Rules to Live By Page 14

  He felt . . . open. His mouth softer, his ass higher, his untouched hole strangely empty.

  “Come on.” He could hear the smile in his Daddy’s voice. “Stay with me, kiddo.”

  Tad nodded, shuffled closer, licked his lips. His mouth watered. He reached past Daddy’s fly reverently. Yes. Daddy went commando. He was big, too. Bigger than Tad. Maybe not much longer, but thicker. Usually Tad bristled when he took stock of guys in locker rooms and found himself wanting, but not with Daddy. He knew he would have been . . . disappointed if Daddy had been smaller. This was right. He almost wished his own dick were smaller, just so that the difference would be even more pronounced. God, he wanted that. He didn’t care to analyze why or what it meant. It was something that ran so deep in him that he’d never discovered it before now. The same thing, probably, that caused pack animals on National Geographic to go belly up for the alpha.

  He curled his fingers around Daddy’s shaft, and pressed his mouth to the head. Lapped at it, the bitter taste bursting across his tongue. He groaned, and Daddy’s fingers dug into his scalp.

  “Such a sexy boy,” Daddy praised.

  Warmth flooded through Tad. He opened his mouth and sucked Daddy’s dick inside, sliding his tongue around the head. He was almost frantic. He wanted to take all of it inside him, to swallow it down, to be the best Daddy had ever had. He gagged when Daddy’s cock hit the back of his throat, tears running down his face. He tried to pull back reflexively, but Daddy held his head still.

  “Take it,” Daddy said, his voice low. “Show me you can do it, baby boy.”

  Tad bucked, white-hot pain shooting through his balls. He cried out, and in that moment Daddy thrust, jamming his cock down Tad’s throat.

  “Take it,” Daddy said again. “Take it. If Daddy wants you to choke on his cock, that’s what’s going to happen.”

  Tad moaned, his face running with tears, snot, and sweat. He needed to breathe. Fuck, he needed to breathe. Panic clawed at him as he grew dizzy. God. Was he actually going to die like this? Just as his vision began to gray out at the edges, Daddy pulled his head back.

  Tad sucked in a desperate, raw breath before Daddy’s cock was filling his throat again.

  “You look good like this.” Daddy drew his cock back a fraction. Thrust forward again, even deeper than before. “Don’t know why you ever thought you could be on the other side.”

  Tad gagged, but didn’t struggle this time. Daddy’s hands cupped either side of his head, holding him still and steady. Heavy, large hands giving him firm guidance. He tried to open his throat. Tried to be a good boy. He rocked back and forth into Daddy’s thrusts, the pain in his balls transforming into tightly coiled heat. It hurt, but he wanted more. He stared up at Daddy, his eyes still streaming, drinking in that powerful, knowing gaze. He’d known this man for less than an hour, but he already felt like there was no secret Daddy didn’t know. No scar inside of him Daddy couldn’t find and pick at until it bled.

  As exposed as he felt, he felt good too. Like if Daddy made him bleed, it would only be to flush him clean of all the bad blood festering inside him. It was dirty to have his face fucked like this, until ropes of drool lashed across his chin, and yet somehow it was cleansing at the same time.

  Daddy was showing him his place.

  And fuck if his place didn’t feel absolutely, one hundred percent right, in a fulfilling, bone-deep way nothing else had felt before. At the time, making Conor cry had felt good, but it was a hollow, empty high, gone as quickly as it had come. This was . . . so, so different. This was that moment after he’d jumped, before he’d pulled the rip cord. That moment when he was weightless, and all his fear had vanished because suddenly he could see the world laid out below him—he was seeing everything from a new perspective—and it was so breathtaking that he wanted the moment to last forever.

  Daddy withdrew, and Tad whimpered at the loss.

  “You’ve got me nice and wet now, baby boy. Where else should I put my cock, hmm?”

  Tad’s stomach clenched. “Pl-please,” he rasped, his throat raw.

  “Stay like this for me.”

  Tad turned his head as his Daddy stood and moved around behind him. Shivered as those large, warm hands slid down his spine, thumbs pushing at every knot.

  “This is going to hurt, baby. Can you be a brave boy for me?”

  Tad nodded. “Y-yes, Daddy.”

  No hesitation, no warning, Daddy tugged on the humbler, and Tad almost screamed. He dropped his face to the floor, shoving his hands over his mouth to prevent the sound from escaping. The humbler clattered to the floor. The blood rushed back into Tad’s balls, the pain so intense that he fought the urge to vomit.

  “Okay.” Daddy’s voice was low and soothing. “Okay, shush. Breathe through it.”

  The sound Tad made was less a breath and more a whistling wheeze.

  “Such a good boy, Tad.” He rubbed Tad’s lower back. “I knew you would be.”

  Tad tried to pull himself together. Tried to find the shattered pieces of his ego and use them to cover himself up again.

  “I could use that stiff drink right about now,” he bit out with a hoarse laugh.

  “Hmm,” Daddy replied noncommittally. He zipped his hard cock back into his jeans, expression elsewhere.

  Tad stared at him helplessly. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Daddy sat down in his chair again. “Did you?”

  Tad swallowed. “I don’t . . . I don’t know. Please tell me.”

  “Here you are in Daddy’s office,” Daddy said. “My little boy, coming to visit me after a day at school. I’m disappointed in your work ethic, baby boy, but I think I’ve punished you enough for now. I know next semester you’ll work much harder to make me happy.”

  “Uh, right,” Tad said. He still hadn’t gotten up off of his hands and knees. He had no idea where the game was going anymore.

  Daddy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands dangled in the space between his legs. “I thought you’d figured out your place. So you tell me, what did you do wrong?”

  Shit.

  “The, um, the drink thing?”

  Daddy nodded. “What kind of Daddy would I be if I let my little boy drink alcohol? Maybe a sip of Daddy’s wine when you’ve been very good, but since you haven’t been . . .”

  Tad flushed with shame.

  Daddy hooked his fingers under Tad’s chin and tilted his face up. “Are you still hard?”

  How could he go from pretending Tad was still too young to drink back to talking about his dick?

  “Y-yes, Daddy.”

  “That’s another thing you need to do for Daddy.” Daddy’s smile was cruel. “You won’t touch your little dick, will you? I know how much naughty boys love to play with themselves, but you’re going to be a good boy for Daddy. You won’t touch yourself, and you won’t come. Not until you have your Daddy’s permission.”

  Tad exhaled slowly, shuddering. “Okay, fine.”

  Daddy raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, Daddy,” he corrected himself immediately.

  “That’a boy. Now come here. Daddy’s been working hard all day and he wants to have some special time with you. I think we both deserve a break.” He patted his thighs in invitation.

  Tad’s knees wobbled as he struggled to his feet. He felt like he’d forgotten how to walk, like he’d regressed for real and not just as a part of Daddy’s game.

  “I’ve got a couple of things to finish up.” Daddy opened his desk drawer and pulled out a notebook. Tossed some pens down on top of it, and gestured to Tad. “You can come sit on my lap still. This’ll only take a few minutes, and if you’re very patient, you can have a treat.”

  Tad assumed that meant being allowed to come. He was definitely willing to be patient for that, although his balls already hurt so much he wondered if coming would be a relief, or another painful ordeal.

  He sat gingerly, straddling one of Daddy’s thick, powerful thighs, and Daddy push
ed the pad and pens toward him. Tad stared down at them. “What . . . um . . .”

  “If you’re going to do better in school next semester, it’d be a good idea to get a head start.” He looped an arm around Tad’s body and flipped the notebook open. It had graph paper inside. “Times tables. One to one hundred. Get to it.”

  “Seriously?” It was only the pain that kept Tad from laughing out loud at the absurdity of it. He scoffed.

  He wished he hadn’t the minute Daddy gave his nipple a hard twist. And then slapped his sore pec on top of that. “Do you want your special treat, or not?”

  Tad rubbed his chest, and was ashamed to realize he was pouting. Twenty-one years old, in college, rich as hell, and fucking pouting like a petulant child. Shit. “Yes, Daddy,” he mumbled.

  Daddy set a tablet on the desk, and began to flick through some documents. Spreadsheets or something. Probably a prop for the game.

  “I don’t see any multiplication happening,” he reminded Tad, an edge of warning in his voice.

  Tad picked up one of the pens. Began writing out the numbers 1-100 at the top and side of his page. Funny that he even remembered how to do this, after all these years. Maybe some skills never left.

  He worked silently for a while, shivering every time Daddy ran his hand over his skin. Up his chest. Down his belly. All absentmindedly while he worked. Tad was still on the easy numbers, but his concentration was shot. His dick was hard and throbbing—his balls were still throbbing too, but that was probably thanks to the humbler—and he was leaking all over his belly. He rocked back and forth on Daddy’s thigh, dragging his sore balls over the denim-clad muscle, grinding down as much as he could bear, just trying to get some friction.

  Daddy pinched his nipple again. “Pay attention to your work, kiddo.”

  Tad groaned. 3 x 9. What the fuck was 3 x 9?

  Daddy let go of him briefly to reach out to the phone. Tad heard the dial tone as Daddy lifted the receiver—nice touch.

  “Can I get some milk and cookies sent up to my office, please?”

  What the hell? Seriously, that had better not be the treat. Tad wasn’t sure he could handle being on edge much longer. But he was also learning—very slowly—that he wasn’t the one who made the rules here. Daddy was in charge for as long as the game lasted. A part of Tad still didn’t understand why he hadn’t just walked out, but a part of him wanted to know if Daddy could make him feel like he had when he’d jumped out of that plane: fearless, breathless, and so fucking alive.

  “No. Have Conor bring them up. Thanks.”

  No! Anyone but Conor. Not when Tad was like this. He whimpered, too afraid of Daddy’s punishments to dare to complain.

  Somehow, sitting there naked and needy and writing out times tables like a child was worse than being on the floor hobbled by the humbler. He just knew if Conor saw him like this, he’d never recover.

  But if he was really sorry for how he’d behaved to Conor, would he even be worried about that?

  If he wanted his Daddy to be proud of him, then he needed to get a handle on his ego. That was the key to all this, surely. He needed to trust his Daddy to guide him. If Daddy wanted Conor to see him like this, exposed and degraded, then Tad would do it. Willingly. Gratefully. Humbly.

  He had to believe the reward would be worth it.

  He swallowed and stared down at the graph paper. 4 x 6. 4 x 6.

  Daddy pinched his belly, making him squirm.

  4 x 7.

  4 x 8.

  Tad looked up when the door clicked open, his determination to be good almost draining away under the force of his acute humiliation. Conor, smiling, advanced into the office with a tall glass of milk and a plate of cookies. His smile grew as he saw Tad sitting on Daddy’s lap, naked, flushed, and hard.

  Tad forced himself not to glare or shout, What the fuck are you looking at?

  “Conor brought you your special surprise, Tad! What do you say?”

  Fuck, his worst nightmares were true. Milk and cookies—not being allowed to come—were his so-called “special” surprise.

  “Tad,” Daddy warned, and there were those pinching fingers on his tender, puffy nipple again. He yelped.

  Conor laughed.

  “What do you say, baby boy?”

  Tad’s face burned. He blinked away hot tears of humiliation. “Thank you, Conor.”

  Conor set the glass and the plate on the desk, then leaned in close to Tad. “Not bad for a filthy little sissy-boy whore, right?”

  Tad flinched. God. Had he really said that? Yeah. And worse.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with a whimper, and this time the misery that welled up when he said it wasn’t just from being forced into apologizing. This time something inside him cringed when he thought of how he’d made Conor feel, how he’d been proud of it. Daddy held him firm.

  “You know, I’m finally starting to believe that,” Conor said with a smile. “A few more hours with Daddy here, and maybe you will be.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tad repeated, because he didn’t know what else to say.

  Conor nodded. “You know what I figured out? I sleep with men for money because I like sex, and I’m good at it. I’m a prostitute. But you, you’re the one who’s the real whore. You’re not here for the money. You’re here because it’s in your nature to roll over and let a real man fuck you. You’d do it for anyone. Just fucking look at you.”

  Was that . . . was that true? Tad had never bottomed. Never even been tempted to try. Until now, which didn’t feel like a temptation as much as it did an inevitability.

  Was that another buried-deep thing that Daddy was steadily uncovering in him?

  Little boy. Whore. Nasty brat.

  Not a real man.

  With nobody who even gave a shit about him.

  Conor was staring him in the eye, his gaze more confronting than hostile, and suddenly it wasn’t Conor who was the little bitch in the room.

  He wished his Daddy would say, “That’s enough,” or tell Conor to scram, or something. Tad had been an asshole and a brat, but he was sorry now. He was! “D-daddy,” he blurted out.

  “Shh, baby. If you want to be a good boy, you need to learn to accept consequences for your actions. You earned this. You asked for it. So now why don’t you ask Conor what he needs from you for you two to make up? Do as he says, and you can have some cookies with your very proud Daddy.”

  Tad’s breath hitched in his throat. He hunched his shoulders and bowed his head.

  Daddy’s hand slid up his chest. He caught a sore nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and Tad straightened up quickly. Daddy pinched anyway, and Tad whimpered. “I’m sorry, Conor! Please tell me what to do!”

  Conor’s eyes twinkled. How had Tad ever thought him a sniveling little bitch? “With your permission, Daddy, I’d like to watch just how much of a whore he is for you.”

  Say no. Tad’s heart almost stopped. Say no. Red. Red! Red!

  “Shh,” Daddy whispered into the back of Tad’s hair, rubbing gentling circles on his belly. “You’re panicking, baby. Take a deep breath and count to five, and then use your safeword if you need to.”

  His hand felt so good. So soft and warm, his fingertips tracing lazy patterns over Tad’s taut skin. Tad did as he was told, taking a slow, deep breath. One, two, three, four, five. He turned his face toward Daddy, leaned in close, and whispered, “Yellow.”

  “Okay,” Daddy said. “Talk to me, baby.”

  “I want . . . I want to stay, but I don’t want him to be here.”

  “I can’t negotiate for Conor, baby.” Daddy’s voice was warm. “And I can’t have you here with me if you can’t give him his due. You don’t have to go through with this, but if you don’t, then you have to leave. That’s Daddy’s last word.”

  He could walk away. He could walk away from his shame and his humiliation, walk away from Conor, walk away from Daddy, walk away from the person Daddy was turning him into. Walk right out the door and away from all of this.
Never come back.

  But could he go back to the way he was?

  He’d already jumped out of the plane, and parachute or no, there was no way to make it back up to 13,000 feet. He couldn’t unlearn the things he’d uncovered in himself tonight.

  And he certainly didn’t want to face all those new revelations on his own, without his Daddy’s guidance and reassurance.

  He had to do this.

  “Okay,” he said, voice shaking, and was touched by the fact that Daddy held him tighter at that. “You can stay. If that’s . . . if that’s what it takes.”

  Conor’s eyes widened, as though he was surprised.

  Daddy kissed him on the ear. It tickled, and Tad couldn’t help but smile and squirm. “Good boy,” he said. “Very good boy. I think you’ve earned a treat.” He nodded to Conor, who hopped onto the edge of Daddy’s desk, where he perched, legs crossed primly, with what must have been a perfect viewing angle.

  Of Daddy’s strong leg between Tad’s thighs, of the way Tad rode that hard length, hungry for more and better. Of Tad’s hard dick and abused balls.

  Of how desperate and horny and—yes—whorish Tad was for his Daddy.

  His Daddy, who had dunked one of his chocolate chip cookies into the milk and was now holding it to Tad’s lips.

  “Has anyone ever fucked your ass before, rich boy?” Conor asked at the exact moment Tad took an ashamed bite of cookie from his Daddy’s thick fingers.

  At least chewing, he didn’t have to answer right away. Daddy wouldn’t like Tad stalling, but he probably liked Tad talking with his mouth full less.

  He gathered Tad closer, his body still. With anticipation? Was he as interested in the answer to this question as Conor was?

  For a different reason.

  “Swallow and answer him, Tad. Stop dawdling.”

  Tad swallowed with difficulty. “No,” he said at last, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. “Nobody has ever done that.”

  Conor’s eyes widened. He looked delighted.

  Daddy made a rumbling noise low in his throat. “Well, aren’t you just like fucking Christmas, baby?”

  Tad tried to answer him, tried to think of something to say, but he was overcome with shame and want and fear and need, all twisting together until he couldn’t pick them apart. Overwhelmed, he burst into tears.