Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Adventures Of The DILF Patrol!

DILF* sightings at Ho(t)me(n) Depot have been frequent over the past few days. So much so that I pass the time by contemplating which DILF will earn the title Dilf Of The Day. Yesterday it was a total toss up between this guy buying a new dishwasher with his wife who was being followed around by a cross between a very good looking donkey and an onion (that would be, an ass so beautiful it brings tears to your eyes). And he had a shaved head and a moustache almost as bushy as mine. But just when I was thinking it couldn't get any better than that, along comes this little Black Irish looking thug wearing a wife beater and basketball shorts built like a bantam weight boxer. I still can't decide which of them deserves the Dilf Of The Day title.

So today, competition was again pretty good. Worried that I'd again have trouble narrowing the field, I decided to make it situational. Sort of like putting beauty pageant IML contestants through the painful for all involved ordeal of answering questions posed by the judges.

So I ran through the following scenario in my mind to try to determine which DILF would be the most rewarding...

The DILF is brought in, gagged and hands bound behind his back (rope available in aisle 13!), forced down over a sawhorse (in aisle 34 in Building Materials!) and restrained there (Stow straps in Aisle 24 in Hardware!).

(Can't you just see the look on his face? An admixture of fear, astonishment, and anger. Love that.)

The gag is removed, but he can barely get out three or four words before the beating begins. Hard. On his ass. With a paddle.

First there'd be the angry exclamations. Then the gutteral grunts. Then the pitch would grow up. Then his eyes would tear up.

The beating continues.

Until he breaks.

Bellowing, sobbing, begging.

Still I'm paddling his ass.

Then I crouch down so my face is right down on the level with his, red and hot and streaked with tears and sweat.

When he begs me, "Please! No more!", that's when I'd tell him that I'll only stop if he gives me the best blowjob I've ever had. I undo the buttons of my fly and let my hardon bob in front of him, so close he has to look at it cross-eyed.

He'd probably protest some... ("Hell no! I don't...")

And that would get him another couple of whacks on his cherry red ass.

(Don'ch'a love how when you're beating a really meaty ass, you see those ripples?)

I'd continue till he says "Okay! Okay I'll do it!"

Then I'd stick first just the head of my dick in his open mouth. And when he looks up with me, his eyes full of pleading, I'd thrust it in all the way, making him gag on it.

"Boy," I'd say, "I've got some bad news for you. This is NOT the best blowjob I've ever had in my life," and raise the paddle again.

Watch him go at it with everything he's got.

Then I'd say, "You want to take my load down your throat, don't ya? You'd like that a lot, huh fukker?"

And when he groans out a "yes," I'd give him what he asked for.

And ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!

At the very last minute, as I was headed to the locker room to stow away my orange apron and head to the time clock, I saw him.

From what I saw of his torso in his black sleeveless tshirt and his calves coming out of his baggy camo cargo shorts, he was covered in tattoos. Not great tattoos. Hot Stuff the Little Devil kind of tattoos. Tattoos straight guys get when they're drunk. He was arguing with his girlfriend (fried blond hair, out of shape, sallow complexion) in the plumbing aisle.

I got rid of my apron and clocked out quick as I could. When I got to the plumbing fixtures aisle, they were still there arguing. On closer inspection, he was even better than I thought. I feigned interest in sharkbite connectors (the latest thing in plumbing, they work really well and don't require soldering).

He was perfect.

It would take a hell of a lot of beating for this man to give me a blow job.

Finally, she won the argument, and they headed off, him sort of sullen. As they walked ahead of me, I noticed that he had a big vertical tear in the seat of his cargo shorts.

No way. That would be too good to be true.

I kept my eyes glued there.

Damn. He was wearing boxer shorts. White with little red dots. Maybe hearts.

The headed for check out, I headed out the door and off to the gym.

A clear winner for DILF Of The Day.

Later at home, my father asked, "So how was your day?"

"Good," I said.

"Did you sell much?"

"Not much. It was pretty slow. A couple of faucets. And a bathtub."

"Well if you were slow, why was it a good day?"

Whack! Whack!! Whack!!! "Please... No more! Please!"

"Oh, y'know, I liked the customers I worked with."


*DILF: Similar to "MILF," code among straight guys for a married woman of whom carnal knowledge would be desireable; an acronym for "Mom I'd Like To Fuck." Only in this case, it's "Dad I'd Like To Fuck."

1 comment:

'bastian said...

You are a sick pervert! Grrrrr, that scene is HOT!!!! :)