Dad Bod? I Love It
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Author’s note: This one is a bit all over the place, with several elements you’d expect to find in other categories, like “Mature” or “Anal.” The dirtier you like your stories, the more likely you are to like this one, and vice versa. Fair warning.
I thought 42 was supposed to be the ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything.
As I stood there, examining my now-42-year-old body in the mirror, that damn number felt less like an answer and more like a conclusion.
How wrong I was.
But turning 42 and seeing how my body had kept up with my age was a humbling experience, no doubt.
“Oh, yeah. You’re going to be real appealing to 20-something girls now,” I sighed. “You and this ‘dad bod.'”
Yeah, yeah. I know. Cue the world’s tiniest violin. But it’s just how my brain was wired: I preferred younger women. Truth is, when I was in high school and college and even through my 20s, I was in pretty good shape physically, but not mentally – I was completely lost when it came to women. So I didn’t do a lot of dating then. By my 30s, I started to figure things out and actually had a little success, even with women in their early 20s. But my body was starting to go, and none of those experiences were lasting ones – just temporary fun and disappointments when they lost interest. I found myself craving acceptance, and craving it from the type of women I didn’t get to date when I was their age – except now, I was over 40, and my once youthful good looks were starting to turn; I sometimes felt like a gallon of milk past the “sell-by” date.
I still had a nice head of dark hair, dark and deep eyes (if I do say so myself) and a pretty average build – strong arms and legs, not super-muscular but not flabby or scrawny. But my stomach … it was my arch-nemesis. The quintessential “beer belly,” even if I didn’t drink all that much beer. I tried to exercise when I could, but I was evidently going to have to undergo radical lifestyle changes to shake this stubborn thing, and I just wasn’t willing to do that. I lived a busy life, stuck mostly at a desk, eating take-out.
And then there’s the occasional hint of a double chin if I don’t hold my head at the right angle, stray bits of cellulite here and there, and the fact that I’m a very hairy man – lots of hair on my face, lots of hair on my chest, lots hair on my arms and legs and … down there – and no one was ever going to confuse me for one of those hairless, square-jawed young adult idols on the teen vampire dramas or whatever was popular these days. Yeah, making it even harder for me is that while I may like dating 20-somethings, I’m more familiar with “Must-See TV” than anything on the air today, and would rather listen to Madonna any day over Billie Eilish. Yet when I’d tried to date women my own age – with their 2.5 kids and impossible schedules and, let’s face it, bodies that reminded me more of my own than whatever Phoebe-Cates-in-the-pool fantasy I might have left unfulfilled (see, I told you I was old) – it just didn’t do it for me.
So … I was facing a true conundrum. I still wanted much younger women, but I was moving further and further away from the type of guy most of them were attracted to, both in terms of the number of years I’ve been on this earth and physically.
And then, I met Lydia.
One of the things I did to occupy my time was community theatre. I met a lot of interesting women that way, and yes, had a couple of flings during productions. But like I said, that was easier at 30, 32, even 35. Now, I was started to get cast out of romantic lead parts and do more “character actors.” Sometimes the funny fat guy, or the mean old fart. As a result, I was starting to by seen by any eligible female cast members I might have been interested in as – you guessed it – a funny (but harmless) fat guy, or a mean (and boring) old fart.
But then we were cast together in a certain play (not sharing the name) where the director felt like I was a natural to play the romantic male role, and cast opposite me was the theatre’s latest ingenue, Lydia. She was 18, recently graduated from high school, and more interested in breaking into the acting world than a top university, though she was taking some online courses with one of the local colleges. I don’t know that our little suburban operation was going to provide anything remotely like a big break for her, but … well, when dear Lydia wanted to do something, she threw herself into it completely and whole-assed. As I’d soon learn.
I couldn’t believe my good fortune to be paired with such a lovely young woman. She was your textbook “girl next door.” She was short, about 5-foot-2, but her twiggy legs looked absolutely gorgeous falling out of one of her fashionably short skirts and seemed to cut such intriguing angles when she stood around. Long, flowing brown hair around a rounded, lightly freckled face. Bright, cat-like eyes and a wry, smirking mouth formed by full pink lips that was wide and dazzling when she gave a legit smile. It absolutely lit up the stage. Alabaster skin. A compact, lithe body that would be almost beşevler escort described as a dancer’s form – though her perky B-cup breasts appeared somehow larger on her small frame.
I approached her cautiously, probably more out of deflated confidence than anything. I was certain that she’d see me as little more than “over-the-hill” “dad bod” guy. We got along well – I’d make little jokes to her in practice, she’d laugh and kind of look away – and I got the sense that maybe, just maybe … did she kinda like me? Nah. That’s just wishful thinking. Don’t fool yourself. That way madness lies.
And then it came time to rehearse a scene where the characters kiss. I was about to ask our director how he wanted to do this – my fake “stage kiss” skills were a bit rusty, and needed some tuning up – but there was no “stage kiss” to be had. Lydia wrapped her arms around my neck and leaned up to meet my mouth with hers, grinning like a girl in love. Our lips found each other and pressed against each other, softly and lovingly, and I heard her moan ever so lightly as we kissed.
After a few seconds that felt like an eternity in the moment, Lydia pulled away and lowered her eyes, smiling the cutest, most demure smile. Everyone just kind of looked at us for a moment, stunned. Finally, the director spoke, “Okay. Great. You guys good with that? I love the realism.”
Lydia and I both nodded and laughed nervously. Either she’s a damn good actress, I thought, or … “Wow,” said to her. “So you’re a method actor, huh?”
She giggled and shrugged. “If it’s in the script, might as well commit to it, right?”
“I agree,” I said. “Unless we end up doing ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at some point. Let’s just fake the deaths at the end, huh?”
More laughter. God, I loved her laughter. Sweet and musical and uninhibited. We did the scene – and the kiss – a couple more times, to get it down. Each time, her lips lingered a bit longer, and I felt heat radiate from her body, which flushed a little each time. Finally, the director called for a break. As Lydia left the stage, she looked back and me and puckered her lips to blow me a kiss. I pretended to catch it, acting cool even as my body felt electric, agitated. This felt too good to be true.
Things went on like that for a while, in a bit of a holding pattern. Maybe she was just a dedicated actor when it came to kissing scenes. Until one day, she showed up to practice wearing a tank top with a most interesting message on it. The design was made to look like the logo of a certain well-known online porn site, but instead said “That’s Gross” in the main type, and then underneath, “I Love It.” Just seeing that shirt and imagining the implications made my cock stir.
No one else seemed to pay it any attention, but I couldn’t resist making a comment to Lyida in a private moment. “Bold choice for an outfit,” I said. Seemed best to approach this cautiously.
Lydia shrugged and took drink from her water bottle. “You like it?”
Geez. How do I answer this? I searched the entire English language for the right words, the perfect thing to say in response that would not seem too eager, not expose too much about myself, and maybe, just maybe, be devilishly clever. What I came up with was this: “Um, yeah.”
“Oh yeah? You like gross stuff?”said Lydia, less of a question than a chess move. She was toying with me now.
“Depends,” I said. “What kind of gross are we talking about? I mean, slugs, I could do without. Not a big fan of spoiled milk either.”
Lydia just gave me one of those perfect lopsided smiles, shook her head, and got up. She walked until her pert little ass was right beside my head, almost touching it, took another drink, and then screwed the cap on her bottle.
“Would you like to sniff it?” she said quietly, before lightly bumping the side of my head with her butt.
I looked around to make sure this wouldn’t be too obvious, then leaned over to smell her butt through her khaki shorts. It was amazing. A bit of natural musk, but sweet. God, it made me hard.
“Oh … that’s … yummy,” is all I could get out.
“Says the Dad Bod,” she whispered back.
She bumped my head with her bottom again and walked away, a smile on her face. I was left sitting there, wondering – what the hell just happened???
Eventually, the play came to a close. In retrospect, I never should have waited. She had tried to tell me what she wanted, I just couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t let myself believe it. This little hot-bodied 18-year-old nymphet wanted … me? I’d embarrass myself if I took it as anything other than harmless flirting. I was safe, someone she could tease. That’s all. Right?
The cast party after the last show was the last opportunity for something to happen … and it did. I made the rounds, talked to all kinds of people, but I’d constantly steal little glances at Lydia. She’d be across the room, plastic cup in hand, talking to someone else … but I constantly caught her glancing over at me. Our eyes kept meeting, like we were doing some subtle beylikdüzü escort dance, advancing and retreating all night long.
I was among the first to leave. I found Lydia and gave her a big hug. “It was great to act with you,” I said. “I hope we get to do it again soon.”
“Me too,” she cooed, and then slipped a tiny envelope into my hand. “This is for you.”
Leaving each other little notes was not uncommon in our kind of community theater, and usually they were very polite gestures of appreciation for each other’s work and and friendship. I preferred to read mine in private, and so I smiled, and went on my way.
For obvious reasons, I knew this wasn’t just your ordinary post-show “thank you” note, though. My heart raced and my hands were sweaty as I almost skipped to my car, where I could sit and read the note in private. I pulled the small card out of the envelope and my heart sank just a little bit when I saw the outside of it. Just an image of a cute kitty cat, with a generic “Thank You” message in script. I had gotten ahead of myself, too excited. Then I opened the card.
It was her phone number. And the words, “Every time I see that hot dad bod of yours, I cream my panties. Every night after we act together, I go home and finger myself thinking about you. Call me whenever you’re ready and I’ll cum over.”
Nope. I hadn’t gotten ahead of myself after all.
I waited a couple of days. Play it cool, you know. But I wasn’t cool at all. Couldn’t get her off of my mind. I kept looking at that card, like I was Gollum and it was “the Precious,” thinking, “Should I just do it? Should I just call?” But I restrained myself. Two days. I had to wait at least that long.
Finally, I sat down and texted her – God, I’m so glad they invented texting, so much less pressure than calling – “Hi Lydia. How’s post-show life treating you?”
A couple minutes later, a reply: “Good. You?”
Well, that didn’t give me much to work with … “I’m all right.” Sigh. Here goes nothing. “Did you mean what you said? In the note?”
I froze. Oh my god. What’s happening? Is this the wrong person? Am I losing my mind?
A few seconds later …
“J/k. Yes, you big doofus. :p”
I sighed. Might as well get straight to the point. “Wanna come over?”
“Give me about an hour. Send me your address.”
I shot her the addy and put away my phone before I could say anything more and potentially screw things up.
This was not a drill. This was happening. Really happening.
Thing is, I like to be prepared. So while she was probably trying to get ready in a hurry – wash up, put on make-up, do whatever it is women do in the bathroom before a sexual encounter – I had already done all that before I texted (rather ambitiously, I admit), plus I’d thrown on nice clothes – not TOO nice, since we weren’t going out, but something better than sweats and an old t-shirt – and now I was just sitting there on the couch, waiting. I tried to chill out. I really did. I tried doing breathing exercises, watching something dumb on TV, even poured myself a drink. But I couldn’t help it. I was nervous.
I’m a 42-year-old man with a big belly and moles and hair in odd places … and she’s an 18-year-old Manic Pixie Dream Girl come to technicolor life. How in the hell can this go well for me?
(Yes, I’m aware of the irony of me both using that term and sharing this story. Don’t worry, we’re getting to the good part.)
It didn’t help that it was July and fucking hot outside. My apartment didn’t have central air – old building – and the ceiling fan and open windows could only do so much. I was trying not to sweat through my clothes before she even got here, but the combination of nerves and nature was kicking my ass.
Finally, there was the knock on my door I was awaiting. This was it. No turning back. I answered the door and there she was in all her glory – Lydia. My lovely little Lydia. Not a hair out of place, dressed in a black t-shirt with some kind of skull-and-rose design, showing just a bit of her taut pale stomach, and a pair of jean shorts with nicer-than-average sandals. She was dressed very casually, but still attractively – the kind of “casual” that actually has some thought put into it.
She smiled that big toothy smile and leaned up to give me a big hug, which I held for as long as I thought I could get away with before it became weird.
“Hey!” I said.
“Hey.” Her voice was low, relaxed. It actually soothed my nervous ass in that moment. If she wasn’t worried, why should I be so nervous?
She came in, looked around, did the whole “nice place” thing. I gestured to the couch, and offered to get her a drink. She said “no thanks” and pulled a water bottle out of her oversized bag. She was prepared. This girl was sharp.
I sat on the other side of the couch, trying to keep a respectful distance from her. I still couldn’t believe she was here to fuck, and wanted to avoid jumping all over her first thing. We talked bilecik escort about various things – her foray into college, my work, and of course gossiping about our former castmates. As we talked, I got braver, touching her leg, then rubbing it lightly. Trying to be smooth about it.
Finally, I got brave. I’d said something funny. She laughed. There was a pregnant pause. I leaned in and kissed her. Oh boy, did she kiss me back. It was like that first kiss on-stage all over again, except without the artifice of the environment. This was all her. Anything she was holding back in front of others, she gave to me here. Passion. Need. Abandon.
I remember that her lips were wet and tasted of strawberry. Not real strawberries, but lip gloss, but still … it made kissing her feel like I was eating candy. Her tongue was smaller than mine, but so soft, and so eager as it danced around my own. I briefly sucked on hers, and she soon returned the favor, in between spells of staccato kisses. There were short, quick bursts, and long, sensual smooches and occasional interludes of exploring tongues – it was a symphony we made with our warm, wet mouths.
I opened my eyes long enough to see her brow furrowed as she moaned into my mouth, running her hands through my hair and over my back. As excited as I was to be kissing this beautiful girl, you’d have thought it was her privilege to be with someone like me.
I would soon come to learn that’s exactly how she saw it.
She was so petite compared to me that I was able to pick her up as we made out frantically, like teenagers. I carried her to my bedroom and quickly undid her shorts, and she kicked them down her legs. No panties. Just soft white flesh with small square patch of brown fur, like a little decorative emblem, above her sweet young pussy. I inhaled the aroma; god, just the smell of her cunt made my cock throb. It was sharp and sweet, almost … citrusy? A hint of sweat, but fresh and appealing.
She pulled her shirt off over her head, then started tearing at mine, her tiny feet rubbing all over the bed as if in a fit. Soon, everything was off and it was just us, just two human beings the way God made us, the way we came into the world – naked, sweating, devoid of words, all intense emotion.
Lydia sighed and groaned the words, “Fuck me, Daddy.”
The word kind of took me out of the moment – I wasn’t expecting it – but the smell of her aroused pussy combined with her big, pleading eyes looking up at me as she bit her lip brought me back quickly. I slowly started to push my thick cock against her pink cunt’s tiny little opening. I’m about six inches long, but I’ve been told I’m pretty thick, girthy. And hers was as tight a pussy as I’ve ever seen. I felt a need to go easy.
Lydia gently shook her head. “Take me, please,” she whispered. “Hurt me.”
I looked at her with arched eyebrow, as if wanting her to confirm. This time she nodded, and repeated, “Please hurt me. Tear me open.”
I know that consent is very important – and that was definitely consent. With a sudden sharp thrust, I plunged my cock into her impossibly small hole. She screamed and dug her fingers into my back. God, it was so warm inside her, and buttery soft … and so fucking intimate. I was inside her. INSIDE her. Inside HER. Inside this beautiful body, inside inside this amazing person, like my cock was trying to search for her soul. Around my cock, it felt like going to heaven and fucking one of those pillowy cartoon clouds. Just amazing.
Our bodies just melted together. I say that, partially to note how hot it was that evening and how much we were sweating – beads just pouring off of us, dripping off my face onto hers, coating us – but also how our bodies fit. It felt like two Tetris pieces locking together. It just felt … right. My large, rough, hairy body and her small, smooth, pale one joined together and created something new. I wouldn’t realize it until she pointed it out to me, but looking back on it … it was true.
Her body was so small that I reached under her stomach and flipped her over onto her front after briefly sliding out of her (to the sound of a sad little moan). She climbed on all fours and wiggled her pert little ass at me. I shoved my slick shaft back into her cunt, more easily this time, and she squealed as she brought her finger to her clit, and began to jill herself furiously. (That’s the term, right? Jill? It’s the one I’m using.)
It was all so … impolite. Animalistic. We didn’t speak to each other. We grunted. Growled. Moaned. Our bodies were covered in a mixture of each other’s sweat – impossible to tell whose body the dampness came from. We tasted each other’s dampness, the salty and tangy flavors. Lydia’s pussy leaked all over me as I fucked her. But god, I wanted to taste her.
I pulled out and put my face her hairy cunt and let her just flood me. All over my face, all over my beard. She came hard, wailing loudly and bucking as she reached back, grabbed my hair, and shoved my face harder into her body. I didn’t argue. I ate her velvet pussy voraciously, bathing it with my tongue. I moved up and took long, lewd licks up and down her ass crack. She had cleaned obviously, but was so sweaty now that she had developed a sweet stink and I rubbed my face in it before returning to her pussy and finding her shy, small clit, circling around it, spelling out her name with my tongue.
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