Date: Thu, 8 Oct 2009 14:30:37 +0000
From: Bill Drake <billdrake@hotmail.com>
Subject: HDT #7: Football Dads

Horny Dad Tales
Bill Drake (billdrake@hotmail.com)


The usual disclaimers apply: for adult readers only. Contains graphic
depictions of sexual activity between men, some of whom are related.


This series is not one story but a collection of tales involving, you got
it, horny dads. Back in the listserv days there was a great series called
Horny Guy Tails. They were the inspiration for my White Collar Tales, and I
thought it would be fun to have a series of father-son stories: some
shorter, some more developed. A forum for the usual Bill Drake plots and
themes, and for developing ideas I don't normally do.

The series has gotten a lot of great feedback, so thanks to those readers
out there who've taken a moment to write. Send those comments and story
suggestions along: billdrake@hotmail.com.

For more of my stories, check out the Authors page at Nifty, or join my
Yahoo group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/drakestories/


Horny Dad Tales # 7
Football Dads


Football fathers are a funny breed. Funny cause they're all exactly the
same. Deep down, at least.

Take my neighbor. Dave Marshall. Middle-aged guy. Social studies teacher
and head football coach at a piddling suburban high school. He's gone to
seed around the middle, but the upper-body brawn is as a reminder of his
days as a first-stringer at State. He never went pro, but he was gonna make
sure his son Trey did. I don't think the boy had even popped any pubes out
before Dave had the boy on a varsity college training
schedule. One-and-a-half to two hours of weights every evening. Protein
shakes, supplements, and I wouldn't be surprised if Dave was juicing him
with steroids, too.

By the time the kid was 15, he had the musculature and bulk of a
senior. The progress seemed only to egg Dave on more, the workouts got
longer, more intense. Even from next door, I could hear Dave yelling,
urging his son to work harder.

Already, Trey was red-shirting as a varsity wide receiver. Same position
his daddy played. One weekend afternoon I stopped by the Marshall house and
saw through the window a sight that made my tool hard: Trey shirtless
posing and staring at an oversized glossy of a young Dave leaping in the
air to catch a ball. The kid sure was trying the best to be everything his
daddy was. More, even.



I'd seen it before. In college I was a student assistant for the Division
II ball team. Essentially a gofer for Coach Jeffers, a gruff bastard who
had two things going for him in my book. 1... he knew how to win and made
sure his boys answered to their best ball... and 2... he has a certain
energy, a fierceness, that made him, well hot. Coach Jeffers was the man
that made me realize I loved men. For two years straight he barked abuse
upon abuse at me, and I'd just ask how high before jumping.

I thought I had plenty of jo material just seeing Coach strut around like a
military commander, but the cherry on the sundae was that first afternoon I
met the younger Jeffers. Never knew his first name, he was just the coach's
boy. Highschooler, played ball himself, and would alternate strutting about
in a cocky walk and surreptitiously eyeing his betters around the locker
room, admiring the older players. Before he and Coach went into the office
and shut the door.

They never stayed in there more than ten minutes before they'd come back
out. Coach with sperm dribbles on his poly-knit shorts, the kid with
tousled hair. The look of satisfaction. Either Junior knew how to suck or
Coach knew how to take a good face fuck into his own hands. It was a nasty
sight. I stayed boned my last two years of college.

So I developed an eye. Knew where the real action is those Friday night
games. On the sidelines, a special unofficial section where the players'
dads congregate. Smoking cigars, making crude jokes, slapping backs. High
fiving when one of their boys makes a play. Not so secretly reliving their
glory days on the field.

Thing is, those football dads don't even realize how perved they
are. They're so shamelessly in love with their jock sons, feeding off some
fucked-up narcissistic feedback loop watching.  Junior play ball, follow
Daddy's footsteps, become a man. On a conscious level, they'd never
acknowledge that they're trying to bulk up their sons and rush teenjock
adolescence cause they just can't fucking wait to pop their boys' cherries,
slurp their nutcream. And Junior doesn't question why he and Dad have
started doing their two-hour-a-day weighttraining workouts in only their
straps, or why Dad insists on giving him a head-to-toe rubdown when they're
done. Or why they're both so fucking stiff in their jockpouches by the end
of it all. By the time of their next annual dad-and-son fishing trip,
they're both gonna be so fucking primed for it.



Best sex of my life has been right smack in between coworker Greg Carson
and his jock son. Your first football-family threesome you'll never
forget. I'd spent the day helping Greg and Lance repaint their house so
they could sell it. Did my best not to stare at Greg whose ex-jock build
was pretty damned impressive in a thin T-Shirt. Or at his son, who went
shirtless and whose smooth, pale freckled skin was something else. The
kid's cargo shorts were sagging down onto the shelf of that meaty rump, I
swear I didn't know they made asses that fucking round and hard. We're
talking spherical jockbutt cheeks.

Long hot day of work and we hit the beer plenty hard. I was definitely too
drunk to drive... "Wanna stay the night, Bill?" Sure thing. "Only one
bedroom's not been painted, but it's a king bed. Don't mind sharing a bed
do you?" Nah, Greg. I swear the lights weren't off fifteen minutes before I
heard the nasty sound of father and son making out next to me. Big wet
macking kisses, spitswapping, mummers of excitement. I run my hand along
Greg's firm back and the sec my fingers graze the top of his butt, he's
humping his crack back at me, trying to get me. We pulled on a fuck train
like nothing else that night, and the next morning it was like nothing
happened. Dad and son acting like any other father and son. Distant,
respectful, lots of "yes, sir" "no, sir" and shit. I thought I'd been
dreaming it til I invited Greg over for the NCAA playoffs and he brought
not only Lance but a fifth of whiskey which he and the boy immediately
began to polish off. When they both pleaded they were too drunk and asked
if they could stay the night, I praised the Gods in Heaven.

College gameday is now a standing date with the Carsons. They've now gotten
a lot more comfortable and daring about the sex. The first time Greg
shimmied down between Lance's spread legs and pulled down his son's shorts
and started sucking the kid off right in front of me was pretty
unbelievable. Now I expect Dad to swallow his boy's DNA before the end of
first quarter.



Once you sample that shit you can't give it up. I've been posting on
craigslist, in my city, in other towns, writing up in horny detail odes to
football dads. Like what I'm writing here. Telling these dads it's OK that
they want to do their boys so bad they can taste it. Describing the
Carsons, Coach Jeffers, the real-life dad-n-son fuckers I've met up with
and witnessed, the imaginary ones that fuel my nightly imagination.  I take
some of the pix I have of Greg and Lance and put black bars over the eyes
to disguise their identity. But you can tell it's not staged, it's real
football-dad sex. Man fucking boy. Boy screwing Dad.

After seeing those photos, a lot of guys will email me. For most it's a
fantasy trip, a role play thing. I get a couple of live ones though. Real
honest-to-god Football Dads. Married men going on CL for a quick m4m bj
action on their way home from work when they see it. "Are you a Football
Dad?" Click. Those words, those pictures change their life. These paragon
ex-jocks have to sit as close as they can to their office desk just to hide
their massively hard boners. Boners which shouldn't even be exposed to an
idea sordid as this. Cause they like it too much.

I've teamed up with an ex-NFLer in a nearby city that way. The fucker felt
me out for two months with back and forth emails before he finally caved
into his desires. That first time I sucked him and ate him out as he spewed
every nasty fuck fantasy that he could dream up with him and his boys. The
three of 'em tall strapping jocks. Mr. Pro Tight End played the home video
and watched and I serviced and listened to fucktalk that should be
illegal. Maybe it is.



Just last week in O'Hare Airport, I saw a pair that made me stop dead in my
tracks. Giant burly fortysomething man, we're talking Steve Wisniewski
build. Bulging muscle pecs pushing up his dress shirt, even fuller gut. He
had his arm paternally draped around a college aged son, big and
musclebound himself, with a military/college-jock style haircut to match
his Daddy. Big meaty forearm resting on the boy's shoulder, the glint of a
Superbowl ring shining in the fluorescent light. Damn.

This was gonna fuel my fantasies for the week. I sat down in the seating
area right behind them and wondered how I could get so lucky to come across
such a perfect sight, when I realized I was about to get luckier.

"We got a while before our flight. I think I'm gonna find the men's room,"
the father said in a deep, Southern accent.

"I gotta go, too, Dad." The son was definitely a college athlete... whether
from natural testosterone or steroids, he had that telltale deepness in his
voice, just like his father's.

They stood, and I could see the son was about an inch or so taller than his
dad. Several pounds and many inches smaller, but was working pretty quick
on his development. Two chestnut haired masculine gods. The father turned
to a blonde trophy wife. "Mind watching the bags for a minute, honey?"

They made their way down the concourse and I was a solid twenty paces
behind. They passed by two men's rooms, but eventually made their way to
one of the airline VIP lounges. I was beginning to get the idea this
football dad wanted a more private place to piss with his son. Fortunately
I was a frequent flier and slipped into the club after them.

The restroom was empty otherwise, and these men did not waste time. By the
time I entered, the two were already locked in behind the last stall. I
could hear kissing and soft moaning. "Shh!" the dad said. At least I think
it was the dad. I tiptoed to the next stall and sat in a perfect perch for
eavesdropping.

I wasn't disappointed. More kissing. A belt buckle being undone, then a
zipper. Soft sound of spitting. Then a chocked grunt. Slick fucking sounds,
matching the increasingly audible soft slaps of flesh against flesh. Heavy
breathing. Now the unmistakable gasp of a man's release.  Breathing
quieting down, then more kissing. Pants being pulled back up, zipped up. A
door unlatching.

I didn't dare unzip, but I looked down and saw my hardon throbbing harder
than it had ever throbbed in my pants. I contemplated sitting there til the
guys left and jacking out a quick one. But I knew I had to take a chance.

Father and son were washing up at the row of sinks when I exited the
stall. The two men froze in a nervous position and watched as I walked up
to the sink.

"Hello gentlemen," I said. Then lowering my voice. "If you don't mind my
saying, that was the hottest fucking thing I've ever heard."

The kid let out a sigh of relief. The father arched his eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Hell, yeah."

The tough ex-jock face brightened up. "Want a go at him?"

I stood in disbelief. "You mean?"

"Yeah. You and Craig in the back stall. I'll stand out and keep watch."

I looked over at Craig to see what he thought of this arrangement, but
instead of approval or disapproval I saw only a patented dumb-jock
blankness on his face. That alone about made me cum right there.

Apparently the father wasn't gonna ask his son what he wanted. "What ya
waiting for, son?" He gave a quick paternal pat on his shoulder and
compliantly Craig nodded and started walking back to the stall.

I was close behind. I'd barely latched the door when I saw the jock's jeans
shimmy down his heavy hamstrings as he faced away from me, leaned against
the wall and stuck out his beefy ass.

I don't think Craig had bothered even to wipe up the cummy mess before
leaving the stall before. His father's load coated the full hairy crevice
of the boy's crack, a real spermy mess.  I dove in.

"Ah!" he gasped before remembering to be quiet. I got the feeling dad
didn't rim the boy, the kid seemed so surprised. I was happy to induct him
into the asslicking appreciation society. I slurped and munched and
tongue-drilled his sperm-sloppy manhole, tasting the father's cum deposit,
til I couldn't take any more. Stood up and started sliding in. On daddy's
fresh muck. It was my turn to gasp. Craiggy boy felt tight as cherry, but
nice and hot and soft. I entered slowly and let the guy get used to having
my iron rod crammed up his tailpipe. Then I started pulling out slow, only
to fuck in hard. The boy loved that trick. He nodded his head up and down
desperately and spread his legs.

So I kept at it. Fucked him firm and steady for five, maybe six, minutes. I
didn't announce my orgasm. I just let loose. Craig didn't seem to mind. I
pulled out and caressed the young jock's buns in silent thanks. Zipped up
and left the stall.

Burly man gave me a knowing smile as I exited. "Thanks, man," I said.

"Sure thing," he grinned clearly amused by the satisfied look on my
face. He was gently caressing a renewed boner in his chinos.

I left the club and was halfway down the terminal to my gate when I got an
email on my blackberry.

"Saw yr craigslist ad. Fuck, man, how'd you get into my head? Ex-FB jock
here, asst coach at a local HS. Yr probably a cop and I'll probably lose my
fucking job by sending this email but damn, all I can think about is my boy
Jack. Fucking him. No, raping his jock ass. U said u know other football
dads. If ur for real, hit me back. Please."

I had to laugh. I started to punch back a reply when I felt a hand on my
shoulder.

"Hey." Burly dad. A little out of breath from running to catch up with me.

"Hey." A little surprised. I thought this was gonna be a
when-stars-are-aligned blow-and-go.

"Listen," he lowered his voice. "You made a pretty big impression on Craig
back there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he smirked. "He guessed about 10 inches big."

I shrugged coyly, not confirming or denying the information.

"Anyway," he flipped a business card into my hand. "If you wanna connect up
again, my number's on here."

I took the card gratefully. Apparently Burly Dad ran a sports supplement
business now. "Cool. Look, can I gave you some parenting advice?"

His cheerful expression turned dark. "Yeah, you're gonna tell me I
shouldn't be fucking around with my own boy. Tell me something I don't know
mister." His voice was low but he managed to bark his words at me.

I held up my hand. "Easy there. Just gonna say you should try rimming."

"Huh?"

"Buttlicking. Eat your boy out sometime. I did back there. Drove your son
wild, and I bet my right nut he'd die to get that treatment from his
daddy."

The man soaked in the information. I could tell from his expression it was
a new idea to him, but one he liked. He smiled his pearly whites. "Yeah. I
think I'll try that."

He started to turn away but stopped.

"One more question."

"Shoot."

"You ate him out just now. That mean, you...?"

"Ate your spunk. Hell yeah. Sweet tasting stuff ya got." I nodded down at
his business card. "Maybe I'm gonna have to start taking some of your
supplements."




So I've started working out with my neighbors. Either Dave will get home
first or I will, but either way, Trey's already there hitting the
weights. We just strip down to our straps and join him. They'll pop wood in
their pouches, who am I to hold back. Dave's even started encouraging me to
feel his boy's muscle up, the perverted fucker. He loves having a
fuck-trophy of a son to parade about, and Trey eats up the attention. Those
guys are a match made in heaven, if you ask me.

Trey will taunt his dad by slapping the beer gut. "Looks like someone needs
some extra conditioning drills," he'd growl in best imitation of his
assistant coach.

Dave will look down, first proud of his manly girth, then scowl in mock
indignation. "At least I'm more a man where it counts, son." Or something
like that. Then he'll goose his boy's jockpouch-covered crotch.

If Trey's cock is smaller than his daddy's, fuck if I can tell.

The teasing goes on, in between set after intense set, til the guys start
hinting it's time for me to go. I always do, reluctantly.

No way Trey Marshall's not getting his juice sucked down on a nightly basis
by his coach-daddy.



It's time to take it to the next level. Skip the online stuff. Go straight
to the source. Go up to that endfield section during the next high school
ball game, where all the players' dads hang out, and saddle right up to the
chainlink fence. Next to one of the burly ex-jock daddies. Pick the one
who's shouting the loudest. Who can't keep his eyes off the field.

"Your boy playing out there?" I ask. Already know the answer.

His green eyes don't look at me. His jaws lazily chew his gum, a telltale
sign of a man recently giving up tobacco. "Yeah. Number 27. Reg Masters."

I looked out onto the field. #27 stands about 6'0" and has some amazing
guns poking out beneath the white jersey uniform sleeve. The kid's
definitely college varsity bound. Hot like his daddy.

"Great player," I appraise. "He's got real hustle."

"Best cornerback Wheeler High's had in years." A proud reply. The man's
meaty chest couldn't poke forward any further.

"I believe it. Like I said, he's a great player. Probably best one out
there." Nothing works better with a football dad than flattering his son.

Mr. Masters is no exception. "Yeah?" Suddenly he's more interested in my
presence, in our conversation. He looks at me and nods. Accepting me into
his sphere. We watch the game, him getting more adrenaline by the moment,
me getting more testosterone. I want him bad.

After the final horn, the players walk back to the field house. "Gonna wait
for your boy?" I ask.

"Yeah." I expect him to walk off. But he's not wanting to end our
conversation, our camaraderie. He stands, hands in pockets shuffling a
little. "But it usually takes at least a half hour for the boys to shower
off and coach to give them their postgame talk."

"I got nowhere to be. Wanna kill some time?"

"Sure. What you thinking? Grab a beer at Finnegan's?"

"Could do." I hesitate trying to feel him out. "I also got some pot in my
Explorer, if that's your thing."

His eyes light up. "You offering to get me high? I haven't done that shit
in years."

"You wanna?"

He pauses, thinks, nods. "Yeah."

We climb into the front seat of my SUV and light up, passing the joint
between us. I feel good and can tell Football Dad is feeling better.

"Wow, that's good shit," he croaks through the breath he's trying to hold
in.

"I like to unwind every now and then."

"My wife would have my nuts if she knew I was doing this."

"What she doesn't know..."

"Yessir. Thing is, pot always makes me so friggin horny."

I look down. Football Dad isn't lying. His prick is poking hard and mean in
his khakis.

"Unzip, then." I say nonchalantly.

"I can't," he laughed, incredulous at the suggestion.

"Sure you can. Unzip."

He hesitates and looks around the now deserted parking lot. His fat fingers
grip his zipper and pull down.

Football Dad's cock is a beauty, not too long but nice and thick. Big round
head peaking through the opening of a juicy foreskin. He gives a couple of
tugs, letting me see the purple-red bulb shining and the dilating pissslit
oozing.

I don't hesitate. I bend down. Lick the head. Dig underneath. Football dad
is surprised but encourages me. Coaxes me to open up, eat his cock. I
comply and soon I'm sucking this horny man in the front seat of my
Explorer. I'm pretty good at giving head, but my skill almost doesn't
matter. Football Dad is really ready for it and a few minutes of head has
him blowing his gasket, spraying his thick, warm brine right into my
gullet. I give a few licks at the still spurting head and lean back to
catch my breath.

He smiles over at me, surprise battling the look of spent satisfaction on
his face. "Thanks, man," he says. He lifts his butt off the seat and
readjusts his pants, stuffing his meat back in and zipping up. "I gotta get
back. Reg is gonna be waiting for me." He gives me one more look before
opening the car door. "See you next game?"

I can still taste the aftertaste of his sperm. I still don't know his first
name, but that's OK. Like he said, I'll see him next home game. Maybe I'll
drive to the away games, too. "Yeah. See you then."

"Cool," he smiles. "Good night."

I am about to start the car, when my phone vibrates. A new message. This
time from the anonymous high school assistant coach from craigslist. Seems
he finally crossed the threshold with his boy Jack. "I wouldn't have had
the guts without your encouragement. How can I thank you?"

I text back a curt reply. "Invite me over."

The next message that came over sends my heart racing: "2013 Elmwood
Drive. Wynnfield."

I start the car.