A gay story: An Extremely Unlikely Story
This story is not very good and is, actually, quite depressing at the end. I say this now so that you can’t complain later. Well, you can, but not with any justification! The story does not have a happy ending, so if that’s important in your erotica I suggest you look elsewhere, because this story is definitely not for you!
Obviously, this is in the ‘Gay’ category, so the fact that there is sex between men should be pretty obvious as well. The story also contains some reluctance, though not much, some references to child abuse (although definitively NOT child sexual abuse – let me make that clear right now) and more references to females than might be expected from a story in this section.
I won’t tell you to enjoy this story, because I rather doubt you will!
Sometimes, just sometimes, my daughter, Jade Louise Anderson; named after her two grandmothers, finds my predilection for the male arse a positive thing.
Her mother, God Rest her Soul, did not ever find out about my perverse desires for sticking my cock in a young man’s arse, but that was because she had already passed before I had experienced it for the first time. I was twenty-three and the only remaining parent of a nine-month old little girl who now depended on no-one but me for absolutely everything.
Fuck, that frightened the life out of me! The responsibility of being a father was bad enough, although I had a decent job as a Graphic Designer, that – at least – allowed me to work from home a lot of the time.
But although I had learned the intricacies of changing a dirty baby bum and (thank god) she was weaned off a pure milk diet, I really struggled to begin with. Just how warm should the bottle be? How much talcum powder is too much? What the fuck is that red rash on her butt?
Then came teething and Jade really suffered badly there. For weeks, my poor little baby cried and screamed as I desperately poured tube after tube of Bonjela into her mouth to try and alleviate some of the pain.
Oddly, potty training barely happened at all. Jade went from dirtying her pull-ups to going to the toilet without accidents in a matter of a few days, which was a massive relief. Whilst other parents at nursery school (almost all mothers who had long, painted fingernails and too much make-up on) got upset, angry or embarrassed that their kids couldn’t manage to hold it for a minute, Jade was quickly toilet perfect.
As a responsible parent, I had to keep a spare set of clothes in a rucksack for Jade to change into in the event of, what the nursery referred to as “an inevitable accident”. Eventually, of course, she eventually needed to change into them, but that was because an obnoxious little shit called Barnaby (really? Fucking Barnaby???) pushed her over in the mud and she was filthy. It was at that point that we found that the spare set of clothes that had been in her rucksack for several months was at least two sizes too small. Nursery called me, concerned that I was struggling financially (I wasn’t) and offering me the services of a second-hand clothing shop where I could get stuff on credit if I needed it. I made it clear that it was simply an oversight based on knowing my little girl didn’t mess herself, but still! That was an embarrassing pick up!
Jade loved school and all the pretty little girl things that, as a guy, I had no fucking clue about. But, as a responsible and loving father, I quickly learned. Ballet class on a Saturday morning, followed by football (Jade was tall, even at a young age, and naturally gifted as a goalkeeper) and then we went to the cinema in the evening to watch the latest dumb animated movie.
Sunday was also busy with more football in the morning (she played for two different clubs, managing – somehow – to keep each in the dark about the other), followed by both of us going on a bike ride to McDonald’s for lunch and the cycling wherever the wind (or, more often, the rain) took us.
Sunday evening was homework time and I never once had to argue with her to get her to do the damned thing, followed by tea and then daft shit on TV until it was time for bed. By the time she was seven, she was taking herself off to bed and I would just come in when she was finished (she opened the door to let me know I was welcome to come in) and give her a kiss on the forehead before reading a chapter of whatever book we were on at the time, one more forehead kiss and off I would go.
So where, I don’t hear you ask, did I find out about my little peccadillo? How did I learn just how much I loved fucking a guys arse? Well, for those who don’t know, one arse is very much like another. It was often a wonder to me how Sarah and I had gotten pregnant with Jade in the first place, since both she and I loved anal that much. Sarah had been my first anal fuck, but I had quickly come to enjoy it and, more often than not, I would unload myself in her rear entrance rather than at the front. She loved it (having been having anal almost since she had lost her virginity) and so did I.
That being the case, fucking an arse is fucking an arse. I loved the tightness of it. The roughness. The more dry friction that a pussy just can’t match. Don’t get me wrong, I loved pussy (and still do), but there was (and is) just something… I can’t explain it better than that, Just…something…about fucking an arse that I just can’t help loving.
Am I bisexual? Yes. Have I had a cock in my own arse? Also, yes. Do I prefer to be the fucker than the fuckee? That’s three in a row. When did I get my first male arse? About three months after my wife died.
It’s not a great story, nor one I am particularly proud of. Sarah had been ill for some time, although we didn’t realise how ill until almost the end. She coughed a lot, but weirdly not as much during the pregnancy, but she’d coughed a lot for years and didn’t worry about it. She went for regular tests that always came back dry, so we just assumed there was something odd about her bronchial tubes and ignored the signs as things got worse after Jade was born.
Could she have been saved? The doctors tell me she couldn’t, but they may just have been trying to make me feel less guilty. Whatever the case, within three months of Jade being born, the coughing was so bad I insisted she go for another check-up.
Thanks to the wonders of the NHS GP booking systems, it was almost another month before she finally saw a doctor and three more weeks before seeing a specialist and, by then, there was nothing that could be done.
Sarah and I couldn’t believe it. All those checks. All that time. Nothing. And now? “Sorry Miss Willis, Mr. Anderson, I’m afraid there is nothing we can do to treat you.” That was it. “Sorry, old chap, your girlfriend’s about to snuff it. And you’ve got a little baby? Oh, well. Tough titties and all that! Don’t forget to give us a good review when it’s all over, there’s a good boy!”
OK, that last bit is untrue, but I still – all these years later – blame the doctors for not doing more. It’s probably unfair. All the research I’ve done since suggests it would probably have been too late anyway. But still.