Chapter One
Matthew
Fate is an odd thing, isn’t it?
If I hadn’t had too much to drink last night, sitting not only alone but lonely at the hotel bar after the dull-as-dishwater conference I’d attended on behalf of my accounting firm, I might not have accidentally set my alarm for seven p.m. instead of seven a.m. And if I’d set my alarm for the right time, I most certainly wouldn’t have missed my flight out of Asheville.
If I hadn’t missed my plane, I wouldn’t have returned to the hotel to book myself in for another night while I attempted to wrangle a new flight or a rental car for a non-exorbitant price the next day.
And if I hadn’t returned to the hotel, I never would have known it was hosting a very different crowd over the weekend for a fascinating special event.
And if…
Well, you get the point.
If it hadn’t been for all that, I wouldn’t be here now, in the middle of the Blue Ridge Kink Club’s Christmas Auction, having paid thirty dollars at the door for the privilege of sipping a watered-down drink and watching people in all kinds of bondage and kink gear getting their wild on. Nor would I be walking through the various kinky offerings for the auction.
For one thing, I’m not from around here, so a lot of this stuff—like the whipping, for example—would be hard to collect on, and for another thing, I’m not sure I’m even kinky.
I’ve only been out as a gay man for a few years, having waited until my parents died to be true to myself. During those long, dark years in the closet, I gave (more like endured) my share of quick and raunchy blowjobs, but those kinds of experiences aren’t what I want or need anymore.
That’s something I’m still trying to figure out. What do I want? What do I need?
Hookup apps have been informative. Actual hookups themselves would have been even more so—but so far the apps have mostly been helpful in terms of highlighting what I don’t want. Not that I can explain what that is in any detail either.
I just know of everything I’ve done to explore my sexuality—whether it’s the nasty furtive stuff of my youth or contemplating possible hookups—none of it has been fulfilling or right.
All I’ve ever wanted is to feel right.
During my stay for my business meeting, I’d already explored the hotel’s various amenities. All typical and not worth checking out again. I’d already walked around Asheville and enjoyed its offerings, though it’s always lonely being in a new place with no one to share it with.
So, after a solitary dinner at a local restaurant, when I returned to the hotel to see signs for the Blue Ridge Kink Club Christmas Charity Auction stating 18+ members of the general public were welcome to pay for entrance and even more welcome to bid, I decided to see what it was about. Because I still haven’t found what I’m looking for, and, who knows? Maybe it’s here.
Right about now, as I pause in front of one particular offering, I’m not sure how I feel about my choice to come to the auction tonight. It might have opened a Pandora’s Box for me.
Because I’m captivated.
The offering is presented on a black, trifold poster, like I used in school to show the findings of my science projects on the toxicity of soil or the effect of ultraviolet light on bacteria growth. Except sexy. Across the middle-top portion intriguing words are written in silver-glitter marker to stand out on the dark poster: I’ll Be Your December Daddy.
The left-hand side of the trifold presents a handful of photos framed with tinfoil, shining in the low light of the hotel’s ballroom. In the photos, a tall, handsome man wears nothing but a pair of jeans tight enough to display his powerful thighs and thickly-muscled ass.
In one picture, he stands with his legs spread while a young man, perhaps twenty-three or so, kneels at his feet. The boy is also shirtless; his shoulders are scrawny, and the musculature of his back shows his youth. But what grabs my attention is the combination of the older man’s hand resting in the boy’s hair and the boy’s wide-eyed adoration.
I swallow hard.
The next photo is similar—the boy is kneeling again, but this time both are fully dressed, and wearing Christmas sweaters. The man keeps his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the boy leans against his strong leg with an expression of contented bliss. My chest aches, and I rub it anxiously. I’ve never felt that kind of satisfaction in my life. Not even once.
But I crave it. And it might seem silly, but the thought of having someone to wear a hokey holiday sweater with makes my throat tighten with longing. I’ve never had that either. My parents always declared Jesus-is-the-reason-for-the-season, and due to their rigid brand of religious devotion, the holidays were never silly or particularly joyful in my home.
The next photo is the boy alone. He’s opening a Christmas stocking with a smile of delight. Next up is a picture of the two of them cuddling on a brown, leather sofa, a Christmas tree lit up next to it, and the boy tucked in by the older man’s side. There he rests, safe and sound, cradled in his Daddy’s arms. Eyes closed. Asleep.
I imagine there are carols playing softly, and it’s late on Christmas Eve. All is calm, all is bright. I lick my lips, wondering what it would be like to be held like that, to be cherished, to trust and adore a man like this boy does. If only for a few days, a night, or hell, even an hour or two.
And at Christmas? Even sweeter.
Of course, if I lost my mind and bid on this “December Daddy” and somehow won him, he wouldn’t really be my Daddy on the twenty-fifth—this man surely has his own plans. But it would be close enough. I’ve never celebrated Christmas the way I’ve always dreamed of. Even when my parents were alive, aside from the night we decorated the tree, we’d always kept a sober and serious holiday.
I’ve never been treated by anyone, not even my own father, with the strong, tender kindness radiating from the Daddy in these photos, nor have I felt the open-hearted joy I see written all over the boy’s face.
Feeling lightheaded, I pull my gaze from the display to read what’s actually being put up for auction, because it can’t be a relationship like these two share. No one can auction something as intense as that.
Daddy Erik is offering one Not-So-Silent Night—a Christmas-themed Daddy/boy Experience. He’ll deliver Daddy/boy dynamics, and a very merry faux-Christmas morning complete with a stuffed stocking, gifts from Santa Daddy, and other agreed upon “presents” for being a good boy. No prior experience is required. Kinks and all other physical interactions negotiated in advance. Either party may cancel this arrangement at any time for any reason. Proof of STI testing required. No more than one night. Norepeats from prior years. And absolutely no drinking or drugs allowed during our time together. References available.
I take a quick gulp of my whiskey, already feeling like Daddy Erik’s eyes are on me, and I’m breaking one of his rules. Breathlessly, I turn my attention to the paper beneath the trifold where people can make their anonymous bids, curious how much money has already been put on this man and the offered experience.
On the left side of the paper there’s a column for the private PIN number we were given at the door and next to it a line for the bid being placed.
Both those columns are empty.
Not a single person has bid on Daddy Erik’s offer. I can’t imagine why. Many of the other kinks at the auction have multiple lines of bids already. Is there something about this man that makes him undesirable? A reputation that the Asheville kink community is aware of but I, a stranger to town, am not?
As I ponder that possibility, my gaze strays to the photos again. I don’t see any red flags in the pictures. Everything appears soft and lovely between these men. This Daddy obviously knows how to make his boy happy and give him the perfect Christmas.
I imagine myself kneeling at his feet with his hand in my hair and my blood rushes south. It’s arousing to contemplate being on my knees for a man like Daddy Erik, but more than that, I know deep down I’d feel so relieved to be there. At his feet. Under his hand.
I take in the pictures again, scrutinizing Daddy Erik’s face for any hint of malevolence or cruelty, trying to understand why no one here wants to take him up on his offer. I see nothing but the open-hearted adoration of his boy and an easiness between them I envy.
As if I can tell a bad person from his looks alone. So foolish.
And yet…
Self-conscious, I dart glances around the room to see if anyone is observing me—someone who might warn me away from this man and his tempting December Daddy Experience. But no one is paying the nerdy quiet guy and his watered-down whiskey any attention at all. Per the usual.
I pick up the pen and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve bent over the auction paper to write my PIN number at the top of the first column. Pausing midway through, I’m halted by something stamped at the top of the auction paper.
The minimum opening bid.
My brows hit my hairline. No wonder the columns are empty. The opening bid is eye-wateringly high. Enough to make me stop and reconsider.
Clearing my throat, I think of my bank account, and rake my gaze over the pictures again. The clench of yearning in my heart, so strong and primal, makes it hard to catch my breath.
Until tonight, until the last few minutes, even, I’d never known I wanted this, and yet now I want it so much I’m more than willing to part with an absurdly high sum just to experience an approximation of whatever that boy is feeling at his Daddy’s feet.
Still, that much money for one night is beyond indulgent and bordering on rash. I hem and haw again, wondering when was the last time I treated myself? When my folks were sick, I’d dedicated my time between work and caring for them. When my parents passed on, I’d spent two years sorting out their estate.
When I decided to come out as a gay man, I admitted it to three friends, and have never done anything else about it. I haven’t dated. I haven’t partied. I haven’t played or indulged or fucked around.
I’ve been boring. A cardboard person. I’ve been afraid and cautious. I’ve been alone.
So if I want to spend a shit-ton of money to have a handsome man hold me, buy me presents, and give me the kind of Christmas I’ve dreamed of? Teach me what it means to be gay and loved? That’s my prerogative. And if it’s only for one night? That’s all the better, isn’t it? I can test it out. Have my physical needs met for the first time and see if this Daddy/boy dynamic is truly something I want. No strings attached.
And if this is what I want? If I like it as much as I think I will?
I’ll need to consider reworking and reactivating my dating app profiles at the very least. Maybe more.
I add the rest of my PIN number to the sheet, set my maximum bid significantly higher than the already high minimum, and swallow the rest of my drink in a single gulp.
Then I leave the auction.
Rushing on anxiety and excitement, I swing by the hotel bar. I need a strong drink this time, and request two shots of whiskey to take the edge off. As I swallow them, liquor burning my throat, it’s as if I might levitate off the bar stool and fly to the ceiling. I can’t believe what I’ve done.
They’d told me when I entered the auction that, if I bid on anything tonight, they’d use the contact information associated with the PIN number to let me know if I’ve won. I keep checking my phone as if the notification will come through at any moment.
Absurd.
It’s not until I’m back up in my hotel room, brushing my teeth before bed, that jumbled worries begin to rise up from beneath my excitement. What if this isn’t safe? What if he’s dangerous? What if he’s unkind? What if I’m not good enough to be a boy to a handsome man like Daddy Erik? He looks younger than me, and the boy pictured with him was younger than me by far. Maybe it’s not done for someone in their forties to want to be a boy? Maybe it’s weird or something? What if I’m making a fool of myself? What if he doesn’t want me?
I laugh bitterly at my reflection. Why is the thought Daddy Erik might not want me more frightening than the thought he might hurt me? I’ve told myself I’m going to find a way to love myself better from now on, and yet if Daddy Erik hurts me, I feel, deep down, I might deserve it.
But oh, how I want him to want me.
What if he can’t? What if he won’t?
But what if he does?
I climb into the wide hotel bed, strung out with desire and anxiety. I’m half-hard thinking of a night with Daddy Erik—snuggled against him, safe and adored—so I work to get myself off, but I can’t seem to get there. My fears keep pushing in. I let go of my reluctant cock, curl up on my side, and stare out the window instead, watching the Christmas decorations sparkle and blink all around the mountain town.
My thoughts fall into the same rhythm as the blinking lights. I’m exhausted, but I can’t fall asleep.
What if…what if…what if…
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