Mr. Jones, the Neighbor Ch. 06

I barely slept that night. I kept rolling over, again and again, staring at the shadows in my room. My mind kept recounting all of the things that I'd done to Dad. All of those disgusting and sexy things. They had all been fun. Dad had even told me that Mr. Jones had done similar things to him. So why did I keep wondering if Mr. Jones was going to--to what? Be mad at me? He had given me the key to Dad's cage, after all. There was surely no way he would be angry. Dad was mine, while Mr. Jones was gone. But what if I had crossed some kind of boundary? Done too much? Pushed too hard? Dad would have told me... right?

Maybe it wasn't that I was worried about what I made Dad do. Maybe I was just worried that Mr. Jones wouldn't approve of what I had done. I had gotten off so many times... meanwhile, Mr. Jones obviously preferred his subs to never cum. Wasn't Dad's cage proof of that? Did that mean that Mr. Jones would be disappointed that I had fucked Dad so much? That I came so much?

Inevitably, this turned me on to the other, vaguer, more terrifying and enthralling possibility. What if Mr. Jones wanted to dominate and own not just Dad, but also... me? It was obvious to me that Peter--and that guy at the gym that I sucked off, too--they had started to awaken my sub side. I thought about that first night when I walked in on Dad and Mr. Jones. I had only been too happy to eat Mr. Jones' cum out of Dad's hole, hadn't I? I didn't think twice when Mr. Jones asked me to clean his cock off.

What did that mean, though?

After what felt like hours, I must have dozed off. I woke in my bed to the sound of the garage door opening. A moment passed, then it closed again. That must be Dad, headed off to pick up Mr. Jones from the airport. I knew that he wasn't going to come in and get me off this morning, but for some reason I was surprised. It was like Mr. Jones was already back, like he had personally stopped Dad from servicing my dick. Everything had already changed.

I dozed for another half hour or so before getting up and tentatively preparing myself breakfast. Dad had left a few things out for me--oatmeal, cereal, some fruit--but nothing like the spread I had gotten accustomed to in the past week. Change, change, change.

I ate slowly, with a thousand-yard stare vaguely directed at my phone. I realized that I had no idea what to expect. Was Mr. Jones going to want... small talk? Did he want me to ask about his trip? Or did he want me and Dad to suck his dick together or something? How far had his relationship gone with Dad--were they going to spend all of their time together for the rest of the summer? Was I going to be the third wheel? Or was he going to be some kind of--(God, this was weird)--stepdad figure? Was the sexual aspect of our relationship going to continue?

I finished eating, cleaned up. I started to look around for something to straighten up or clean to prepare for Mr. Jones' arrival, but Dad had taken care of everything; the entire house was absolutely spotless. I was just fluffing pillows (something I had never done before, and to be honest I wasn't even sure that I was doing it correctly, but holy shit was I nervous) when I heard the garage door open. My heart jumped into my throat.

There were voices on the other side of the door. Then it opened. I sat down abruptly in an armchair like a puppet whose strings were cut.

In walked Dad, laden with luggage. He looked a bit hassled, his hair mussed up, his shirt suspiciously wrinkled in a few places, but nevertheless he was beaming and bouncing on his feet as he stepped past the living room. I heard the bags drop at the foot of the stairs. Behind him, in a smart button-down shirt and tight pants, walked Mr. Jones. He entered the living room like he owned the damn place. I thought I should stand up, but my motor function was failing me. I looked up at him with wide eyes. He stepped over to me, looked down at me with a grin like an apex predator eyeing its next meal. I returned the smile weakly.

"Well, well, well," he boomed, patting a hand on my shoulder. "Good to see you, Maxie."

"Good to see you, too," I croaked back to him. "Sir," I added quickly.

He chuckled at that, turning to sit on the couch. He spread his legs ostentatiously, presumptuously. I had to look, I just had to--and sure enough, there was his bulge, huge and enticing under the fabric of his pants. Jesus, the seams were working hard to contain him. When I glanced back up at his face, he was smirking at me. I felt my cheeks start to burn. He had been in the house for maybe thirty seconds, and I had already been caught in one of his traps. He wanted me to look. I fell for it. I gulped.

Mr. Jones turned to Dad, who was now standing attentively at the couch.

"Uniform," he said curtly, and in a flash Dad's clothes were in a neatly folded pile on the floor. He stood shamelessly in a deep green thong. The outline of his cage pressed against the fabric desperately. The curve of his ass looked incredible. He really was sexy. Sexy and obedient.

Mr. Jones reached out a hand a grabbed Dad's hip, whirling him around to see his ass. He very carefully ran his hand up each cheek, feeling the heft of the muscle, lifting and squeezing and caressing. Then, without warning, he brought his hand down in a spanking CRACK. Dad flinched, but only barely. He seemed to have expected this. Mr. Jones smiled wryly. He carefully hooked his forefinger into Dad's thong, pulling it from the crack of Dad's ass. With his other hand, he gently slid a finger against Dad's hole, working against it lovingly. Dad tensed up, then moaned obligingly. His hands drifted upward to his nipples as Mr. Jones spat on his finger. He eased it inside. Dad seemed to be actively resisting rocking back on Mr. Jones, riding him for some semblance of release. He was almost quivering. My cock was impossibly hard as I watched.

Mr. Jones removed his finger, sucking on the tip casually like he had just been eating a bowl of Cheetos. He turned his attention back to me, snapping the thong back into place like a rubber band.

"I have to admit, there's something about my loads in your dad's hole that just drives me wild," he said. "They taste incredible. You remember?"

I nodded. Had Mr. Jones really...?

"Oh, yeah, I took him to the bathroom in the airport and fucked his cunt for all it's worth," Mr. Jones continued. "It's one of my favorite travel traditions. Real bad luck if you skip that step."

I didn't know what to say, so I nodded again.

His eyebrow twitched. "I hear the two of you had a big old time while I was gone."

"Yes, sir," I said, glancing at Dad. His face was impassive. He was still standing with his ass facing Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones leaned back on the couch, tapping Dad's ass gently. Dad withdrew, taking his clothes and stepping into the kitchen. I was alone with Mr. Jones.

"Tell me about it."

"About what?"

"About what you did while I was gone."

"I--"

"You didn't unlock him, did you?"

"No, sir."

"Did he asked to be unlocked?"

"No, sir."

"Good." He leaned back, spread his arms across the couch. "That's good. Continue."

I started talking slowly, building each word on another until the story took flight. It was all spilling out of me at once--making Dad suck my dick, and take my piss, and every other depraved thing I had made him do.

Mr. Jones listened intently, occasionally chiming in with questions and clarifications. God, he looked sexy on that couch, flaunting his bugle. Every time he smiled at me, I felt myself start to blush. And it felt so good to... to talk out loud about the stuff Dad and I had been doing. We had not discussed anything in the past few days. We had been too... busy. I had barely told Peter anything, but now I could really get it off my chest.

When I finished, maybe a half an hour later, I was totally breathless. I felt like I had turned myself inside out to show him everything. He smiled again, warmly.

"So you fucked him all those times, and only once in the locker room?"

I nodded.

"I see. And that was the only time you had observers?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you like being watched?"

I considered this. "Yes," I said uncertainly, "but I think part of the fun was when they realized that I was fucking my dad. It was hot that he was being a whore in public, and he felt good around my cock, but that was the point where it got--" I waved my hand vaguely, "--kinky, I guess. It was in the locker room, which was hot, and he was locked, and we were fucking, and also he's my dad. I don't know... it added something, I guess. Once a few people realized that part."

"You liked that it got deeper and more intense."

"I guess so. Sir."

"And you liked being the big man in charge."

"Yes, sir."

"You realize that you aren't, anymore, right?"

I had expected it, but I wasn't prepared to hear the words aloud in that order. I gulped. "I--yes, sir. I figured that you would say that."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, I figured that you would take control again. I didn't expect to own Dad forever."

This seemed to confirm something in his head. He nodded. "Right. And his keys?"

I reached into my pocket, took them out. They were so small, so light. I was struck by how delicate they seemed as they dropped into Mr. Jones' open hand. Like he could close his fist and destroy Dad's sexual freedom in one motion. I felt a sympathetic twinge in my cock as I considered what it would be like to lose the seat of your sexuality all at once like that. To be caged...

He was looking at me, hand still outstretched, Dad's keys still sitting neatly in his palm. Gauging my reaction. Calculating. Oh God. He was so hard to read--surely I couldn't guess his thoughts so easily. He didn't want... surely he didn't want to cage me, too? I mean, that would be... he would...

My head was spinning by the time he closed his hand (gently, carefully) and put the tiny keys into his pocket. He sat back.

"You know, Maxie," he started, and I felt a wicked edge to his voice cutting through the air, "I think it's not fair for me to just take these away from you all at once."

"What do you mean, Mr. Jones?"

"Let me put it this way--did your dad service you this morning?"

He knew. Did Dad tell him?

"No, sir."

"See, I just don't think that's fair. Not after he's been so good to you while I was gone."

I wasn't sure what to say. This had to be some kind of trap.

"I'm thinking he should give you at least one more chance. Let you drop a load in him before I really take the reins back. You can just pretend like I'm not here."

"I--"

"Faggot!" he called, and in a flash Dad was standing in the doorway in his thong, his cage straining.

"Yes, sir?"

"Maxie is going to drop one more load in you before I take back over."

Dad's face was difficult to read. Did he want this? Did it matter? He waited just a whisper of a second too long before he took a step forward. Yes, that was definitely a look of dread somewhere behind his eyes. We had already done this so many times--why was he suddenly concerned now? Mr. Jones was definitely a better audience than the random guys in the locker room.

Something else was happening. What was it?

"All fours," Mr. Jones ordered, and Dad dropped to the floor obediently. I stood up unsteadily, paced over to him.

Mr. Jones stayed on the couch, leering at us from the side. Dad's head was bowed, looking back toward his navel. One watching, one looking away. Active and passive. Dom and sub. Man and faggot. But who was I?

"Well, what are you waiting for? Strip."

I felt his fiery eyes on me as I peeled off my shirt. There was no element of striptease; it didn't feel sexy. It felt like he was peeling me apart. My shirt was damp under the armpits--was I sweating? My pants were on the floor. My dick bounced a bit when my underwear came off. I gave it a tug. It felt like rubber. The memory of Mr. Jones' cock crashed into my mind, its girth, its smell, the taste of his cum from Dad's ass, and I looked down with pale disdain at my stubbornly soft member. I tugged again. It lengthened a bit, but stubbornly refused to harden. I heard Mr. Jones to the side.

"What's the matter, Maxie? Get started."

I kneeled, slapped my mostly soft dick against Dad's ass. Grow, damn you, grow. It was such a nice ass. I ran the tip up and down Dad's thong, right against his hole. Was that--oh shit, that was definitely a wet spot. Mr. Jones' cum was leaking out of Dad's cunt. I pulled on the thin strip of fabric, pulled it away from Dad's hole. It was wet, all right. I absently touched my finger to my tongue. The taste was intoxicating. My head was spinning. I think Mr. Jones was laughing; I couldn't be sure. I was hypnotized, falling into the thought of Mr. Jones pumping his hot cum into Dad's willing hole. I had felt that hole so many times. Shouldn't I feel it again? Mr. Jones was right. It was fair.

I touched my cock to that cummy pucker. Come on, come on. The taste was on my tongue still. Lingering. I lined up my floppy cock. Tried to push in--no, no that wasn't going to work. Even with Mr. Jones' load, Dad was too tight. I touched a finger to Dad's pussy, slid it in slowly. Dad let out a low involuntary moan. He should be open enough. He should be. Why couldn't I--?

My finger went back to my mouth. My head felt fuzzy. The taste was seeping into every crevice of my brain. I felt my cock tingle, but it still would not harden. God dammit. God DAMMIT. I wasn't going to be able to do this. This had never--NEVER--happened to me before. Especially not with Dad. I felt my cheeks redden. I slapped my soft cock on Dad's ass cheek a couple of times, but I think all three of us knew at that point that it was over.

"Aw, Maxie," said Mr. Jones in faux-sympathy. "Having some trouble there?"

I didn't answer. I just slid my dick across Dad's ass a couple more times. My face burned with shame. I felt so, so small. Like Mr. Jones could pick me up and toss me across the room, if he wanted. Dad was silent. His head was down. I could practically hear his thoughts whizzing around his skull.

Mr. Jones was standing. He was unbuttoning his sleeves, rolling them up. His bulge was growing. Growing. Growing...

"Seems like your kid is a bit of a disappointment, isn't he, faggot?"

My heart sank. Dad hesitated. I was glad--I think we were both glad--that I couldn't see his face.

"Yes, sir," he said quietly.

"He can't even fuck you properly."

"No, sir."

"And what does that mean?"

"That he's clearly a beta."

"Just another pathetic faggot, just like his daddy?"

"Yes, sir. He could never be a real man like you, Mr. Jones, sir."

My jaw dropped. Never in a hundred years did I ever think that Dad would say something like that.

"Look up at your son, faggot."

Dad looked over his shoulder at me. At this angle, his face was difficult to read--apologetic? Disdainful? Apathetic?

"You could never fuck me like sir fucks me." His voice was steady. "You know that deep down, you're a faggot just like I am."

I just sat there, shocked. I stared at him for several seconds--maybe even several minutes. Time seemed to lazily trudge by. He didn't look away. Did he really mean all those things? Even after all the loads that I had fucked into him? Even after I had been his keyholder for all these days?

The silence was broken when Mr. Jones laughed.

"You should see the look on your face, kid. Truth hurts, doesn't it?"

I don't think he expected me to answer.

"Come on over here, boy. I need some help." When I made to stand up, he snapped his fingers authoritatively. "No. Stay kneeling. It's where you belong."

I shuffled on my knees over to him. He touched the side of my head--his hand was warm, strong, surprisingly gentle. He bent over slightly, drawing close to me. I could feel his breath on my cheek.

"It's okay, boy. Just be good for me."

The warmth of his touch seeped into me, spread across my skin, soaked into my bones. I couldn't explain it, but somehow everything that was happening--everything that he said, that Dad said--it all clicked into place somehow. It was like I was taking my role in some kind of cosmic order. The emotions were overwhelming. Just a second ago, I wanted to cry. Now, I almost smiled.

"Unzip my pants, boy," he said, straightening back up.

I did as I was told, sliding his zipper down slowly. I was surprised to find that he wasn't wearing any underwear--a bundle of dark pubes greeted me from inside his pants.

"Take my dick out."

I reached in and, as gently as I could, pulled his thickening member from its confines. Finally free, it started to swell into that big, delicious boner that I remembered. Was that a drop of sticky sweet precum at the tip, already? I looked up at him, and he smirked. I could smell his cock, lightly sweaty and manly and I knew that it had just bred Dad's pussy but my tongue was out because I just needed a quick taste of that precum before--

THWACK.

He slapped my cheek--not hard, but hard enough to startle me. I sat back on my heels, looking up at him.

"You don't get this dick until I say."

"Sorry, sir," I replied automatically. Oh God. Oh God. He's already in my head. Did I just apologize to him for slapping me?

No. I apologized for not doing as I was told.

Mr. Jones stepped over to Dad. God, he was sexy. Cock poking out from his pants, tight dress shirt straining around his hairy chest. His rolled-up sleeves showed off his meaty forearms.

He slapped one ass cheek, hard. Dad flinched.

"Keep that pussy still for me, faggot," Mr. Jones snapped.

"Yes, sir."

He slapped the other cheek. Dad didn't move, just grunted quietly.

"Good boy. That's better." Mr. Jones looked over at me, making purposeful eye contact. He slowly, deliberately began to gather spit between his lips. It spilled over, dripping past his torso and directly onto his cock. He ran his hand up and down his entire length, wetting himself slowly. I started to reach for my own cock, but stopped myself. There was no way Mr. Jones was going to allow that. He saw my movement and smirked at me again, nodded his approval.

Then he was sliding into Dad, and Dad was moaning like a whore. Inch by inch. Dad's voice was ascending to a fever pitch. Somehow, he never asked to slow down or stop. He just took it. Took it like a little bitch.

Like I would have made him take it, if I were able to fuck him.

Then Mr. Jones was bottoming out inside of him, pulling Dad's hips back so that he could fill his cunt as deeply as possible. Dad was beyond words--whimpering, moaning, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Mr. Jones withdrew slowly from him, sliding all the way out, then slammed back in. Dad whimpered. Then he did it again--pulling out slowly, forcing himself back in. Over and over again. Slam. Slam. Slam. The sound of flesh thudding on flesh was incredible. Dad's ass cheeks jiggled with every thrust. Mr. Jones grabbed them and shook them, watching them move.

The thrusts began to accelerate. Soon there wasn't much of a pull-out--Mr. Jones was fucking Dad in earnest. Dad, for his part, finally seemed to come back to himself a bit. He moaned and whimpered but was in control of his faculties enough to glance over at me, embarrassed. Between his legs, his caged dick bounced in his thong.

Mr. Jones, without slowing his deep strokes, began to unbutton his shirt.

"Like what you see, boy? This is how a real man fucks. Pussies like these were made to be plowed." The shirt was open--his sexy hairy chest was starting to dampen with sweat as he fucked.

"Yes, sir." I felt small again. Pathetic. I was surprised to find that, despite the hot sex in front of me, I was still totally soft. But also... turned on?

"Feel free to get a closer look." He pointed to Dad's ass, and I leaned in. I watched Mr. Jones' cock enter and withdraw from Dad's hole up close--there was a gentle squelching sound, and I realized that the smell of cum in my nostrils was Mr. Jones' earlier load from the airport. A creamy white froth was building up around Dad's well-used cunt. His hole stretched around Mr. Jones, gripping him out and in, out and in.