mightymeatycock: Mr. Martin was That Guy in our neighborhood when I was growing up. He was a young f

mightymeatycock:

Mr. Martin was That Guy in our neighborhood when I was growing up. He was a young father with three young sons, and no matter where you looked, he was there. At our Scouting trips, our Little League games, our DeMolay trips….he was there, all the time. Such a nice guy, always telling us really bad, silly jokes.

I got a big crush on Mr. M in high school. A man who’s that masculine combined with a very sweet, nurturing persona….well, that was catnip to me. I blew a lot of loads thinking about him, thinking about that light dusting of fur I saw on his chest, on those rare occasions when I saw him mowing his lawn shirtless. 

We’d stayed in touch over the years, a job made way easier by social media. His youngest, Mike, went to my alma mater, graduating a decade after me, and was having a rough time finding a job, so I made some introductions and connections for him, and they worked like a charm.

Mr. M was grateful, and invited me to lunch. “Maybe we can take a ride on the boat, too?” I needed a day off, so we met the next day, a warm Indian summer day with temperatures in the mid-80s.

“You gotta call me Jim, Chris. No Mr. Martin anymore!” he said as he shook my hand. We caught up over lunch near the marina, and then as promised, we boarded the boat. 

As we got to the center of the water, it got really warm. Mr. M took off his shirt and then, to my surprise, snapped off his track pants, wearing just a Speedo underneath. He had to be within pitching distance of sixty, but the man was still gorgeous, every inch of him.

It was quiet and a bit awkward at first, but then I spoke up. “Mr. M…..”

“Chris, what did I tell you?” he teasingly reprimanded.

I was a little tipsy, and very horny. I looked up from my seat, over to where he majestically stood at the steering wheel. “Maybe I like calling you Mr. M,” I offered. “I can’t call you Jim. Maybe I should call you Daddy?” 

At that, I saw the pouch of his Speedo twitch and triple in size in just a few seconds. 

He looked ahead, then back to me. “I’m surprised you’re not getting a closer look, Chris,” he said. “You tried to hide your interest when you watched me mow the lawn. But there’s no one else here, sport. Just you and me. So get a real, real good look.” 

I spent the afternoon getting a closer look and feel, feeling Mr. M’s stiff paternal ramrod unload into my hole three times that day, each more intense than the next.