance to come clean myself, and now that I had refused he was willing to put the screws to me.
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but it stays between us, okay?”
He leaned forward, captivated.
“It’s a… chastity cage. You know, like in porn.”
“Oh.” His expression was hard to read.
“When I came home, I found out that the neighbor and my dad… they have a thing.”
“What kind of thing?”
“The kind of thing where my dad’s cock gets locked up.”
“Oh,” he said again. “So your dad’s… is he gay?”
I paused. I hadn’t really thought about that. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, except to serve Mr. Jones and me.
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I wonder how common it is that the dad is as gay as the son.”
I smiled back and threw a pillow at him. “We’re not exactly the same.”
“No? If I check in your shorts, I’m not going to find a cage?”
My brain was pleasantly fuzzy from the beers. To see that Peter didn’t–I don’t know, storm off or freak out, I was so relieved. I grabbed my crotch suggestively, laughing.
“You should be so lucky to see all this uncaged glory,” I teased.
“I’ve seen it, you know.”
I blinked. “You have?”
“Oh, yeah. In the locker room.”
“I didn’t realize you were sneaking peeks.”
“I didn’t realize your dad was into kinky shit and waiting on you hand and foot.”
I didn’t know what to say next, so I finished my beer in three big gulps. Peter grinned.
“Dude, be honest,” he slurred. “Are you hitting that?”
I spluttered the last half-sip of my beer. Peter just laughed.
“Oh, man, I knew it!” He flopped to the floor, giggling. “I knew it as soon as I mentioned the cage. That’s just wrong, bro. That’s just wrong.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell anyone. Honestly, it’s kind of hot. Your dad’s, well, a daddy. Always has been. Anyone who saw him in those shorts’d say the same.”
“Sneaking peeks at my cock and checking out my dad,” I observed. “Sounds like we keep you entertained.”
“Maybe a bit.” He heaved himself up into a sitting position. “Sub fags like you guys are good for entertainment.”
“Just because we’re both gay or whatever doesn’t mean we’re both subs.”
He smirked at me knowingly. Then he said, nonchalantly, “you know, I’ve seen your dick soft, but never hard.”
My heart rate picked up again. “Are you asking to see it now?”
“I’m telling you to show me.”
My ears were buzzing, but I didn’t think that had anything to do with the alcohol. I stood up like a sleepwalker, started to fumble with my shorts. I thought about what I was doing, then said,
“I’m not hard, though.”
“Just give it a tug. Here, I’ll do the same. I bet you’re dying to know what I’m packing.”
I have to admit, I was curious. “Okay, fine. Both of us.”
“Who do you think is bigger?”
“Me,” I said automatically. I blinked at my own answer–was that just bravado? Or did I actually think that I was a bona fide Alpha after using Yenimahalle Escort Dad all week?
Peter seemed to sense my uncertainty. “Alright, then, how about we make this more interesting?”
“How do you mean?”
“We both take our pants down and get hard,” he explained, seeming more sober all of a sudden, “and whoever’s bigger gets to make the other one his bitch.”
A tingle went up my spine. Peter was cute, and his ego could definitely stand to get taken down a notch or two. I had had so much practice with Dad–I wondered how long it would be before Peter was as well-trained. I caught myself starting at his lip, wondering how soft it would feel under my cock… whether or not he would gag when I throat-fucked him… whether or not he would whine like a bitch when I cored him out…
Then again… it was a risk. What if he won? Would it mean that Dad couldn’t submit to me anymore if I wasn’t the Alpha? Surely not. I had sucked that guy at the gym, after all, and the world didn’t end. Mr. Jones had given me the key to Dad’s cage, hadn’t he? So what was the worst that could happen–Peter being rough on me? If Dad could handle me, I could handle Peter. Peter was unlikely to be as harsh as Mr. Jones. Besides, if I won, it wouldn’t matter what Peter had in mind. And I would win.
“Loser gets the winner off.”
We shook on it. Then Peter took a huge swig of beer and yanked his pants down.
I had to admit, he had a great cock. It was uncut, which was a surprise but not a bad one. It looked thick and veiny, and there was a nicely trimmed bush at the base. Still, while it hung there, still flaccid, I thought I would still win. Mine wasn’t so thick, but once it got hard I thought I might have–oh, maybe a quarter inch on him. I smiled with relief before dropping my own pants.
“Now to get ’em hard,” said Peter, also smiling. There was something exhilarating about reaching out to touch his warm dick. His skin was soft against my fingers and his breath accelerated as my hand moved slowly back and forth. It was like we were huddled together exchanging secrets–it was private, intimate, precious. Just the two of us, half-drunk, touching each other in the basement. We had never done anything like this, not even in high school, and it felt like we were making up for lost time. My cheeks flushed as my member extended in his hand. In a rush of euphoria, I had to stop myself from leaning in to kiss him, to touch my cheek to his neck, to see if he felt as warm as I did–
“I think that’s good,” said Peter. Did his voice sound uneven, or was I imagining it?
“Let’s take a look.”
“Yeah,” I said, pulling myself out of my reverie. “Yeah…”
I let go of his cock. I thought that he would move alongside me to compare, but instead he stepped in front of me, bringing his mouth just inches from mine. I could taste his breath…
He held his cock carefully parallel to the floor, displaying his length as completely as he could. I tried to imitate him. I saw that a precious drop of precum was shining at his tip, and my heart skipped a beat. Slowly, tantalizingly, he moved closer and closer to me with his penis, aiming just to the right of my cock. I held still, waiting. My heart was suddenly in my throat. I had been so confident–but what if…?
Then the “if” wasn’t an “if” anymore. I felt his precum in my pubes, and knew that I had just lost the game. His cock was bigger than mine–I literally came up short.
Immediately, the atmosphere in the room shifted. I looked up at Peter and saw him smirk with the sexiest look of contempt that I had ever seen in my life. He put a hand on my shoulder and guided me to my knees; I crumpled like tissue paper.
“Open,” he said curtly, and I obeyed immediately. He gently set the tip of his cock on my bottom lip, and I felt another pearl of precum ooze into my mouth. He pulled back and smeared it across my bottom lip, then my upper lip.
“Look at me.”
He was staring down at me, smirking as he marked me.
He tasted salty and sweet and so so fucking sexy. I was still hard; losing the contest wasn’t enough to make me soften. I felt him pull back on his foreskin, running his frenulum against my tastebuds.
“How does it taste, boy?”
“Tastes good,” I said quickly, sticking my tongue back out so that I wouldn’t miss the next drop of precum. God, he leaked like a faucet when he was turned on! It was fucking delicious.
I was so wrapped up in the taste of him that I was totally taken by surprise when he pulled his cock away and slapped my cheek, one firm SLAP.
“Tastes good, SIR,” he corrected. “Got it?”
I nodded. He produced his dick again, but this time he slid it past my tongue into my open mouth. I looked up at him, and he nodded.
“Good boy. Let’s see how far you can take it.”
He pumped back and forth, lubing himself up with my spit. I swirled my tongue around his foreskin and he moaned. Then he pushed himself deeper toward my throat–I felt his tip against my soft palate and started to gag. He pulled out. I gulped, opened again. And he plunged back inside.
He was surprisingly patient. Dominant, yes–he wasn’t going to let me off the hook, he was going to keep pushing me whether I liked it or not–but the training was consistent and challenging, not the throat-fucking that I had had at the gym. At least, not yet.
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