Page 3 of Wrestling with Daddy

The first messages in his inbox weren’t too promising. It shouldn’t have been disappointing, but Ken still found himself rubbing that tender spot in his chest, sighing silently.

He needed coffee if he was going to commit to this.

The large mug of doctored coffee didn’t make the inane messages that much sweeter.

Ken was going to give up. He already would’ve dropped the phone any other day of the week, finding something to keep himself busy with for the rest of the day.

Perhaps this was his midlife crisis’s rebellion. Or perhaps it was just what happened when he hadn’t brought any files from the office to pass the hours with.

When was the last time he’d found himself swiping on profiles that all looked tediously similar?

Ken shook his head as he swiped left on the third boy who wanted a sugar Daddy to sweep him off his feet.

None of these profiles caught his eye, not when he could see them all in the flesh at a club that was less than twenty minutes away from the modern, single-family home he’d helped design when he’d first moved into the city.

He was about to quit it, ready to tease Lee’s boy about how he needed to up his game. The app might promise a simple design and a focus on kinksters who were interested in BDSM dynamics and exploring them, but it wasn’t quite delivering.

He would’ve done it if it hadn’t been for the message that sent a buzz through his phone.

B_N_96

for journalistic purposes, what should one know about the Pet Play by the Lake charity?

Ken took a final sip of his coffee, stood up to rinse the mug, and moved to the leather couch he’d invested too much money in back when he’d first moved into his home.

DaddyKen

Are you saying that you’re a journalist?

The response came quickly, which was a relief. Ken wasn’t sure he would’ve been very eager to keep track of the app throughout the day.

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guilty

DaddyKen

Are you writing an article on it then?

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maybe

have to pitch it to my editor first

DaddyKen

Let me know when you do. I can hook you up with the owner of the resort

While he waited for a response—he could see the three dots as the journalist he didn’t have a name for typed and deleted whatever he’d typed in the first place—Ken went to his profile.

He’d expected something empty if the account had just been created for research purposes, but he had to admit to being pleasantly surprised as he scrolled through the pictures.

The boy—if Ken could assume the pictures were really his—had hazel, dark green-ish eyes and brown messy hair, along with a lightly-tanned face framed by more freckles than he could count. He was delicious on page, with a lean body he didn’t look too shy about.

After the first three selfies of varying quality, a screenshot of a post Ken remembered reading about a year ago piqued his curiosity.

He had to wonder if the boy had written it—which was a possibility given how he’d cropped the name of the author.