[Breeder] Monday Park and Ride

[TheBreeder]

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When I pull into the park-and-ride lot, it’s nearly full with cars idling, headlights on. Most of the cars are mini-vans, or foreign-made SUVs. Most have women at the wheel. I drive to the lot’s far end and pull into a length where there are a few empty spaces. Almost immediately after I turn off the ignition, I see why there are so many moms waiting in their cars; a short yellow bus pulls into the lot’s mouth, disgorges a dozen middle-school-aged kids, and eases off again. The children run and skip to their respective parents. The cars whirr into motion and disappear in the direction of the parkway.

Save for a few empty cars belonging to city commuters, I’m alone in the lot.

But not for long. A sedan pulls in next to me. He’s about to drive a half-dozen spaces down and park on the opposite side of a pair of parked and empty cars, but he catches sight of me turning to glimpse him. He pulls instead into the space next to mine. The park-and-ride can be a dicey place to pick guys up. I’ve had hot times at it, but the number of trolls and guys I find unattractive is so disproportionately high there to what I find in online spots, or in bars. So I look over cautiously, casually, prepared to let my glance wander past without engaging if the man looks unpleasant.

This guy, though. Handsome. Young. His dark hair is cut meticulously. Even through the two layers of glass that are my window and his, I can tell he’s a looker. And the looker’s looking right at me. I arrest my glance when our eyes meet. They lock, drill into each other. He nods slightly. I nod. He looks around to see if there are any other cars in the vicinity, then looks back at me. He jerks his head toward the lot exit. I nod, and start my car.

I follow him to the smaller commuter lot on the north side of the parkway. The south lot can hold three dozen cars; this one can barely fit nine. I park at a right angle to his car, slip out of my vehicle, and walk over to the sedan’s passenger side. He puts his hand on my leg when I sit down in the leather seat. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I smile back.

He’s even more handsome than I thought. He’s East Indian from one of his parents, white from the other, is my best guess. His hand slides up to my crotch, and rubs my hard dick through the denim. He’s wearing an expensive shirt of an on-trend shade of purple. French cuffs. Gold cuff links with sapphires, or something sapphire-adjacent. Fine wool pants. I’m feeling like a scrub in my hoodie and ratty brown T-shirt, with my Converse sneakers and my tousled hair. At least, when he leans over to unzip me, I can boast I’m wearing a pair of Hugo Boss briefs. But they’re not even mine. The Rock Star lent them to me for the week. “You’re really handsome,” I venture.

“God, so are you,” he whispers back.

I straighten up. Alert, he pulls back. As I zip my jeans, a car backs into the space directly beside us. The driver’s face leers out the window, only a couple of feet away. He’s an older guy, which I don’t find repellant in itself at all. But he’s not really a sexy, daddy-like older guy. He’s more like the jowly predator in a trench coat who lurks at the edges of playgrounds, in parents’ worst imaginations. He looks more whiskery bloodhound than human. He’s not there to park, or ride. He’s there to stare and leer and try to catch a glimpse of the action.

The drive and I wait a moment, hands on each other’s legs. “Is it worth trying to outwait him?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’ve got to get home.” He wears a wedding ring.

“Do you know anywhere else?” I ask. He shakes his head once more.

It’s a wash. I tell him I hope I’ll see him again, and I return to my car. Then I drive back to the south lot, park again, and wait.

Again, I don’t have to idle for long. A man pulls in next to me in a foreign-made truck, shiny, new, and obviously never used for hauling anything heavier than groceries. He’s an older guy. But this is the kind of older guy for which I easily go weak at the knees—well-groomed, handsome, in good shape. Even from the biceps up I can tell he’s a beefy man who takes care of himself. He’s sitting a couple of feet above me, so when I grab my crotch and squeeze it, he’s got a clear view. I nod at the seat beside me.

He slips out of the cab of his truck and into my car. “Hi,” I say.

He just puts one hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in, and kisses me. He tastes like coffee, but it’s a good taste; I keep my eyes open and my senses alert as he opens my mouth with his probing tongue. Then he lets go of me.

“Fuck,” is my only reply.

He’s also very well dressed. His shirt is white, pressed, and pleated in all the right spots. He flips open a couple of buttons to expose the barrel of his chest. It’s covered with silver fur. His pecs are impressive for a man of any age, but this cat has to be at least in his late sixties. I reach over to his trousers—a caramel-colored herringbone tweed—and find his dick immediately. It’s rock-hard, and jutting to the left. He’s big. My size big.

His hands are on the back of my neck, kneading the muscles there. “Sweet Jesus,” I whisper.

He speaks his first words. “I would give anything to get you naked, son.”

I shiver. “I’d do anything you told me, sir.”

“Yeah?” He asks. He’s obviously turned on by my mode of address. Beneath the herringbone, his dick stirs and becomes even harder. “Anything?”

“What do you want, dad?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He’s got a firm grip on the back of my neck. “I’d tell you to take all your clothes off and get naked for me.” I nod. “Then I’d tell you to stroke yourself while daddy watches.”

“Yes sir,” I whisper.

“Then I’d push you to your knees and make you suck daddy’s dick.”

“I want to suck daddy’s dick,” I say, with an unconscious lick of my lips.

“Then I’d flip you over and explore that hole of yours,” he promises.

I can barely breath, my breath is so raspy. “Would you . . . want to fuck me?” He nods, very slowly, very deliberately. “I don’t get fucked very often.”

“I don’t know why not. You sure are pretty, son.”

“I’d give it up for you, sir.”

“Sweet little boy,” he says. The novelty of being anyone’s little boy at this time of my life is overwhelming. I flush furiously with pleasure as he runs the edge of his hand through my hair. “You’d do as you’re told?”

“I always do what my dad tells me,” I promise.

“You’d be obedient? You want to please daddy?”

“Yes sir,” I say. There’s a slight whine of need in my voice.

“Do you want my dick? Do you want it now?” He’s pushing at the back of my head as he unfastens his tweeds with the other. Fucker has no underwear on. He just whips it out. He’s sitting there with that carpet of silver fur on his chest, shirt open to the waist, pants unzipped, big dick leaking precum. Then he shoves down with his hand.

I know what dad wants. He keeps an eye out while I bend down and suck him. I go all the way down and come all the way back up, using only my lips and the strength of my embouchure to tighten around his rod. He keeps a hand on the back of my head the entire time, pushing me down and thrusting up into my mouth in a fast-paced rhythm. It isn’t going to take long, I can tell. He’s already producing even more precum. He’s leaking like a faucet onto my tongue and down the back of my throat.

When he comes, it’s swiftly and silently. He holds my head down the entire time. As if I’m tempted to come up for air. I want that fucking load. He sprays it into my mouth, a thin and salty geyser of fluid that I have to swallow twice to consume. I wait for the last glob, then back off.

I sit there, stunned by it all. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in—it just happened so fucking quickly. He zips up, claps his hands on his legs, and stares at me. “You’ve got sperm in your beard,” he says, pointing to the right side of his face, mirroring where it is. I raise my left hand automatically to locate it and wipe it away, but he grabs my wrist, hard. “Leave it,” he orders. “Are you going home?”

I nod.

“Leave it in your beard all the way home. Don’t touch it. Don’t get rid of it. When you get home, that’s when you can wipe it away. Before anyone else notices.” He releases the tight clutch on my wrist, and brings my hand to his lips in a courtly manner. He kisses the ring on the fourth finger.

“Yes sir,” I promise.

He exits with another ruffle of my hair. I look at my face in the mirror. It’s not just a little sperm. It’s a huge spray of it. I don’t even know how it could’ve gotten there.

But I wear it as my badge of honor on the drive home, proud to have been a good daddy’s boy.

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[Hotload84]

Thanks, TheBreeder. I've never before encountered the word embouchure. I have season tickets to the Philadelphia Orchestra, and my seat is in the balcony over-looking the stage, so I have a great view of the musicians. Hence forth, every time I'm focused on the brass and wind instrumentalists, I'll think of you!