Down By The Pier (Patreon)

I couldn't resist getting a story in today, and especially this one because it's short and strangely touching. 

All characters are 18+

Carp was forty-four when I met him. A big rugged fellow with a broad set of shoulders and hands as hard as concrete. He was a little shorter than one would expect a grown man to be, but what he lacked in height, he certainly made up for in width. His arms were thick as lampposts, likely a result of his work. He was a mechanic during the day, owned the local car garage and worked on just about everybody's car in the town. The moment he clocked out for the day though, instead of returning home to his wife Sally and his two kids, Carp would head on down to the pier with a six pack of beer, and spend the golden, sun kissed evenings with a fishing rod in one hand, and a beer can in the other.

I couldn't fish, partly because I didn't know how, but also because I couldn't afford to buy the tools. We were the poorest family in the town, and I grew up wearing other families hand-me-downs, eating other families leftovers, and when my pa got too drunk and nasty, sleeping on other families porches.

"Come on over here and I'll show you what to do".

Carp was like a mentor, and I'd sit by his chair while he smoked and drank, and use his rod to fish.

"Don't pull the damn thing so much" he'd tell me, "you'll scare off all the fish".

The summer nights were balmy and hot, and I didn't think much of stripping down to my worn briefs and diving right into the cool lake. At first I did it to cool down, knowing that by the time I got home, the August air would have dried me out, anyway. But the more I did it, the more I figured that Carp found a great humour in it. and so I'd do it to get a laugh, sometimes acting like I was drowning while the man smacked his thighs and chuckled wildly.

"Why don't you let ol' Carp help you, son" he told me one day as I pulled myself onto the edge of the pier, dripping wet and glistening in the shimmering son.

I took his rough hand and he yanked me up like I was a spanner on the floor of his garage. My wet feet pattered across the wood until I stood next to Carp as he sat back down with a grin etched across his stubbled face. I looked out across the glassy water and Carp rubbed his calloused up the inside of my smooth thigh, until he fingered back the edge of my pants and my balls hung out.

I just kinda' stood there, and don't remember being all too bothered by the feeling. When I looked back down, Carp's face was pushing between my legs, and I felt his warm breath on my junk. His hot tongue flicked my nutsack, and the sharp stubble around his mouth cut into my soft flesh. He tugged my pants down further until my cock sprung out and he ate that too.

When Carp was finished, my pants lay around my ankles and my ass was bared for all to see, if anybody had come this far down the pier of course, and nobody ever did. I was dry by the time he sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette, everywhere except my pole anyway, which pointed from my groin like a stiff finger.

The next day I returned, the next day I fished and jumped into the lake, and the next day Carp took my pants down and did it all over again. He never spoke about it after, or before, or even during. I got to love the feeling, and I'd hurry down to the pier every evening when the man finished work, and I'd find him with a beer can, a cigarette and the waiting fishing rod.

"Call me dad" he told me one evening, and it was the only words he had ever spoken to me whilst suckling on my cock.

"Okay, dad".

That night as the sun slipped behind the horizon, and the sky turned an inky blue, I felt my balls tingle and churn, and I fucked four strings of sperm into Carp's hungry mouth. I think it was four, though I could only judge by the amount of times my prick pulsed and the amount of times Carp swallowed.

He became known as Dad from that point on, which was fine by me, and even finer by him. We switched things up, too, and I'd run down the pier and dive into the lake before even touching the fishing rod, and then I'd sit at the edge, working hard to catch a fish while Carp pulled on his big cock behind me.

"Come here, son" he said one afternoon as the weather began to change, and the world turned orange.

Carp took me by the hips and twisted me around until I was facing the lake, and then he inched down my pants at the back and lowered me onto him. It stung a bit at first, and I winced a little when his plum sized cock head slipped inside me, but after a moment of squirming and gasping, Carp's big cock  nestled deep in my bowels and we just sat together, watching our hundredth sunset.

That became our new routine, even when the nights turned cold and dark. I stopped jumping in the lake for fear of the dreaded pneumonia, and so Carp would sit me on his cock, fully clothed but with my pants under my butt cheeks, and grind himself inside me while I fished.

Sometimes he'd reach around and finger his way between my legs until my cock got hard and he'd slide his oily fingers up and down my shaft. Sometimes he'd do it until I shot my muck down the front of my pants, and sometimes he'd expel his own greasy load into my ass and I'd walk home and revel in the feeling of it oozing out between my butt cheeks, becoming tacky and gummy, and by the time I'd get home, I'd have a rash.

And then one night I rushed down to the pier and found Carp's chair empty. It was empty again the following night, and the following one after that, and in the fifty years since I sat with Carp, his chair has been empty ever since.

I still fish down by the lake, even now after all these years, and as I write this story, a smile lights my face, because I never did catch a single damn fish.