Hello All! Sorry for the delay, had a power outtage for a whole day and couldn't get back into writing before finishing a couple of other things first. Anyways. Here is the story. I will also be posting a poll later or tomorrow for your opinion on something. Anyway. ENJOY!
Preview
The trap leans in a little closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, his eyes scanning Stacey’s face for any tell. "Iiiiis your dad gonna be home?" He asks, the question dripping with a faux-casualness that doesn’t fool anyone.
His friend's brow furrows, Stacey’s head tilting in genuine confusion. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question hanging between them. Gene sees the moment Stacey starts to connect dots, his sudden interest, his notorious… tastes. A flicker of understanding, mixed with mild horror, crosses Stacey’s face. 'Shit. Too obvious.' Gene backpedals instantly, throwing up his hands in a gesture of playful innocence, his bracelets clinking together. "J-just so I know how loud we can be when, you know, the zombies drop on us." The boy stammers out the excuse, forcing a laugh that sounds a touch too high, too forced. It’s a weak cover, and they both know it.
Stacey's eyes narrow for a second, making the girly boy actually sweat for a beat. Then, he just shrugs, the confusion melting into simple acceptance. The boy has never been one for deep social analysis. "Well, duh! He lives there so go figure." Stacey says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, which, of course, it is.
Stacey’s dad, Mr. Felt, David, so many names to call the handsome man but of course his favorite will always be Dadd-.
"So my place at seven?" Stacey snaps him back to reality.
" R-right. Of course. Just making sure." Gene retorts shaking his head.
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"Gene… Wh-what a pleasure to…" He stammers, the words hollow, and his voice strained. But the facade crumbles instantly, shattered by the sheer, audacious reality of Gene standing there, looking like this. His voice drops to a low, urgent hiss, meant only for Gene, his eyes darting nervously past Gene to see if any neighbors are watching. "What are you doing here?"
The fear, the confusion, the sheer panic in his tone, all feed the shorter boy's ego, his pride. It’s music. Gene leans in slightly, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that carries nonetheless. "Oh, Mr. Felt, you seem to forget, your son is my best friend" He teases, throwing his hair back with a hand. Then, without waiting for an invitation, he moves. Gene steps forward, walking right past the baffled father into the familiar, dimly lit hallway of his home. As he passes, the trap's hand, quick, bold, and claiming, drops and gives David's crotch a firm, deliberate grope through the soft fabric of his jeans. The young man feels the shape and heat of the dick that he'll enjoy watching flopping uselessly later. David jerks back as if shocked by a live wire. The contact is brief, brutal, and a lewd reminder of everything that happened, everything Gene knows about his body. "We’re having a video game night." He announces casually. He then stops in the hallway and turns back to look at him, his expression shifting from playful to something more intense, more promising. "But don’t worry, Mr. Felt, I'll make up some time for you too" He adds, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register. The trap winks, a slow flick of his eyelid that feels like a physical contract.
David's heart jumps in his chest, a visible flinch, his hand unconsciously moving to where Gene had touched him. "God give me strength..." He mutters under his breath.
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The moment Gene is fully sheathed again, he pulls back and slams home. Again. And again. Instantly, he sets a brutal, punishing pace. "Sorry, Mr. Felt, but this ain't love making~" he snarls. And he is right. This is a conquest. This is Gene taking what is his, drilling into David with the single-minded intensity of a machine, like he is trying to breed him, to leave his mark so deep in his guts David will feel him for days. The trap's hips become a blur of motion, a relentless, piston-driven engine of pure, carnal aggression.
THWAP! Gene's pelvis smacks against David's ass, with a sharp, stinging impact of wet flesh on wet flesh.
THWAP! His balls swing forward, slapping against his taint with a lewd, heavy sound.
THWAP! The entire stall seems to shake with the force of it, the water spraying erratically, the glass door rattling in its frame.
The obscene symphony of their collision fills the bathroom, echoing off the tiles, a rhythmic, primal drumbeat of sex and domination. And soon, it is joined by another sound: David's voice. His whorish, broken moans. The initial scream of shock melts into a continuous, ragged stream of noise, deep, guttural “unnnhh” sounds, high, punched-out “ah! ah! ah!” gasps that match Gene's thrusts, shameless, desperate pleas that the Dilf doesn’t even have the coherence to form into words.