Page 8 of The Trailer Park Twink
“I can do that,” he agrees. “I’m always happy to rub your tummy.” He combs his fingers through my hair. “Pull your pants up and meet me in the living room, little guy.”
He pauses when he spots his underwear on the counter. The dirty ones are in the hamper, and he’s still only wearing a towel.Dallas gives my cock another stolen glance before turning his back to me, dropping his towel, and grabbing his underwear. The strange thing is, he’s not making any effort to put them on.
His ass. Jesus-fucking-Christ, that ass is exquisite. There’s a dusting of fur on each cheek, and darker hair in his crack. Mary, mother of fuck, I want to bury my face between my stepfather’s cheeks. To shove my tongue inside his hole until he’s writhing and moaning out in pleasure.
“Aussie?” Dallas calls out, snapping me out of my haze.
“Huh?”
The corner of his lip curls. “I called your name a few times. I thought you might be having a seizure.” Why is he still just standing there? Why is his ass still bare? Better yet, why the fuck am I focusing on the why’s and not the what’s of the situation. His bare ass is in view. A sight I’ve dreamed of endlessly. Through the years, I’ve only seen it a handful of times, and never for this long. It almost feels like he wants me to see it. “I’m going to go set the game up, baby.” He bends over to put on his underwear, and I can’t stop the desperate whine from rising out of me like steam from a kettle.
“Are you okay, little man?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me. For the record: no, I’m not okay. I’m not okay, because Dallas’ entire asshole is fully visible. Through a forest of fur, his entrance lies hidden, like an uncharted oasis.
“I’m fine,” I squeak as he lifts his underwear up his thighs. He pauses when they reach the cheeks, flashing me a wink before pulling them up. “I’ll see you in the living room. Get ready to get your ass handed to you.”
Once he’s gone, I splash some water on my face and stare into the mirror. I look blissed out of my fucking mind, mainly because I am. I almost came for Daddy, and now I’m about to cuddle up close to him on the sofa and play Mario with him.
When I walk into the living room, he’s putting the game into his Nintendo Switch. He has to bend over to put the console in its dock, giving me a delightful view of that ass in his tight underwear. He turns the television on and walks to the sofa, plopping down and patting the empty cushion beside him. As I approach, he looks down at my shirt, swallowing thickly.
“Don’t you want to change?”
“Why?” I ask, taking a seat next to him.
“It’s still wet from earlier. From your . . .” He takes a shaky breath, eyes driftinglower to my package.
“From my pre-cum,” I say, and the word sounds absolutely obscene. Fucking filthy, really. “It’s okay. It’s kind of hot in here, and it feels cool against my stomach.”
“Oh,” he says, like it’s the most normal excuse in the world. “That makes sense.” It doesn’t, actually, but I’m not going to say that. I take a seat beside him and rest my head on his arm. He hands me the controller and smiles, but he seems a million miles away right now.
“Gonna beat you so good, Daddy,” I tease.
Although I try my hardest to make good on the threat, I fail in spectacular fashion, because I’m fucking terrible at video games. I don’t mind, though. It’s not about the game, it’s about spending time with him. Being near Dallas in this space where no one can touch us.
After Dallas tosses a particularly prickish banana peel at my car, I swerve off Rainbow Road, sending Princess Peach plummeting to her death. He’s so much better at this game than me, and I kind of just want to cuddle, so I set my controller down and rub my tummy.
“Daddy,” I whine.
He pauses the game and looks at me. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s starting to hurt. Because I didn’t come earlier.” Honestly, it’s not really a lie. I can already feel the effect of blue balls making themselves known, and it feels like someone’s wringing my insides with their hands. Fuck. I should have justjacked off before coming out of the bathroom. I have to bite my lip to distract from the uncomfortable pressure.
Surprising me, Dallas scoops me into his lap and places a hand on my tummy, rubbing it in circles. He flinches when he realizes he’s placed his entire hand in my puddle of pre-cum, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. “Does this help at all?”
“A little,” I admit, placing my hand on top of the one he’s using to stroke my stomach. “Can I just watch you play? I’m not sleepy, but I’m terrible at this game, and my tummy hurts too much to try.”
“I don’t think I can rub your tummy and play the game at the same time. It’s kind of a one-or-the-other situation.”
“Will you still stay up with me a little longer if we stop playing? I know you have work in the morning, but I’m . . .”
“You miss me,” he finishes for me, because he knows me like the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, Aussie. I know we ain’t had a whole lot of time together these last couple of months. I miss our time together too.”
“Yeah?”
He rolls his eyes like it’s an idiotic question, and I can’t say I disagree. Because how could I ever doubt Daddy? “Of course, I do. You’re my best friend.” He’s said that to me a few times, but each time feels like the first. “More than Bubba and the boys at the shop. More than my friends from Louisiana. More than anyone.”
But not more than Mom, and therein lies our problem. Just the thought of her makes my insides rumble and tumble like an unevenly placed duvet in the washing machine.
Dallas stares into my eyes. “You’re still upset about the trip.”
