Last time:
“By godd, sexy city-boy, you’ve shown me the error of me ways,” he whispered into my mouth. He sucked my tongue and we slurped at each other’s mouths and faces with an unfettered desperation.
“You’ve unleashed a man-hunger in me loins,” he growled and ravished my mouth with his bearded lips.
“Next time, I want you to show me what it feels like to play receiver. Give me your phone.”
I did as he asked and he typed his name and number into my device. Then he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and turned me around again and wiped me clean. Then he proceeded to clean himself up, pull his pants up, and with a wink, disappeared into the forest. I wondered whether I would see him again. I could call him if I wanted to.
I had a feeling I would.
Scratching That Itch 4
When I got back my wife noticed that I was considerably happier. I didn’t break it to her that it had little to do with the fresh air and peaceful walk and more with the ginger truncheon that had rearranged my insides by way of my asshole. But it had settled me for a while at least and when we sat down in front of the TV, me with a glass of ice cold wine and she with a cup of tea, conversation flowed.
“So where’s Abbey tonight?” I asked
“She went out with the youth group again. Seems the young man is beginning to show some interest in her.”
“Ooooh, that’s nice. It’s about time that she met somebody that will appreciate her for what she has to offer. Have you met him?”
“Nope, she’s made it clear that she doesn’t want to make an issue of it just in case he turns out to be a flake.”
“Well, he’d better be careful. If he hurts her I will nail his b – “
“Dear!” My wife admonished.
“ – ear to the wall!”
Abbey and I fought like cat and dog but we were mad about one another and would defend each other to the death.
“Well, you’ll get your chance to check him out tomorrow night. He’s coming for supper. We’re having a braai”
“Oh, my goodness, I’d better be on my best behaviour.”
“Yes, you’d better. No good in alienating him before she’s even gotten to know him. So be nice and give the boy a chance, before you send him running for the hills.”
I had a bit of a reputation. I was quick to speak my mind and less forthright people than I had found me a bit intimidating. So I’d have to give him a chance to prove himself.
“I’ll let him do the meat while I check him out.” I didn’t elaborate on “check him out” since I didn’t want to give the impression that I was trying to steal my daughter’s boyfriend. Even I had to draw the line somewhere!
“You do that. Whatever you do, don't try and braai the meat.”
I’d gained, through diligent practise, a well-deserved reputation for being untrustworthy when doing meat on the braai (BBQ) was concerned. There were few things I hated more than watching meat on the grid, so I had – partly through a serious lack of judgment and partly because it suited me – slowly and tactfully been excluded from taking care of that chore. It was much more fun watching the men do that hot work and making sure they were suitably lubricated and strutting their macho stuff without being aware that they were being watched and drooled over.
Yeah it was a tough job and somebody had to do it.
*sigh*
The evening carried on like that and I tried not to sound too excited about having another male, possibly one that was worth looking at, in the family. I tried to inquire subtly what he looked like.
“I suppose, being a Kiwi, he is a ginger with too much hair and no chin and no discernible dress sense?”
This wasn’t my opinion, but I was paraphrasing my daughter's opinion of Kiwi men. Not that long ago I had seen for myself the best of the South Canterbury Kiwis and although he may have been ginger and might not have been dressed for the opera, he was a handsome fucker with authority where it mattered: between his legs.
“Actually, I forgot to tell you. She says he’s Afrikaans.”
“You’re kidding right?” I asked, incredulous. We had joked about the fact that there were so many South Africans in NZ and that it would be hilarious if she managed to hook up with somebody from the “Old Country” here. If that wasn’t all, it would be doubly hilarious if he turned out to be Afrikaans. I was of that persuasion and the boys were invariably spunky and more or less always uncut in the sausage department. Shit, it was going to be hard to resist fishing for the facts on that one. It wouldn’t do for the dad-in-law to be sneaking a peek over the urinal wall, although I wasn’t above doing that if I had to!
“Well, he mustn’t think I’ll be giving him any special treatment just because he’s a Saffer.” Best not to confess what kind of ‘special treatment’ had crossed my mind while we chatted. I tried to hide my excitement. Since I had discovered my predilection for cock, it had been a secret fantasy of mine that I would be able to make it with Abbey’s boyfriend. Except she had turned out to be particularly picky and had, as yet, not hooked up with anybody. To be the only man in the family wasn’t fun. Often I felt as if the women folk ganged up against me.
The next day I went shopping for meat with quite a bit of trepidation and excitement. I was awkward around men – had always been – and was a little nervous that I would make a fool of myself, especially if he turned out to be someone that flicked my switches. It was one thing to be attracted to a man and hide it but if the person ended up being a part of the family it could end up being awkward, know what I mean? So, against all odds, I started hoping that he would have a great personality and kind nature but that he’d not be one that was easy on the eye. Although I knew my daughter to have quite strong opinions about the subject and was not convinced she’d settle for somebody that didn’t tick all her boxes.
We’d spent the afternoon getting everything in order, me and my wife, both being quite excited to see the new gentleman caller, if not entirely for the same reasons. When the time arrived to light the fire and set the table, as well as put the finishing touches to the salads, it was building up to being a beautiful evening. Unusually, it was quite mild and there was a slight wind blowing, what we would call a “berg wind” in Cape Town – warm and gentle. We were just beginning to wonder what had happened to our guest when a motor bike pulled up outside. I was in the kitchen turning the meat over in the marinade and I heard the growl of the engine. It must have been a big bike because the engine sounded like it had quite a bit of grunt.
There was some light laughter and joking as Abbey introduced the visitor to her mother. The stranger’s voice was deep and rich and sent a chill down my spine. It reminded me of something but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I picked up the bowl with the marinating meat in it and walked out into the open air by the braai. The smell of the smoke in the evening air was pleasant and I marveled at how South African it felt. I turned the corner that would lead to the patio area and froze in my tracks.
He had his back to me but I instantly knew who it was. I remembered so clearly the feel of his scruffy stubble against my cheek and the steel of his long, hard cock in my chute. I remembered so clearly the sense of loss that I felt when we said goodbye, and when I saw him walk out of the Orchard restaurant area when he left.
But this was different. SO different. One of two things could happen: One, he would see me and it would be clear we knew each other from somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where from, and life would continue as normal – maybe. Two: He could instantly recognise me and remember what we had done together and give it away on purpose or by accident and my life would be screwed. I felt my heart claw its way to my throat and a clammy sweat instantly drenched my body. I thought I might have a heart attack or something. My worst nightmare was manifesting right in front of me, and I knew my life as I had known it until then, was most likely over.
I contemplated going back into the house and abandoning the evening and appearing when he’d left but my daughter saw me and hailed me with a loud voice. She was her party self and therefore loud, so I couldn’t even pretend that I hadn’t heard her.
“Dad, come and meet Johan!”
I took a deep breath and decided to bulshit my way through it if it came to that.
“Johan, this is my dad, Kane. Dad, this is Johan Havenga.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sir,” he said and stuck his hand out. There was not a flicker of recognition in his eyes as he gripped my hand in his. Many men have a pissing contest at this point, gripping your hand painfully, trying to show their cock size (or lack of it) at this point. Others have a damp, flaccid grip that leaves you nauseated and wanting to run for the hills. Johan had neither. His grip was warm and firm, and fit around my hand like a friendly hug.
I wondered when he would twig who I was and smiled wanly.
“Nice to meet you too, Johan. Please call me Kane.”
“I’ll leave the two of you to get to know each other, while I go and help mom get the last of the salads read,” Abbey tinkled uncharacteristically, and fluttered off. She was clearly smitten with the guy and I could see why. He looked even better than he had in the confined space of the toilet at the Orchard. His scruffy blonde hair had grown a bit and was curling loosely around his face. His blue eyes picked up the saffire blue of his T-shirt, and the blonde curls that climbed out of the round neckline were mouthwatering.
I was struggling hard to maintain my cool and not sure how to act. I decided that I would leave well enough alone, as he seemed not to recognise me at all. I wondered for a moment if I was mistaken about who he was.
I led the way to the fire and put the pan with the marinating meat down on the counter next to it.
“Lyk soos ‘n lekker vleisie wat Oom daar het,” he purred (It looks like a delicious piece of meat you have there, Uncle – a term of respect from younger to older).
It was the same soft growl that had whispered ”Fok dis awesome; boerepiel in kiwi”, (fuck, it's awesome, Afrikaner cock in Kiwi) and I knew there was no mistake. He just honestly didn’t remember me. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. And what the implications were for my poor daughter, I was yet to unravel. One thing at a time. Now that the world wasn’t about to crash around my ears I could just check the young man out for what he was: a young guy who had fucked me, who wanted to get to know my daughter better.
Nah, there was nothing weird about that…!
Still, he never missed a beat and as we started to put the meat onto the fire, we chatted about this and that as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
He made his way into my good books when he offered to take care of braaing the meat, and I stood by watching him with a beer in my hand, as he did the deed. He clearly knew his way around braai tongs. He was wearing a yellow wife beater that made his golden skin hum with vitality and showed his blonde mop off to perfection. It clung to his torso like a second skin and when he moved it rubbed up against his nipples which popped out like two tiny raisins under the material. I thought my daughter and I were going to have a fight over this one.
He bent down to pick up the bag of charcoal and his not-too-tight jeans stretched over his buns. His shirt pulled up and exposed his lower back and I felt saliva shoot into my mouth. He was sex on a stick and I felt mildly woozy when he looked around at me from his bent over position.
“Do you think we’ll need some more charcoal? Looks like the fire is getting a bit cool.”
“I’ll leave that up to you. You’re the braaimaster today, not me,” I replied hoarsely and coughed slightly to clear my throat. I hoped he would stay down there for a bit longer as the view was spectacular. He wasn’t wearing a belt and his loose-fitting jeans had slid down a little, exposing the broad elastic of his underpants. He casually reached around and slid his index finger under it to scratch at and itch, no doubt caused by the warmth and some sweat.
He stood up and carefully placed the briquettes under the grill in strategic places and stood with his blackened fingers awkwardly, not knowing how to clean them. I reached over to the bar and grabbed some wet wipes. I fished in the packet after opening the tricky sticky seal and handed him one.
He took it from me but looked into my eyes as I handed it to him.
“Do you mind showing me where the toilet is? I need to make a pit stop.” The question was innocent but he held my gaze. It was then that I realised that he recognised me. “The meat should be fine for a few minutes while the new briquettes catch on.”
“Sure follow me,” I said and turned to lead the way. My daughter walked over as we left and I told her to look after the meat and yell if something started burning as I was going to show Johan where the facilities were.
When we reached the passage, out of sight and sound of the outside where the festivities were being held, I turned around to indicate where the bathroom was. My breath caught in my throat. Johan was standing at the beginning of the passage, and he had pulled his jeans down in the front. His long blonde dick hung over his balls, like the trunk of an elephant. The pouting foreskin was rapidly pulling back over the moist pink head as it engorged with blood.
"It's in here, let me show you," i said, hoarsely, and opened the door and walked inside. I heard the door close behind me and felt Johan's arms around my chest as his hands entered my pants from behind, questing for my dick.
I took a deep breath and turned around in his embrace. I felt strength enter me from somewhere.
"Johan, if you are going to date my daughter, this won't happen. I won't do to her what I am doing to my wife. It's either me, or her. Your choice. But you must decide now before this goes too far with her."
I put my hands on his chest gently and pushed him back. I exited the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I heard his piss thunder into the toilet bowl.
I realized that if it wasn't me, it would be somebody else. I had to find a way to break off this growing romance between them. I owed it to Abby.