“God, I hate Mondays,” Beret grumbled as he stared down at the spilled cup of coffee that covered him from wait to ankle.
He peered up and up and up thought his shaggy black curls to stare at the culprit responsible.
“I apologize profusely,” the man was saying, looking cool and collected in a situation that would send him stammering and blushing in embarrassment. “I was not paying attention to where I was walking, thought that is of little comfort to you now.”
“It—its’ fine,” he stammered, as the hulking mass of masculinity above him smiled wryly.
He had to be at lest six five, Beret reasoned. And on top of his head was a long mass of silver white hair.
It was a glorious straight mass that hung in a tight tail to the man’s ass. It reflected off of the sunlight, glistening in its purity and filling his thought with unleashing the soft looking mass and wrapping it around his body.
“Huh?” He tore his attention away form his fantasies and his stiffening dick in order to look up at the man’s face again.
“Are you okay? Are you burned?”
He spoke with a soft accent that Beret could not place and that more than anything drew his attention to the man’s face.
“No,” he inhaled deeply trying to still the rushing blood in his veins. The man was fucking gorgeous.
He had a high forehead that had a few faint lines that told of a life of experience, good and bad, that he conquered without too much permanent damage. His eyes were deep set with a few laugh lines that showed that he didn’t take life too seriously. His nose was a ski slope of patrician perfection and made him look like he had some royalty in his background. But it was his lips; those soft looking perfectly formed lips that made him lick his own to quail the urge to just reach up and kiss the man.
He had some facial hair; a light beard and moustache that was the same salt pepper as his hair, but that only gave him a mature distinguished air.
His skin was lightly tanned, no redness from prolonged drink that a lot of older white males seemed to develop and the body….
Oh yeah, this man took care of himself and his body. It was muscled perfection that he could see even thought the tailored suit he wore. Hell, the damn thing would have to be tailed to conform and hug those bulging muscles so perfectly.
“Hmm,” the silver haired Adonis chuckled at his obvious fascination with his person before reaching into his inside jacket pocket, exposing a white silk shirt worn with no tie and apparently had a lot of give to allow the fascinating play of his pecs and arm muscles, and withdrew a silver card case. “Take this and allow me to pay for damages,” He plucked out a neat cream-colored vellum card and passed it over.
Still working to sexual slow motion, Beret reached for the card and tore his eyes away from one of the most attractive men he has seen in ages, and that was saying something.
“Roland Mead,” he spoke the name softly and then looked back up at the silver fox.
“I insist,” Roland smiled and Beret felt a blob of pre-cum drip from the head of his suddenly very interested cock.
He as causally as possible, dropped both hands to cover the coffee stained crotch of his dress pants. A little extra liquid might not be noticeable at this point, but he was not willing to take the chance. He just hoped that his extra support boxer briefs maintained enough tightness to hide the new erect situation his dick found itself in.
Beret coughed softly and nodded agreeing just to get away from the man lest his cock spring free like something out of a yaoi anime, the zipper exploding and the buttons going ping as they made a bullet like hole in the wall beside the man.
“I’ll, um—I’ll do that.” He managed to speak without tripping over his tongue and in Beret’s book, that was a very good thing.
“I mean it,” For a second the man’s eyes narrowed and his voice sounded like liquid steel. “Call me, boy,”
The moan he was desperately trying to hide rolled from his throat like a bunch of horny sailors on shore leave. The blush that he was so trying to suppress exploded over his face and his dick damn near stood up and saluted.
The stern expression on Roland’s face melted away into a genial self-satisfied smirk and the man nodded once.
“Good. I’ll be looking forward to that call, boy,” he added as he eyed Beret form the bottoms of his now visibly trembling legs to the top of his head an gave a nod.
He turned and walked away while Beret did his level best to make his way into his studio without collapsing into a heap on the concrete.
He resisted the urge to look back as he pushed his way into the stately old building that housed his personal first floor space as well as a few offices for lawyers and the like above.
He bypassed his usual stop at the mailboxes and moved directly to his studio door.
There was a frantic fumble for the keys and then with a benediction on his lips to whatever god helped him get the front door open, he exploded into the rooms, slamming the door behind him as he made his way to the closest bathroom.
Once there, he tossed his portfolio, the empty coffee cup that he still haled for some stupid reason, and the business card aside as he fumbled to get his waistband unbuttoned and his fly unzipped.
But once free, he had only lean over the toilet and grip his dick before he was panting and moaning for relief.
It only took two strokes, two tight scream worthy strokes before his dick was pulsing in his hand and fire was shooting down his spine.
“God, Roland…yes…” he hissed se his eyes crossed and his thighs began to shake. “Daddy!” he gasped, closing his eyes and picturing the domineering form of the older man standing over him, commanding him to stroke himself and to come on command.
‘Do it now!’ dream Roland ordered, his bare chest glistening in the candle lit dungeon. His muscular body was encased in black leather that contrasted so deeply with that silver hair. The straps of his harness pressed his dark nipples on display and his lightly furred pecs covered in that delicious salt pepper hair, flexed as he slapped a leather quirt against his bulging thigh.
‘Now, boy!’ dream Roland snarled reaching out to caress his sweating back. ‘You want to be good for daddy, don’t you?”
A whimper rolled from Beret’s throat as his knees buckled and his dick pulsed right before he began to shoot his wad into the toilet.
“Oh, God, Daddy!” he all but screamed. “Yes!”
The orgasm almost tore the life form him as he tired to support his trembling body against the back wall, and just finally gave up and sank to the tiled floor.
And in his mind, Dream Roland nodded and pressed a kiss against the damp curls on his forehead. ‘God boy,” he purred. ‘Such a good boy and such a big load.’
“God, I need therapy,” Beret groaned, resign his head against the toilet seat, thankful that he personally disinfected the damn thing each night.
But his body disagreed. It apparently didn’t want therapy. It just wanted a daddy.
“Stupid body,” he mumbled. “What do you know?”
A lot apparently as the images of dream Roland floated though his head one more time and his dick perked up at the thought.
“Well, damn,” Beret snorted, before gating enough wits to rise and clean up before the day started.
He had a shoot scheduled for later that morning and in between now and, he looked sown at his watch and groaned, the fifteen minuets he had left, he had to find clean clothing and pull himself together.
He flushed the toilet, checked for any incriminating splashes, and sprayed some air freshener before he went to gather his things. He could take a quick shower in the back room and– ”Roland Mead,” he picked up the card and just stared at it for a moment. “Fodder for the spank bank,” he chuckled and moved on about his day.
Maybe he would call the hunk, and then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe fantasies were better than realities.
But he had no time he realized and raced towards his master bath. He had too many things to do and not enough time to so them all. Fantasies about the hot daddy would just have to wait.