tagGay MaleReady4Daddy



I was just messing around on the computer, checking out the male-male dating Web sites, looking for something to turn me on.

On one of the sites I had gotten a view hit of my profile from someone named Ready4Daddy. Well, at sixty, I was definitely a daddy. I also was pretty randy.

I clicked on his profile. An immediate sense of nice looking, tall, slim, in his forties, good, angular features, elongated face. Looking casual and laid back in an Adidas sweat shirt. Good smile. That smile, though. Oh my god, I thought, I knew him. He was the singer in that band at the club I sometimes went to. Nice tenor voice. I had latched into his singing, because I was a tenor too—and I'd sung in a band in my younger days. And when I sat in his club and listened to him singing, I hoped that my voice had been as good then as his was now.

I had liked the look of him in the club. And here he was, saying he was looking for a daddy. But his profile was unlike most. He wasn't coy; he was straightforward. He liked to suck cock. And he declared he was an expert in it. But he posted that he didn't like being fucked. Not my concept at all about daddies. When I was being a daddy, I was fucking someone who liked being fucked by older men—usually holding him in a close embrace from behind and fucking him slow and deep, while he murmured how good daddy was being to him, which helped keep my cock hard. I didn't think of sucking cock in that way.

I felt my juices rise. I didn't get much sex anymore, but when I did—finding a young man on the street who I fancied and who claimed he fancied me—it was usually a furtive fuck behind a park building in the bushes, me holding him close from behind and fucking him slow and deep. I had this really nice, long, thick cock—it was really the best feature I had now. And, if I had a guy to fuck, I no longer went through all the preliminaries. I just turned him and bent him over and stroked him until he whimpered that he'd had enough.

But here was a guy who was proud of his blow jobs—who declared that he would and could suck off a daddy—deep throat and tongue and teeth him—so that he would be fully satisfied. He was proud of being a singer, but he boasted that his best instruments were his lips and teeth on a daddy's cock.

He had me dribbling precum here just in reading what he said he could and would be willing to do to me. It was all such a new and different way of looking at sex for me. And he was right here, in town, where I knew where to find him.

I didn't believe he could do what he claimed he could. But I was willing to let him try.

My hands trembled as I tapped out a message to him on the Web site. "You've seen a photo of what I have. I know where to find you. I don't believe you can make me warble as you claim. But if you want to try, tell me where and when."

Without hesitation, the response came back: "I know who you are too. I can make you hit a high A. Here at the club, now, if convenient."

He was still singing a set when I entered the club. The crowd was sparce, but the club wasn't deserted. All guys. It was that sort of club. And, although the music was great, not all of the guys were paying attention. There were booths lining the two side walls, with translucent screens between them and the central room where the band was set up on a low stage at the far end of the room. Some of the sounds coming from these shadowed booths were not in keeping with an attentive band music crowd. Some of them were moans speaking of other activities going on in the shadows.

Now that I was here, I wasn't as sure of myself as when I had impulsively sent Ready4Dad that message, and I hesitated, ready to turn and leave the club.

But he had seen me enter and he stopped singing and moved quickly to me and took my forearm in his hand. He was as tall and slim and willowy as his picture on the Web site had indicated. He certainly didn't look strong—certainly not as strong as I was, having been a serious body-builder all of my life—but that firm grip on my forearm held me there, in place.

"You want the blow job of your life?" he murmured to me. "I know you were a singer once—a tenor—when was the last time you hit a high A?"

"Almost never," I responded nervously. "Are you always this straightforward?"

"Yes, it saves time," He answered. And then he laughed. "Guys either want a blow job or they don't. Why should I beat around the bush? I love sucking cock. That's what gets me off."

"I am a second tenor. A high A was a real strain, even when I was well practiced."

"Well, when I go down on you, we will practice and practice and practice until you do hit that high A. I'm more interested in whether I can deep throat you. I saw that photo of your cock. Impressive. I'll cream myself if I can swallow it all."

I couldn't believe we were having this conversation. It was surreal. Standing here at the door of the club, in the main hall, with him just having a hand on my forearm, and he was telling me in straightforward terms what he claimed he could do to me with his mouth. I could feel something else straightening out, and, looking down, he could see it too. He smiled.

"Come with me," he said and he started to gently guide me with that hand on my forearm.

"Where?" I asked dumbly.

"I have my own booth," he said. "My own sucking booth."

As I meekly followed, trembling from head to toe at what was happening, he led me down the line of booths on the left side of the room, toward the back booth, which was around the corner of the band platform that extended out into the main room. Very private, very shadowy, the seat pulled back from the table farther than was the case with most of the booths.

We stopped and stood, him very close into me, beside the booth. He unbuttoned the middle button on my shirt and slid a hand in and found a nipple. Already erect. Already anticipating—but not knowing what it anticipated exactly.

I turned my face to his and he leaned down, being several inches taller than I was, and gently kissed me on the lips.

"Have you ever been sucked dry before," he whispered. "Ever gotten a really, really masterful blow job?"

"No," I squeaked. "It's almost always been straight to the butt fuck," I answered. There, I was being straightforward too—and using language I didn't normally use. It was all overwhelming to me.

He smiled and leaned in for another kiss, and I put my lips to his, expecting a repeat of the sweet-tasting kiss. But this time, he forced my lips open with his, and he was sucking my tongue into his mouth, far, far into his mouth. He had his teeth holding it close back near the root of my tongue and he was sucking hard on my tongue with his cheek muscles.

Flames of sensations were shooting through me—sensations I couldn't identified, but I was breathless and wobbly at the knees and moaning. He wouldn't release my tongue and was sucking hard on it. Applying pressure and releasing and then pressure again. I struggled with him, but he proved to be stronger than me, and held me there, in the tongue-sucking kiss, until I almost fainted from the lack of oxygen. And then he released my tongue and released the embrace he had me in with his arms and let me sink, gasping for breath onto the booth seat.

"Anyone do that for you before?" he asked with a little sly smile.

I shook my head, unable to speak.

"That's what I'm going to do to your cock. I'm going to suck everything out of it. I'm gonna leave you breathless."

I shuddered and whimpered from the thought of it. But my cock didn't seem to mind. It was at full staff now.

"Strip off your pants and briefs," he said as he scooted into the booth across the table from where I had collapsed.

"What? I don't . . ." I was trying to form the words, but my tongue had not recovered from the sucking and I was in somewhat of a daze.

"I said remain seated and get those pants and briefs off."

I unbuckled my pants and pulled down the zipper. He grabbed the material at about the knees and helped pull the pants off my legs as I raised my butt off the vinyl of the booth seat. Then I stripped off the briefs myself.

He gave me a grin and then his head went under the table.

He pushed my legs into a wider stance, using both of his hands and then I felt a hand fisting my cock at the root.

"Nice, very nice," I heard in muffled voice from below the rim of the table. "The photo doesn't do this justice. I'm going to enjoy this."

I lurched and gave a little cry and gripped the edge of the table as I felt the other hand pulling the foreskin off my uncut cock and moist lips come down over its bulb. I gasped as teeth gently closed down over the rim below the bulb and then again as I felt the tip of his tongue flicking at my piss slit.

I alternated from going rigid and collapsing into a puddle of Jell-O as he sucked just the head of my cock, holding it steady with his teeth, and fucked my piss slit with his tongue.

I begged him to stop, to take it slow, that this was sending me over the top—but he relentlessly carried on until it did, indeed, send me over the top and I ejaculated.

Ten minutes. It was all over in ten minutes. And although I certainly had had nothing like this done to me before, I had not hit a high A.

"Thank you. That was nice. That was . . ." I was mumbling to him, not wanting to disappoint him. And I was reaching under the table for my briefs.

"Hold still. This is not it," he said, giving instruction in a way that showed he was still in total control and that this wasn't a less than stellar performance at all. And, indeed, he still had his fist around the root of my cock, which was still half hard.

"I want you to move your legs onto the top of the table," he directed from underneath the table.

"You want me to what . . .?"

But he was already lifting my legs up and folding them into my belly himself, and I got the idea and moved them up to the top of the table myself and spread them out. I certainly hoped there would be no waiter coming by this table for an order anytime soon.

He was holding my cock in his fist again and licking up and down on it, and then his tongue went down to my balls and he was licking them, cleaning them real well. His tongue went down to my perineum and licked down that to my hole as I rolled my hips up to him. And then he was back at the balls and, just like that, popped them into his mouth, one in each cheek.

And he began to hum. The vibrations on my balls from his humming drove me crazy. And my cock began to harden out once again and his fist started to pump up and down on my cock, bringing it back to full erection.

I gave a little cry and jerked as a thumb went to my dick head and started to rotate across the piss slit, which immediately began to produce precum again.

"Oh god . . . oh god . . . Oh GOD!" I warbled. And the pitches in the tone of my voice were rising. You could tell I was a tenor now. I was yipping on an F above middle C.

My legs were uncontrollably shuddering and I was scrabbling at the vinyl booth covering with my claws, finding rents in the plastic and digging down to grab onto springs between the padding.

My balls popped out of his mouth, and his lips were coming down over the head of my cock. And slowly descending on me. He would come down a few inches and then retreat and suck the bulb hard and then down a little further and retreat and suck the bulb hard and then down . . .

My hips were going in motion, and I was singing for him—a concerto in high G. Getting there. I'm sure the guys in the band and everyone else on the floor were enjoying my tenor aria.

A thumb was entering my hole and finding my prostate and rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.

"OH God! Oh Shit! Oh F-u-c-K!"

Faster and faster now his mouth worked on my cock, taking more in with each swallow. Still sucking the bulb hard on the exit.

A thumb rubbing my prostate, the fingers of the other hand stretching my balls away from my groin and squeezing, and the lips reaching my curly hair at the root of the cock and teeth closing on the very root of me. And me rocking up and down, eyes rolling in my head, ejaculating strongly for a second time, and . . . hitting and holding that high A.

I was collapsed in the booth, completely drained dry, and gasping when he came up from under the table. He stood up and folded his cock back into his pants—he'd obviously been jacking himself off as he sucked me dry—flashed me a "told you so" smile of victory, and turned and walked away.

He left me to recover and redress. He was singing in falsetto to the tune from the band as I struggled up out from the booth. Having no trouble with those high As himself. And with a broad, satisfied grin on his face.

I paused at the edge of the platform and slipped a fifty into the jar they had sitting out on a high wooden stool.

He winked at me and said, "Another music lesson next Thursday at five?"

I just gave him a sloppy grin—not sure I could wait until Thursday.

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