Pop's story

[Author: HR]

The old son-of-a-bitch was the meanest sheriff in in the entire state of Alabama. He stood six feet tall and weighed three hundred pounds, but it was all muscle in spite of his head of solid white bushy hair. He was 68 years old but still the most feared lawman in Alabama. He had put more drunk and disorderly men in the hospital than any man in uniform in Alabama.

I meet him when I was in my early fifties. I was bumming around Dothan, Alabama staying with my parents in between gigs at 'Cowboys', a redneck lounge just south of Dothan. I played the guitar and sang whenever they couldn’t book anyone better. My dream of making it as a singer had faded years before, but I like drinking and redneck bars so I kept at it.

I still ran after women although my heart wasn’t in it. I loved looking at old men, especially at the gym in Dothan that I belonged to. Nothing turned me on as much as watching an old man soaping himself up and taking his time doing it. Yeah, I’m queer. But I’ve kept it to myself all these years. And except for some bathhouse sex, I ain’t had much man-to-man sex. See, I’m only turned on by old men and, well, they ain’t many of them that have offered themselves to me, except like I said in the bathhouses.

Well, the moment I laid eyes on that mean motherfucker, I was in love!

I just never experienced nothing like the feeling I got when I looked out over the audience that night and saw the big mean old motherfucker sitting alone at a table staring at me. I ain’t saying he was good looking, but he sure pushed my button. I don’t know if it was his bushy solid white hair or that big tuft of gray chest hair poking out of the top of his plaid shirt. Hell, maybe it was his huge ears and that big nose atop a cruel mouth that attracted me. But one think I knew from my first look, he was a mean motherfucker!

But like a moth drawn to a bright, burning, killing light, I was drawn to the old sheriff. After my set was over, I walked up to the big old man and said hello.

“You got a good voice there, son. Sit down and let me buy you a beer,” the old sheriff said.

That was the start of our relationship. I had a beer with him and chatted with him a little. He had a very deep voice that drove me wild. And when I finally got to sneak a look at his crotch, the size of the bulge took my breath away.

But the mean son-of-a-bitch wasn’t easy to make friends with. I must have seen him at 'Cowboys' for almost six months before I started to feel like we were getting to be friends. I moved on him slow. I had seen him knock cold more than one redneck who'd made a comment he didn’t like so I wasn't about to try something funny with him.

Then one night a year after I first met him, he came in while I was playing my last set. He looked especially angry that night. After I finished, I sat with him. I didn’t ask him why he was so upset. But, he told me he had been forced to resign as sheriff of Houston County. Seems he had beaten up a couple of black guys and the shit had hit the fan, and he either had to resign or stand trial for police brutality.

Pop chose to resign.

The old man was in a bad mood. And I was flabbergasted when he confided to me, after seven beers, that I was his only friend. The old bastard was divorced and hated his ex-wife and his kids. And seems that he had stepped on so many toes that nobody in the sheriff department could stand his guts.

“Hey, why don’t we go down to Dead Lakes fishing tomorrow?” I said. “My daddy built an old cabin down there and we can stay in it for couple of days and drink beer and fish and to hell with everyone.”

“Damn, it that’s not the best damn idea I’ve heard in a while. When do you want to leave?”

The old man stared into my eyes with his bloodshot cold blue eyes.

“When ever.” I answered feeling a rush of excitement at the prospect of being alone with Pop. “How about now? I’m finished with my set. We can grab out rods and reels. Daddy keeps a bass boat and motor at the fish landing where his cabin is.”

“Hell yeah!” the old sheriff exclaimed and slammed his long neck bottle of Bud down on the table.

The old man followed me home where I grabbed the keys to the cabin and my fishing gear and then hopped on his truck with him . We made a quick stop at his house before heading for Dead Lakes. The drive was only two hours. We both downed three long necks on the ride.

“Hell, there’s only one bedroom!” the mean son-of-a-bitch roared when I unlocked the cabin and turned the lights on illuminating the one room cabin.

“It’s a king size bed. Hell, it’s like two beds. I’ll sleep on one side and you on the other.” I said.

“Hell, I ain’t no damn queer! I’m not going to sleep with another man!” Pop spat out the words like he was cursing.

“Look how damn big it is,” I said, putting down the ice chest and pulling out two long necks. “Here.” I handed him the Bud and then I walked to the side of the bed. “See how fucking big it is. It like two damn beds!”

“And shit fire! You don’t even have a sofa to sleep on.” Pop raised the beer to his lips. As he chugged the beer, he pointed with his free hand to the three straight chairs and one rocking chair positioned in a sitting area.

“Ah, it ain’t no big deal,” I said as I twisted off the top of my Bud and took a big swallow.

“Yeah, right!” the old man said. He took a sip of his beer. “I would sleep in the truck but my back it giving me fits."

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked after taking another swallow of my beer.

“Hurt it knocking around those two black guys. Fucking dope dealers.” He winced as he straightened up and leaned backward.

“My daddy’s got a bad back. I massage it for him and he says it works wonders. Learned how to massage from a Japanese girl in Atlanta I was screwing,” I said. “Let me work on your back.”

“Hell. No. It’ll be all right.” Pop said. He turned his Bud up and didn’t bring it from his lips until it was drained.

I retrieved another beer and handed it to him. “Daddy swears by my massage.” I said.

“You got any aspirins?” Pop asked.

“No.”

“Hell! The pain is driving me crazy.”

“Come and strip down to your shorts and let me give you a massage. I can’t make it worse.” I told the old man and sort of held my breath for his reply.

“Shit. Got to do something.” The old man said as he started taking his clothes off.

I started undressing too.

“Why in the hell are you taking your clothes off?” Pop roared looking at me like he was fixing to charge me.

“I have to straddle your back. Hell, my jeans will bust out if I tried to do that with them on.” I said in a matter of fact manner as I continued to pull off my shirt and then my jeans. Leaving me in my boxer short and my T-shirt.

Pop eyed me suspiciously for a long moment then he pulled off his shirt.

“Take you T-shirt off to.” I told him.

The old man looked like he was going to refuse.

“Take it off.”

Slowly the old man pulled his T-shirt over his head. The sight of his gray haired chest astounded me. The big old man that the longest, grayest chest hairs I had ever seen on a man. An urge to run my fingers through the thick gray hair on the old man’s chest gripped me. My hands were shaking from the effort to keep my distance from him.

Then he pulled off his jeans and damn if his legs weren’t as hairy as his chest. I wanted to lick my way up his body starting with his feet. And even though his boxer shorts were very loose, his huge dick pushed out the front of them and when the old man sit on the bed, they gapped open enough that I caught a glimpse of his huge pale dick.

“Lie on your stomach,” I told him as I turned away from him to hid my growing hard on.

The old man did as I asked. I turned back to face him and climbed on the bed. Then I straddled his back and knelt over him. An electric shock flowed through my fingers when I touched them his hairy upper back. I could feel my dick throbbing as I began to massage the old man's hairy back. And I suddenly found myself thinking that I just might get myself killed if I made a pass at the old son-of-a-bitch. But I also knew that I couldn’t stop myself.

God! Did I put all the love I felt for the old mean sheriff in my hands as I manipulated the muscles of his upper back and then slowly started to work my way downward. And from the sighs of relief, I knew that my massage was working.

“Never felt something so good,” the old man said.

The feel of my fingers against the old man’s hairy back got me so excited that I feared I was going to cum in my boxer shorts. I had to fight to keep from shooting off as I moved my hands down to his lower back. Then my hands were brushing the waistband of the old man’s boxer shorts. A moment later, I let the tips of my finger slid under the waistband of his boxer shorts and touch the cheeks of his extremely hairy ass. I wanted to push them down further inside his boxer shorts but forced myself instead to move down and began to massage the old man thick upper thighs.

The old man sort of tensed up but didn’t say anything as I worked my finger against his upper thighs and even sliding my finger up the legs of his boxer shorts. But I spent only a quick moment massaging so high up his thighs that I was almost massaging the cheeks of his ass before moving my hands down his leg. I work methodically down his legs and then began to massage the old man’s feet. And he was moaning and sighing like crazy.

“Turn over so I can do your front side,” I said, not knowing how the old man would react to my demand.

For a moment, he didn’t do anything. Then with a loud grunt, he slowly turned over on his back. I glanced at his face. His stare was almost angry.

I smiled. “How does it feel so far?

“I ain’t rightly felt nothing like it. Hell, my back feels years younger and my legs feel great too,” the old man confessed in a gruff tone of voice.

As I began to work on the instep of his feet, he watched me with glaring blue eyes that followed my hands as I worked my way past his ankle and up his leg. Then the pleasure of my massage caused him to close his eyes and relax again. And since his eyes were closed, I could lean forward and peep inside the fly of his boxer shorts as I massaged his upper legs. I could see the pale skin on the thick shaft of his dick and once again, I found myself fighting to keep from cumming.

I wanted desperately to slide my finger up the front of the leg of his boxer shorts but fear of the old man kept me from doing it. He was a big man and although older than me, I knew that he could easily beat the shit out of me with one hand tied behind him. So I just kept working on his upper legs.

And then I started noticing that the bulge in the crotch of his boxer shorts was growing.

“That’s enough you’re probably getting tired,” the old man said, suddenly opening his eyes.

I kept working on is upper leg as though I hadn’t heard him even though I was breathing fast from my fear of what he would do if I didn’t stop.

“Too bad we didn’t bring a couple of bar girls from 'Cowboys' with us,” I said, “A couple of them are good fucks.”

The old man remained silent, as what his boxer shorts was hiding grew larger and larger before my eyes.

“Just close your eyes and relax. You’re still too tense in your legs,” I said, as I tried to keep my excitement out of my voice.

The old man looked undecided as I worked over his upper leg like I had never done to anyone before. Then as I held my breath, he relaxed and lowered his head and closed his eyes again. I worked on his upper legs several more minutes before making my move. I slipped my fingers up the right leg of his boxer shorts as I massaged the upper most part of his inner thigh. Then I started to do the same with his left thick, the side his huge balls were hanging.

My fingers moved so smoothly over his upper thigh that the first time my finger touched his huge balls it seem completely natural. Even when I was working my finger under his balls to get to that part of his upper thigh, the old man didn’t seem to mind.

Then I let my fingers touch the silky skin of his huge dick.

“What in hell are you doing?!” The old man’s voice was slow and cold as steel.

Instead of pulling my hand away I ran my fingers over the thick shaft of his enormous dick with such lightness and feel that I knew it felt great.

“I’m about to beat the hell out of you if you don’t take your hand off my dick.” The old man hissed.

Fear shot thought me, but I could stop. Instead, I found myself saying. “Shut up and enjoy it you old fuck!” As I grasped the shaft of the old man’s monster dick and pulled the foreskin back. The only part of his dick I could see was through the opening of the fly of his boxer shorts.

“Let go of my dick you fucking queer!” the old man said as he lifted his head and started up at me.

Instead, I started jacking his dick from within his boxer shorts as I waited for him to hit me.

“Fucking asshole queer! I’m going to beat you to an inch of your life.” The old sheriff hissed.

Then I did something that could have gotten me killed right then and there.

I yelled,“Shut up!” as I pulled my hand out from the leg of his boxer shorts, reached up, caught the waistband of his red-checkered boxer shorts, and pulled them down. The old man's huge dick popped out and stood straight up like a baseball bat.

And then before he could react, I leaned forward and took the huge head of in my mouth. Even as I slid my lips down the thick shaft of the old sheriff’s huge dick, I felt him grab my head.

I expected instant death. But the hand didn’t twist my head off like a cap on a long neck. Instead, the old man suddenly shoved my head down toward his crotch.

“Fucking cock sucking queer,” he hissed as he sent his huge dick down my throat.

I gagged so bad that the old man finally pulled his dick out so that only the huge head of his dick was in my mouth.

“Fucking pussy! You can’t even take it all,” he mocked but didn’t try to force his enormous dick down my throat again. He let me make love to his huge dick head. And in a few moments, I had him moaning. But under his breath, he continued to curse me and call me queer.

I slowly got used to the size of his enormous dick and was able to take more of his shaft down my throat. And strangely enough, the old man was almost gentle with me. His hands loosened their tight grip on my head and soon he was stroking my hair as I devoured his dick.

Then I pulled my mouth from his dick, moved down, and started licking the old son-of-a-bitch’s bull balls. The old man went spastic. So I licked his balls more and then managed to get one of his huge testicles in my mouth. The old man threw back his head and bellowed his pleasure.

Suddenly he was cumming. The old man’s spunk struck my face. His thick white cum ran down the thick shaft of the old man's dick. I spit out his ball and started licking his cum off his dick as it gushed out his piss hole.

“Damn queer!” the old man shouted.

Then he pushed me aside and turned over on his stomach. I took another chance and pulled my gray boxer shorts off, and straddled his back and started massaging it again. But this time my dick was rubbing against the crack of the old man’s asshole.

I expected the old man to throw me off him at any moment as I worked my finger into the muscles of his shoulders with my hard dick head pressed against the bud of his old asshole. I paused and leaned forward and kissed the old man’s powerful shoulders. I moved down the old man’s back, kissing and licking my way to the crack of his ass. I pulled his ass cheeks apart and started licking the old man's asshole. He moaned and lifted his ass. I sent my tongue inside his asshole.

“Oh!” the old man exclaimed, “Pervert! Queer!”

I rimmed my tongue deep inside his asshole. He started to hunching my face with his ass as I tongue fucked him. Then I spit on my hand and lubricated my dick and slipped fully on the old man’s back as I guided my dick to his old asshole.

Suddenly the old man tensed up. I pushed the head of my dick against his asshole expecting him to leap out of bed to start beating on me. But he didn't. He moaned in pain as I forced my dick head inside his asshole. Then I rammed my long thick dick up to my balls in the old son-of-a-bitch’s ass.

“Take it like a man, you old slut!”

Then I was giving the meanest sheriff in Alabama a brutal fucking. And damn - if the old bastard didn’t take my fucking and lift his powerful ass cheeks up asking for it deeper. I fucked him, and just kept fucking him. I was angry at my fear of him. I wanted him to suffer now for causing so much terror in me. But finally, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I shot my big load deep inside the old man’s asshole.

“Turn over!” I demanded.

The powerful old man did as I commanded. His enormous dick was rock hard again. I moved down between his legs and started sucking it again. And with the old man mumbling “queer” and “faggot” under his breath, I swallowed his dick. He responded. He eagerly fucked my mouth with his enormous dick. Again, I made love to his huge dick. And when the powerful body of the old man began to tremble, I took his second load of cum in my mouth but didn't swallow. Instead, after I had collected his entire load, I slipped up and pressed my mouth to the wide-eyed old man’s mouth. I forced him to open his mouth, and I sent my tongue deep inside his mouth, sharing the cum with the old man.

The old man swallowed his own cum, sucking it from my mouth. And then I forced him to kiss me. His kisses were powerful, manly. I felt such love for the old bastard that my heart felt as though it would bust.

“Turn the fuck over,” I said when I finally broke off our embrace.

I wanted to tell him how much I loved him but I knew that would be a mistake. When his back was pressed against my stomach, I added. “I’m going to fuck your ass all night. You’re my property now!” I growled, “Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir!”

The old man sang out like he was answering a drill sergeant. I reached down between his legs and grabbed the old man by his huge testicles and pulled them back. The old man grunted.

“Now, go to fucking sleep,” I ordered, as I jerked brutally on the old bastard’s balls, stretching his ball sack painfully.

I fucked the old man two more times before dawn. Then I made him suck my dick before we got dressed to go fishing.

 
The old man acted as thought nothing had happened as we fished the black water of the big lake. I wanted many times to tell him how much I loved him as we fished the calm, black waters of the lake but I knew that’s wasn’t going to be our relationship. I realized that the old bastard wasn’t a loving person. He needed someone to use him. He couldn’t stand any sign of weakness. If I told him I love him, he would probably beat the hell out of me. But love him I did.

That night after we came back to the cabin from eating raw oysters in an oyster shack in a nearby town, I ordered him to strip naked. He did.

 
I made the old man strike humiliating pose after pose before making him get down on his knees in front of me. I ordered him to take my dick out of my jeans and suck it. He did as I ordered and I shot off in his mouth. Then I sat on the bed and had him stand in front of me while I sucked his dick.

 
Later that night I rimmed his asshole, and then fucked him while making his squeeze his own balls as hard as he could. And I swear the old man was squeezing so hard on his big eggs that I thought they were going to burst. I spent my load on his back and then licked my own cum off him. Later, when he was asleep, I kissed his back lovingly, and I wrapped my arms around him.

He’s all mine! All mine!

 curation: bestgrandpas.tumblr.com

curation: bestgrandpas.tumblr.com

 

curation: bestgrandpas.tumblr.com

curation: bestgrandpas.tumblr.com

curation: bestgrandpas.tumblr.com

 curation: lpkf.tumblr.com

 curation: old-timetraveller.tumblr.com

 curation: bestgrandpas.tumblr.com

 curation: bestgrandpas.tumblr.com

curated: old-timetraveller.tumblr.com

 curation: pescattore1969.tumblr.com

HR's story

Once upon a time, back in the days before tumblr and all the other social networking sites, there was a site devoted to hundreds of photos of old men, and fiction. It was an inspiration for this site.

The owner was simply known as either hroland or hroland47.

I called him HR. The site has long gone, and it is possible that HR may have gone as well. I've tried to contact him via email, without success. His storytelling is interesting and I believe it's worth re-telling the stories rather let them sink without trace in the web slush pit. I kept the stories I enjoyed, and I'm sharing some them here to help keep them alive. I've refined and lightly edited some of his stories, and illustrated them with images that I hope HR would like; but otherwise they're presented as is.

HR, if you're out there, somewhere, thank you for your efforts back-in-the-day when there was nothing around. You were like a lifeline to a young man who thought he was the only person in the world interested in old men.

Please feel free to drop me a note.

Love, Father Bocce

Mr Wilson's story - part one

Mr Wilson used to live across the road from me. He and his wife had been part of the local community for years and years, and in their hay-day they knew everyone and they knew everything.

When I moved in Mr Wilson was sent over with a welcome-new-neighbour cake. I took the plate back the next day with flowers from the garden and we became good friends and good neigbours. I enjoyed their company, and I became like the son they never had. Despite that, I always called them Mr and Mrs Wilson - it just seemed right somehow.

Time is the great thief. Over the next few years Mrs Wilson became increasingly feeble. Mr Wilson was desperate in his efforts to look after her, but, over time the inevitable happened - loss compounded on loss until she eventually passed. I was secretly relieved. I think Mr Wilson was too. If nothing else, there suddenly more time in the day. And he changed too. He became softer, more tender. Not weaker, just more vulnerable, like he didn't have to pretend he was strong any more.

She was gone.

He was alone with the balm and the sting of his memories.

As his world shrunk, our friendship became deeper. I'd go over most nights after work just to touch base. On Friday nights we'd sort out his grocery list. I'd do the shopping for him on Saturday morning and deliver the bags of food and necessities in the afternoon. I'd usually stay late, playing euchre, and drinking a scotch or two. Maybe three. I'd fix him a snack for supper and he'd tell me about his younger days, his soldiering experiences in India, how he and Mrs Wilson - Floss - met and fell in love and she walked out on her engagement to some other guy, all the funny and sad stories that make up a richly patterned life. I guess I loved hearing their stories. In my mind it was all Rose and Jack and Titanic, and I know that's both soppy and stupid, and not even slightly how it was.

One Saturday night Mt Wilson was irked over something - I have no idea what agitated him, but something wasn't right with him or the world. The scotch wasn't doing it for him. We stopped playing cards.

 "I'm sorry," he said, making futile movements as though he was going to say something, but thought better of it.

"It's ok, I'm over playing cards myself. I was thinking I'd make us some tomato soup for supper. Does that appeal?"

His face clouded over, and it looked like, no, soup wasn't going to hit the spot, but then he thought better of it, and brightened up, and smiled.

"That'd be nice, thank you."

"You seem worked up over something, are you feeling ok?"

"I'm fine," he said, with the kind of throat click he did when he was annoyed or frustrated. "Would you mind if I left you in charge of making us dinner? My back is giving me... " He shrugged and winced.

"Sure, why don't you have a soak in a hot bath and I'll get make dinner. Take your time, I'll get some things from home, and I'll be right back. Will you be ok getting in and out of the tub by yourself?"

He nodded and headed for the bathroom. I heard the water start to run as I left the house. Back home I chopped off a few basil leaves, and picked up a crusty ciabatta loaf I was looking forward to before heading back across the road. About an hour later the soup was simmering nicely, and the kitchen was full of a sweet fragrances of herbs, garlic, and tomatoes. I like to add a good splash of balsamic vinegar to bring out the rich flavours.

"Hey, that smells good, thank you."

He sounded relaxed and a whole lot happier. He was flushed from the heat of the water, and wearing a tee-shirt, pajama pants, white sport sox, and his old dressing gown. I suddenly saw a glimpse of him as a young man and I could see that he must've cut quite a dash when he was in his prime.

"Tomato soup, ciabatta; for dessert, I found these apples at the market the other day - simple supper for us tonight."

Mr Wilson shuffled around and set the table, poured us a beer, put on some jazzy music, and even lit a couple of the candles left in the candelabra. It felt almost as though there was some sort of celebration going on, but I couldn't work out what had lifted his mood. We talked about this and that - some of his lightly mad stories from his soldier days in India.

"One of my pals was a guy we called Dick. His real name was Richard, but we called him Dick. He was a man who wanted to fuck his way around the world, he said he wanted to hear a woman say thank you in every language. That was his thing. He'd come back to the barracks, and tell us about the delights he'd tasted. He used to say he paid the whores based on the size of their nipples, and one night he was laughing because he'd met this woman with nipples the size of a grapes, and he'd kept her busy all night."

He laughed and then fell silent. "He's probably long gone now. He lived up country, owned a farm or something..."

The music finished. I held my glass up to him as a salute, and he smiled and clinked his glass against mine.

"Old soldiers," I said.

He nodded his head, and said with a wry smile, "Yes, old soldiers."

We drained the last of the beer, and banged the glasses down on the table.

"Right, you put some new music on while I clear this away."

The music flowed, and in a few moments the dinner dishes were sorted. Mr Wilson took the candles and sat them on the coffee table, poured us both a fairly generous scotch, and had retired to his usual location at the end of the sofa. There he was when I arrived, sprawled back, more than half his scotch gone, holding his wrist with one hand, resting his hands on his head, eyes closed, legs wide apart - gently snoring.

I didn't want to leave him alone, and I didn't want to disturb him, so I found a book in his collection, and settled at the other end of the sofa. I sipped my scotch, and eased my way into the book.

After a couple of pages he grunted in his sleep, and I looked over to see that fly of his pyjama pants was gaping open and his cock was stiffening up. Mr Wilson's eyes seemed to be moving even though his eyelids were closed and his breathing was just the same as ever. I guessed it was just the usual hard-on we get when we're asleep. Normal enough, but I couldn't take my eyes off his cock.

After all the talk about India, I thought to myself, I never expected to see a cobra in the living room.

The idea was so ridiculous, the whole situation was so ridiculous, that I got the giggles.

My efforts to control my laughter made me shake the sofa and Mr Wilson stirred.

Bleary, half awake, he suddenly realised about his condition, and rushed his hands to protect his modesty. He tried to stand up, then realised that his cock would be even more exposed, and he stopped, looked at me, stunned, blushing.

"Mr. Wilson? Stop. It's ok."

And then, without really thinking of the consequences, I leaned over, looked him in the eyes, and pulled his hands away. His cock stood up, his shame pushing it to new heights. I took a grip around the base of his cock, and pulled it down, stretching the skin tighter.

"No, please don't, please."

I thought he would push me aside, that our friendship years would be over, but he didn't. I guess the alcohol gave us both the courage we needed. I could feel his pulse racing through my hand. "I'm not going to hurt you, but you can't offer, if you're only going to pull away when someone accepts your offer."

I don't know what'd come over me, but I knew if I didn't take this opportunity I'd never get another. I held his cock firmly and took a nice long lick across his cock head.

He moaned, and stammered, "N-no, please..."

He put a hand on my shoulder, but still made no move to push me away. I began to think he was accepting, maybe welcoming the attention, and his protests were weakening. Maybe he was even holding me there.

I loved the fragrances of his groin - I knew he'd used baby talcum powder earlier, but now the smell of the talc combined with the meaty, musky fragrances from around his balls was captivating me. I swallowed as much of his cock as I could, working it over with my tongue, slowly enticing him to cum.

He began breathing in through his mouth, and when I played with his balls he moaned, and thrust his cock out toward me.

"Oh God, please, no..." he murmured, in a husky sounding voice.

I began to lick faster and harder, tasting his pre-cum, and feeling him tense up, almost against his better judgement. It was too late now, his body had taken over from any inhibitions he might've had. He placed one hand on the top of my head, and the other on my neck and he held me how he wanted me. I wrapped thumb and fingers around his balls and stretched them, squeezing tightly. I tightened my lips around his cock and sucked him for all I was worth, working my tongue relentlessly over his cock head. He moaned a glorious protest and bucked, gasping for precious air, and then with a couple of crazed thrusts, the salty sweetness of his cum filled my mouth.

After a few moments he took his hands off me, and I could get up. He was lying back, gasping for breath through his open mouth, eyes shut. I took a swig of the scotch, swilled it in my mouth, and leaned over, and fed the cum and scotch into his open mouth. His eyes opened, surprised, and he choked a little. Then he relaxed, and with a little nervous twitch, opened his mouth again to receive. I dripped the last drops in and finished with a kiss. He grabbed me and held me tight, and kissed me. He kissed me again - slow, lingering.

He opened his mouth to say something.

I smiled, and held my hand up to hush him.

"Now you're awake, I can go home. I didn't want you waking up and finding I wasn't here."

I leaned over, and kissed him on the forehead.

"Good night, sleep well, I'll see you in the morning," I whispered.

I turned and left him.

"Wait. Wait!"

I heard him call.

I kept going.

It was better that way.

I had urgent work to do at home.

<<<<<< || >>> Mr Wilson's story - part two >>>

curation: dsincubus.tumblr.com

curation: iloveoldsenior.tumblr.com

Viktor's story - part 1

Father, do you have a bucket list - you know, a list of things you want to do, experiences you want to have, places you want to go ... ?

The year I turned 40 was a transformative year for me. I didn't have a bucket list as such, but a lot of things - good things - happened for the first time, for me. I began to learn to play the classical guitar. I did some travel and I lost my virginity for the second time - I fucked a man.

It didn't begin as a New Year's resolution, rather, a few days after, I realised that this was the year I wanted/needed to make things happen. I was essentially alone in the world. My parents were dead, and my brother had no part of my life. I had friends, and, after taking stock, I realised that what I needed to do was to put together a family of my own choosing and allowing other to choose me.

I decided I would like to learn to play music, and it seemed to me that the least horrible sounds in those awkward learning stages come from a guitar. Dear God, imagine learning the bagpipes! Even at 40 I still had this fantasy about being a rock star guitarist. A faint, wispy fantasy, not a real fantasy.

I placed a card in the newsagents and at the supermarket for a guitar tutor. A number of people replied ranging from a Rod Stewart clone (complete with tartan and straw-man hair), an earnest woman in a porridge cardigan, and a West Indian gentleman who'd inhaled a great deal of sacred incense. I'd all but given up when I got a call from Viktor, a Russian émigré, and retired solicitor.

Viktor agreed to take me on as a new pupil. I liked him from our first meeting at a local café. He helped me pick out a guitar, and we scheduled the first lessons. 

Viktor's teaching method was something like ta'i chi. Very slow, methodical, accurate - then repeat until the speed came effortlessly and naturally. My fingers learned to find the strings, the fretboard; my hands learned to synchronise - best of all, the focus was just learning on how to do it right, rather than unlearn something wrong. I made a commitment to practising. Even secretly at work, "playing" the edge of the boardroom table during the endless, boring meetings. I overheard one of my assistants commenting that she could tell when a meeting had gone on too long because 'instead of drumming his fingers on the table when he's pissed off he drums them under the table...'

In a few months my efforts began to pay off. I moved from random notes and chords pulled out of the ether into recognisable tunes, and music followed. An expert would be repulsed, of course, but to me having music flow from my very own fingers was such a joy. I could see how far I'd progressed, and, happily, the road just continued onwards. Every time I mastered some tiny technique Viktor would beam, and I'd feel so proud. I could get better and better at this forever, and it'd still not be enough for me.

By the time winter rolled around my skills had improved enormously, and Viktor and I had become good friends. One of the things that took a while to dawn on me was that Viktor had only the barest trace of an accent. His accent was so good I simply didn't notice. His mother had been an English language teacher, his parents were Anglophiles, and he'd been raised on a steady diet of 'The Goon Show' and 'Hancock's Half Hour' radio shows broadcast by the BBC. He could do a terrific impersonation of Neddy Seagoon.

I turned up for my usual lesson early on Saturday afternoon. The weather was ugly, the weatherman was promising snow. I played my practise piece for Viktor, but his heart wasn't really in it. We talked and played and laughed. He was fun to be around, and the hours slipped past.

"Why don't you stay and have some dinner with me? It's very humble - beef casserole with cranberries. Should be reindeer with lingonberries, but, it's a price we have to pay for living here."

I looked out the window at the worsening weather and said, "Thank you, that'd be great."

"Good, good! Now I will get us some zakuskis and we can have a drink. I'm glad, I don't like to drink alone."

"Zakuskies?"

"Finger foods with drinks. Means you can drink more. Excuse me for a moment."

Viktor turned on his rather expensive looking stereo and the room filled guitar music.

"This is Russian guitars - they have seven strings."

He saw my arched eyebrow.

"No, really, traditional guitars had seven strings."

He lit some candles and placed them on the coffee table, smiled, and left me to get the drinks and snacks. I felt slightly anxious about what the extent of the drinking might be. It's one thing to have a pint or two, but vodka? Now that's another story entirely. An uncomfortable story from my student days and lessons learned from excessive vodka consumption.

I relaxed on the leather sofa and realised that I kind of missed Viktor when he wasn't around. I felt a bit stupid about that, he was only in the kitchen, and, what was this about anyway? Missing him. Ridiculous. I fell to musing about the nature and cause of the bulge in his pants - I'd been staring at his crotch while Viktor demonstrated playing techniques.

The door opened and Viktor returned with vodka, ice, and glasses jingling on a silver tray. He set the glasses down, and was gone again, and promptly returned with a large tray of interesting looking food.

Viktor poured the vodka and handed me a glass. I stood, and we touched glasses.

He looked me in the eye. "Good health!"

He downed the ice cold vodka, and I followed suit.

He passed me a little silver plate with slices of lemon. "Take a couple and suck the juice out."

I was thinking about tequila drinking games, and how ...

"Some pickled cucumbers..."

"Thank you," I found the contrast bite of the alcohol, acid juice, and then salty tang quite stimulating. "Is this part of the ritual?"

"Absolutely," he said, "And now salmon on the dark rye."

I nodded and smiled. It turned out zakuskis was a very delicious way to spend the afternoon.

Without delay Viktor poured a second glass, and, looking me in the eye, "To beautiful music!"

"Beautiful music indeed!"

I drained my glass, and reached for the lemon. This approach to drinking with deliberate food servings felt rather more civilised than my teenage binges. The room began to feel quite warm, and a cozy feeling was washing over me.

Viktor refilled the glasses.

"To sweet love!"

As I followed his lead I realised, admitted, call it what you will, I had fallen in love with him. I coughed and spluttered a little at the dawning realisation. The vodka burned in my mouth. Viktor looked concerned - I waved him away.

"Sorry, I was distracted. I'm fine."

I slurped lemon juice and reflected on the new world presented to me. I was helping myself to a salmon morsel when Viktor began to play a piece on his guitar. I'd never heard the piece before. It drew me in like a bee to honey. I looked at Viktor and I was suddenly moved when I really noticed his age for the first time. He seemed to be slumping - sagging - as he played, as though the weight of the guitar was too much. He finished the song, and he put the guitar aside hastily. He coughed and stood up, swaying a little as he did so.

I stood up too, reaching towards him. I noticed his eyes were brimming with tears.

"Viktor, what is it - what's wrong?"

He choked slightly.

"It's nothing." He sniffled. "It is a sad old song about a lost lover. We Russians are all about the tragedy. You people are all about the comedy. We have lost so much, great sadness comes naturally to us."

A delinquent tear edged away from the corner of his eye and glistened down his cheek.

I reached over to Viktor and hugged him. He hesitated and then hugged me back hard. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my shoulder, feel the whisk of his stubble on my skin, and smell his cologne.

I don't know what came over me, but when we released, I grabbed him again, and kissed him, on the lips.

"I'm, I'm sorry," I stuttered.

Viktor looked surprised, and then kissed me back. Slowly, deliberately.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm a foolish old man, it's been a very long time since anyone has touched me - held me, and I have been feeling lost today - this weather - it's enough to make a saint feel - " His voice tapered off into silence.

We pulled apart and I could see the obvious swelling in his crotch. He followed my glance, and without warning he looked down, awkward and embarrassed. I took his hand, and squeezed it. He held my grip. He looked up, sniffed, and swallowed. 

I knew we'd somehow crossed a line. I - we - could either take a subtle but bold step on a new path or - I don't know - maybe we could pretend it never happened and there'd be an unfinished business with us forever. I opted for the new path. I put my hand on Viktor's chest and gently moved him backwards, and downwards into his seat.

He opened his mouth to say something, but I pressed my finger against his lips. I knelt between his knees and I loosened his belt with a tug. Viktor took a deep breath and sighed it out slowly. I opened his pants and stroked his cock through the soft white fabric. His cock twitched, attentive to my delicate touches. Viktor's eyes were shut, I could hear him breathing through his open mouth. His lips were struck together in the corner and he licked his tongue over the dried skin.

I grabbed his belt and the top of his pants, and pulled them down. Viktor lifted up his weight so I could peel his clothes off, and I pulled his underpants down to release his fine cock and balls.

An involuntary moan fled from Viktor as I wrapped my fingers around his cock, and I took a tentative lick. I'd never held another man's cock before, and so any expertise in terms of giving a man pleasure was going to based on improvisation and guess work ... I was the 40 year old virgin but there was no going back now, and I might never get another opportunity.

I licked his cock head slowly and thoroughly. I could feel Viktor's cock throbbing and swelling each time my tongue charged the sensitive skin. He'd hold his breath whenever I licked the tip and underside edges, and I enjoyed making him squirm with pleasure. He began stroking my hair and breathing heavier.

I wrapped my fingers around his balls and stretched the skin tight, and began to lick them slowly. Viktor thrust his cock towards me, and his pre-cum jewelled up on his cock tip. I became intoxicated his fragrance - his personal signature of musky ... what was that ... vanilla, pipe tobacco, cinnamon? And something else, something almost animal that I couldn't define, but I wanted more of. I licked his balls over and over, releasing and luxuriating in the heady fragrances. He shivered when I blew on his balls, murmuring noises from deep inside him.

Viktor's legs pressed hard against my shoulders, his breathing was increasingly ragged. I took his cock head in my mouth, stroking the top along the roof, while working my tongue along the underside. I felt him begin to twitch and spasm as tried to hold back from cumming. I stretched his balls tighter and while he moaned quietly in protest, he kept thrusting into my mouth. I imagined having him trussed up and at my mercy - I'd tease him to the edge for hours, keeping him on the boil until - well - maybe, maybe not.

I pressed my thumb to separate his balls and pulled them down even more, while working my tongue faster on his cock, sucking his cock in with a grip as hard as I could mange. Viktor suddenly stiffened and I felt his cock pump, and I tasted the first flood of salty sweetness as his cum began to spill into my mouth.

Viktor flopped back on the sofa and surrendered to me. I sucked every last drop from his quivering cock as he lay back, gasping. I kissed his cock, licking him clean, holding his cock tightly to prolong his hardness.

Viktor's eyes flickered open.

"That - that was wonderful, thank you," he whispered.

We sat for a few moments, the silence only broken by the howling of the wind outside.

Viktor leaned forward and stood up, and unsteadily pulled his pants up. I caught a last glimpse of his cock before it vanished, tucked away again. He helped me on to the sofa, and, never taking his eyes off me, poured and offered me a drink.

|| >>> Viktor's story - part 2 >>>

 curation: daddies-en-marcel.tumblr.com

 curation: xseniorbrasil.tumblr.com

Viktor's story - part 2

In a way I didn't know what was happening, Father, but at the same time I know it was a deliberate act on my part, and on his. I was a mess of mixed emotions, and I wanted more of him. I felt so elated, so freed, and I wanted so much more of him.

There was a solemn silence after we stood, raised our glasses and saluted each other. I could still taste Viktor in my mouth despite the smooth burn of the vodka.

Call it virgin angst or post-blow job nervousness, or call it what you will, I wanted to know if my performance was ok. Everyone wants to believe they perform magic when they're making love, don't they? I think it's the last tiny Freudian gasp - I want to please mummy, or, in this case, please daddy. I rationalised it away thinking - well, it's the first blow job I've ever given, so, well, whatever, I can get better if I wasn't good enough.

I don't know how long we stood there, in silence, each of us lost in our thoughts. Viktor put his glass down with a clink. I looked up, feeling just a little lost.

He stepped towards me, and hugged me enthusiastically.

"Thank you, you have made me feel alive again.

I smiled, feeling a wave of shyness pass over me. Damn it, I'm 40 years old, and suddenly I feel like some goofy kid on his first date.

"So, that was ok then?"

Viktor choked and coughed, and recovered, laughing a little.

"Yes, ok, very ok," he said, "You are very kind to an old man. I hope ... we ... I hope we can do that again some time. If - if you want to, that is, of course. I don't want to pressure... "

His voice faded away. He looked down, nervous.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, "I didn't expect, at my age, anyone would ever ... you know..."

"Well," I whispered, "Someone would. Did. And would again."

Silence fell between us. I could hear him breathing. Outside the storm winds were whistling around the building. A log fell in the fire send sparks up the chimney.

Viktor sighed.

"And what for you?"

I reached over and stroked his cheek, gently scratching my finger tips on his stubble. He leaned into my hand and shut his eyes.

"I seem to remember an offer of beef and cranberries."

"Oh, God, yes, of course, dinner. And after dinner...?"

"Wouldn't Benny Hill suggest a hot sausage and a couple of kiwi fruit?"

I winked at him, and he suddenly giggled like a naughty boy. He bustled off to get the meal together. A few minutes later he was back with a glass of red wine.

"Julian Bream," he said, nodded towards a cd case, as the virtuoso's music filled the room. "I met him once, with Benjamin Britten. This is the Nocturnal Britten wrote for him. Please, make yourself at home, I need to excuse myself for a moment to freshen up before dinner. It'll be ready in about 30 minutes. Help yourself to more wine, it's in the kitchen."

I smiled and nodded.

After about 15 minutes I became a bored, and I resolved to refill my glass. I wandered into the cottage style kitchen - dinner smelled promising - found the wine and poured myself a welcome puddle. Returning to the lounge room I realised I hadn't been to a bathroom for some time, and I needed to have a pee before dinner. I'd never used the bathroom at Viktor's house, but after our afternoon intimacies - well, too late for issues of that kind.

I stepped through the door into the passageway in search of the bathroom. The floor was covered in thick Caucasian type carpets, and my footsteps were effectively silenced. I could see light coming from a room that I guessed was Viktor's bedroom. As I got closer I could hear noises coming from the room. Intrigued, I was even quieter, and I peeped through the keyhole.

I was nonplussed to see Viktor, naked, sitting on the edge of the bed, masturbating. I actually felt slightly annoyed, and jealous. If you were going to do this you could've invited me... I suddenly felt embarrassed, shy, frightened about what I'd say if I was found out. As much as I wanted to stay and watch, to join him, I didn't want to be discovered, not like this.

The phone rang. I jumped in fright. I heard Viktor give a disappointed grunt, and he answered the call. I took the opportunity to find the bathroom and then to return to the warmth and light of the lounge. I looked through his music collection for something a little more soothing than the repetitions of the Nocturnal. I went with Debussy, being particularly careful about how I handled the discs.

I was just taking a sip of wine when Viktor came in, apologising for the delay - his sister had called. He'd changed into a blue checked shirt and I noticed for the first time how his eyes were light blue around the pupil, darker blue towards the iris edges. For some reason they reminded me of the eyes of husky dogs.

We chatted and laughed over a leisurely dinner. Viktor's casserole, served with jacket potatoes, and a salad of red cabbage and beetroot with horseradish dressing, was delicious. He talked about his memories of his Russian childhood, of escaping in the depths of winter in a horse drawn sledge being pursued by some unknown militia. How they'd spent time in Norway before finally finding refuge here.

"Zaedkami?"

"I'm sorry, what?" 

Viktor chortled. "Sweet afters - dessert?"

I nodded, and Viktor presented an elegant baked apple, stuffed with fruit mince. He drizzled honey and cream over the fruit, and tucked in with gusto. 

"These are good for you," he said with a grin, "They make your blood run faster, makes your skin smooth, make you look good."

As much as I enjoyed the food and his company, I couldn't focus on much more than having sex with Viktor. It was as though the lid was finally off for me. I wanted him very much. I wanted to feel his warmth, the touch and taste of his skin. The lust for him was already making my cock uncomfortably hard, and I wasn't paying much attention to his chatty conversation.

We finished out dinner with coffee. Viktor left me in the lounge while he cleared up the dishes. When he returned we sat and talked for a few minutes and then I felt I had better go. I stood to go.

"No, I think you should stay here. You'll freeze to death waiting for buses in this snow."

He looked worried.

"Are you sure this isn't inconvenient?"

"No! I insist. Besides, you haven't had zaedkami."

"What? Not more dessert, I've eaten too much already."

"No, not that kind of dessert..."

He looked away, and I stared at the delicate skin under his ear. I had a momentary fantasy about if I was a vampire I would bite him right there, right now. Blood lust! My cock twitched appreciatively. I swallowed and permitted myself a glance at Viktor's crotch. The bulge of his cock and balls was clearly evident. The cd finished and in the deafening silence I could hear the clock ticking.

I cleared my throat. He looked back at me, flicking his eyes over the swelling in my pants before looking up to me. He took a breath as if to speak. I held my hand up to stop him. I looked him in the eye and deliberately undid the top button of my shirt. He stared, motionless. 

I undid the second button, and rubbed my fingers slowly over my chest. He swallowed and licked his lips. His eyes never left mine, he was captivated. I stood with my shirt undone.

"Now," I whispered.

He was out of his chair, and after a flicker of hesitation, he reached in and tentatively brushed his fingertips to my chest. I flinched from the shock of his touch, and saw the immediate hurt on his face. He jerked his hand away. I caught it, and pressed it back against my heart. He looked back at me, and I nodded. I reached around him, and hugged him to me, crushing his hand between us. He leaned in and rested his head on my shoulder.

"Yes?"

He nodded, his head rubbing my shoulder.

I released him a little, and I undid the buttons on his shirt, exposing his vulnerable skin to my touch. I pulled his head to me and kissed him, gently, on the lips. He suddenly pulled my to him and kissed me, and kissed me again, fiercely, holding me tightly in rush of passion.

We pulled apart and he looked at me, seemingly shocked at his emotional outburst. I stepped in and pulled his belt buckle open, and pulled his pants down a little, and then paused.  

"Yes," he said, in a determined voice.

I pulled his pants and underwear down, and he stepped out, his hardened cock swaying. I reached for his cock.

"Not here," he hissed, "Bedroom!" He hesitated. "Just a moment... "

He scampered out of the room, and returned a few minutes later. I thought I could smell - what was that - honey? 

"Please," he said, and motioned towards the hallway. I let him lead, not wanting to let him know I knew where his bedroom was or what was happening there a couple of hours ago. His bedroom smelled of honey from the bees wax candles Viktor had lit around the room. There was no other lighting save the glow from the streetlights. 

He drew me to him, and now, slowly and calmly, kissed me; stroking my shirt off me in soft, brushing strokes. He loosened my belt and eased my slacks and boxers off, his caressing hands felt so tender, so loving. He pulled back the bed covers and settled me down into their comfortable embrace, before taking up station between my legs, his shirt - loose - tickling my bare skin.

"Please?" 

I nodded. 

Viktor closed his eyes and slowly coaxed my cock to new hardness with his attentive licking and kissing. He was slow, God, the sensation as he licked my balls in waves of three - lightly, medium, and then heavier pressure was something I'd never imagined before, much less experienced. I writhed to his touches and I wanted to grab him, roll him over and fuck him hard and fast. I closed my eyes against the distraction - I wanted to hold back as long as I could to enjoy the maximum pleasure. 

He began licking around the side of my balls, under and up the middle seam and then down looping up to the other side, and then slowly working back again. I could hold back, and I started to tense up.

"No!" 

He pressed my cock tightly at the base and held me, trembling, while I fought off my orgasm. When I'd calmed down, he gently started again. He held my cock and licked me like my cock was an ice-cream. He sucked me while stretching and working the sensitive nerves to a frenzy. And whenever he felt my cock throb in response he'd hold me tight and blow on my cock gently as if to cool me off. 

I lost track of how long, or how many times he'd held me back from cumming. I was dripping with sweat, growling and moaning inside, wanting to release, but wanting the beautiful torture to continue. I began to imagine bright flashes of colour with each lick, each caress, each stroke of his lips across my skin. 

When he took me in his mouth again we both knew there would be no holding back. He circled my balls between his finger and thumb, and pulled down slowly; and licked around and around my cock head. I felt something like a coil of energy pound up my spine and I arched my back and thrust my cock into his mouth, pumping my cum into him in as wave after wave of electrified orgasm passed over me.

I flopped back in the bed, gasping for breath, and trembling as the nerves fired and re-fired along the the length of my body. I opened my eyes to see Viktor - his eyes blue and full of love - and my cum splashed around his lips.

"Thank you," he murmured, pausing to lick my cum off his lips, "Thank you for being here with me and sharing my bed with you."

I sat up and pulled his shirt off him.

"Come here, Russian bear. Take your glasses off and let me hold you."

We snuggled together under the blankets, kissing and cuddling.

Outside the snow stopped, but we didn't notice.

<<< Viktor's story - part 1 <<< |

curation: gotsilver.tumblr.com

curation: senexbispuer.tumblr.com