The GED

He came to me in the night. It was always in the night. In the daylight we both pretended that there was no nightly visitation. But he was highly sexed, and since my mom died, he came to me often at night. He waited until I'd turned eighteen, but after that, he came for me.

"Dad . . ." I murmured, still only half awake.

"Shush. Take this."

I was on my back and he was straddling my chest with his knees and leaning over me, holding my arms out and above my head with strong fists encasing my wrists. I felt the tip of his erect cock at my lips and I opened to him, and we both moaned quietly in the dark as he stroked his cock in and out of my mouth, hardening it and arousing him further—and slicking up his tool for what he'd do later.

When he was sufficiently aroused, he moved his knees and lips down my chest and belly and swallowed my balls as his hand went to my cock. His hand went to join the other to cup and raise and separate my butt cheeks as his mouth went to my entrance. His hand on my cock was replaced by one of my own, and I lay there, looking dumbly toward the window, watching the wind sway the branches of the willow tree, and stroking myself. For a moment I had the sensation of someone being there, watching us, but I had shut my systems down. I didn't care and my senses weren't on alert. I was trying to transport myself to someplace else altogether.

He pulled my sleeping shorts—all that I was wearing—off my legs.

"Turn on your belly." The voice was low, raspy, needy.

"Dad . . ." I murmured again. It was all I could manage, and I knew it had no effect.

"Turn on your belly, son."

With a sigh of resignation, I did as he commanded. I always did as he commanded, whether day or night.

A heavily muscled arm went under my lower belly and lifted me to my knees, while a palm between my shoulder blades pushed my chest down on the cool sheet. He was crouched over me from behind, his thighs encasing mine. I felt the stretch and filling of the entry. But no pain. There hadn't been pain, really, for months. My channel was fit to his cock now. He just slid up into me as I gasped slightly and groaned the almost nightly possession by him.

One of his fists went to the wrist of my left arm and pinned it to the bed above my head. He let me have the use of my right hand—he'd done so for nearly two months now—and I moved it to my cock and began stroking it again to the rhythm of his fucking cock.

He moved his other hand between gripping my waist and pinching my nipple and turning my head toward his face when he brought it down to my head. When he did that, we kissed, deeply, his tongue invading and searching my mouth cavity. This was something else that had only entered the ritual in the last month or so.

My lips freed, I once more turned my head and gazed at the window—and once more had the sensation of someone or something pulling away from it out there as I turned my head. Then I closed my eyes and concentrated again on not being there.

The nature of pretending I wasn't really involved in what was happening to me in the night had changed in the last month or too also—and it scared me. In the initial months, I had zoned out to deny it was happening. Now I was zoning out because I was beginning to need it—to look forward to it each night.

Of course he really wasn't my dad—not my biological dad—and nothing that he was doing was something I could report him for, something I could stop, short of fighting him, which, considering our differing sizes and physical power, was a comical notion. And leaving was something I couldn't do, at least not yet.

My real dad had died when I was eleven, and Tyler had been with us for six years now, arriving a little more than a year after Mom was widowed. I say us, but he really was only with "us" for a bit more than five years. My mom died six months ago. She had been sick for some time before she died, and I think she understood Tyler's interest in me before she went. But by then she was too far gone to do anything about it. She seemed to be hanging on mostly to be there until I got old enough to leave the house and go on my own.

My real dad's death and her own quick decline there at the end had bollixed up that idea, though. I'd worshipped my real dad, and his death had been a real blow to me. I just shut my life down for nearly a full year though—and that included school work. So, I was set back a grade. And, so, when mom died, I was no more than a week past eighteen, but I had a year and a half more to go in high school. And what were almost Mom's last words to me stuck.

"Stick it out until you graduate high school, Chris," she'd said. "Promise me you'll get your high school. Then go in the service for a while or something. Get away from this. But promise me you'll get your high school in first. A man can't do much of anything without that diploma."

And so, I promised.

And the way it worked out with Tyler wasn't wham bang, either. It was gradual. He worked me. He seduced me. And he was smart. He waited until I was eighteen. And when he finally had me, there I was, an adult, and not able even to claim rape. And the longer I stayed, the less anyone would care what I let happen to me. They would have asked, "Why didn't you just walk?"

Well, I didn't walk, because I promised my mom I'd get in that last year and half of school, and I didn't have any other good options. I had no living family left, and I had no means really to live out on my own. I didn't mind the idea of signing up for the military—I was leaning toward the Navy—but it stuck in my mind that one thing my mom had asked me to promise to do was to get that high school diploma before leaving.

And, as I've said. Tyler was clever. And he took it slow so that by the time I really was over the edge, it was done.

It had started the day after I turned eighteen. Mom was in the other room, dying. She'd been to the hospital and was back, under Hospice care, to die at home. I was keyed up and confused and into self-denial and wanting to make it all go away—transport myself to some fantasy land—and because I was a teenager with raging hormones, that meant a flashlight and dirty magazine and beating myself off in the middle of the night.

Which was all fine, but Tyler found me that night, right after my eighteenth birthday. I was terrified and paralyzed in place when he found me. But he came into the room and was calm and sat down on the side of the bed and told me all sorts of mumbo-jumbo over how it was normal and understandable under the circumstances. And while he was talking and holding my attention, he had his hand on my cock. When I noticed and flinched and began to object, he shushed me, reminding me that Mom was just in the other bedroom and that, although what I was doing was normal and understandable, it wasn't something we wanted to worry her about.

"So, just lay back, and I'll take care of it."

And so I did. And he did. And I was surprised at how much different and better it felt when someone else did it.

Three days later, the night before Mom died, Tyler was back and sweet talked me into letting him take care of my fears and tensions again. And this time he ran his other hand over my body as he was slowly jacking my cock off.

When we came home from Mom's funeral, I was a basket case, and Tyler sent me to my room and told me to try to get some sleep. But I couldn't and I couldn't stop crying. And Tyler came into my room and sat on the bed and hugged me close and soothed me with his calm, soft voice—which was really something coming from such a big, muscular man—and with his hands patting and stroking me here and there. He had my cock out of the fly of my sleeping shorts before I knew it. And I was in such a state that I didn't care—in fact it was comforting. And this time he didn't relieve me with his hand. He did it with his mouth.

Mom was dead now and there was only Tyler. And he'd already given me a blow job. And I was already eighteen and had promised my mom I'd stick it out through high school. And not only wasn't I thinking too straight, but I was a teen with raging hormones and Tyler was giving me release and pleasure that, though I knew it was evil and not right, was overwhelmingly hard to resist.

Everything was fine during the day. Tyler was a coping single-parent dad by day. Fitting in getting me to school and being there during my ball games and other activities while still holding down his job. I took up more of the cleaning and cooking duties, but Tyler was hanging in there on those as well. And we said nothing during the day of what was happening at night. The dark covered all of our sins.

But he was coming to me more often at night now. And he cajoled me into taking head, and one night he introduced a dildo into the ritual as he was sucking my cock. The first time I just thought it was his thumb, which he had started strumming rim of my hole with while sucking me, but it wasn't—it was a dildo. And the second time I knew it wasn't a thumb—and that it hadn't stayed at the entrance. By the time he fucked me with his cock, he had me asking for it. And I was over eighteen, and with nowhere else to go.

And now it was four months later.

Tyler had just been to visit me the night before. But he was here, at the door, tonight, as well. I'd heard it. He'd had a video on out in the living room. A male porn film. He was standing at the door, breathing heavily and giving me a scary stare. He was stark naked and had a raging hard on. I was sitting on the floor, on the thick cushion I'd taken off the overstuffed chair in my room; my back to the bed; earphones in, with the music set to something I liked to listen to before I went to bed; and doing my last-minute homework. I already was in my sleeping shorts.

Tyler was on me like a flash, grabbing my wrists with his hands and pushing my arms back on the bed. His cock was assaulting my mouth, pushing my head back on the bed as well. And I was gagging and gasping as he face-fucked me.

Then he pulled me up on my feet and kicked the cushion out into the middle of room as he was stripping off my sleeping shorts. He pushed me down on my shoulder blades on the cushion and grabbed my hips in his hands, and pulled my pelvis up into his crotch and my hole onto his cock, and started fucking down into me with long, deep strokes, thrusting down with his cock, while he pulled my pelvis up into him. Pushing me down as he moved his hips back and then pulling me in again as he thrust forward.

He was fucking me with a fury as he'd never done before, and I hooked my legs on top of the flare of his butt and hung on for dear life, my soothing "go-to-bed" music still playing in my ear from the earphones.

Above the sound of the music, I could hear the sound of the sex. Grunting and groaning and moaning in harmony, but above that, a plaintive cry of "Oh, shit, oh yes, oh gawd yessss, Fuck ME!"

I was shocked—and scared—at the realization that it was my voice.

* * * *

By this time, Tyler wasn't the only one fucking me. By now, I knew what was done was done—and that I didn't mind it when I wasn't thinking real hard—and was thinking why should I give it away just to Tyler for free. I was scraping together whatever money I could to help my escape from here, which was coming within a year. I kept the money in an old can out in the rafters of the storage shed in the back yard.

I figured I knew where I would make some money off this. And I was right.

For years, Mr. Collins, a bachelor living in a house twice as large and tidy as ours just down the street from us, had been giving me the eye and trying to make friends with me when I walked past his house. I wasn't so dumb that I didn't know what his interest was—and there were whisperings going around the neighborhood and at school that bore this out.

All it took to get him to come out of the house was for me to stand out on the front walk by his white picket fence one day and look around like I had nothing better to do than stand there. Sure enough, it wasn't long before he sauntered out, acting like he had a reason to be on the move and "accidentally" noticing I was there and coming to the fence to greet me.

"Hi there, Chris," he called out in a chipper voice. "Great day, isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah, it is," I answered. "Might rain tonight, though. The rains will be heavy this summer, they say."

Mr. Collins was trembling like a Chihuahua on speed at this string of words from me. It was more in total that I'd ever said to him in all the years he'd been living in the neighborhood. He literally wagged his tail as he came out to the fence, obviously thrilled that I was still standing there.

"Yes, it's good for the flowers, though."

"Nice flowers," I said. "And you got a gardener to take real good care of them, I see." I was searching for words. The gardener was kneeling at the rose bed that lined the front porch of the house. He was facing away from us, an Hispanic, I guessed, maybe in his thirties. An outdoor worker. I wondered if he could hear us—and if he could understand English if he could.

"I try to keep the grounds up," Mr. Collins said, his voice full of pride. "Say, I was real sorry to hear about your mother. I—"

"Thanks. Thanks, Mr. Collins. You're a nice man for saying that." I turned my eyes on him and smiled.

He practically melted on the spot with pleasure. He had his hands on top of the fence and they were trembling. I put a hand up there too, trying to make it seem like a natural move, and I could see him shudder as our hands touched each other.

"Nice house too. Real nice house. Big. Bet you have lots of rooms in there. Bet you have some nice things in there."

"Would you like to see inside sometime?" Mr. Collins asked. His voice sounded so hopeful that I felt kind of sorry for him.

"I'm not doing much of anything now," I said. I tried to keep my voice low, because I could see that the gardener had turned his head toward us—that maybe he was listening to us.

I thought that Mr. Collins was going to melt down to a puddle on the spot at the prospect of getting me in the house.

The gardener looked up from the rose garden as we passed and gave me a tentative little smile. I wondered if he figured any of this out. But then I didn't care. He was just a gardener.

"How's school and the baseball going, Chris?" Mr. Collins asked me as we entered the foyer. I walked right on into the living room, which showed that Mr. Collins made a whole heap more money that my stepdad did. "I've always been interested in how the kids of the neighborhood were doing."

"Yeah, I know you have, Mr. Collins. I've seen how you watched me over the years. Well, I'm here now. And I'm over eighteen."

He turned his head toward where I was standing in the living room, surprised by what I said and by the hard tone I'd taken when I said it. And there I was, standing in the middle of his living room, with my fly open and my dong hanging out and cupped in the palm of my hand. I was kind of proud of my cock, and Mr. Collins seemed pretty impressed too. He went to his knees with a loud moan and began sucking my cock in a way that assured me that, as suspected, I probably wasn't the first neighborhood boy who had visited this house.

We were naked on his bed with him stretched out behind me and stroking his cock inside me from the rear as I propped my knee up on the bed to give him better access when I told him what the deal was: "$15 for you to suck me; $25 if I suck you. $50 for a fuck; $60 for the whole package."

He didn't object and signed up for the next visit to be on my way home from school three days hence. My stepdad didn't get home from work for nearly three hours after my school finished for the day.

The gardener was in the front garden the next day I visited Mr. Collins, and he turned his head and gave me a little smile again when I reached the stairs to the porch and started climbing. I instinctive smiled back, a little nervous because he was there, and because I couldn't think of a plausible reason to be approaching Mr. Collins's house by myself if the gardener asked. But he didn't ask.

The door was slightly ajar when I got to it, and I heard a faraway voice call out from upstairs. "Come on in. It's open. I'm upstairs."

I went in and began to climb the stairs. Half way up I stopped dead in my tracks and let out a "Holy shit." I began to turn to flee the house, when Mr. Collins said probably the only thing that kept me there.

"$75. I'll give you $75. And you won't be doing anything special or different. This is for me. This is to make it more interesting for me."

I turned back and looked up at him again. He was wearing women's lingerie. A black lace bra, with matching panties and black mesh stockings and black stiletto heels. He also had on a red-haired wig, and his face was made up like a baby doll, a mean slash of shiny, deep-red lipstick across his mouth. He was talking in a funny, high voice like he was playing some sort of game. And I guessed it was pretty obvious that he was.

"It's no different for you, honey," he repeated. "It's just me. It's just what I like. $75, OK?"

He didn't look all that bad as a woman. Younger even. And he wasn't fat; he had good muscle tone and firm arms and legs. A flat belly and a nipped-in waist.

If I closed my eyes. . . . And it wasn't like I had to get it up. He said it would be no different. And he had topped me earlier, although for the money, I was willing to try going either way.

I started walking up the stairs again, and as we crossed the hall to the master bedroom, I was impressed on how well he walked in the heels. I guessed he'd done this a lot.

"Please take your clothes off and sit on the side of the bed," he said.

I watched myself—and him/her in the mirrors as I stripped. That was the thing I'd remembered the most about his bedroom from the other day. The mirrors. He had them everywhere. It had been arousing to me to see myself being fucked no matter how I turned my head. I assumed that the mirrors were there because he found it amusing as well. He wasn't bad looking for an old guy and was a good cocksman—or so I thought, only having Tyler to compare him with. But I thought Tyler must be good at it as much as he was fucking me—and I knew he and my mom really went at it before she got too sick to enjoy it. And, surprising, Collins was as good at it as Tyler was, although he must be at least ten years older than Tyler.

We didn't do it just like we had the first time. This time Mr. Collins spent more time in setting it up—and he had an extra fetish thing going with the lipstick. The color was something that rubbed off easily. Collins made a point of paying attention to nearly every inch of my body with his lips, and I could see that the lipstick was rubbing off on my skin. And he got up every once in a while and renewed it, so that it was always leaving fresh lip marks.

I found quickly that the panties had a slit in them in front, so that his cock came out without having to remove the panties. I sucked him and then he sucked me, being careful to leave distinctive lip-shaped red markings on my cock. He followed this up with lip attention to the rest of my body, and then he had me lay on my back on the edge of the bed, and he came between my thighs and fucked me to mutual ejaculations while we watched ourselves and each other in the mirrors. Although I had been worried about being able to get it up, the setting was so exotic and he was such an expert cocksman that I didn't have any trouble at all. The mirrors helped too.

Afterward, Mr. Collins made me stand in front of a full-length mirror and he took photos of the artwork he'd done on my body with his ruby-red lips before he let me shower and gave me four twenties and told me to keep the change.