Extra Gets Extra

From: Anonymous

Paul and I had a give and take relationship. I gave, he took, and I had just about had it with my selfish, “stunning to look at” stepson.

“I will not — I repeat, will not, buy you a car. Forget it,” I fumed, (this time) able to ignore his athletic good looks. I had totally lost patience with the rude, lazy kid (who stomped from the room) and with the unlikely and unfamiliar role of parent.
“Get back in here and sit your ass down.” My tone was deadly.

He trudged back and slumped in a chair opposite me. I was so irritated that the slender, hard body; well-packed, faded cut-offs; handsome, chiseled features; the cap of unruly, coffee-colored curls; strong, full mouth; perfect, white, wet looking teeth; large smoldering eyes and the incredibly (Oh God, how incredibly) long, almost hairless legs — weren’t working on me. The usual hypnotic effect of this boy-god and his taboo treasures on me had, for over a year, resulted in my, more often than not, giving in to whatever the kid wanted. But not this time. “Never again,” I thought wanting to slam my fist into his handsome, insolent face. “Sit up straight.”

Sullenly, Paul did as he was told.

I spoke carefully, allowing the anger to show in my voice and eyes. “You are somehow under the impression that buying you a car is our responsibility. You’re wrong. Let me make one thing clear. It’s not that I can’t buy you a car, it’s that I won’t. Your mother feels that even though you’re eighteen we have a hell of a lot around here and you’ve fucking put responsibility on us to clothe and feed you and to keep a roof over your head. However we do not have to provide you your own room, equipped with every imaginable luxury. Feeding you doesn’t have to include Big Mac’s, pizza and an endless supply of Pop-Tarts. Clothing for you doesn’t have to be purchased in the designer section, doesn’t mean we have to buy 137 fucking dollar shoes! Nobody has to provide these things, pal. We do it because we want to. You want and expect an out if your mother asks you to carry out the trash. Well — I’m tired of it, kid. I’m not getting anything back for my money. You don’t even have a goddamned “good morning” to give away. As far as I’m concerned, you can keep your good mornings and your “wants”.

Paul shifted uncomfortably, stretched his glorious legs and didn’t even bother to try to stifle a bored, sleepy yawn. I counted to 10 and continued. “Unless there is immediate and drastic improvement in your attitude — look at me! — Where you want to do things — even things you don’t want to do — for your mother and me — I’m afraid all you’re going to get from us is what has to be given. No extras. If you don’t have anything extra for us, then don’t blame us for taking the same attitude with you. Am I clear?”

“Yeah,” he said as though annoyed I’d taken up his time. Without thinking I had pulled him from the chair and slammed him into a nearby wall. Holding him by the shirt front (my face just inches from his) I spoke through clenched teeth. “You are an asshole. A selfish, rude asshole! You just remember — from now on it’s simple. You are an indifferent prick — I’ll be one. Do nothing around here and you get nothing. Change, give it a damn, try — and I will. Extra gets extra. You got that, you little shit?”

“Y-Yes sir,” he said, truly frightened by my uncharacteristic behavior.

I let go of him, watched him lope from the room and then collapsed. Like I said, I had had it with my 18 year old stepson and his attitude that he was some sort of little celebrity — that everyone should be thrilled just to be in the room with him, happy to take his shit.

Nagging somewhere beneath the frustrated stepfather, there was a man who was just that. A shameful, secret part of me was as impressed with his startling beauty and (when he wanted something) boyish charm, as he was.

For the next several days, he was perfect (almost). A hint of rebellion danced in the turquoise colored eyes but he was, without being asked to, doing everything that was expected of him (and more). He was even speaking sentences that didn’t start with “I want.” I sighed with relief for maybe he’d see the light and changed for good.

I was wrong.

It was late Saturday morning. I sat reading the paper. Jenny had left the previous evening (a weekend long field trip with the church choir) too early for me to ask her about her going through my desk. I’d noticed as soon as I came in and it was still bothering me. It wasn’t like her.

Paul entered the kitchen. I watched the boy, tried not to be too impressed with the slender, lethal body. I pretended to read the paper and stole looks at him as he went about the task of building two sandwiches and pouring a Seven Up.

He was dressed in jogging shorts that rode low around his compact hips, the legs cut high. The slash of navy blue fabric tried to hide his clean, tight buttocks and failed. The slightest reaching or bending on his part revealed a couple of inches of fine, bunched butt maddeningly cradled in tight briefs. The shorts and briefs under them were, as usual his only attire.

“Good morning,” I said with some sarcasm to a happening of a boy who was back to his rude, cocky self.

He turned to me. Something in the blue green stare wanted to challenge me. He silently finished preparing the snack and walked away from the mess he’d made.

“Hold it!” I said evenly. He halted. “Clean it up.”

I watched as he followed my order. When he finished he lifted himself onto the tall counter. Sitting with his long legs parted boyishly wide and directly in my line of vision, Paul began wolfing down his sandwich.

His underwear was visible like fat, white parentheses on each side of the narrow strip of dark blue crotch that caressed and yet concealed the fat, round secrets at his center.

I tore my eyes away. Fighting the area’s strong magnetic pull, I went back to reading the paper, and hoped he hadn’t caught me looking. I warned myself about being careless. But I felt his eyes on me. He stared intently for several long moments and finally I looked a question at him.

“I wanna rise in my allowance.” He said darkly.

“Have you considered employment?”

“Not seriously,” he admitted. “I was thinking $15.00 a week but...” he reached down, his eyes watching mine as he slowly, sensually teased the thin crotch over to one side of the generous, white swell between his wide-open thighs, he continued: “...extra gets extra’.”

Stunned, I moved my eyes back up to his. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, pal...”

“There are some interesting magazines in your desk,” he observed coolly and it all fell into place. Blackmail!

After discovering my all male, hardcore magazines, Paul must have figured out the real reason for my furtive stares at his beauty. He now realized the intensity of my sexual attraction to him and intended to make it pay off. But then, looking again between his long thighs I realized he was literally “letting the cat out of the bag.” His eyes enjoyed the scene. His instincts were marksman sharp, his confidence in his youthful, leggy good looks — was criminal. He was hot and wanted more than money.

Paul jumped down from the counter and still staring into my eyes he absently smoothed a hand over his flat, muscled belly before purposely moving it down to stroke and lifts the noticeably growing pouch between his sturdy legs.

I watched mesmerized as he slowly tugged and weighed the tremendous handful. His voice brought my eyes back to his. He smiled a teasing, sexy smile. “Think about it, step dad. I feel like I got plenty of extra to get extra with.”

Then, as though the exchange had never taken place he — and his paunchy package — strolled from the room.

I was shaken. Until that moment even I didn’t realize just how much I wanted my wife’s son. My mouth was dry, my hands trembled, my heart and cock thumped wildly. “God, it had been so long.”

I located him in the den. He sat cross legged on the sofa, wearing only his briefs, his shorts on the floor in front of the large television. Engrossed with, or pretending to be engrossed with, a Road Runner cartoon, the olive skinned man child didn’t seem to see me until I spoke.

“How much?” I heard my voice ask.

His large, cool eyes found mine. He seemed to be thinking it over. “One flat price,” he said finally. “Buy me that car — and you can get into my pants whenever you want to, Daddy.”

“You’re disgustingly sure of yourself.” I said.

He bolted up, his face suddenly angry — his eyes flashing. “That’s right. I know — I fuckin’ know — I’m hot shit. I ain’t got brains maybe — but I got a mirror. I got looks, and spare me the lectures and bullshit. You been checkin’ out this fine, little ass, since you and mom got married. I know I’m everything a part time fag like you could want. The bottom line, Pops, is you got a nice fat wallet I want to climb into. I got a nice, fat basket — ten hard inches of collateral — that you want. Now if you want ‘em bad enough it’ll cost you that car. Buy it — and I’m yours...” His voice softened, the anger left his eyes. “... I’ll do whatever you want, whenever you want.”

I watched his chest rise and fall. He looked like a vulnerable orphan who hoped his ace in the hole was enough to win an all important hand.

“Anything?” I asked, liking him maybe for the first time.

“Yes. I swear,” he whispered, his body tense with hope.

“I’m going to buy you that car you gorgeous little prick, but — you’d better be as cooperative as you are confident.”

I smiled. He shot a returning grin — a dazzler that was boyishly victorious. “The Camaro?” he asked, going for broke.

“Why not?” I said, causing my stepson to literally jump for joy. “I suppose a hot shit kid has to have a hot shit car.” I teased.

Then without warning his face quickly clouded. “Mom can’t ever find out. It’d kill her. She’s gotta think you’re buying it because you like me.”

I looked at him, loving him maybe for the first time. “She won’t find out.” I assured him.

We stood awkwardly, anxiously before one another. He lowered his eyes. My steely need for him slashed obviously beneath my jeans with the hard evidence straining at the tired, tight denim. I needed to get at him. He stared wonderingly and swallowed hard. “I can’t believe you want me as bad as I want that car.”

I walked over to him, pressed my hand between his neat thighs “Believe it,” I husked, lifting his warm, heavy equipment.

I felt the immediate, fat unfurling of his cock, like a restless snake in my caressing hand. I kissed his smooth, hard shoulder, stroked him fully, adolescently erect and traced the bumpy course of his spine with my free hand. I felt his frightened shudder. I took him in my arms and kissed him long and deep. He responded fully.

“You gotta tell me, um, teach me what you want, um, what to do,” he said, in the same voice that had earlier worried about his mother. A long, low, grateful moan from me that had waited in hot frustration — nearly a year — for escape, sounded pained and complimentary both, as I worshipfully, hungrily kissed my way down my stepson’s golden body.

I enthusiastically kissed, then bit at the brick hard column of hot flesh that pressed against the layer of cloth while my hands memorized the cool, slender backs of his thighs and the high, hard, confident little ass cheeks. Paul stood, allowing it — his body as stiff and unsure as his tall, youthful prick.

When I could stand teasing myself no longer, I convinced my shaking hands to very slowly uncover things I dared not even seriously dream about before. His unbelievable cock leapt into the cool room. It reared up strong and angry — a usually concealed weapon that stabbed savagely into my “I shouldn’t be doing this” mind. I ripped my eyes away from that reddened raging flesh and one at a time, I lifted his legs and tossed away his thin briefs.

Finally my wife’s son stood — with his long legs seductively parted, his thick 10 inch prick franticly erect between them — totally naked before me.

I knelt there awed by this tense, lean tower of juvenile beauty, not wanting to continue and mad with wanting to. I greedily licked up his creamy, taut thigh to Paul’s heaving testicles. I lasciviously sucked them, ate the salty flesh under them, tried to fit them both into my starved mouth but failed, settled for alternating a gentle, sucking tribute. Paul swaying under my heated attentions needed to steady himself with a hand on my shoulder.

His masculine voice softly husked “Oh God!” as my mouth licked, nipped and kissed it’s way up the impressive kid prick. My hands roughly kneaded the rocky spheres of his small, perfect butt before my gentle fingers located his downy, damp furrow.

Wrapping a firm hand around the unbending flesh I roughed back the slack of foreskin then pressed my nose to the moist, raw flesh it had protected and inhaled the faint, cheddar smell of his adolescent need.

The dark, rose-colored head flared against my fevered kiss. Then, with my nose and mouth pressed into the boy’s musky pubic forest, I rested a moment. Delaying, I felt the strong, beckoning lifts of his cock scrape my cheek. My own cock had gone from painfully hard to numb. I backed away, ready to end this sweet torture. The blue vein running his dick’s incredible length looked swollen to the bursting point. He was so aggressively hard, I had to bend it down to suck it.

Slowly, fractionally I swallowed the entire length of his boy cock. Moaning appreciatively at it’s robust, hard boiled feel and it’s moist young taste and smell, I stroked it with my tongue, kept it lodged deep in my throat, savored it — him, my stepson.
Then reluctantly, I smoothed back my wet, hard lips letting all but the wide, engorged head slip into the room before a slow, nose-smashing descent into the dense, scented curls, then repeated the process with such slow, concentration I could feel the small sweep of my thick moustache with each deliberate retreat on the pounding flesh. I loved each throat stretching invasion of the steely, juvenile meat into my mouth.

After only a few slippery gobbling and firm, wet strokes back, Paul’s body stiffened, and a beat after that, with an awed and agonized “Oh my God” he exploded.

I thirstily drank my stepson’s warm splashes of cum. His bent kneed orgasm was sweet and thick. I gulped noisily; overwhelmed at how much I needed this 18 year old’s hot, savage release.

With a slow fist I milked him, making sure I’d gotten every drop of spunky boy juice. My mouth mourned the 10 inch loss of still stubbornly erect kid meat. Finished, I stood before the masculine miracle and for a long, unembarrassed moment we (it seemed) stared into each other’s souls.

I leaned a gentle, unthinking kiss on to his soft mouth and hugged him into me. After only a few seconds, he returned it. Pressing almost urgently against me he allowed my tongue to explore the soft inside of his bottom lip, the clean smooth surfaces of hard teeth, then his own tongue was licking greedily at mine. I broke the kiss. Gulping for air before pressing my nose into his rich, dark curls, I breathed in their sweat and shampoo smell, and stroked his back.

“How was it?” I asked against that wonderful, thick hair and guided his hand to the pounding flesh between my own legs. It pressed it urgently into his smooth palm through the thick denim.

“Incredible,” he husked, as his hand grew more confident.

“Suck me” I ordered hotly, “Don’t forget our deal!”

Looking at once fearful and anxious, Paul knelt before me. I watched the kid as he tugged down my zipper and coaxed my jeans to my locked knees. The sudden caress of cool air on my hard, twitching cock and ass sent a shiver through me. A fat, drop of clear fluid clung to my wide cock slit. Paul looked both fascinated and queasy and then with no preliminaries he wrapped his pink lips around half of my thick 6 inch cock. He immediately let it go, sat back and, concentrating, working up a generous amount of his sweet spit, then tried again.

I placed a firm hand at the back of his head and fed my fat, smelly cock into his pretty, stretched white lips and mouth till he gagged on it.

Only a few hot seconds passed before my hips showed the inexperienced youth the slow, meaty rhythm that I liked.

He looked beautiful, so richly taken. His was an incredible face to fuck hard dick into and the visual turn on combined with his wet, deep breathing struggle to please me made delaying impossible, inspired my hips to pump it into him in brutal, hot jabs. I held his head stationary as I hurried toward my much needed orgasm.

The sweating boy gagged, gulped in air and held tight to the backs of my thighs. My aching balls lifted as I banged at his throat, readied, “NOW!” I agonized. “Oh Paul, now. Yes. Yes. I’m cummmmminnnnng!”

Then that searing, sweet rush up through my rock hard shaft and the jet after scalding jet of man juice hurled violently against his closed throat. He retched and tried to pull away but my hands continued to hold him, forcing him to swallow as I gently fucked the ebbing ropes of thick cum into his assaulted mouth.

When my hands finally released him he surprised me by staying his mouth around my slick, dick. Then after sort of spitting out my meat he eagerly lapped up the sticky fluid that had escaped the corners of his mouth. I gently stroked the back of this boy’s neck who was trying very hard to please me. Finished, eyes shining with accomplishment, Paul sat back on his heels.

I hiked up my jeans over my own fine ass and stuffed my mean, half hard cock back into them and squatted before the dazed, pretty youth.

He grinned his Huck Finn grin. “How was it?” he asked a little raspily.

“Pretty okay.” I said with an affectionate punch to his rocky stomach.

“I’m hard again.” He said proudly, showing me with his hand that he was.

“We’ll need to take care of that when we get back.” I told him.

His thick, black brows furrowed. He even frowned cute.

“Back from where?”

‘We’re buying a car. Remember?”

“Today?”

“I’d say I’d almost have to deliver after such a sizeable down payment.” I laughed softly, causing him to forget and hug me hard.

Awkwardly he released me. We stood. I used his hard, happy cock like a handle to pull him into me and kissed his pretty upturned nose. “Get dressed — before I decide the next installment is due.”

That was a year ago. Paul is still showily cruising around town in his new Camaro (which I’m buying the gas for). He is however making several payments a week on it.

At some time, it’s hard to pinpoint just when (perhaps while stabbing my pointy tongue viciously at and then in the moist terrified flesh ring — my face ground between his pert buttocks and gulping in the musky boy scent at his most secret place or — maybe the moment after I heard him tell a friend of his over the phone that she was crazy — his Dad didn’t look like Tom Selleck, he looked better than Tom), I fell in love with Paul.

At times I’m happiest when smoothing my fat, hard, cock into my wife’s wet, gasping pussy, slow stroking it to her, enjoying the cool squish of her breasts under my hard chest knowing that across the hall, only a few feet away, sleeps the sweet other side of the exciting coin. Also her flesh. Her blood.

I love them both, my wife and stepson. It’s that simple. It’s that complicated.

Last night — while stabbing into Paul’s slender, receptive body (the soft, slap of my balls hitting his eager buttocks the only sound in the room) I hoped my stepson would always need something “extra” from me and — lost to the oiled velvet clutching of his hot bowels — knew I’d always need “extra” from him.