Don’t Call Me Daddy


Fred thought that it was really kind of Stu to invite him to his flat-warming party. They got along well enough at work; they’d both joined the tech firm at around the same time – Stu fresh out of college, Fred after a successful first career at another company, now looking for a new challenge. They’d landed in the same team, and struck up an unlikely friendship. It didn’t seem to matter that Fred was old enough to be Stu’s father; they trusted each other – Stu appreciated Fred’s breadth of experience, and Fred respected Stu’s drive and determination to understand all the new frameworks and tools that were coming out.

The backpack was a little heavy; a box of beers and a couple of bottles of champagne turned out to weigh more than Fred had expected. But he’d never be so rude as to turn up empty-handed. It was just a short walk from the Tube, and the early evening air was cooling. Fred ran his hand over his salt-and-pepper beard, brushing away an itch.

The flat was a new build, out in north-east London, practically Essex. A bit of a trek from home, but Fred remembered the horror tales Stu had told about trying to buy the place, so congratulations felt in order – he wouldn’t have missed this for anything, wanted to celebrate with his friend. He remembered what it had been like, moving into his place with his then fiancée. Happy times. He was a few minutes late, but he pressed the intercom, and Stu buzzed him up to the 5th floor.

Not so late, it turned out; it was just Stu and Joe there. Some of the friends had cancelled, others would be along later. So they popped some beers, sat around taking shit, with X-Factor being projected against one wall, muted.

They were nearing the end of the second beer, having demolished one pizza already, when the buzzer went again. Over the next half-hour or so, several couples and groups arrived. They all clearly knew each other well; Fred felt a bit like an outsider so was happy to nurse a beer and introduce himself to people as they wandered his way. With such a young crowd he’d expected to feel a bit of a loner, but – as in the office – he just acted as himself, let his wry and slightly dark sense of humour show, and they warmed to him. It didn’t feel awkward at all.


Heather looked down at him as she knelt astride his waist, his cock buried deep inside her. Such a beautiful man, she’d just had to take him one last time before leaving. She was late, but no fucking way was she giving this cock up before they’d brought each other again. She bounced on him, driving her tight cunt over his long hard length, slapping her clit into his pelvic bone. He held her tits in his rough hands, mashing them, as he growled and cursed at her.

Come for me, you bastard, and bring me off. She could feel the sweat running down her back, her legs tiring. He sat up, took one nipple in his mouth, and fed. She threw her head back, tossing her hair aside, and let him ravage her. He had one hand in her hair, the other reaching down her back, cupping her arse, finger stroking into her crease and probing her butthole.

She was so close, but she needed more. She climbed off, knelt on the bed, arse high and tits on the mattress. He knelt behind her, slapped his hand across her arse, then ploughed roughly into her from behind. This is what she needed. His fat cock stretched and pounded into her, balls slapping her clit with each thrust, cunt filled with his meat. He had a filthy mouth, calling her a bitch, a dirty whore, ordering her to take him. She flicked at her clit as he drove into her, smothering her face in the pillows, as the pleasure tore through her and she clamped around his pulsating cock.

The fire warmed her whole body, and she collapsed to the bed, quivering. He looked as if he’d passed out from exhaustion. She glanced over at the clock. Shit, it was after eight already; Stu was gonna be so pissed.

Wiping herself off with his duvet, she dragged her ripped skin-tight jeans over her legs; her thong lost in the flat somewhere. She found her bra, thank god – she was far too blessed to be able to go without – but her blouse was ruined, an early casualty of last night’s passion. She grabbed the dude’s shirt and tied it up under her tits, and made for the door. “See ya, lover,” she called back.

She didn’t even know his name.

She met Mo and Sahar at the entrance to the Tube. Sahar looked pissed off. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Heather smiled. “I got tied up with that guy from the club.”

“Literally, I’ll bet,” Mo replied. “You’ve not even been home, have you? Slut.”

“Guilty as charged,” she admitted. “Come on, we’ll be late.”


More people were arriving all the time. The latest trio made it about a dozen twentysomethings in the flat, drinking and laughing. Stu introduced Fred to the new friends, whom he said he’d met at college. Sahar was an Indian girl, coffee-coloured skin and long black hair. Mo was of middle-eastern origins, a smartly dressed young man with a wide mouth. And there was Heather – white, heavily tattooed on the extensive amount of Escort Eryaman skin on display, purple hair up in a bun. Eyebrow and lip piercings, and when she spoke Fred noticed her tongue had been done as well.

I wonder if she’s got any more, he thought to himself. The shirt was tied tight enough, and the ripped jeans practically painted on; you’d think you’d be able to tell. Do try not to stare, you old letch, he thought.

Stu wandered back in from the kitchen, champagne bottle in hand. “I think that’s everyone,” he said, “so let’s christen this place!” He popped the cork, denting the plaster ceiling slightly, and splashing a jet of bubbly straight onto the carpet. “Oops,” he said, clamping his mouth over the bottle; that just resulted in foam jetting out of his nose. Choking, he handed the bottle over to Mo, who took it back to the kitchen to grab some flutes.

Another drink later, and someone had pulled YouTube karaoke videos up on the big projector, and fished out some Rock Star microphones. Joe was leading off with a particularly bad rendition of Sex on Fire. The gang yelled out the chorus; Fred stood to the side, singing along to himself. He did love a good bit of karaoke.

“Let’s get some classics going,” Stu said, calling up a playlist and hitting random. Fred expected some Beatles, maybe the Beach Boys… But first up it was a Spice Girls track, properly cheesy. Then he realised – this might be retro for them, but to him it was just music, the stuff he grew up with. But at least that meant he knew most of it; even the awful stuff. Especially the awful stuff.

But it was catchy, and he found himself singing along; group numbers with the others, and he gave his best Ricky Martin a spin.

Enjoying himself immensely, he didn’t notice the time, until it was too late to do anything about it. He caught up with Stu in the kitchen. “I’m not gonna make it in time for my last train,” he admitted.

“No worries man. I made up the spare bed for ya. It’s cool. Here, have another beer!”

“Cheers!” He texted home to his wife to apologise. He’d catch all kinds of shit for it tomorrow, but since there was nothing he could do about it now, he decided to enjoy the rest of the evening.


“You’ve got a great voice,” Heather shouted to Fred. She’d plumped herself down on the sofa next to him, and was trying to make herself heard over the tortured-cat sounds of the group murdering I Will Survive.

“Thanks,” he shouted back.

She wasn’t normally into older men, but this Fred was pretty buff. Rugged face with a nice trim beard. Big hands. And a confident manner. She couldn’t help wondering what those hands would feel like on her, whether that beard would be soft or rough as he drew it over her thighs… Shit, I’m so horny. I thought that session earlier was going to be enough, but no. Just try not to drool on him. But fuck, look how he’s looking at me. Raw lust burning in his eyes, like he wants to eat me alive. And fuck, do I want him to…

That gaze – a deep burning lust, a desperate hunger – reached in through her eyes and made her pussy flood and clench. She loved how such a simple thing – a tilt of the head, brushing her hair aside, stroking a tongue over her lip – could put that look in a man’s eyes, fill them with such need.

“D’you wanna have a go together?” she asked.

He choked on his beer. “Excuse me?”

She nodded to the screen. “A duet.”

He coughed himself back to normal. “Sure,” rising from the sofa. “But I get to choose.”


He stood, microphone in hand, as the intro to Private Emotion played out. He’d taken his cue from the earlier Ricky Martin success, hoping she’d know this one. She looked confident.

And hot. Smoking hot. Fred was sure she was flirting with him. But then, Fred thought every woman was flirting with him. He lived his life constantly horny, ever frustrated that his wife was not the same. She’d had a strong sex drive when they met, years ago; but it had diminished with every passing year. Fred’s stamina may have faded, but his desire still burned strong, largely unrequited.

She swayed as she sang. Fred checked out her bubble butt, wrapped so tight in those jeans. How she didn’t rip through the material he had no idea. And the shirt, clumsily tied across her tits, gave a great show of her deep cleavage and tight stomach.

If only I was twenty years younger, he thought.

Then he caught himself. If I was, then what? Then I’d just be too shy to do anything about it, he admitted. And now? Now, I’m too married to do anything about it.

It’s a private emotion that fills you tonight, he sang. Fuck, is it ever. His hard-on pressed uncomfortably against his trousers. He was glad it was dark.

He watched her face as the song ended. She looked in his eyes, licked her lips. Come to me, she sang. Cum to me.


Fred felt himself falling asleep – partly the booze, but mostly he just wasn’t as young as he used to be. The group had scattered; some on the balcony smoking, a couple making out in Eryaman Escort the darkness of the kitchen, some had left, a few zonked out on the sofa. Fred had retired to the guest room, leaving the stragglers to chat and push on through to the early hours.

He lay in the bed, thinking back over the night. Of Heather, the way he’d imagined she was looking at him. Nonsense of course; he could be her father, she wouldn’t think of him that way. The paradox of age – he still found twentysomethings as attractive as he always had, but it just didn’t work the other way around.

Regardless, the thought of her kept him awake. He’d have to do something about it. He reached down to the floor, grabbed a sock, and took matters into his own hands. Thinking of her, kneeling for him, taking him between those full pouting lips, in the way his wife now refused to do. Bending her over the back of the sofa and ploughing into that magnificent arse. Imagining how those heavy tits would sway as he pinned her to the bed and thrust deep inside her tight pussy. All the time moaning his name, telling him how big and strong he was, how he satisfied her in a way that pathetic boys her own age never could.

He came like thunder; a brilliant flash of pleasure, and deep rumbling, pulsing and throbbing that seemed to roll on forever. He hadn’t come that strongly in months; the flood of endorphins brought welcome oblivion.

When he woke, the sky had lightened to a navy blue, although the stars were still visible. Too early to start the day; he was still exhausted… But there was a pressure low in his belly that he could not ignore. Curse my aging body and bladder, he thought, pulling his boxers back on for a quick trip to the bathroom.

The other occupants of the flat were dead to the world; Fred saw a few bodies in the lounge as he passed towards the bathroom. He relieved himself and made his way back to his room.

As he stepped through the door, it was shoved closed behind him; then she was there, pressing herself against him, pushing him back onto the door, crushing her boobs on his chest and forcing her tongue into his mouth.

“Fuck, I’m so horny…”

“No, Heather, please, I can’t…”

“Shit, you’re huge.” She stroked her hand across his cock, through his boxers, then started to pull them off him. “I need you. In me. Now.”

He ran his hands down her shirt, tucked them underneath, cupped her arse; he wrapped his palm round the firm cheek and his fingers reached into the crack. Finding no knickers, and her undercarriage soaking wet, the lust flared white-hot, burning through his objections, his conscience. He grabbed her arse in both hands, lifted and spun and pinned her to the wall, then thrust fast and hard inside her. This wasn’t nice, or gentle. No foreplay, just hard fucking. They both needed it raw.

“Oh shit! Fuck yes! Harder!!” He clamped his mouth over hers, cutting off her dirty talk mid-flow, in case she woke the others. She lifted her legs, wrapped them round his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back, as he drove up and into her. She was no weight at all. It had been a quarter-century since he’d taken a woman like this. The urgency, the desperation, was almost frightening. She was so tight, yet took him so easily. He felt himself pulling at her walls, clamped round him, each time he drew back.

He needed more. He wanted to bury himself inside her. “The bed,” he said, and lifted her away from the wall, walked to the bed with her still impaled on his dick, and they collapsed onto the sheets together. She raised her arms over her head, presenting her tits; he clamped her wrists to the pillows with his strong rough hands, and feasted on her breasts. Her arms were covered in roses, and her tits in spider-webs, looking like a tattooed bikini top. He ravaged her, driving into her, through her, almost wanting it to hurt. With his wife, he had to be soft and gentle, to hold back. With Heather… The harder he thrusted, the greater the reaction. He watched her eyes, as she struggled to focus; her mouth gaping, gasping; her hands clawing at his back, driving him on. And her mouth, her beautifully foul mouth, urging him to greater efforts.

He grabbed her legs, pulled them forwards, so he knelt behind her arse and drove into her. She was shaved, a tattooed skull over her mons with her pussy as the mouth. He bottomed out inside her, slamming her cervix with each thrust, determined to stuff his whole length inside her. She came, convulsing round his cock, but he didn’t even slow down. For once, he didn’t care about the woman’s pleasure or pace. This was for him. He grabbed her tit with his spare hand, covering her pierced nipple with his palm, mauled at the flesh, feeling her tight walls milking his cock as he did so. When he came, it was sudden and strong and raw, and he barely checked himself from yelling in triumph and waking the others.

He collapsed onto her, spent, exhausted, but feeling great. Feeling a way he hadn’t felt for years. Probably for longer than she’d been alive.

“Fucking hell, Eryaman Escort Bayan that was intense,” she said, spooning into his side, stroking the hair on his chest. “Your wife’s one hell of a lucky woman.”

Guilt stabbed at him, a little. “You’d think,” he mumbled. Well, he was available any time his wife wanted him. He looked at Heather, a sheen of sweat over her inked body. “Fuck, sorry, that’s not like me at all. I…”

“Shit, don’t apologise. That was a great fuck, I’ve not been taken like that for days!”

Days. My god. He’d not been taken like that since… Since before he was married, he realised. Shit.

He pulled her up onto him, and she leant down and kissed him, tenderly this time. She sat up, in his lap, stroking his cock between her moist lips; up and down from tip to base, bringing him back to hardness, ready to slide him back inside her.


She’d woken from an intense sex dream; riding Fred while sucking off the dude from last night. Her heart was pounding and her clit tingling; she reached under the shirt and started to stroke herself towards completion. It was the early hours of the morning. Could she wake him, to make his part of the dream real? She needed a good fuck; too horny to go back to sleep.

She heard a noise – a door opening. She sat up, looked down the corridor, saw Fred heading to the bathroom. This was her chance. She rose from the couch, crept along the corridor and snuck into his room, intending to surprise him by lying naked and provocatively across the bed. But he got back much faster than she expected, so she just jumped him as he walked back in.

Now he lay, spent and content, as she played with his chest hair. It’s like he thinks it’s over, she thought. Oh no, mate – that was just the entrée; the main course is yet to come. As he pulled her back on top of him, she placed her pussy over his cock, which lay flat against his stomach. She felt her lips wrap around his shaft, and slid back and forth, smearing their juices back over him as they talked. Hard again now, she felt him rocking his pelvis, trying to guide his fat cock back inside her. Oh no you don’t, not yet. She steadied herself with a hand on his chest, over his fast-beating heart, as she teased him.

She reached down to where her lips slid over him, ran her fingers across him, and took their combined secretions to her lips. “Mmmm,” she said. She saw the lust burning in his eyes. “Fuck, I love cum,” she said. A little white lie; she didn’t mind it, but she didn’t crave it either. But she knew what he wanted to hear; to see; to feel. Driving that lust gave her power, turned her on. She took his hand, ran his fingers along his length between her lips, and brought his slimy fingertips to her mouth. She flicked her tongue over them, felt his breath catch and his cock twitch, then sucked them right to the back of her mouth, deepthroating his hand.

“Oh fuck, you cocktease,” he breathed.

She giggled, shaking her tits. “Am I being a bad girl?” she asked, head thrown to the side, pouting. “Are you gonna punish me?”

He shook his head. “Sorry; I don’t play those games. You’re no little girl. And please, don’t call me daddy. It weirds me out.”

She shrugged. and lifted more of their cum to her lips. “Your wife – does she spit, or swallow?” And sucked his fingers back into her mouth, working her tongue over them, feeling the pulse in his dick growing stronger and faster.

“Neither.” Heather raised an eyebrow, and he elaborated. “She won’t let me cum in her mouth. Not that she sucks me anymore anyway. I get to come in her pussy, or more precisely into the condom in her pussy. When we have sex at all, which is never.”

You poor bastard, she thought. She’s his wife, for fuck’s sake; doesn’t she love him?

She slid further down, along his leg, until she lay across him, cock nestled between her tits. It was so slippery, and she worked her tits back and forth over him, kissing his toned stomach as she did so. His breathless “oh fuck” made her clench down below. But she’d started something now, and she was going to finish it; her cunt would have to make do with her fingers while her mouth took its turn on his cock.

Fuck, she loved how they tasted. She licked his cock, holding it in her hands as she ran her flat tongue up the long hard length of him, sucking his tip between her lips before running them back down. Took each large, heavy ball into her mouth and rolled it ever so gently as her hand stroked him.

“Jeez, what you do to me… I’m too old to come this much…”

“Fuck that,” she said, and forced his thick cock down her throat. She’d not found a cock yet she couldn’t deepthroat and had no intention of failing now; she relaxed as she felt his head blocking her airway, and looked at him with watering eyes, bobbing and stroking the base of him, caressing his balls, bringing him to the edge.

“Fuck, here it comes,” he said soon enough. She pulled back off so that she could take it across her tongue, sucking her cheeks in as he unloaded his salty-sweetness into her mouth. When his cock stopped pulsing, and started to soften, she took her mouth back off him, and let him see his cum sliding around her tongue. “Holy fuck. A dream come true.” She closed her mouth, swallowed, showed him it was empty. He pulled her up to him, kissed her passionately.

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