I have a friend, Remy. Or rather, I used to have a friend Remy. He was one of the most beautiful men I've ever had laid eyes on. Didn't you have friends like that, those who were so good-looking you find yourself tongue-tied just being around them, and the fact that they were your friends - heck, the fact that they were your acquaintances - was so mind-blowing and utterly gobsmacking that you couldn't help to invest everything into your relationship? Well, Remy was one of those friends. Not to say I have lots of friends like Remy, far from it, but they simply didn't have his - for lack of a better word - beauty.
I'd seen the way girls and boys fell and trip on their toes around him. It was the way he carried himself, like nary a care in the world, that was what was so attractive about him. Physically he was more in the line of sylph-like perfection that the ancient Greeks and Romans - and perhaps, me too - knew and prized and worshipped. His body was all elongated planes, all perfect lines, the lines that ballet dancers made whole careers out of. There was nothing exotic or foreign about him, rather he was the perfect example of the male specimen.
Remy played the flute for our college orchestra, and the way this orchestra was the flutes sat way up front. It was like the gods were playing us, because there was no more beautiful sight ever was than Remy playing the flute - all lines and planes, again, that art adored. I was a tuba player, all huge and boisterous and clumsy, the lowest instrument on the staff, in fact we sat way at the back of everyone else, but Remy seemed to like me and I of course worshipped the ground he walked on, so we had a fair weather relationship.
One day we played an outdoor concert of a new song, in which Remy played a short but brilliant solo - more like a cadenza than anything else. My parents were in attendance, my mother with the ever-present pashmina shawl that she bought on an Indian holiday one time and never forgot, together with my handsome but distant father. I even wondered why my father joined my mother for this excursion, because usually it was just my mother who took an interest in my collegiate activities. But I was to get my answer in a spectacular way later.
After the concert my mother and I went to the cafeteria while my father strolled the ground, uncomfortable of the lunch-going crowd. While tucking in at the delicious rolls, I realized I forgot my camera. My mother tut-tutted, remarking how could I forgot such an important thing, and told me to fetch it. It was on a shelf in my room in the dormitory. Remy's and his roommate's room was facing mine. I didn't know why but I sneaked a look into the open door and had a shock.
My father, my handsome tall misanthropic father, had his pants and his sedate black boxers down his ankles. His thighs were thick and separate, testifying his gym-going days. His cock was rampant, thick and erect and vibrating in an apparently intense orgasm by the look of it, spurting white cum flowing lava-like down his crown and his foreskin, into the lips and tongue of one who was very familiar to me.
"Fuck, daddy, so delicious, so fucking worth it," said Remy, as he lapped around my father's cock head.
My father was still panting lightly. "Never knew my son's friend could suck cock like a champ."
Remy smiled lasciviously. "Hmmm, it's the daddy's approval-seeking in me, much like your own son."
"Oh yeah, you nasty freak," my father hissed, surprising me in its lustful venom, "How much like my son?"
"Correction, Mr. Fraser. I'm nothing like your son." With that Remy turned around and bent out like a bow waiting for an arrow, ass out, lubing his hole with the cum that ran from his mouth. "Now, fuck me silly, daddy."
My father grunted. "Your wish is my command, son."
I turned away as they commenced fucking. Half of me was eager to see, to witness my father's betrayal of my friendship and my mother, but the rational half of me reasoned enough was enough. This would be one of those secrets sons were privileged to see and to keep until the bitter end.
