I’d just turned eighteen and was coasting toward graduation in our tiny, conservative Kentucky town—population under 13,000. A few months earlier, my mom had outed me after finding a dodgy, dot-matrix printout of a naked Tom Cruise in my room (thanks, AOL dial-up). She yanked me out of class on the spot, clutching her pearls, fully expecting my dad and her to unleash holy fire once we got home. My dad’s only reaction: “You’re not gay—this isn’t Oprah.” My mom more than made up for his silence. I won’t spare you the details, but by the time she’d driven the five minutes back to the school, every relative within earshot had been warned I was off to burn in eternal damnation.
Flash forward a month: I’m home from school, fighting off an infection in my scratched cornea—“punishment from God,” Mom declared—and mostly keeping my distance. I was daydreaming about being pinned down by some older man when a knock at the door yanked me back to reality. I shouted, sarcastically, “Mom, sounds like Satan’s here for me,” but of course she didn’t see the joke. The only person I ever expected was her—or maybe my aunt or some other relative, since family drama was never in short supply. I certainly didn’t imagine it would be my step-uncle, “D,” from my dad’s side.
D was twenty-eight, built like a linebacker—6’3”, two hundred solid pounds of muscle, a perfectly trimmed chest of hair, piercing blue eyes, and a bulge that left zero to the imagination. He swaggered in, grinned, and said, “Gonna invite me in, or do I have to man-handle my way through? Oh wait, you’d probably like that.” Normally I could snap back with ease, but my mouth actually went dry. I just motioned him inside. He asked in that slow country drawl, “Yer daddy home?”
I shot back, “Does it look like he is?”
He shrugged—fair enough—and didn’t press further, smart enough to know I had a “helicopter mom.”
We settled into the living room: D in a rocking chair on my left, me sprawled on the couch to his right, channel-surfing Maury Povich (Oprah was way too tame, in my opinion). Mom emerged from her bedroom—no sign of shock that D was there; in fact, she looked relieved to have someone else around. Apparently she’d borrowed money from my parents and forgot to pick it up. Torn between eagerness to avoid me “sinning” and the bank’s fifteen-minute round trip, she offloaded both tasks in one errands run—and even promised to pick up supplies for lunch, a suspicious miracle since her idea of cooking was frozen pizza or a ham sandwich.
No sooner had she driven off than D cracked a grin: “So your mom says you’re bound for heaven—or wait, she said Hell, right?” He laughed heartily.
I shrugged, “Yeah, that’s where all the fun is.”
He nodded, “Whether you’re the white sheep or the black sheep, you’re still part of the same pack.” It was cheesy but effective—every bit of tension vanished.
I don’t remember how we got there, but soon I half-jokingly tossed out, “Suck my dick, bro.”
D shot back, deadpan, “You suck my dick.”
I couldn’t resist: “Whip it out.”
Maybe I should’ve known better. He stood, headed to the bathroom next to my bedroom, and—right there, at the angle of the wall—actually did it. He emerged, cock fully exposed, solid and glistening. His eyes sparkled with mischief; mine bugged out in shock.
“See? I knew you were bluffing,” he teased as he settled back in the chair.
I tried to play it cool with a quip—“Fool me once, shame on me; fool me twice, shame on you”—and sure enough, he disappeared into the bathroom, came back, and whipped it out again. That was my cue. My heart pounded; my mouth went dry. But I’d always prided myself on not backing down, so I dropped to my knees. His stunning blue eyes faded from my focus—I only saw that thick, pulsing shaft in front of me. It was easily seven-and-a-half inches long, four-and-a-half inches around, a clear bead of precum at the tip.
I wrapped my lips around that bulbous head, and natural instinct took over. Inch by inch, I took him deeper, swirling my tongue along the length, determined to see how deep I could go. His hands tangled in my hair, guiding me, as my face grew slick with saliva and his own pre-cum. The sounds he made were raw and animalistic; all I could manage were whimpers and moans. I savored the taste of him—his sweat, his scent—like milk from a mother’s breast.
After what felt like both two minutes and ten, I felt him swell, his grip on my hair tightening. He managed, “Take my fucking lo—” before erupting, flooding my mouth with warm, salty spurts of cum. Every muscle in his body trembled as if purging a demon. Then, in one final act of dominance, he leaned over me, spit into my mouth, and growled, “You’re mine now, boy.”
That was just the beginning of my adventures with Uncle D.
