"That's it, Boy. Ah, fuck, yeah. You take what's coming to ya'. Take it like a good buddy. Take it like MY good buddy. Is that what you're needing? You want Daddy to fuck you full-stroke, huh?" I could feel the entire length of Mr. Stewart's velvety shaft ease it's way into, then all the way out of me, all the way out--including the helmet-shaped head--out of my body.
"Yeah, yeah, ah, oh," and then I remembered myself, "ah, Yes, Sir. Man, fuck your little buddy's hairy hole. Uh, ah, anything to please you, Sir. Anything you need, Daddy. Anything...," I insisted as I looked up at his hairy torso. My girlfriend's dad was so hot, there were a million ways or more I wanted to help him out.
"Scott, uh, I couldn't stop it," he apologized as he continued to mount me royally: "When you slipped on that rock, I couldn't help but grab your fine ass to catch you. You understand that, right?" He looked at me with deep brown eyes. His bearded face showed such tenderness and insistence, I had to open up to his full-shaft assault on my butthole. I was lost in the beauty of the moment where his hunger to breed me and my longing for him were the whole focus of our worlds--the whole focus of over six weeks of dating his daughter.
Cindy was pretty--she had some big tits for 18, and all the guys at school thought I was a stud for getting her to date me, but what they didn't know was that I had almost dumped her, early on. Then, one Saturday afternoon about five weeks ago, coming home from a swimming date, Cindy's dad, Mr. Stewart, came into the kitchen fresh from cutting the yard. She had actually left to get something out of her room, go to the bathroom, or whatever...I can't remember. What I do remember was 200-plus pounds of sweaty, muscled, hairy man--fifty-years-old, or so--suddenly, in a cramped kitchen with me, drying himself off and introducing himself as "...Doug Stewart. I'm Cindy's father." With his hand touching mine, the sight and smell of him, I was shooting almost a full boner in my red trunks and was speechless. As a man, Mr. Stewart was my forbidden ideal. I never would have allowed myself to admit it, but I knew I felt attraction for men--older men, not the college prima donnas that my fraternity brothers all fought over. If I had to describe what got me excited at the time, the picture would have looked a lot like the man whose hand I was shaking. I not only shook the man's hand, acting on auto-pilot I placed my other hand on his left arm and squeezed. He was solid--a mountain of hairy man, ripe from the fields.
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Story Added: 2015-03-21