undietales:

Micky pushed open the front gate and looked around the yard. There was a spray of pink begonias blooming in flower boxes on either side of the stoop. They were fat-petaled, lovely. The garden surrounding the house was healthy too: roses, tulips, even a few clutches of impatiens here and there. Micky climbed the stoop and dropped his baseball bat by the door. He fumbled around for the key in his pocket and unlocked the door. Cool air greeted him, it took the edge off of the summer night.

Dad was in the living room, sitting with one leg across the other, reading through the town ledger. His dangling foot bounced metronomically. Micky waved, Dad looked over the paper and smiled. He folded it precisely and tucked it into the side of his recliner.

“How’d the game go?” Dad asked.

“Can I make myself a milkshake first?”

“Sure.”

Micky veered left into the kitchen. He looked around, opening shelves until he found a glass that suited his purpose. He got ice cream from the freezer and milk from the fridge. He couldn’t find the blender, so he mixed it by hand. He tried it. It would have been smoother blended, but it didn’t taste bad. It was good vanilla ice cream and whole milk, the best combination in Micky’s opinion. He walked back out into the living room, sipping his milkshake.

“So…the game?” Dad asked again. He hadn’t moved from his spot.

Micky took a long gulp and then set his glass down. He sat down next to it on the low table. Still, he was almost at eye level with Dad. A growing boy.

“We lost.”

Dad shifted in his seat. He wasn’t quite frowning, but he wasn’t pleased.

“How did you play?”

Micky shook his head. “Coach didn’t put me in.”

“Did you ask him to?”

Micky shook his head again. Now, Dad was frowning. He took a deep breath. “You know I don’t mind if you lose. Everyone has to deal with disappointments. But you knew that I wanted you to try.”

“I know.”

“But you still didn’t?”

Micky shrugged. Dad took another deep breath.

“Go close the blinds.” Micky pushed up from the table and crossed the room. He could feel Dad’s eyes watching him as he went. He pulled the Venetian blinds close against the street. As he did, he could see a neighbor walking a dog. “Now come back over here.”

Micky walked over. He stood in front of Dad and put his hands in his pockets.

“Well?” said Dad.

Micky took his hands out of his pockets and unbuckled his belt. He kicked off his sneakers and unzipped his fly. He started to wriggle out of his dark-washed jeans. He pulled off his t-shirt in one smooth motion. He was left standing in front of Dad in his white socks and white jock strap.

“Take that glass to the kitchen.” Dad motioned to the milkshake. “You didn’t put a coaster down, and you know I don’t like those rings on the glass.”

“Alright.”

“What was that?”

“Alright, sir.”

He turned around and picked up the glass. One the way to the sink, Micky caught a distorted glimpse of himself in polished chrome of the refrigerator: light blond hair traveled up his legs ending just below his smooth butt. He regarded himself for just a moment, before finishing up in the kitchen and heading back out into the living room. Dad had scooted to the edge of the recliner.

“Well? Are you going to come over here or are you going to make me wait? I can tell you that it will go bad for you if you do.”

Dad was still a younger guy, in his early forties and just starting to gray at the temples and in his otherwise dark goatee. He had the thick arms of a former pro batter, and if he’d thickened a bit at the waist in the intervening years, then he still wore it well. His eyes were murky.

Micky approached Dad, coming so close that their knees touched. Dad looked him over.

“You’ve got a good build, Micky. You were made to play ball,” Dad said. His hands started at Micky’s waist then trailed down. Dad threaded the straps of the jock between his fingers as his touch wandered down, pausing to draw wide circles with his palm on Micky’s ass. “You’ve got a nice body. A strong body. You know that this is for your own good, right? So that next time you’ll play.”

“I know.”

Dad raised an eyebrow.

“I know, sir,” Micky said.

“Good,” Dad said. And again, more solidly. “Good. Lay across my knee, son.”

Micky lowered himself down across Dad’s knees. He was a little too tall, so it was awkward, but there wasn’t any time to dwell on that. The first slap came down almost immediately. The second followed quickly.

“You’re a good kid, son, but you’ve gotta listen to Dad, ok?” Another slap. Another. “If you’d have played, we wouldn’t be in this position. I wouldn’t have to redden your tight little ass, would I?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“I know, buddy.” Another slap, harder than the first four. Micky cried out, and Dad massaged his spanked butt and made a soothing noise with his tongue. “S’ok, bud. Just another five. You gonna’ count ‘em off for me? You gonna’ be my little soldier?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man. Whenever you’re ready.”

Micky took a deep breath, shifted across Dad’s knees and pushed his hands against the carpeted floor. “One.”

The echo of the slap filled the quiet living room. “Two.” Micky gritted his teeth and managed not to wince when Dad repositioned him. After the last blow, he’d squirmed away without thinking. “Three.” Dad’s big hands made each spank hurt, and Micky’s could feel how hot his ass was becoming with every new slap. “Four.” Micky exhaled, and said, “Five.”

Micky could hear Dad’s grin when he spoke. “Good man. Good boy. I’m proud of you, you know that? Keep your hands on the ground for me, eyes on the floor.”

Micky stared at the identical fibers of the beige carpet while Dad opened a bottle of some sort. It smelled a little floral, but medicinal at the same time. Dad’s hands returned to Micky’s butt covered in something wet, cool, and slightly oily that he spread over Micky’s tortured ass cheeks. A little sigh slipped through Micky’s partly opened lips.

“Feel nice, bud? Of course, I’m gonna take care of my brave little guy.”

Dad’s hands nimbly worked the oil into Micky’s hot skin, massaging his ass with a gentleness that felt like real affection. He was generous with the oil and ran his hands up Micky’s hips as well and down his thighs. He dutifully avoided Micky’s twitching hole, but an errant drop of oil began sliding Micky’s crack. Dad’s finger followed the oil down into the crevice until the tip of his finger was pressed against Micky’s warm pucker. Micky’s mouth was dry. He shivered.

Dad slapped Micky’s thigh playfully. “You can get up now, Micky. Sit across Dad’s knee.”

Micky shifted his weight off of Dad’s knees and stood up. “Sir, my butt is all oily. I’ll get it all over your pants.”

Dad was wearing expensive-looking gray slacks. The dry clean only sort. But Dad just smiled and patted his meaty thigh.

“Don’t worry, son, just sit.”

Micky didn’t make Dad ask again. Dad pulled out what Micky assumed was the same bottle from before and poured some of the oil into his hand, he nodded in the direction of Micky’s crotch. “Looks like you’ve gotten into some trouble there, son. You’re all swollen.”

Micky’s dick twitched against his tight, white jock. It’d been impossible not to spring a hard-on while lying, mostly naked, over Dad’s knee. Having his ass spanked, then massaged with oil hadn’t helped matters. Dad put his oily hands all over Micky’s jock, working the oil into the white material until it became see-through and massaging Micky’s cock beneath the fabric like a man sculpting clay.

Micky tried to breathe calmly as Dad jerked him off through his jock. He rolled his hips back and forth as Dad touched him, grinding his slick butt on Dad’s pants. He spread his legs just wide enough that his exposed hole slid against the slightly rough material of the slacks. Dad watched Micky’s face carefully, their mouths were just inches apart, Micky licked his lips and could feel Dad’s bourbon-sweet breath on him.

“Is Dad making you feel good, son?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“How good?”

“Really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dad brought his face closer to Micky’s. Close enough to for Dad’s tongue to flick out and lick Micky’s lips.  

“Good enough to cum for me?” Dad asked. “Good enough to lose it in your jock?”

Micky didn’t reply. Dad’s hands were insistent now. One of them gripped his dick hard and ran up and down his swollen cock, while Dad’s other hand snaked between Micky’s leg and prodded his hole. Dad gave Micky a broad smile when he slipped his finger into Micky’s hungry fuckhole. First one finger, then two.

“What are you waiting for, buddy? Give your Dad a load.”

Micky closed his eyes, opened them, closed them again. He licked his lips and rode Dad’s fingers like they were a hard cock. Micky thrust his greasy, jock-strapped cock into Dad’s fist over and over. His orgasm was inevitable and powerful. He blasted through the slippery material of his underwear, and his cum oozed out between Dad’s fist.

Dad gave him a minute to recover before telling him to stand up. To strip off his jock and hand it over. Micky did what he was told, stepping out of the cum and oil covered jock and handing it off to Dad.

“Now, kneel in front of me and watch.”

Dad held the soaked jock in one hand and lifted it to his face. He sniffed and tentatively licked at it while unzipping his slacks with excruciating care. Each of his zipper’s metal teeth made an individual pop as he slid it down. Micky did as he was told and watched.

Dad reached into his fly and shifted his boxer briefs aside. He pulled out his cock. It was big, thick. Impressive. He slowly stroked it and worked a bit of precum into the shiny, swollen head.

“Ever seen a man’s cock, son? Ever seen one like this?”

“No, sir.”

“Mmm…I didn’t think so. Do you know what makes a man get like this?” Dad put the soaked jock directly onto his nose and took a long inhalation. “Fresh boy spunk. Works every time.”

Dad closed his eyes after that and brought the wet jock down to his dick. He wrapped the cum covered material around his own cock and started jerking off with it. Micky watched Dad’s big hand work the stretched, now wholly see-through material around his veiny pole. Micky’s mouth went dry and his dick stirred a little.

“You’re ‘gonna make me lose my load, son. Feeling your sperm all over my cock. Your ass juices on my fingers. God.”

Dad put a finger in his mouth and sucked it clean. His eyes were still closed, and his dick was so hard. It was only a matter of time.

He moved the jock aside just after it caught his first blast of cum. The proceeding shots went straight up, arced, and splashed all over Dad’s pants, his shirt, and his glittering silver watch. When he’d started to come down, Dad licked his watch free of his own jizz. Only then did he open his eyes again and look down at his still-hard cock bobbing and leaking the last of his cum. He looked at Micky and cleared his throat, his tone suddenly business-like.

“A thousand. Check the crisper in the fridge. There’s an envelope,” he said.

Micky shook his head as he got to his feet.

“We agreed on six hundred. You’re overpaying,” Micky said, then added, “sir.”

‘Dad’ smiled, said, “you’re worth it.”

“Thank you.” Micky pointed to the twice defiled jock. “Do you want to keep it?”

“Definitely. It’s a souvenir. Do you need a ride anywhere?”

“No. I have my car. Have a good night and thanks for the bonus. Let me know when I can disappoint you again.”

“Oh, I have a feeling it’ll be soon. I don’t have the house alone to myself very often, but next time I do, I’m sure you’ll hear from me.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Micky got dressed in front of the client, allowing the man to ogle him one last time. The man hissed as he pulled his jeans up over his bare ass. Micky said his goodbyes and collected his money. It was still hot out when he left, but the heat felt good on his skin.

So fucking good.

undietales:

Hey all, 

So I’m in the very early stages of prepping a story blitz for when I hit 3,000 followers. We’re not there yet, but we’re inching toward it day by day. 

Here’s what I need from you: I’ve got a bunch of categories for stories that cover pretty much the gamut of my interests and tastes, but I don’t just want to do the greatest hits so I’m including a category called Wild Cards. There are eight slots and I’ll write a story that for each one based on your recommendations. 

It could be a genre, a theme, a mashup of different ideas—whatever! The only limitations are that (1) I can only write eight of them and (2) they probably won’t be super crazy long, so don’t go nuts on the exposition. 

That’s it! 

So give me your ideas and if I like them, I’ll write ‘em up and you’ll help me get this celebration in the bag. 

Thanks for your time and thanks in advance for your ideas. 

-Ben

EDIT: I forgot to mention…feel free to send the ideas via direct message, asks, or if email if you’re fancy: benjibright@gmail.com

Benji will take your idea, slip into it like a fresh, clean pair of designer trunks, fill it with his hardon, and then mark it up real nice with a load of words. I can’t wait to see what (ahem) comes of this…