Page 6 of The Trailer Park Twink

When I walk into the living room, he’s putting the game into his Nintendo Switch.

He has to bend over to put the console in its dock, giving me a delightful view of that ass in his tight underwear.

He turns the television on and walks to the sofa, plopping down and patting the empty cushion beside him.

As I approach, he looks down at my shirt, swallowing thickly.

“Don’t you want to change?”

“Why?” I ask, taking a seat next to him.

“It’s still wet from earlier. From your . . .” He takes a shaky breath, eyes drifting lower to my package.

“From my pre-cum,” I say, and the word sounds absolutely obscene. Fucking filthy, really. “It’s okay. It’s kind of hot in here, and it feels cool against my stomach.”

“Oh,” he says, like it’s the most normal excuse in the world. “That makes sense.” It doesn’t, actually, but I’m not going to say that. I take a seat beside him and rest my head on his arm. He hands me the controller and smiles, but he seems a million miles away right now.

“Gonna beat you so good, Daddy,” I tease.

Although I try my hardest to make good on the threat, I fail in spectacular fashion, because I’m fucking terrible at video games. I don’t mind, though. It’s not about the game, it’s about spending time with him. Being near Dallas in this space where no one can touch us.

After Dallas tosses a particularly prickish banana peel at my car, I swerve off Rainbow Road, sending Princess Peach plummeting to her death. He’s so much better at this game than me, and I kind of just want to cuddle, so I set my controller down and rub my tummy.

“Daddy,” I whine.

He pauses the game and looks at me. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s starting to hurt. Because I didn’t come earlier.

” Honestly, it’s not really a lie. I can already feel the effect of blue balls making themselves known, and it feels like someone’s wringing my insides with their hands.

Fuck. I should have just jacked off before coming out of the bathroom.

I have to bite my lip to distract from the uncomfortable pressure.

Surprising me, Dallas scoops me into his lap and places a hand on my tummy, rubbing it in circles. He flinches when he realizes he’s placed his entire hand in my puddle of pre-cum, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. “Does this help at all?”

“A little,” I admit, placing my hand on top of the one he’s using to stroke my stomach. “Can I just watch you play? I’m not sleepy, but I’m terrible at this game, and my tummy hurts too much to try.”

“I don’t think I can rub your tummy and play the game at the same time. It’s kind of a one-or-the-other situation.”

“Will you still stay up with me a little longer if we stop playing? I know you have work in the morning, but I’m . . .”

“You miss me,” he finishes for me, because he knows me like the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, Aussie. I know we ain’t had a whole lot of time together these last couple of months. I miss our time together too.”

“Yeah?”

He rolls his eyes like it’s an idiotic question, and I can’t say I disagree.

Because how could I ever doubt Daddy? “Of course, I do. You’re my best friend.

” He’s said that to me a few times, but each time feels like the first. “More than Bubba and the boys at the shop. More than my friends from Louisiana. More than anyone. ”

But not more than Mom, and therein lies our problem. Just the thought of her makes my insides rumble and tumble like an unevenly placed duvet in the washing machine.

Dallas stares into my eyes. “You’re still upset about the trip.”

I nod, not trying to hide it anymore. I want to beg and plead for him to see sense. For him to finally realize my mom is an unnecessary leech, ruining our pretty pond.

“You promised.”

He closes his eyes and sighs. “She’s my wife, Aussie.”

“And I’m your son,” I say, not really having meant to, but I don’t regret it, because holy-fucking-shit.

Yes to that. Yes to Dallas being my Daddy and Dad.

Yes to us. The look he’s giving me is paralyzing, and I physically can’t move.

Pride and adoration are blasting out of his beautiful brown eyes, and I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so cherished.

Truly. More than I ever have before, I feel loved.

I’ve never referred to him as my dad, but I kind of like it. I guess my cock likes it, too, because blood pumps downward, and it begins to rise. Dallas hasn’t noticed yet—thank fucking fuck—because he’s still staring at me like I’ve given him the world.

“My son?” he whispers, rubbing my stomach a little faster, and I kind of need him to slow down, because if he doesn’t, I’ll be adding more pre-cum to my already-drenched shirt. “ Do you mean that?”

I bite my lip and give him a gentle nod.

“You’ve been the closest thing to a dad I’ve ever had.

My bio-dad was a dick to me. I think that’s why I was so happy Mom met you.

Out of all her boyfriends, you were the only one who even paid attention to me.

You didn’t treat me like an obstacle standing in the way of my mom like the other guys did. You cared about me.”

“Of course I did,” he agrees. “I could tell you needed someone.” He takes his pre-cum coated fingers and uses them to brush the hair away from my eyes.

I don’t say anything about the residual wetness left in his hand’s wake, and neither does he.

He just stares at my slick forehead like he wants to lean in and give it a kiss.

“Someone to look out for you. Someone who cares. I care, Aussie. Even if I can’t take you on this trip, I care about you. ”

“I hate her,” I whisper, afraid to voice the words much louder. “She’s an addict who doesn’t care about anyone but herself.”

“I know,” he admits, sighing. “But she’s my wife.

I have to try to make time for her when she wants it.

” At the expense of our time is what he’s not saying, but it’s clear in his eyes.

He doesn’t want to spend time with her, though.

He doesn’t even like her, so why the fuck can’t he just let himself have what he wants?

A week away with his boy. “You’re wet,” he whispers, and I startle, because he just fucking said it.

These sexually charged moments happen often.

Maybe not to the extent of him caressing my pre-cum coated stomach for damn-near half an hour, but they happen.

He’s caught me jerking off in my room more times than I can remember.

My cock has always been shielded by my blanket every other time, but tonight, he saw it.

He’s heard me come countless times. He’s heard me ejaculate on our phone calls each morning.

Dallas has seen more of my depravity than most men have, and he never really addresses any of it.

And, on the few occasions where he has, he just brushes it under the rug like those moments meant nothing.

Like it’s to be expected when entering the room of a twenty-something twink.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” he says, his hand continuing its circular journey.

“I wouldn’t keep rubbing you if I minded.

” My cock twitches, and his eyes drift down, widening before he jerks his head up, eyes locking on mine like if he stares any longer, the mental image of my damp cloth-covered cock will be emblazoned in his memory.

“It looks like you need something else too,” he says, motioning toward my cock.

Holy shit. Is he offering?

“Yes, sir.”

He stares at me for a moment, waging some unknown war in his mind. Someone must come out victorious, because he gives me a decisive nod. “I’ve got just what you need. Stay right here. ”

He lifts me off his lap and places me on the couch. Standing, he heads down the hall, toward his bedroom. Ugh. If he wakes my mother up, I’ll leave and go to Ezra’s. I’m not dealing with her smug ass again tonight.

When he returns, he’s holding a small black bag.

He takes a seat and hooks an arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer against him.

He probably wants me to sit at his side, but fuck that.

I was just on his lap, and that’s where I belong.

I hoist myself back onto his lap, not giving him a chance to object, not that he even would.

With one hand holding me close, he hands me the bag.

“You’re giving me a gift?”

“I’m lending you something special to me. Go on. Open it.”

There’s a drawstring holding the velvet bag closed, and I loosen the knot until it tugs open. As the gap widens, I see what looks like a pair of lips. Reaching into the bag, my fingers curl around something thick, made of hard plastic. When I pull my hand out of the bag, my mouth hangs open.

“I’ve had this one for about a year. It’s probably time I replace her, but she still does the trick,” Dallas says, dragging his fingers across a set of silicone lips. I mean, maybe it’s made of silicone? I’m not really sure what material they use for these.

Dallas has a Fleshlight.

Why the fuck is he showing me his Fleshlight ?

“I almost got one with a different set of lips,” he adds, stroking the toy like it’s a real person, which is kind of weird, because who strokes someone’s mouth repeatedly?

He must notice my confused expression, because he looks at the door like he’s scared Mom might come in, then leans in and whispers, “A pocket pussy, Aussie. But that wouldn’t have worked for you, would it? ”

I just blink at him. I have no idea what’s happening. “Huh?”

“Because you’re gay. You wouldn’t be able to stay hard, buddy.

” He taps the toy’s entrance. “You’re leaking through your shirt.

You’ve been single for months. I ain’t seen you go on a single date since you moved home.

” To my shock, horror, and motherfucking amazement, he reaches down and curls his fingers around my shirt-covered shaft.

I whimper, because I’m fucking feral for him.