The front door slams closed, accompanied by a shouted, "DAD! I'M HOME!" Arthur's father sits at the kitchen table, pretending to read the newspaper, but actually listening very closely for the key words. He breathes slowly and purposefully through his nose. It sounds loud in his ears, but not loud enough to drown out the words, when they float to him from down the hall.
"If it's okay, can you wait while I take a shower?"
Arthur's father puts down his paper and stands slowly, forcing his footsteps to be slow and methodical. He gives his son's guest time to reply—"Sure, whatever"—and his son time start down the hall towards the bathroom.
He thinks from the reply that the voice is not one that he's heard before, and as he rounds the corner into the hallway, he sees that he is correct. A small, blond, 5th-grade head turns to face him, round cheeks and big eyes, just what he likes. He puts on his best smile. "Hey there," he says. "I'm Arthur's Dad. Want me to show you to his room while he's in the shower?"
"Sure," says the kid, with a shrug. He doesn't offer his name, but Arthur's father is not overly concerned. He leads the way upstairs, opening the door to his son's room, and gestures for the guest to go inside. When the boy has entered the room, Arthur's father follows, closing the door behind himself.
"So," he says to the boy, "want to play a game while we wait?"
The kid gives him a strange look, as several has done in the past. Arthur's father thinks fondly of Arthur's excitable, innocent friend, whose eyes had widened at the suggestion, and who had answered with a gleeful, "Sure!" almost before Arthur's father had finished asking the question. That boy was rare, however, and Arthur's father submits to the skeptical look of the young boy currently in his son's room. They are both silent for a moment, but eventually the kid shrugs, and says, "Whatever."
Arthur's father smiles, pleased. "This will be really fun," he promises. "Go over to the bed and lie on it, and hide your eyes."
The child rolls his eyes. "You don't wanna play hide and seek, do you? That's dumb. It's for little kids."
The smile on the face of Arthur's father does not move. It is rigid, like the expression on a plastic toy. "No. This will feel cool, I promise. But in order for it to work, you can't look, okay?"
"Is this like one of those things where you do motions on someone's back, and it feels all weird?" the kid asks. "'Cause I know most of those already." His voice is muffled, as he has already moved to the bed and is lying facedown. Arthur's father pauses a moment to look at the kid, lying down, hands resting at his side, golden hair fanned across the cowboy-themed bedcovers. His pulse thrums.
"Sort of," he replies. "It'll seem a little weird at first, but bear with me, okay?"
The boy makes a noncommittal sound in his throat, but doesn't move. Arthur's father moves away from his position at the door and crosses the room to the bed. "You'll have to scoot down a little," he says, "so your legs are hanging off the side."
The boy does as he's told, face still hidden, and Arthur's father must take a deep breath before reaching forward to touch. He reaches around the boy's waist and quickly undoes his fly, yanking pants and underwear down around the boy's ankles before he has a chance to protest.
The boy immediately begins to squirm. "What are you doing?" His voice is annoyed, but Arthur's father notices that he has still not opened his eyes. His smile sets a bit further. If he can get this far with compliance, he knows from experience, the rest will come too.
"It's for the game," he assures the boy. "Don't worry."
He must now act quickly, before the boy becomes suspicious. He reaches into his pocket for the tube of lubricant, popping the cap open and spreading it liberally onto his fingers. With his clean hand he snaps it shut once more, and stuffs it back into his khakis.
The clean hand goes to the boy's buttocks, thumb grabbing flesh and pulling it back, exposing the tight pucker of the boy's anus. Arthur's father slides his fingers quickly into the opening, one by one, in three short pushes, until this three middle fingers are buried inside.
The boy squeals. "That feels weird," he moans. His eyes remain closed, and his hands have fisted in the bedsheets.
"I told you," says Arthur's father. "It's gonna feel even cooler in a second." He begins to rock his fingers inside the boy, sliding them in and out, watching stoically as the boy twists and writhes under the ministrations. He releases the boy's buttocks from his clean hand and moves the hand down to his pants, unzipping his fly at the same moment as he twists the fingers around, eliciting a particularly loud whimper. The boy's cries hide the sound of the zipper trailing down, and the even softer whisper of fabric as he reaches in to pull out his penis.
Arthur's father glances at the clock on his son's wall. He doesn't have very much time. "Keep your eyes closed," he instructs. "I have to switch something. Just a sec." With no more warning than that, he yanks his fingers out of the boy's anus, eliciting a soft moan. The boy lies motionless on the bed as Arthur's father wipes his fingers onto his member, trying to clean off as much of the oil onto its surface as he can.
He is impatient, and wastes no more than a few seconds before grabbing the boy's hips and guiding himself into the tight orifice. His cock sinks slowly into the boy, tight heat gripping the phallus from all sides. His breath shudders from his lungs slowly, in time with the deep, throaty moan of the young boy as the large organ spreads and spears him.
But there is no time to prolong this enjoyment, much to his disappointment, and Arthur's father grabs the boy's hips firmly in his hands and begins to thrust. The boy's squeals are rather high-pitched, and Arthur's father manages to retain enough coherency to murmur, "Relax. Relax your body, and it won't hurt."
The boy's cries fall off, subsiding into soft whimpers, and Arthur's father thrusts forward in earnest. He feels the small hips under his fingertips and now, now that he's in the midst, he squeezes his eyes shut and imagines Arthur splayed out under him. His son must never know what his father does to stave off the cravings for his son's young, supple body. Only in this fantasy can he allow himself to picture the raven hair in disarray, and the young face he knows and loves scrunched up in fear and sensation.
He wants the tight passage squeezing the life from his member to be his son's. Many a time, especially on the three or four days during the school week when Arthur does not bring home a friend from school, he has fantasized about grabbing his son and throwing him over the bed like this, not cajoling but forcing, plugging him with no regard for anything but the pleasure of the young body, perhaps tying him down, keeping him locked up, locked in his room to be used for nothing else but pleasure, kept for the whims of his father's libido.
But Arthur is his son, and he cannot do this. Instead, he sates himself in his son's friends, sublimating his lusts and his frustrations by taking his pleasure in the boys his son brings home, and in his own fantasies.
Suddenly, the boy below him releases a moan that sounds so very like Arthur, so similar in pitch and tone to all his fantasies, that Arthur's father can bear it no longer and comes helplessly inside the boy's ass. His hips twitch, shuddering, and it is all he can do to keep himself from falling over on top of the boy as his legs shake from the intensity of his orgasm.
It takes him a few moments to catch his breath, before he finally pulls out of the boy and make an effort to get the boy's pants back on. "Arthur should be done with his shower soon," he remarks, trying to sound as natural as possible. "You should probably wait for him here. You boys let me know if you need anything."
He turns around and stuffs himself back into his pants quickly, before the boy can open his eyes. He does not quite flee the room, but his pace is quicker than normal, matching his still-rapid heartbeat. He never looks at the boys once he's finished with them, and they lie ruined on the bedsheets. It would spoil the precious illusion he gets from leaving his son's bedroom, the image he holds in his mind of his son in that same position, fucked hard and waiting for his father to once more feel the urge to come and sate himself.
Arthur must never know.