Goldilocks and His Three Bears

Copyright © 2011

First published in 2011

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Oh my God, he was
so
dead.

Brian gauged the distance from the bed to the door. And then the distance from the door to the window. Both were too far for him to reach in time. He pulled the coverlet up to his nose instead. “Hi, fellas,” he said.

“Well what do you know?” Six feet three of pure muscle towered over the bed; Paul folded thick tattoo-laden arms across his chest.

Jim came around the other side, pulling in a meditative way at his beard. It was hard to tell, most of the time, if Jim was smiling or frowning under that thick curly mass, but Brian was pretty sure that this time Jim was not smiling.

“Hmmm?” Brian sat up, clutching the coverlet to him and looked down at the man lying in bed beside him. He couldn't help but lick his lips. Because that? Was some midnight snack.

“Grrr,” Scott growled into the pillow and turned sleepily toward Brian. Those stubby gold lashes barely lifted above honey-colored eyes. “What's goin’ on, babe? Who turned on the lights?” His eyebrows lifted as he caught sight of their company. “Hey?” he said.

Paul and Jim exchanged looks across the California king-size bed.

And then they both looked down at Brian again.

Oh yeah. He was dead. And in that moment, Brian's short life flashed before his eyes.

Well, okay, not his entire life. Because that would have been uberboring, and Brian was lying in bed with a naked hunk beside him while two more leather daddies glared down at him, and he really didn't have time to review the second grade or his sweet sixteen party.

Actually, his first thought was
how did I get into this mess
? And then, of course, he remembered. Daddy. It had all begun with Daddy and the Faultline bar.

Funky, unpretentious and oh-so-affordable, the Faultline was inarguably the best leather bar in the Silver Lake area. Brian visited regularly. He had a fascination with the big leather-clad men and had found that they liked his slim, youthful body and curly blond hair. It was a good place for cheap beer and harmless flirtation.

Truth was, since Brian had landed in LA, he'd been a little lost, a little blown away. When they had said
Big City
back home, they had somehow managed to not mention how big. Or how much like a little speck a guy could feel there.

Somehow, at the Faultline, surrounded by that forest of manly men, he did feel a tad safer.

He was enjoying the Faultline's traditional Tuesday night happy hour when a hand appeared on the bar a couple of customers down.

The hand was like one that might have been seen on the Roman god Vulcan: calloused, muscled and thick across the middle. It slid money across the bar and received a longneck in return. Brian's eyes fixated on that hand, then traveled past a three-inch-wide studded wristband to follow a complicated nest of snakes twining and winding their way up a muscular arm, over shoulders as thick and succulent as a roast ham, to an inked neck.

Trying to get a closer look, Brian squeezed his way past two guys who reeked of new leather, looked up, and saw a tattoo ad spray painted over a bodybuilding commercial.

Six feet three at least. Bald as an egg and inked on practically every inch of exposed skin. His Roman god stood out from the crowd, even in a room full of big burly men.

The man took a long drag on the bottle of beer, and thick throat muscles worked. There was a black adder tat that started at the back of his shaved head and circled his thick neck until it ended close below his earlobe, venom-dripping fangs gaping wide.

The man twisted his torso away from the bar, and Brian saw the tat that undulated over the man's six-pack.
D.A.D.D.Y.
it proclaimed in letters four inches high.

Brian's fingers itched to trace it.

And then that vision from Olympus looked down and noticed Brian's measly self.

“Hi there,” he said, in one of those voices that carries across a room full of noise. And he simply reached out and fondled Brian's head, his big fingers gentle in the curls. “Aren't you a pretty little thing.”

Brian melted. Something came out of his mouth. It sounded suspiciously like
tee hee
, and his head pressed up into the caress, like a puppy.

And that was it, really. Well, of course there was a beer or two shared. The requisite flirtations. The man— Paul— reached down finally and grabbed Brian's ass like it was a basketball and he was Kobe-fucking-Bryant.

“You wanna get out of here?” he said, ice blue eyes hot. Like, dry-ice hot. Smoke came out of them.

“Tee hee,” said Brian's mouth.

Paul led him out of the club and climbed astride a huge, rumbling monster of a Harley. He helped Brian to step up into the seat behind him and helped him get comfortable, wrapping Brian's arms around his chest and fitting that fine, hard ass right up against Brian's crotch.

“Hold on!” he roared over the engine's thunder.

Like Brian would let go for
anything.

Paul had a sweet bungalow only two blocks up from Melrose.

“Wow, this place is huge.” Brian's voice echoed across the hardwood floors.

Paul handed him a cold beer. “I have roommates. Couldn't afford it without them.”

Brian looked around expectantly.

“They aren't here.” Paul took a long drag on his beer. Brian tipped his head back in awe and watched those throat muscles work. “We all have overlapping schedules. I travel with the bike sales. Jim, well, he's a free spirit, I guess. And Scott's a truck driver, so he's on the road a lot.”

He crossed the room in, like, one step and looked down into Brian's eyes. “So we've got the place to ourselves.”

Paul led Brian into a bedroom with a gigantic futon bed. Brian stripped while Paul peeled off those leather pants. Then he turned, hands on hips, long cock pointing straight at Brian, whose mouth popped open just like that.

Like,
insert tab here.

Christ, there were more tats below Paul's waistline than there were above. Brian's feet just went over there. Brian's knees just landed on the floor at Paul's feet. Brian's tongue just started tracing every bit of ink like it was reading braille. And finally his lips just encircled Paul's cock and sucked it.

A moan came from both their throats. Paul palmed Brian's head, supporting without forcing. Brian's mouth was as happy as it had been in a long time. Paul's cock was silky smooth and warm, leaking already. Brian drew off regretfully and looked up into those smoky blue eyes.

“You have a condom?”

“Sure, hon,” said Paul. And he urged Brian to stand. Fingers traveling nimbly over his snap and zipper, stripping Brian and pushing him gently toward the bed. “But I didn't bring you all the way up here only to suck me off.”

“No?” Brian could spread-eagle across the entire bed and still not touch the edges. And he was doing exactly that. Paul gently pulling his arms and legs wide, big palms running over every ripple and curve of his body like a craftsman might stroke a piece of walnut.

A gentle tug and squeeze, and Brian whimpered a bit as that big hand worked his cock. “Oh, yeah. This is sweet,” hissed Paul. “Hey, hon, you mind if I dress you up a bit?”

Brian blinked dazedly. “What?”

Paul was rifling in a drawer and tossing things on the bed. Lube, condoms, a cock ring.

“Oh,” said Brian. “Yeah, okay.”

The cock ring was leather, and Paul warmed it a bit with his breath before he fitted it over Brian, pulling a big ring on it down and cinching it around Brian's balls. Brian shivered all over and groaned and clutched at Paul.

“Fuck,” he said. “Oh shit... ”

“Yeah. Nice. You look so pretty like that, hon.”

Paul's thumb gently rubbed at Brian's cockhead, the precome slippery and slick there, the pressure just enough to make Brian breathe faster. Then Paul poured a little liquid from the bottle and massaged it into Brian's shaft. It was the warming kind, and Brian was goo in an instant— hard as granite, begging, pleading goo.

“Turn over,” whispered Paul, and he rolled Brian over on the bed like he was dough, both big hands opening his cheeks, and thumbs plunging more of the warming lube into Brian's hole.

Brian gasped and pushed his ass into the sensation. There were a lot of things going on behind him now. The heat of Paul's thighs against the backs of his legs, those hands turning his ass into a giant ball of need, thick thumbs plunging, stretching his hole.

“Do it,” he begged. “God, fuck me, Daddy. Stick that big fat cock in me, now, damn it.”

Chuckling, Paul complied.

Brian rocked up onto his knees. The futon mattress was firm, with no bounce whatsoever, and he was able to get total leverage, fucking himself on Paul's cock, really, more than Paul fucked him. The big hands held his hips straight while Brian just went crazy, feeling it like nothing he had in a long time. The heat, the tightening in his belly, the driving ache in his balls. Until finally, when he thought he'd just go fucking crazy, Paul released the cock ring and Brian's fuse blew as his cock blew and he heard Paul roar, pumping hard into him.

Later, tracing that
D.A.D.D.Y.
tat with one finger, Brian whispered. “You've never even kissed me.”

“C'mere,” said Paul. His lips were soft and warm, and his tongue gave Brian everything he had. And the little boy inside Brian, the one that had been wandering scared shitless in the Big Bad Woods of Los Angeles for the past year, curled his fingers and toes around that kiss and hung on.

Paul drove Brian back to his apartment building on the Harley. Brian's whole body was still tingling from the man and the ride, traipsing around his tiny kitchenette in a euphoric haze, when he realized Paul had not asked for his number or mentioned seeing him again.

It shouldn't have mattered too much. Brian had had his share of one-night stands. But there was something about the guy. Brian could feel it in his gut. Like a hook had set there.
Fuck
. He was a goner that easily, and he didn't even know the guy's last name.

The crash was pretty bad, and he only really got a grip when he'd finished off the carton of mint chocolate-chip ice cream in the refrigerator.

Sugar cures everything.

Okay, reasoned Brian. He'd met Paul at the Faultline. He'd bet the guy was a regular. He'd go to the Faultline every night and put his little bod in the direct path of the locomotive until that inked skull got a clue in it.

And that's what he did.

“Hey there!” He spun around and had to tilt his head up to smile into Paul's eyes.
Can a voice make you hard
? Brian thought it could. “I'm glad to see you here,” said Paul. “I didn't get your number. I came by your building, but this older woman said she'd call the police.”

“Mrs. Child,” said Brian. “She's very protective of me.”

“Don't blame her,” said Paul, and his hands were on Brian's body. Like Brian was Paul's own personal lump of clay. And damned if he wasn't.

“Let me buy you a beer,” said Paul.

They did the beer ritual, then they climbed on the Harley, and by the time they were all the way inside Paul's bungalow, half their clothes were gone.

“Not on the leather sofa,” said Paul, lifting Brian's ass with both hands and pulling him from the furniture he'd fallen on. Paul squeezed said ass playfully. “Though you in leather is a great idea... ”

“I like my leather on my leather daddies.” Brian felt his butt placed on something wood grainy and hard. His fingers tracing the contours of Paul's ass. “Or off them.” He plucked at the fastenings.