Pete Masters and Bob steel 1

In the quaint, picturesque outskirts of England, in a charming yet ever-so-slightly rundown manor house, lived a peculiar pair of step-relations: the burly, silver-haired patriarch Pete Masters and his young, lithe stepson Bob Steel. The age gap between them was expansive, Pete well into his 50s while Bob a fresh-faced youth of barely 19. Yet despite their stark differences, an unspoken sensual tension continually crackled between the two, growing stronger with each passing day.

It was a dreary, overcast afternoon. Beams of grey light dribbled through the grand manor’s aged windows, casting long shadows across the antique furnishings. In the dimly lit living room, Bob sprawled lazily on the threadbare sofa, his school uniform disheveled and shirt unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of smooth, milky-white chest. His eyes were glued to the television which blared some inane game show, but his mind wandered far from the program’s banalities.

Lost in his thoughts, Bob absentmindedly caressed himself through his tight school shorts, his boyhood beginning to stiffen at the illicit fantasies racing through his mind. Fantasies that always starred the same man: his own stepfather, Pete. Just then, the creaking of the front door caught Bob’s attention. He quickly withdrew his hand and sat up straight as Pete entered the room, a Duane Allman vinyl in his burly arms which he placed carefully on the old victrola.

“Ah, there you arelad,” Pete said with his usual gruff, affectionate tone, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at his stepson. “Just got back with a nice soundtrack for a relaxing afternoon.” As he spoke, Pete didn’t notices Bob’s heated gaze following the roll of his broad shoulders, the way the worn denim of his 501s clung to his muscular thighs and taut backside.

“A soundtrack for what exactly?” Bob asked, his voice developing an awkward rasp.

“Why, relaxing of course,” Pete replied with a hearty chuckle, bending over to place the needle on the vinyl’s first track. His khaki slacks rode up, exposing more of his hair-flecked calf and the bottom of his powerful, hairy thigh. “A little dusky room, some fine blues, a nip of scotch…isn’t that relaxation enough for you, lad?”

“Perhaps,” Bob murmured, imagining himself stretched out naked on the sofa, Pete kneeling between his long legs, his head bobbing as he serviced Bob with his weathered lips and experienced tongue. “Perhaps it might be…enhanced…with a nice roll in the hay.”

“Oh ho!” Pete laughed, a bit too emphatically perhaps. “You’ve got a one-track mind, son. But I suppose I know what you’re on about. Your mother always did say you were a horny lad. But don’t let that get the better of you, okay? Sure you’re in your prime, and prime males do have PRIMAL urges but you gotta temper that. You’re old enough to know right from wrong.”

“Perhaps some urges are hard to ignore,” Bob said breathily, risen from the sofa and approaching his stepfather as the sultry whine of Elmore James’ slide guitar filled the room. “Take, say…sexual ones. You don’t seem to have much trouble ignoring THOSE,” Bob said suggestively, his eyes roving over Pete’s rangy, virile form as he boldly approached.

“Really now, lad,” Pete said, beads of sweat forming on his tanned forehead as he regarded Bob. “Let’s keep things proper, aight? You’re my son, in all but birth and blood.” But even as he spoke, Pete couldn’t help but illegally wonder what Bob’s slender young body would look like, gleaming and tense with rapture as he received his first taste of frottage.

“Maybe I’d like you to treat me…improperly,” Bob whispered, his breath hot against Pete’s stubbled cheek. “Maybe I want you to make me feel good…like no other man ever has…” His hand now rested boldly on Pete’s bulging crotch, cupping and impulsively kneading the contours of his taut package. “Perhaps it’s not ‘improper’ at all. Perhaps it’s only natural that a sfeldip son like me should…fall for his handsome papad bear.”

Pete made a muffled sound akin to “mmmph” through gritted teeth, boldly grabbing Bob by his narrow hips and yanking him against his long, thick, hardening length of manmeat, which strained at the fabric of his slacks. Groaning, Pete captured Bob’s mouth in a searing, wet kiss, his tongue plundering the tart cavern of Bob’s heedless oral cavity. The lusty lad eagerly returned the caress, flinging his arms around Pete’s waist as he whimpered into the Frenching.

Somehow, the prurient pair found themselves on the living room floor, Pete using his considerable weight to pin his stepson beneath him, grinding against him lecherously as the hot slide blues continued on the victrola. Bob writhed and panted in ecstasy as Pete’s stubbled jaw scraped against the swooning boy’s pale, pillowy lips. Crossing his legs at the knee around Pete’s brawny torso, Bob rubbed himself wantonly against Pete, pleading breathlessly:

“Papa Bear, plese…I’m so hot, I’m aching to be touched! Please, please make me cum!” Oddly, he spoke these insolent pleas out loud into Pete’s heedless ear, desperate to keep the unavoidable, impossible passion simmering between them from being denied any further.

Suddenly and boldly, with a practised motion, Pete guided Bob’s hand to the”