An Extremely Unlikely Story

This story is not very good and is, actually, quite depressing at the end. I say this now so that you can't complain later. Well, you can, but not with any justification! The story does not have a happy ending, so if that's important in your erotica I suggest you look elsewhere, because this story is definitely not for you!

Obviously, this is in the 'Gay' category, so the fact that there is sex between men should be pretty obvious as well. The story also contains some reluctance, though not much, some references to child abuse (although definitively NOT child sexual abuse - let me make that clear right now) and more references to females than might be expected from a story in this section.

I won't tell you to enjoy this story, because I rather doubt you will!

Sometimes, just sometimes, my daughter, Jade Louise Anderson; named after her two grandmothers, finds my predilection for the male arse a positive thing.

Her mother, God Rest her Soul, did not ever find out about my perverse desires for sticking my cock in a young man's arse, but that was because she had already passed before I had experienced it for the first time. I was twenty-three and the only remaining parent of a nine-month old little girl who now depended on no-one but me for absolutely everything.

Fuck, that frightened the life out of me! The responsibility of being a father was bad enough, although I had a decent job as a Graphic Designer, that - at least - allowed me to work from home a lot of the time.

But although I had learned the intricacies of changing a dirty baby bum and (thank god) she was weaned off a pure milk diet, I really struggled to begin with. Just how warm should the bottle be? How much talcum powder is too much? What the fuck is that red rash on her butt?

Then came teething and Jade really suffered badly there. For weeks, my poor little baby cried and screamed as I desperately poured tube after tube of Bonjela into her mouth to try and alleviate some of the pain.

Oddly, potty training barely happened at all. Jade went from dirtying her pull-ups to going to the toilet without accidents in a matter of a few days, which was a massive relief. Whilst other parents at nursery school (almost all mothers who had long, painted fingernails and too much make-up on) got upset, angry or embarrassed that their kids couldn't manage to hold it for a minute, Jade was quickly toilet perfect.

As a responsible parent, I had to keep a spare set of clothes in a rucksack for Jade to change into in the event of, what the nursery referred to as "an inevitable accident". Eventually, of course, she eventually needed to change into them, but that was because an obnoxious little shit called Barnaby (really? Fucking Barnaby???) pushed her over in the mud and she was filthy. It was at that point that we found that the spare set of clothes that had been in her rucksack for several months was at least two sizes too small. Nursery called me, concerned that I was struggling financially (I wasn't) and offering me the services of a second-hand clothing shop where I could get stuff on credit if I needed it. I made it clear that it was simply an oversight based on knowing my little girl didn't mess herself, but still! That was an embarrassing pick up!

Jade loved school and all the pretty little girl things that, as a guy, I had no fucking clue about. But, as a responsible and loving father, I quickly learned. Ballet class on a Saturday morning, followed by football (Jade was tall, even at a young age, and naturally gifted as a goalkeeper) and then we went to the cinema in the evening to watch the latest dumb animated movie.

Sunday was also busy with more football in the morning (she played for two different clubs, managing - somehow - to keep each in the dark about the other), followed by both of us going on a bike ride to McDonald's for lunch and the cycling wherever the wind (or, more often, the rain) took us.

Sunday evening was homework time and I never once had to argue with her to get her to do the damned thing, followed by tea and then daft shit on TV until it was time for bed. By the time she was seven, she was taking herself off to bed and I would just come in when she was finished (she opened the door to let me know I was welcome to come in) and give her a kiss on the forehead before reading a chapter of whatever book we were on at the time, one more forehead kiss and off I would go.

So where, I don't hear you ask, did I find out about my little peccadillo? How did I learn just how much I loved fucking a guys arse? Well, for those who don't know, one arse is very much like another. It was often a wonder to me how Sarah and I had gotten pregnant with Jade in the first place, since both she and I loved anal that much. Sarah had been my first anal fuck, but I had quickly come to enjoy it and, more often than not, I would unload myself in her rear entrance rather than at the front. She loved it (having been having anal almost since she had lost her virginity) and so did I.

That being the case, fucking an arse is fucking an arse. I loved the tightness of it. The roughness. The more dry friction that a pussy just can't match. Don't get me wrong, I loved pussy (and still do), but there was (and is) just something... I can't explain it better than that, Just...something...about fucking an arse that I just can't help loving.

Am I bisexual? Yes. Have I had a cock in my own arse? Also, yes. Do I prefer to be the fucker than the fuckee? That's three in a row. When did I get my first male arse? About three months after my wife died.

It's not a great story, nor one I am particularly proud of. Sarah had been ill for some time, although we didn't realise how ill until almost the end. She coughed a lot, but weirdly not as much during the pregnancy, but she'd coughed a lot for years and didn't worry about it. She went for regular tests that always came back dry, so we just assumed there was something odd about her bronchial tubes and ignored the signs as things got worse after Jade was born.

Could she have been saved? The doctors tell me she couldn't, but they may just have been trying to make me feel less guilty. Whatever the case, within three months of Jade being born, the coughing was so bad I insisted she go for another check-up.

Thanks to the wonders of the NHS GP booking systems, it was almost another month before she finally saw a doctor and three more weeks before seeing a specialist and, by then, there was nothing that could be done.

Sarah and I couldn't believe it. All those checks. All that time. Nothing. And now? "Sorry Miss Willis, Mr. Anderson, I'm afraid there is nothing we can do to treat you." That was it. "Sorry, old chap, your girlfriend's about to snuff it. And you've got a little baby? Oh, well. Tough titties and all that! Don't forget to give us a good review when it's all over, there's a good boy!"

OK, that last bit is untrue, but I still - all these years later - blame the doctors for not doing more. It's probably unfair. All the research I've done since suggests it would probably have been too late anyway. But still.

Sarah and I had planned to get married some time before, but then little Jade had started to grow in Sarah's tummy and all the money we had set aside went on baby stuff (which all parents will know costs a fucking fortune!) So, we were looking to do the deed in a few years - probably with our little girl as bridesmaid.

Now we didn't have a few years - and probably not even a few months. So, without telling Sarah, I got all the paperwork in place and, just two days before Jade turned nine months old, I took Sarah (and Jade) to the Registry Office.

Her parents were there (mine were both long dead), as was her little sister, Sophie. Sarah beamed at me when she realised what was happening and then cried, since she was only wearing faded jeans, a t-shirt and a hooded jacket bearing the name of some crappy rock band that she was into.

Of course, I'm not that big a dick! I would never make someone get married looking like they've been dragged in off the street. Sophie and I had picked out a simple, but elegant, outfit for Sarah to get married in. She looked beautiful. I got Jade dressed up and then put on a penguin suit that I'd hired and we got married. It was a small ceremony, without the pomp and circumstance Sarah had dreamed of and that we had originally planned to go through but it was still the best moment of my life (after Jade's birth, that is). I like to think Sarah was happy enough. I hope so.

Amazingly, Sarah managed to go through the entire ceremony, short though it was, without coughing once. Jade, dressed in her little white outfit, was an angel, throughout, although she would throw up on grandma's shoulder as soon as the handful of pictures had been taken, which grandma never let her live down!

The new Mr and Mrs Anderson left the Registry Office and proceeded onto our honeymoon. Which was a single-person room at the local hospital. Sarah never left that shitty little room alive again.

All of which is not getting to the point and I know that. I just need you to understand that I wasn't always a complete dick. Notwithstanding, about three months after Sarah died, Jade turned one year old. Happy Birthday, kid, Daddy's gonna fuck him some arse.

Yeah.

His name was Simon, but that's not really important. Simon was a colleague of mine who had taken over the bigger parts of the project I had been working on when Sarah had died because I was a) distraught and b) suddenly a single parent to a baby whose age was still being registered in months.

Simon was a godsend. He and I had an almost psychic connection. We had been brought onto a project to design the interior of a new office building for a major car company and I had been at the task for about three days before all things went to shit. Still, I had tried my best to continue, but it soon became obvious that I couldn't carry on and complete the task on time.

So, in came Simon. Nice kid. Just turned nineteen. He and I had a long meeting about what we wanted to do, based on the requests by the car company and then he ran off with it. He and I would get together once a week to ensure that he was still on the right track and, as the weeks passed and I got more and more into my role as a work-at-home daddy, I started to take back some of the design work.

With Simon's help, we managed to just about get finished on schedule, although the final few days had seen neither of us sleep very much in order to meet the deadline.

The presentation was due on Jade's first birthday and there was fuck-all I could do about it. I tried to get them to move it, but with public holidays and the like all coming up, the meeting could not be delayed. I was offered the day before Jade's birthday, but we were struggling to hit the deadline as it was, so I declined and just hoped she wouldn't care. Her being just one year old meant that she had no fucking clue, of course, but I still felt like an absolute twat.

The presentation went swimmingly, as they say. The car company loved the designs and the way the offices flowed and all that Feng Shui shit that we incorporated into it (Feng Shui was big at the time) and we left happy in a job well done.

Simon wanted to celebrate. I wanted to get home to my little girl who was currently staying with grandma and grandad and probably being spoiled rotten.

So we compromised. Simon would come to my house (he'd been many times, it was nothing new) and I'd get my in-laws (Louise and Martin) to bring Jade home. They only lived about ten minutes walk away and I could have picked her up, but the Louise always said she and Martin ("especially Martin!") needed to walk more and often used pushing Jade in her stroller as an excuse to do so. The weather was cold, but dry and they were more than happy to walk, so I let them.

We had a little celebration for Jade's birthday, which was nothing more than a bit of cake (lovingly baked by Louise who never allowed Jade's birthday to pass with anything less than a culinary concoction of her own) and a sing-song. Simon, whom Jade knew quite well, happily joined in. Then, as it would soon start getting dark, Louise and Martin left for home. I offered a lift, obviously, but without any expectation that they would accept and was not disappointed to be right.

Jade, being one, was soon tired and I packed her off to bed. This left Simon and I downstairs on the sofa with a half-opened bottle of wine on the table before us.

I still don't know quite how it happened. We were talking about pointless shit - I had a rule about not discussing work stuff at home, unless I was actually working - and there was a football game on the TV that neither of us was really paying much attention to. I think I fell asleep. Fuck that; I know I fell asleep! Not for long - maybe five, ten minutes. But however long it was, it was long enough.

Simon had finished the wine bottle and, when I ran through everything in my mind later, it occurred to me that I'd had maybe a glass of the stuff, maybe a bit less. Simon drank the rest. Dutch courage, perhaps? Maybe. Maybe the guy was a piss-head.

Whatever the truth about Simon's drinking habits, I awoke to Simon's attractive, blonde head buried in my shoulder. He was asleep, with his mouth wide open and snoring, lightly.

I giggled when he snored and I sounded like a little girl when I did so. Simon snorted and woke up, slightly. "Hzzwzzftzzutiszz", he said.

"Fifty-two," I said.

"What?"

"I don't know. Fifty-two."

"Fifty-two what?"

"Listen, man, I didn't have the first fucking clue what you said, so I assumed it was a question and I answered it!"

"What fucking question has the answer fifty-two?"

"What's fifty-one plus one," I replied and laughed.

"Fuck you," Simon said, smirking at me.

"Maybe later," I replied without thinking, only for me to realise just an instant too late what I had said. "Oh, fuck! Sorry, man," I gabbled. "I didn't mean...fuck!" I leapt from the sofa and stepped back in horror at what I had done.

I dropped my head for a moment and gathered myself. "Sorry," I repeated, looking back at Simon. "That was my go-to reply when Sarah said 'fuck you' and... I just came out with it. I didn't mean anything by it. Honest!" I was babbling now, and I knew it. I seriously doubted Simon would say anything that might get me into trouble and, besides, the world back then wasn't quite as litigious as it is now, what with all the #MeToo shit over the past few years. Nineteen years ago, you could make an off-hand comment like that without your entire world being dragged out of your arse for it.

I expected a 'no problem', or an 'sure, whatever' or something like that. Perhaps, if the world was going to shit on me from a great height, something like 'fuck you, arsehole' or 'I'm going to fucking report you to HR' might have come out. Instead, Simon said "Pity."

"Sorry, what?"

"I said 'pity'," Simon answered, looking me right in the eyes. "I almost thought you were offering!"

I was dumbstruck for what felt like an hour, but was probably about ten seconds. "I... er... I mean... um... wow! I... I didn't know! Sorry!"

"Didn't know what?"

"That you were... you know!" Even nineteen years ago, simply coming out with the word 'gay' was a big thing.

"I'm not," Simon replied. "Well... not entirely."

"I... er... What?" I was flummoxed.

"I like girls," Simon explained. "But I don't dislike guys."

"You've slept with guys?"

"And girls, yes."

"But you're just a kid," I said, incredulous and ironic, seeing as I was only a few years older than he was.

"So? Sex is sex, man," Simon answered. "I'm young - I get it where I can, when I can and as often as I can for as long as I can!"

"Huh," was all I could muster. Yeah, that's me. The last of the great conversationalists! I thought for a moment, before continuing with: "I still didn't mean anything by it, you know. It was... just something I say."

"And as I said, pity," Simon answered. He was looking at me with an intensity I found oddly disturbing.

As was my wont at the time (and still is, to a degree), when utterly confused and cornered like this, I threw myself into the ridiculous. Flamboyantly, in a way that I thought looked and sounded like a guy who knew what he was about, but came off sounding like Dame Edna, I said "so, if I just came up to you and kissed you, you'd be fine with that, huh?"

"Probably," Simon answered. "Assuming you're a good kisser?"

"The fucking best," I said, affecting a self-confidence I certainly didn't feel.

"Then yes," Simon said.

"Oh." I deflated a little, here. My mock-confidence was shot.

Seeing that I wasn't about to step over and mash my mouth onto his, Simon did it instead. I had no time to react before he closed the three feet or so there was between us at this point and kissed me, lightly on the lips. I was completely dumbfounded and just let him do it.

Finding no obvious resistance, Simon leaned back in, put his hand behind my head, and kissed me, deeply. For a moment, maybe two, I kept my mouth closed, but it felt so good and I'd not been kissed like this since my wedding day and I missed it and I needed it and, fuck it, I wanted it. So I kissed him back.

Tentatively, at first, you can be sure. That first real kiss with a new person matters so much, I find. You can learn a lot about a person by how they kiss. It can be the start of a long-term thing or it can kill a relationship stone dead. I didn't realise it at the time, but I wanted, so much, for this to be the former.

Still, Simon was insistent. He understood, I think, that I was nervous and he knew I was inexperienced with kissing a guy, so he took the lead and I happily let him. But after only a few moments, I had my hands on his face and we were kissing like our lives depended on it.

It was the hottest, most erotic thing I think I'd ever done. All the time (and times) with Sarah, the dates and kisses (and more) with my previous girlfriends, they were nothing compared to this. Not that they weren't nice - they were. Many of them extremely so. Some of them nicer than this. But there was an intensity and a feeling of wrongness that was, yet, so right, that made this kiss the most intense I had ever had.

We kissed for forever, it seemed. There is something... I don't know... intrinsically masculine about kissing a guy. Girls are soft, pliable. Their faces are smooth and their lips are velvety and slightly moist. Guys are rough, rigid. Unless they shaved less then five minutes ago, their faces are stubbly and their lips are rough and dry. It's just so totally different. And I was loving it.

After a lifetime of kissing, we parted lips and Simon, once again, looked intently at me. "I want you," he said, simply. "But only if you want me."

I paused for a moment. Did I want him? I'd heard enough about gay sex to know how it was done and, as explained earlier, Sarah and I were no strangers to back-door fucking, but this was a line I wasn't sure I wanted to cross.

Except, I realised, I did.

"Yes," was all I said.

He took my hand and led me to the steps. We climbed them, hand in hand, like two young teenagers heading to a bedroom for a heavy make-out session. We entered my bedroom. Jade, who had begun sleeping through some months ago, was in her nursery a door further down the hall.

My bedroom contained a bed, a wardrobe, a wall-mounted TV that hadn't been on for about a year and a bedside table covered in the myriad of bottles of fuck-knows what, that Sarah had bought for her daily beauty routine and that I hadn't been able to bring myself to throw away. That was it.