My Twenty-First
On my 21st birthday I did what every mindless collegiate does and went to buy booze.
I went to the store after school and bought three dozen of the cheapest non-Light stuff I could find. I've tasted Light before and it was piss in a can. The guy at the counter, a fox, looked at my license (apparently I appear to be under the age of forty), grinned when he read the "Will be 21 on so-and-so" date, rang the stuff up and congratulated me for having the ability to legally get drunk off my ass.
I neither had nor wanted a party. I didn't know anybody well enough to invite them to my place and tear everything up for me to clean up afterward anyway. So I drove home, not opening a can because I wasn't about to risk having my pony ass brought in for DUI. My house is just twenty minutes from the store anyway.
I don't care what anyone says: Taylor Swift is a good artist. Better than the rest of the crap on the radio, at the very least. I was lucky enough to stumble on You Belong With Me and by God, I was beating my head to that shit. People looked at me through their windows like I was banging a disease-ridden monkey. I ignored them and they went on with their Dragonforce and GaGa.
I pulled into the driveway right about at "Worn-out jeans" and got out. It was a nice late-March day: no clouds, lukewarm temperature, a nice breeze that made the air smell fresh without turning the place into a refrigerator. A wonderful day to just be outside and walk for a while, enjoying the beauty of nature and the blessing of a nice day.
So I went inside and sat down on the couch. I propped my feet up on the coffee table--I broke my nose on that thing when I was two, and look at me now; up yours, coffee table!--and turned on the television and admired nature through the Idiot Box. I didn't open the beers yet. I don't know why, but the idea of drinking alone freaks me out.
There was nothing on but news and crap, of course. If only Taylor had a reality show or something that I could stumble onto.
I turned off the TV and unzipped my pants. When in doubt, whip it out, as they say. I wasn't particularly horny at the time, but at 21 that can easily be fixed in the span of two minutes. With a little anal fingering and a quick dusting off of one of my mentally archived fantasies, I was looking down at a nice, stiff horse dong, all ready to go.
I'd never actually had sex. I'm into the whole "knowing their name before banging them" thing. I'm weird like that.
What's more, I thought I might be gay. Or bi. I could still get off to females, just not as easily. I'd fantasized about a male once and nearly blew a hole in the roof in minutes; I've never had quite that reaction when thinking about women. I wanted to experiment, but I couldn't get over that whole "know their name" weirdness, so it hadn't happened yet.
Of course, as the gods of dicking around would have it, just as I started stroking I heard the familiar jangle of keys in the front door. I stuffed my package back into my pants, turned the TV on and made like I hadn't been doing anything. Years of experience has given me the ability to do all this in the span of four seconds.
It was Dad, home early, holding a pizza box and, as fate would have it (seriously, I need to find those gods and learn their ways), a twelve-pack of the exact same brand of booze I bought. Cheapness runs in the family, I guess.
"Hey, happy birthday!" he said, balancing the box in one hand while trying to close the door with his foot. The danger being apparent, I leapt into action and quickly took the precarious box with two hands, allowing him to balance and close the door.
Another day saved, another pizza eaten.
As we sat back at the table, bellies full of mushrooms and stuffed crust, he popped a Zantac and gestured to the fridge.
"I wish you'd told me you were going to get those yourself."
"I wish you told me."
He shrugged. "More to enjoy, I guess. How was school?"
"Same-old: high schoolers in big boy pants whining about their low grades while the teacher's talking. How was work?"
"Same old: college students in big boy pants whining about how much their jobs suck while they take their paycheck."
I opened the first beer of the night. "Here's to life sucking while we continue to live." I took a swallow and nearly vomited. It was disgusting. The carbonated mess burned my throat as it went down.
My disgust must have been apparent, as Dad tilted his head back and laughed. "I did the same exact thing on my twenty-first, only it was with bourbon. Thought my stomach was on fire. You'll enjoy it a little more each time you try it, I promise."
"Thanks for the warning," I spluttered. "Let's go in the living room."
We went and sat on the old leather couch in front of the TV, carrying beer cans with us. Dad opened one and downed it in three gulps. I watched the muscles of his throat work the drink down, the muscles of his right arm flex as he raised the can to his lips, and I had the dumbest idea I've ever had in my life. It was sick, it was perverted, it was wrong and it was the only thing in my head at that moment.
"I want to get piss-drunk," I said.
He looked at me in that "I completely disapprove of what you said but won't say anything about it because you're an adult now and I don't want you to feel babied anymore" kind of way, like he usually did when I swore around him.
"Why?" He asked. "It's no fun, and you'll be so sorry tomorrow. . ."
"I want to know what it feels like," I said. It was the truth; I just didn't specify the "it" in that sentence, which nullifies any moral wrongdoing on my part. It's his fault for not wanting clarity. God, I love pre-law: Could you clarify what you mean by 'is'?
He looked at me for a second, then he shrugged and said, "All right. I could unwind a little bit myself. Just try not to vomit on the floor, please."
He opened up a new can, toasted my twenty-first, and swigged. I tilted my can up and swallowed.
He didn't really notice that I wasn't drinking anything.
He went through four, five, six cans, and I just opened up new cans and pretended to drink from them. Whatever. I figured I could put them in the fridge or something.
At eight cans he started getting into that stereotypical "Hurr Durr" stupor that I always pictured drunk people got into. At ten cans he was telling me about war stories from wars that occurred before he was born. I started making stuff up and practicing a drunken laugh.
When he started on about how he fought against Benedict Arnold with Lincoln in the French Revolution, I decided to move.
I moved a little closer to him, trying to be subtle. He put his arm around my shoulder and gestured in the air as he droned on about how awesome it was when Lincoln flew in on a Falcon 100 and nuked Nagasaki. The sudden contact froze me for a second, but as he continued on I relaxed and took a deep breath.
"Hey, Dad?"
He stopped midsentence and looked right me. "Yhaeah?"
I swallowed. Now or never. Bite the bullet. Take the plunge. Sink or swim. All that bullshit.
"Um. Did you ever. You know. Experiment? In college?"
"Spearmint? Yeah, I love that shit! Best gum ever!"
"No, Dad, EX-PER-UH-MENT. You know with your sexuality and all?"
"Oh. Yeah! Jim, my roomie, he and I did the nasty a few times."
I didn't expect that and I wondered if it was like his war stories. "A. . .few times?"
His face instantly grew somber. "Yeah. It was amazing. Better than any girl I've ever been with--don't tell your mother that."
Mom had been dead for six years. "I won't. But if you liked it then why did you. . you know. . ."
"Come on! It was the seventies!" As if that answered my question perfectly.
I tried a new route. I leaned up against him a little. "Did you ever. . .think about doing it again?"
He paused for a minute. "Sometimes."
I leaned in closer to his ear. A bulge was forming in my crotch. "You think you. . . want to do it now?"
He set his beer down and looked at me with his big drunk eyes. "You know," he said, whispering a little, "maybe I could."
I was about to put forth another little suggestion but was interrupted by the sudden kiss Dad planted on my lips.
It felt good. It felt really good. I could feel his breath against mine, a shuddering, gasping, horny breath. Our tongues intermingled and I felt his circling my mouth while mine circled his.
There was something off. I couldn't figure out what. You know that feeling you get when you walk into a room you've been in a million times before, but something changed while you were away, and now when you walk in you stop and immediately notice something just isn't how it should be? That's what it felt like. A nagging buzz that said "Something should be here that isn't."
I pushed the thought away, back to the clutter corner with all the thoughts of incest, and enjoyed the frenching.
I don't know how long we just sat there and kissed, but it eventually escalated. It became less kissing and more licking eachother's faces. He nibbled my ear and I licked his nose and we kissed again and again.
It was hot. We were hot. I felt his hands on me, touching my face and moving down my chest and back. I put my hands on his chest and felt the muscles beneath his shirt. He ran a hand through my mane.
Then his hands found what they wanted. He stuck a hand down into my pants and felt the bulge that had grown. He unzipped me and my rock-hard cock flapped out, wet with precum and ready for action. I brought my arms up under his shirt and removed it, exposing his hot body. I could smell the BO from under his arms, and the sticky scent only flared up my passion. I put my nose under his arm and licked the sweaty pit, tasting his sweat on my tongue.
I attacked his zipper, unloosening his pants and freeing that big bulge as fast as I could without injuring him. It flopped out like mine did, and it sat there, softly beating, leaking precum.
And, dear God, the SMELL.
His cock, his pre, his balls, his sweat, his body; it emitted a strong, masculine scent that burned through my brain and set my body on fire. I inhaled it. I buried my nose between his leg and his nuts and just inhaled that area. I moved my head up, smelling and licking everything I touched: his bellybutton, his pointed nipples, his neck.
My body shaking with lust, I said in my breathiest, neediest voice, "Oh, Daddy, I want you in me."
He felt my needy ass with his hands, kneading it, preparing it. "You want be daddy's little slut?"
"Yes, Daddy, I want to be your dirty little slut, use me, Daddy, use your slut, I want your cum in me, in me."
"Good sluts bend over," he whispered.
I obeyed and got on all fours on the couch, my empty rear facing him. I wiggled my butt and raised my tail. "I'm a good slut, Daddy, can I have a reward for being such a good slutty boy?" I stretched my cheeks with my hands. "Please, Daddy? PLEEAAASSEE?"
"Oh, hell yes," I heard him whisper. "Yeah, beg your Daddy, Daddy might give it to you if you beg."
So I begged. I raised my tail and bared my hole and said the dirtiest things that came to my mind while he panted and stroked himself.
I nearly blew my load when I felt him press his hard, wet cock against my butthole. He rubbed his shaft up and down a couple of times, rubbed right against my tailhole. And then I ceased to be a virgin.
It pressed in me, my unused cheeks pushed outward to allow the dominant tool inside. I felt the warmth of his pre coating me, the pulse of his veins beating against me as the throbbing need of his hardness filled me.
"Oh, hell yeah," he said, "so tight, so good! Mmmph!"
When he was deep enough that I could feel his heavy balls press against my lower ass he pulled out and began to thrust, hard. He pounded me like a bitch, pumping his meat into my aching, needy asshole.
"More!" I screamed. "Harder, Daddy! Do me harder!"
The couch rocked with our movements, him shoving it into me and me begging for more.
"Oh, God, so thick! Harder! Split me in half, Daddy!"
I could feel his body preparing, his balls gurgling, his cock throbbing; all those years since his college experience building up into an explosive release that would fill me to overflowing. He bit my shoulder so hard that I whimpered, and his thrusting hit rapid speed and intensity until he finally shot everything he had into me, moaning and gasping. I felt it fill me, warm and thick and sticky, flooding into me more and more. I felt the pressure build up in my ass as it took more and more cum.
"Take every drop, cumslut," he whispered. "Every. Single. Drop. I want all my jizz in you."
When he finally finished, he slowly pulled out of me with a wet "schlerp" sound. His cock was immediately followed by a small flooding of cum spilling out onto the couch, white and creamy.
I hadn't cum yet. I was still horny. I raised up and turned around. He held his cock up and I licked it until it was clean, nice and clean of my ass and his cum. My first taste of semen was the same as he said it'd be for beer: nasty at first, but then I grew to love it. I slobbered over that meat and rubbed the smell of my ass on my body while he rubbed my ears and moaned.
I would have gone until he blew in my face, but he stopped me. I looked into his eyes. All the smells of our bodies mingled together and rocked my hips in spasms, but there was one part I hadn't gotten to smell yet.
"Daddy, I want your ass on me," I said. "Sit on me, Daddy, I want to be your pleasure toy."
He grinned, and when he did that I would have let him do anything, ANYTHING to me. All the disgusting sex acts you see on the Internet, I'd let him do all that to me and I'd beg him for more just to have him grin at me like that.
"Lay down," he said.
I lay down on my back, my hammering cock sticking almost upright, my face looking up. He got on all fours and turned, and his beautiful butt hung over my face, so close I could almost have it. He slowly set his rear down on my face.
My daddy was sitting on my face, and I loved it. I smelled his ass so much; I never wanted to smell anything again. It was so wet from his sweat and slippery that I had no trouble sticking my tongue inside and feeling around, but it wasn't enough. I pressed my face upward, pulled his ass toward me, and my muzzle became his dildo as he slowly slid down, accommodating my nose and mouth.
I felt him clinch instinctively, and buried my nose a little deeper, just a little deeper in, his tail over my head. The smell was so strong that I blew my load all over myself and him, but I kept going and stayed hard. I felt him jerking my cock, I licked the deep inners of his ass, he slid up and down my face like the toy I was, and we both exploded on eachother.
He gently slid off of me. I was reluctant, I wanted more of his horsey ass on my face, but I let him off. His scent stuck to me and I licked my lips. I saw his chest, and my chest, and the couch, all covered in white, sticky cum.
I got up and kissed him. We hugged our wet, naked bodies together and he licked the taste of ass off my lips.
"That was so good," I said. "I love the way you smell. . .I love it so much. . ."
"I love how tight you are, how. . .submissive."
We broke away. He went to get towels. I bumped the table a little bit.
Remember what I said earlier about something being missing? I figured out what it was when I bumped that table.
There was no alcohol on his breath.
I looked at all the open cans on the table. They were full. All of them. The ones I used and the ones he used.
I thought he was drunk. He thought I was drunk.
But neither of us were.
Interesting.