Mr. Jones the Neighbor

I slept in the next morning. By the time my bleary eyes processed the numbers on the alarm clock on the bedside table, it was nearly 11:00. Last night was a surreal, horny blur; Dad had told me everything, and yet it still seemed so vague, hidden behind a haze of secondhand memory. I wondered, for the kajillionth time, what it was like to be there that night. I had barely slept, trying to re-create it all. Now, propped up by a kickstand boner in my gym shorts, I considered trying my hand at dominating him—truly taking him down. All I would have to do was call him in, and I could try every technique that Mr. Jones had used that 4

th

of July.

But I didn't. I stood up and stretched. There would be time for that later, I thought.

Then, another thought, nagging at the back of my mind: if not now, when?

The raw power that Mr. Jones had shown when he bred Dad in front of me was overwhelming. Sure, I could dress him down a bit, make him suck my cock and drink my piss, but to fuck him like that, to degrade him and drive him wild? And now, knowing how Mr. Jones had kicked things off, his creative sadism... could I ever measure up to that?

When I came downstairs, Dad was waiting for me in the kitchen with two blender bottles on the counter. He was wearing short athletic shorts and a tight tank top, but somehow he seemed just as exposed as when he was wearing his thong.

"Good morning, sir," he said brightly. "I thought we might work out together, today."

He saw my blank face.

"Uhm... if that's alright."

"Sure," I said, taking one of the bottles. It tasted strange—a combination of several pre-workout and protein powders, it turned out—but I gulped it down anyway. Dad drank his while intermittently wiping down the counters. The place was sparkling; Mr. Jones must have strict cleanliness specifications. I wondered if his workout regimen was as stringent.

When we got to the gym, a handful of people immediately greeted Dad before we even got past the lobby. Already, it was obvious that he had become a regular since I was at school. He even knew the guy at the front desk by name.

"How you doing, Nick?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Yourself?"

"Can't complain. This is my son, Max. We're going to be working out together today."

Nick appraised me with a quick sweep of the eyes. His head was shaved bald, but he couldn't have been much older than thirty. As could be expected from someone who worked at a gym, his muscles bulged under his branded sleeveless shirt. He mouth curved into a reckless half-smile.

"Good luck keeping up, kid," he said good-naturedly. "Your dad's a beast."

I smiled in return, not sure how to answer. Dad just waved his hand and scanned his card.

He led me to the locker room, which was large and clean and calming. Some sort of spearmint-eucalyptus scent wafted on the thick steam that emanated from the shower stalls. Beyond them were the wet and dry saunas. Several towering rows of lockers ran the length of the room, affording some privacy while changing, but mirrors also seemed to be everywhere, giving a voyeuristic glimpse of every movement.

Maybe it was that my relationship with my father had completely been turned on its head in the past couple of days, but I was suddenly keenly aware of the muscled, glistening, handsome men that floated around me in various stages of undress. One walked out of the shower with a flat

slap

of wet feet, holding his towel carelessly in front of him while drying his face; one was taking a selfie in a tantalizingly tight speedo, adjusting his angle in the light; one sat facing the entrance, scrolling on his phone and seemingly oblivious to the fact that his wide legs showed his dick off from under his towel. I was positively gaping. Dad elbowed me gently.

"It's a lot, eh?" he grinned mischievously. I nodded.

We crossed through the crowd (more guys waved or said hello to Dad—again, I got the impression of local celebrity) to the back row of lockers. With breathtaking efficiency, Dad was suddenly fully naked, cage dangling in the air in front of God and everybody. I would have been vicariously humiliated if he didn't look so comfortable. He noticed my eyes.

"Mr. Jones doesn't let little things like embarrassment stop me from serving my purpose," he said. He rocked his hips back and forth gently, jiggling his cage. "He says exposure is part of the lifestyle."

"Do people... say things?"

"Not usually. Some people stare a bit, but it's way easier than I thought it would be."

"Oh."

He pulled his workout clothes out of his gym bag. "Come on, we've got to get going, or we're going to lose our momentum."

And soon we were walking out onto the floor to get started.

It turned out that Nick was right; Dad was a beast, though I wouldn't realize that until it was too late. After extensive stretching of just about every muscle in my body except my tongue, we started with some lunges. Easy enough; a wave of competitiveness rose up, and soon I was outpacing Dad across the floor. He lightly reproached me to watch my form and chuckled when I swayed with sudden self-consciousness.

Then we did some warm-up squats. These brought my breathing up; I felt myself break a sweat. Then medicine ball squats. Bridges and ab work. Bulgarian split-squats. An arm rotation—curls, pull-downs, all kinds of stuff. By the time we got to the squat rack for barbell squats, I thought I was dying. Dad was racking up a couple hundred pounds to get started when I finally wheezed,

"D-Dad, I think I'm going to take a—take a break."

He looked at me, clearly repressing a smirk. "I was kind of wondering."

I felt my cheeks start to redden in embarrassment, and it occurred to me that he shouldn't be able to do that, even in public. It didn't matter how much he could squat. I was in charge, as long as Mr. Jones was gone. He was locked, and I was in charge.

I acted without thinking. In two moves, I took a step toward him and slipped my hand down the front of his shorts, cradling his cage in my hand. His balls were warm and a little sweaty. I squeezed gently, just enough for him to really feel it. He stiffened to attention, eyes widening.

"I'll catch up with you... later," I breathed. "You... try to behave." I was so close to his face that I could see every drop of sweat on his skin, I could practically feel his warmth, his scent was intoxicating, the sensation of the words buzzing through my throat were so much more threatening than I ever thought—

Then I pulled my hand out, and he exhaled with relief. I swatted his ass when I walked away, a satisfying SLAP. He distinctly said "thank you, sir!" as I walked away.

Aaaaand then my dick was hard. Go figure.

As I walked back to the locker room, I realized I couldn't go change at full mast—everyone would see. And I was... well, to put it mildly, I was not ready to go work out some more. My knees were still shaking from all the shit Dad had put me through. So I decided to tuck my cock into my waistband and passed through the locker room into the steam room. Nobody looked twice as I slipped inside.

Jesus, it was like stepping into a wall of hot water. It filled my lungs and pressed on all sides; I felt the moisture immediately start to run in rivulets down my face. The room was empty; a few dim lights prevailed against the sticky gloom. I peeled my shirt off of my sweaty skin, sitting down on the tile bench. I felt my boner ease off a bit, but in the humid haze of the steam room I remembered the smell of Dad's sweat yesterday, the curve of his ass in my hands, and I had to take a deep breath to try to come back down again.

Maybe it was the headiness of the air, but I smiled to myself thinking of all the men in the world whose problems were a lack of boners and sex and kink to spice up their lives. Those men in the conventional, boring relationships that failed to excite them. My problem was a boner that wouldn't go away, a sub slut Dad who would do literally whatever I wanted, and a sexy neighbor who had started this whole thing and then disappeared. As things go, these were good problems to have.

I'd never get bored, at this rate. The idea was thrilling.

The smile dripped off my face, though, when another guy came into the steam room.

He was maybe thirty, fit, with a light peppering of hair on his chest. He held a fluffy white towel at his waist, rather than tightening it around his hips; when he sat down three or four feet from me, it pooled around him, revealing a glimpse of tightly groomed pubes. All of a sudden, the heat of the room felt stuffy; I shifted, trying to hide my erection.

He noticed my glance, smirked. He leaned back casually, propping himself up on his hands. He sighed in satisfaction at the steam and his abs flexed. I felt a flush that had nothing to do with steam.

We sat in silence for a few moments. I tried desperately not to look at him again, but he seemed to have a gravity about him; I couldn't fight it, I couldn't keep my eyes away. When I looked next, he was staring straight at me.

"Haven't seen you around here." His voice was soft, quiet, barely audible. I repressed the impulse to lean in, to listen, to feel his breath against the steam.

"I'm—here with my Dad," I managed.

"Where is he?"

"Out on the floor."

He scooted slightly closer to me, as if unconsciously. His towel slid across his lap, giving a tantalizing glimpse of a thigh. His hair flopped down, wet with sweat; he pushed it back casually. "He's not going to walk in here, is he?"

"No," I whispered.

He glanced meaningfully at my stiff cock. "Good," he said. "Good."

He reached out a hand and felt my chest. His touch was warm and tender and erotic; I felt a sizeable glob of precum leak into my shorts. He tweaked my nipple, and I almost jumped off the bench.

"You want some help with this?" he asked, hand drifting downward until he was playing with my waistband.

I gulped, mumbled something unintelligible even to myself.

He reached in and pulled my cock out into the steam. Even in the semidarkness, the glisten of precum shone like a star. The stranger gently touched a thumb to it, pulling away a fine thread of stickiness. He pressed it to his tongue, his eyes never leaving my face.

"You taste good," he said, pulling his towel back. His cock was impressive, thick and uncut. I could see a dribble of precum at the tip to rival mine.

I felt dizzy. My cock throbbed. Before I could say anything else, though, he was between my knees, pulling back the elastic on my shorts. His tongue swept across my cock, then my head was in his mouth. He slooowly brought himself down, never breaking eye contact. His lips touched my pubes...

"Fuck," I managed.

His strokes were slow and meaningful. All the way down, then retreating. He tweaked my nipple again, and I moaned softly into the heat. He twisted his head as he moved, his tongue gently sweep across my entire length. Shit, it felt so good.

Too good. I was going to—

"Stop," I said, and he pulled back from my cock, looking confused.

"Were you getting close?"

I nodded, and he gave me a cocky half-smile.

"Do you want to cum in my mouth?"

Fuck, it was tempting. All I would have to do was agree. He would take me down to the hilt and I could pump my warm load into his throat. My cock was absolutely begging for release. Another drop of precum slid down, joining the saliva that glistened in the low light. It was a first for me, cruising a steam room at a gym. It was so hot, literally and figuratively; I couldn't tell if the flush in my face and chest was from the head or the steam. I bet he would swallow, too, just like Dad.

Dad. He was out there on the floor; he wasn't waiting for me, was he? He was under orders to do whatever I wanted, and he had the locked cock to prove it. I wondered what he would think, knowing that his only pleasure, taking his Dom's loads, had been given to someone else. Had Mr. Jones done this? Had he given his cum to others, leaving Dad hungry and hopeless?

I thought of his desperate eyes, panicked and trapped, and I folded. I couldn't do it.

But, as I made the decision, I realized that I had other options.

I leaned forward and took hold of the stranger's cock. He shivered appreciatively.

"It's my turn," I said. My voice was still unsteady.

We switched positions; he sat on the tile bench, and I rested on my knees between his legs, gazing up at him just as he had done to me. Our positions reversed, his cock seemed to loom over me, huge and imposing. He smirked.

"Sure you can take it?"

I didn't answer, I just ran my tongue over the sweet sap of precum on his head, peeling back his foreskin gently. He moaned in appreciation. I eased down his shaft slowly, crawling my lips across every millimeter, trying to make him feel my mouth as much as possible. Before I could reach his pubes, though, I felt my gag reflex kick in, and I began my retreat. I tried again, nice and slow, but again I gagged before I could throat him completely. I felt him soften slightly; I needed to get to it, or he'd lose his boner altogether.

In my limited experience, guys typically blew others the way they wanted to get head. But in this case, slow throating wasn't going to work, at least not yet. I brought my hand up and started to pump, working his head with my mouth, but before long he shook his head.

"No hands," he said, and I was surprised to hear a curtness in his voice. "Use your throat, or I'll make you take it."

I sat back on my heels. There was no way I was going to be able to take his massive cock of my own volition. He was getting soft, and I was out of options.

"Make me take it," I said.

He grinned wide. "I was hoping you'd say that."

He stood up, took my face by both cheeks, and looked down at me with cold magnanimity.

"Say 'ah,' bitch."

I opened my mouth wide. He slid his dick inside easily, and I was surprised to find that he got a bit farther than before when I gagged. He pulled back, then thrust forward again. I held my tongue against him, trying to enhance the sensation any way I could. I wanted him to enjoy himself. I wanted to make him feel good.

When he began face-fucking me in earnest, I gagged and choked, but his cock stayed rock hard the whole time. I knew I was doing something right. The sound of his grunts mixed with my retching bounced off the walls, making me feel like we were being watched by an auditorium of people; I idly wondered if anyone in the locker room could hear this, and then I wondered if I cared.

Then, he yanked his cock out of my mouth, leaving me gasping. He took hold of my cheeks with a firm hand, his face contorting. When he spat onto my tongue, I swallowed and said the only thing that came to my mind:

"Thank you, sir."

It wasn't until he laughed and started thrusting his dick back into my throat that I realized, oh shit, I am supposed to be Dad's Dom.

Well, at least I'm versatile.

It seemed like an eternity, but all too soon, I felt his balls tighten. His breathing accelerated.

"Fuck—I'm—fuck, that mouth is so good—I'm close—"

I pulled off his dick long enough to say,

"Feed me."

Then I went back to sucking like crazy. By now, my throat was stretched out enough to take his full length. When he erupted, I felt the hot cum roll down my throat, shooting into my mouth as he pulled back, and down my throat again as he thrust forward. He was everywhere, filling me up. I swallowed everything.

I loved it.

He sank back down onto the bench, chest heaving.

"Goddamn," he breathed. "It's been ages since I came like that."

I wiped my mouth. "Thanks."

"I'm serious. I hope your dad brings you around more often."

"I have a feeling he will."

He thanked me again and stood up to leave. I let him.

Then I was alone.

I felt a wave of regret wash over me. I should have cum for him! My cock was so hard that it ached. Clearly he had felt so good when he came—that could have been me. And I put him off for what—for Dad? I could use his mouth any time I wanted.

I even regretted swallowing his load down too fast. I hadn't savored it enough—just like when I ate Mr. Jones' load out of Dad's ass. I got so caught up in the moment, I forgot to enjoy it.

I stood up. I was absolutely drenched in sweat; the heat was deep in my chest. I needed to step out, to experience the real world again. Nobody would notice the cum on my breath, probably. I might even find Dad and finish up the workout.

When I stepped into the locker room again, it was like stepping into a fridge; the air was suddenly cool and dry against my skin. The light overhead seemed to blaze compared to the dim steam room. I felt myself returning to earth.

Except—wait. Was earth making that sound when I went into the steam room?

It was a low growl, like there was an animal stalking behind the lockers. No—it wasn't constant enough to be a growl. It was coming and going—grunting. Wait. It couldn't be—

When I rounded the corner, my eyes widened.

Three guys were loitering by the lockers, wearing towels over their shoulders that did nothing to hide their beautiful dicks. In front of them, a naked man—no, two naked men—were kneeling on the floor, both facing away from me. Two impressive, muscular ass-cheeks were pounding away. These guys were fucking on the locker room floor. In front of an audience.

Through my haze of surprise, I realized that one of the onlookers was my steam room hookup. As I recognized him, he looked up at me.

"Obviously missed this opportunity," he said, shrugging. He lingered another moment to watch, then excused himself from his buddies and walked off, presumably to get dressed. The other two looked at me uncertainly.

"He's all yours, if you want to go next," one said. "We've both nutted in him already."

"Really?" I asked. "What—just here on the floor?"

"Sure," the other nodded. "He's usually here to get seeded two, three times a week."

"The gym doesn't mind?"

"See for yourself."

I took a step to look at the fucker who was now driving his cock into the bottom as hard and deep as possible, eliciting ecstatic moans with every stroke. Sure enough, it was Nick the front desk guy, as gloriously muscled while naked as he was clothed. Every vein in his neck was bulging as he plunged his dick in deeper and deeper—he was getting close.

But the greater surprise was the bottom.

It was Dad.

Fucking of course. I should have known that from the moment that guy cruised me in the steam room. Of course Mr. Jones would start Dad at a gym where nobody gives a shit if you get fucked on the locker room floor. He had been so cavalier about flopping his cage around when we arrived—how many times had that trick gotten him laid in this very room?

Maybe it was stupid—no, it was certainly stupid—but I was disappointed that Dad was taking all of these loads before he took mine. It seemed unfair, didn't it, that I was meant to be in charge, and here he was, taking everyone else's dick? I would have to punish him for this. Assert my authority.

But also, nestled somewhere in that indignation was a kernel of guilt. Maybe I really had been neglecting him. Clearly, he was an incorrigible faggot cumdump. Mr. Jones had been fulfilling his needs by filling full his ass and mouth. What had I done for him? Fed him a single load? I would have to do better.

Nick was grunting now, and in moments he was announcing that he was going to breed Dad's faggot cunt. Dad begged for it and everything. After several seconds of moaning and panting, Nick finally pulled out.

I knew what I had to do, but I had no idea how to do it. I moved like I was sleepwalking. I stepped behind Dad's ass. His hole was pink and dripping. Nick caught sight of me, recognized, me, smiled wickedly. He nodded encouragingly.

I slipped my pants down. My boner sprung up at attention, eager to get things moving. Dad started to get up, but Nick shoved him back down with a foot in the small of his back. He leaned down toward Dad's face.