On our next day in Akureyri, after a trip to the supermarket for provisions, we started off in the morning by taking a walk along the Harbour which had a great view of the bay of Eyjafjörður. We saw a couple whales and I clapped my hand over my mouth and teared up as a frisson went through me. Sören put an arm around me. "It's always magical for me too," he said softly.
I appreciated that he didn't judge me for having such an emotional response. I knew that the English "stiff upper lip" tradition was toxic bullshit, but it was something I still had to keep unlearning. I leaned on him and Sören tousled my hair, and I melted into his touch.
The trail took us through a cemetery. Sören had bought a small bouquet of flowers at the supermarket and he took it out now, and I knew what we were about to do. I braced myself, preparing myself to be ready if he fell apart and needed me.
When we got to the two headstones together, I noticed Sören's parents' names. "Brynhildur and Sigurð." I tried not to laugh, because this was absolutely the worst time for it, but I was tickled by the mythological reference.
"Jæja, and when they got married, they played 'Ride of the Valkyries' on the kazoo." Sören grinned.
"Ah, so you come by it honestly."
Sören cackled, and I was glad I hadn't completely offended him by finding humour at his parents' names.
Then I had immediate mood whiplash when I saw the dates on the headstones and did the mental math. "You were seven?"
"Six," Sören said, nodding. "They were in a car accident on the Ring Road. It was all over the news. They got hit by a drunk driver."
"Jesus Christ."
To know that Sören had not only suffered the loss of both his parents that young, and in such a horrible way, but he was sent to live with his alcoholic aunt and uncle that young - and the alcoholism surely added insult to injury, when a drunk driver had taken his parents' lives...
Before I could put an arm around Sören he knelt in the grass, placed his bouquet between their headstones, then he kissed his fingers and pressed them to his mother's grave, and did it again for his father. He lowered his head and then he actually made the sign of the cross and said a few words under his breath in Icelandic. Then there was a long silence, before he rose.
We lingered at the graves, then Sören turned around and began walking forward, not looking back. I caught up to him within a few steps and silently offered my hand. Sören took it.
"I don't actually believe in God," Sören said, "but I'm Lutheran on paper - most of us are, here - and..."
"I get it," I said. I squeezed his hand, then I exhaled. "My father died when I was seven, and my mother turned to drinking and cocaine to cope. It isn't quite the same as what you went through -"
"But you get it better than most."
I nodded. "My father doesn't have a grave - he was cremated and his ashes were scattered - but the few times I've been to the forest where his ashes were disposed, I." I swallowed hard. "I pray, even though I don't believe in anything either. It's just. It's a thing."
Sören nodded. I nodded back. We kept nodding and nodding, awkwardly, until Sören finally broke. I paused in my tracks, took him into my arms, and held him tight, wishing there was something I could do... knowing there was nothing I could do except be here for him, be his fortress in the storm of emotion.
I ached for him... and then I felt a murderous surge of rage, thinking about his aunt and uncle, hoping we didn't run into them up here. Knowing I would beat the shit out of his uncle, or worse, if we encountered them.
Knowing I would go berserk at anyone who tried to hurt him, feeling fiercely protective. That rage was born from love, and it scared me, that I was already in love with him, that I hadn't been able to keep it just sex, that I'd caught feelings. Strong feelings. I would walk through fire for him.
He was fire. We looked into each other's eyes as Sören took some deep breaths, trying to calm himself, and I saw the fury in his eyes, could feel how angry he was at the way his parents had been cheated of life, he had been cheated of them...
"When I was four I didn't just have the dreams about burning to death, I started saying I was a boy. My parents were fine with that." Sören looked off into the distance and set his jaw. "But Katrín and Einar -"
"Were not." I finished his sentence.
"No."
I squeezed him. "I'm so sorry. For everything."
Sören put his head on my shoulder. I kissed his forehead, rubbed my nose in his curls, and rocked him a little. "I still can't get over your parents' names," I mused aloud, then I felt like an idiot. Great timing, I told myself.
"I suppose it would be weird to an Englishman. A lot of us here, though, we have names like Þór and Freyr and Freyja, it's not weird to me."
"I hope that wasn't offensive -"
"You're fine."
I still felt awkward, and then my brain decided something else to be amused over. "So your surname is Sigurðsson." My lips quirked. "We've been fucking for several days and I didn't even know what your surname is."
"Patronymic," Sören corrected me, his r rolling a little harder than usual, as if he were slightly peeved. "Jæja, my patronymic is usually... not relevant, until it is. Everyone's on a first name basis here. I met our old Prime Minister once, she was just Jóhanna."
I knew that Icelandic second names were for their parents, but I didn't realise they were that informal. But before I could feel too sheepish, Sören said, "I don't know your surname either."
"You never asked, but it's OK." I cleared my throat. "I'm Anthony Hewlett-Johnson."
Sören's eyebrow shot up. "Is Hewlett your, ah, middle name?"
"No, it's a double surname." I decided to spare him the infodump that in the UK a double-barrel surname was also usually a class marker and a sign of being considered posh, which felt like I was bragging, but it had been more of a liability in British defence law when I had so many lower-income clients; the only reason why I hadn't changed my surname was out of respect for my late father, and my uncle Nigel. Of course in the US it mattered less.
Sören's reaction was unexpected. He pulled a face and asked "...Why?"
I laughed and shrugged. But actually I knew why - "My paternal grandmother was an early feminist and she and her husband - both intellectuals - decided to join their surnames."
"This is why patronymics are better," Sören said. "None of this backwards wife-takes-husband's-name sexist shit. And proves my point that you English have a weird language."
"At least my surname isn't Presentest-Thine-Bussyeth. Though that just sounds more like a British village."
Sören shook with silent laughter that bubbled out and echoed over the hills. I loved the way his face lit up, eyes sparkling. I loved it even more when he kissed me for making him laugh. "Takk, I needed that," he said.
I booped his nose, then took his hand and we walked out of the cemetery together, swinging our arms.
We spent the day looking at the Laufás turf houses, a piece of 19th and early 20th century history, then Sören took me out to the Goðafoss waterfall which was breathtaking.
At the falls, Sören took out a small leather coin purse and handed me a króna coin. He explained, "This was another one of my old stomping grounds when I was younger, to get the fuck out of the house for awhile. Watching the flowing water reminded me that life goes on. When I began my transition and moved to Reykjavik to get away from my family, I stopped here on my way down to Reykjavik to toss a króna into the falls. It was... for good luck, I guess, even though I'm not really superstitious, but it was also symbolic of moving forward. Going with the flow." He produced a coin for himself, kissed it, and I watched as he threw it into the waterfall.
I did the same - and another frisson went through me. I was at a crossroads in my life - when I was done with my time in Iceland, I would be returning to the States, but most likely not to New York. And most likely I was done practising law, since civil rights law had put me in harm's way and even if I was unlikely to get stabbed twice, I had panic attacks about showing up to the law office or court. I had to start my life over again.
As I tossed the coin into the falls, I silently wished that instead of seeing this as defeat - being ashamed of not being able to return to law, like I was cowering with my tail between my legs - I would learn to accept life is cyclical and rise from the ashes of trauma like the phoenix inked into Sören's skin.
Sören took my hand and as I watched the water rush down and down, I once again thought about what it would be like to immigrate to Iceland. This was a beautiful country - I'd fallen for the land like I'd fallen for Sören. But I also knew that it was easier to make a long-distance relationship work than relocate somewhere where I didn't speak the language beyond a few phrases - and even if I learnt Icelandic, I knew my accent would never make me sound like a native speaker - and there was the matter of adapting to Icelandic culture and climate and trying to find employment here. Iceland's financial crisis from 2008-2011 and the high cost of living here gave me pause.
And I knew that the biggest part of why I was even entertaining these thoughts was because of Sören. I liked him more and more, I had feelings for him. If I hadn't met Sören I would probably just think "Iceland is nice and I want to visit again" but not be seriously considering moving to a different country for the second time. As foolish as I knew it was to fall this hard for someone I'd just met, and I tried to tell myself I was touch-starved and definitely sex-starved and a lot of this was just my hormones and brain chemicals reacting to the cuddles and the best sex I'd ever had, I also really did want this to be more than just a holiday fling. I wanted to see where things went with Sören as my boyfriend.
And I was still wary of telling him that, not knowing if he would think I got too hung up too fast and things were weird now. I wanted to enjoy the time I had left in Iceland before I was scheduled to fly back to the States, and not spend my remaining days here feeling awkward because I'd professed undying love to someone who thought I was just a fuckbuddy.
But the inconvenience of my feelings didn't make them go away, and as Sören and I shared the beauty of this moment together, it made me ache to have more moments like this. To taste life again with him at my side.
I heard myself reciting my favourite poem out loud.
We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going, North and South excursions making -
I stopped myself, face on fire.
But then Sören turned to me with a raised eyebrow. "What?"
"Oh. Er. It's... my favourite poem, by Walt Whitman." I glanced back at the falls, pretending to be nonchalant, but utterly mortified that in the surge of emotions rushing like the water, I'd let slip the very core of my being - it wasn't just that I identified as male, but I was a gay man, who wanted the queer love exemplified in Whitman's poems.
And who hadn't known what I needed until I found it - how completely right it felt to be with another trans man, how we had that shared experience of making ourselves, so that sense of queer brotherhood was even stronger than it would be with a cis man. I felt like I had found "my people" and come home, standing here with Sören Sigurðsson.
After a moment of awkward silence, Sören said, "Can you... say more of the poem? Do you remember it?"
I exhaled. While I was pleased Sören was curious rather than finding me a hopeless nerd, I still felt a twinge of anxiety. But I obliged.
We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going, North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying, elbows stretching, fingers clutching,
Arm'd and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No law less than ourselves owning, sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming, air breathing, water drinking,
on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.
Sören smiled that smile again, bright as the sun shining above us, sparkling on the water. "It's us."
I smiled back, relieved and giddy. I threw my arms around him and gave him a kiss. "Yes. You get it."
And still, I held back on telling him how much my heart had decided this was us, how badly I wanted to cling and never let go.
After the Goðafoss, we went to the Dimmuborgir, an expanse of lava fields with volcanic caves, east of Mývatn. The structures not only resembled ancient ruins, but the entire place had a numinous, otherworldly quality where it was easy to see why so many Icelanders still believed in elves. It was like looking at gates to other dimensions.
We walked around exploring through golden hour into sunset, taking it all in, admiring the way the lava rock formations looked in the light. We snapped some photos, and for a little while we sat together so Sören could sketch on his tablet while I watched the sky.
As the sunset faded to twilight, we headed to Lake Mývatn. I'd wanted to visit the Blue Lagoon in Reykjavik but one needed reservations for that and Sören warned me it was usually crowded with tourists, and that the Nature Baths at Lake Mývatn were both more scenic and quieter. I had been looking forward to the trip to Mývatn since we planned it, but when I found out it was required to shower naked first before going into the hot spring, I balked. It was one thing to do my business in a men's bathroom with a stand-to-pee device or just go into a stall. It was another thing to shower naked in a men's area where there was no way to hide my top surgery scars or having a vulva.
But we were also the only ones there - it was evening, and tourist season had passed. And my anxiety gave way to arousal when Sören joined me under the spray, running his hands over my naked body. "You are so fucking hot," he purred.
I kissed him, and let myself be distracted by his own body, caressing him... reaching between his legs to play with him a little, teasing both of us. "You're beautiful," I said, kissing and licking his neck.
We were both pretty worked up, but we managed to behave ourselves and eventually made our way to the hot spring. There were few things better in life than relaxing in the warm water and looking up at the night sky full of stars, cuddling with a gorgeous man. I flexed my toes and sighed deeply, savouring this moment of peace.
And then, it finally happened - the thing I'd come to Iceland to see. As Sören and I leaned on each other, stargazing, bands of aqua green began to shimmer in the sky. Then the sky lit up in waves of green and violet. I gasped, my skin turning to gooseflesh, a shiver down my spine. My eyes teared up as I watched the lights dance, the changing colours.
I turned to Sören, who gave me that sweet smile that took my breath away. Caught up in the emotion, I kissed him passionately, not caring if the staff saw us and disapproved. One kiss became another, and another, our hands roaming again, increasing the intimacy of witnessing something so powerful together by touching each other, connecting.
We looked up at the sky to watch the colours burning bright, and then we were kissing again. I pulled Sören close to me and he thrust his hips out and we found ourselves rubbing against each other through our swim trunks in the water. With the intensity of the moment we rutted feverishly and it didn't take us long to climax, trembling in each other's arms with shuddery sighs. My orgasm pulsed in time with the rippling light, and for the briefest moment I felt not merely connected to Sören, but the universe itself. It was like being on drugs without being on drugs.
We showered again after we had enough of the hot spring, our fingers prune skin. There was more sensual petting and kissing in the shower and I was feeling randy again by the time we got back in the camper van. But we needed to eat something besides each other - there was a fish and chips restaurant in the area that was open late, so we went there, shamelessly flirting and giggling as we ate from each other's hands, playing footsie under the table, then we found a place to park our van for the night.
"Today was magical," I said, my mind's eye replaying all of the wonderful things I'd seen today. "I can't begin to thank you enough for bringing me up here."
Sören smiled and gave me a kiss. "I'm glad I could show you. Even though I haven't lived up here in years, I still... carry it with me." He put his hand on his heart. "It inspires my art."
"I'd like to see more of your portfolio." We hadn't gotten very far into it and there was a lot - dozens of prints, it looked like he had at least a hundred in that binder.
The first one he showed me, from where we'd left off, was just an aurora in a starry sky, but there was a lot of loving attention to the little stars and there were more vibrant colours than the one I'd seen this evening - streaks of cyan and violet mixed with the radioactive-green.
Auroras were a recurring theme in his work. He'd painted a few scenes that were clearly inspired by the Dimmuborgir we'd visited in late afternoon, but were also somewhere else. The other side of the portal, I thought to myself, wondering if that was his intent.
He also painted sunset seascapes. I was intrigued by the triangular rock formations, like more ancient elf ruins.
Some of his scenes combined sunsets with auroras, for a surrealistic sky. The beauty of his inner visions, bringing these worlds to life, made me love him even more, eyes tearing up and skin gooseflesh once again as I admired his creativity.
"These were inspired by Reynisfjara," Sören said softly, pointing to the craggy basalt stacks rising from the sea, and the black sand. "I'll take you there in a few days."
I found myself tracing the fingers and palm of his right hand. His painting hand. "I'd like that very much."
"You're... not bored by this?"
"No?"
"Good." Sören breathed a small sigh of relief. "An ex of mine told me I paint the same thing over and over again but... I don't. Every sunset is different, every aurora is different. It's a new miracle of light every day."
I wanted to punch his ex. "I don't think I could ever get sick of your art. Actually..." I thought about my flat in Hell's Kitchen and how I'd tried to decorate it and make it my cosy little hobbit hole. "Wherever I end up, when I go back to the States, I'd like to hang your work on my walls. I'd be willing to pay you for prints, or even to commission new works, once I have a stable income again -"
"I'd paint for you for free, elskan." Our eyes met. "Or you could pay me by letting me paint you. You're magnificent."
My cheeks flushed and I grinned so hard my face hurt. But that piqued my curiosity. "You paint people, too?"
Sören nodded. "When I came out as trans, before I started T and all of that, I had a very clear vision of how I wanted to look, my ideal sense of self. I kind of... merged it with the phoenix imagery that's been following me around."
So then he showed me those self-portraits. There was a series of five paintings.
They looked very like the way Sören was now, with his beard and wild mane, but wearing cloaks of fiery feathers with flames curling behind him in the stars. I once again took in his attention for detail, how realistic everything looked. I felt almost unworthy of being the subject of one of his paintings, but my stomach was butterflies. "I would be honoured if you painted me." I touched his face. "You, yourself, are a work of art. You are like the sunset auroras you paint, made flesh." I thought about telling him how I felt, but I kept that urge in check, while I moved an inch closer to it. "Not just on the outside but here." I put my hand on his heart. "You are a spirit of fire. You have a beautiful soul, Sören, to make something like that, to see something like that, to feel, to..." I couldn't make words anymore. There were none that were adequate for my dreamer, my visionary.
Sören bit his lower lip and wrinkled his nose, which made me want to do bad things to him. Then he leaned in and gave me a soft, tender kiss that quickly deepened, the two of us kissing fiercely, hungrily.
He certainly wasn't going to get any painting done tonight.
Even as I felt it was the wrong time to confess I'd caught feelings, I let my body speak for me. My tongue traced the ocean waves flowing down his left arm, the flames flickering up his right arm. I licked and sucked each of his fingers, licked and kissed his palms, the talented hands that wove worlds into being. I kissed and nibbled his neck, went back and forth between his nipples, lapping and suckling one as my thumb rolled and stroked the other. I licked and nipped at his stomach, his sides, his hips, his thighs. I smiled at his erect little cock and I licked it slowly, teasingly, until he was whimpering, quivering, begging for me.
"Elskan," he cried out, eyes feverish.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
Our eyes met. "I want to feel you inside me."
I groaned. I playfully sucked at his cock to tease him a little more, until he yelled, "Elskan, please!"
I laughed, took a couple more slow, frustrating licks, then nibbled on his thigh before I slid up to kiss him. "So you want me to get the strap?" I slipped a finger inside him, and my own cunt throbbed at how soaked he was. As excited as I was at the idea of fucking him, I knew he was tight and didn't want to hurt him. "Are you sure you can take -"
"No, I mean... you saw inside me, I shared something very intimate with you, and I want to feel you, inside me." Sören's right index finger brushed my hard t-dick, which pulsed and twitched in response - I felt that little flutter, almost coming. "That bottom growth is so fucking hot, I bet you can fuck me with it."
My breath hitched. A shiver went down my spine and my cunt throbbed again. Holy fucking shit, I felt like I'd just taken a hit of... something. I felt myself grinning like an idiot, then I kissed him and said, "It can get bigger. I have a pump."
Sören licked his lips and gave me a sultry look.
I got up, walked over to my duffel bag, and came back with the clit pump. I'd never pumped in front of anyone before - I'd never had the opportunity to fuck someone with my bio-dick before - and once I sat back down and put on the pump, I had to grit my teeth, trying not to come right away as the pump suctioned at my already hard, aching cock and Sören watched me with lust in his eyes. The thought of being inside that tight little hole of his... I shuddered, going out of my mind with that hot, animalistic urge to fuck.
When I was ready, Sören gave an appreciative low whistle. "Helvítis."
If he was swearing in Icelandic, well. I grinned again and kissed him.
"I wanna suck it a little first."
God, those luscious lips. "Good boy," I said.
It just slipped out - I'd called Jon Snow that in my early-10s fantasies enough times that I couldn't help myself now that I had a real-life Jon Snow next to me buck-naked, but the way Sören's face lit up told me he liked that... and I liked calling him that. I liked it even more when those full lips wrapped around my cock and he sucked slowly, brown eyes burning, then faster, hungry for it, making filthy sounds as his head bobbed and his lips clamped down harder, mouth suctioning. Soon I grabbed his hair and gently rocked my hips, fucking his mouth. "That's a good boy," I rasped. "You're such a hot little cocksucker."
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm." Sören's right shoulder began wiggling around and I knew he was pawing himself. He let my cock slip from his mouth and he licked at it, slow and sensual. "And you've got a hot fucking cock."
We kissed, and my cunt throbbed again tasting myself, tasting the evidence of his desire for me. I wanted him just as badly if not more. I rolled him onto his back and we kissed again and again, our hard cocks touching, working our hips so our cocks slid together, teasing us both.
At last I parted his thighs and straddled him, but this time I tilted my hips lower and watched as my cock sank into his cunt. As I slipped inside him I took his hands and we groaned together. Sure, it wasn't deep penetration, but the feel of his silken heat kissing my cock almost made me come right away.
And it felt so incredibly intimate, to be inside him. Not just to be inside him but with my own cock, as I was. Feeling his acceptance, honouring me as male. I smiled at him, leaned in and tenderly stroked his face, feeling that rush of euphoria, a perfect moment of joy. He had given me something precious.
I began to thrust, slowly. There was nothing else like those velvet walls stroking my cock, hearing the wet squishing sound as I pushed in, pulled back, pushed in again. Sören's breath came out in shaky gasps, his eyes feverish.
I kept it slow at first, wanting to savour, but it wasn't long before I was rocking my hips, my cunt smacking his, the wet sloppy sounds louder as I fucked him harder, faster. Sören reached up and caressed my chest, my stomach, my thighs, then his hands slid up again, roaming over my body. I thrilled to his touch, spine tingling, and wanted to please him back. I played with his own deliciously erect cock, as my other hand rubbed his tummy and chest in slow circles, then my fingers were in his mouth as I worked his cock faster, fucking it between my fingers.
I loved watching Sören suck my fingers, but it felt right to pet his curls and touch his face again, and Sören leaned into my touch as he moaned louder, grabbed fistfuls of the sheets. He got even wetter, and I grunted, going into a fuck frenzy, working my hips even harder. I knew I was going to come soon, his cunt felt too delicious and the way Sören got into being fucked was the hottest thing I'd ever seen in my life, and then...
"Pabbi," Sören whispered, bucking his hips back at me, matching my rhythm. "Pabbi, Pabbi..."
I blinked - through the haze of lust and pleasure, my brain still made the connection. I thought of all the times I'd fantasized about Jon Snow calling me Daddy as I fucked him. Now it was real. Another shiver went down my spine. "Yeah, you like taking Daddy's cock?"
Sören's eyes widened, as if he'd been calling me Pabbi without realizing it, but then he nodded, bit his lip and whimpered. "Yes, Daddy..."
"Oh, fuck, baby." That did it. I went apeshit, fucking him furiously, the wet slurping sounds as loud as Sören's moans.
"Daddy, Daddy!" Sören bucked even harder, matching my rhythm, desperately fucking himself on my cock. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy... more, Daddy..."
I lost control, climaxing, the pulses so intense that even my arse contracted and I squirted a little, making inhuman noises. It was such an electrifying orgasm, the bliss of release even stronger for the high of being called Daddy, my fantasy brought to life... feeling wonderfully, joyfully male.
But then I felt a twinge of guilt - Sören hadn't come yet, and since going on T I had a refractory period where my body would need to recharge and sometimes I was "one and done". I rested against him and kissed him. "I'm sorry I came too fast."
Sören smirked. "Hi Sorry I Came Too Fast -"
I facepalmed, shaking with silent laughter, then I chuckled. Sören kissed me back, and husked "It's OK. I'm just glad you weren't weirded out that I called you -"
I put a finger to his lips and shook my head. "I'm not. No." I exhaled. Even with what we just shared, I still felt like confessing this was raw and vulnerable, but... "I've been wanting to be someone's daddy for a long time. Since before I came out, even."
Sören kissed my finger, then threw his arms around me and kissed me deeply. "I'm glad I could make you happy, Daddy."
Now it was my turn to smirk. "Hi Glad I Could Make You Happy, Daddy..."
Sören tweaked my nose. We laughed together, then we kissed, then we kissed again. I knew I had it in me to go another round and get Sören off, but it was still going to be a few minutes.
Sören helped, gently rolling me onto my back. He proceeded to lavish the same love on my body that I had given to his, kissing and licking every inch of me as his hands caressed, fingers walked and brushed and traced. I arched to him, moaning, my breath ragged as I felt that surge in my loins, wanting him again, but letting him spoil me first. I loved his touch, feeling those lips and that tongue, the way he intuitively seemed to know what I liked. Sören sucked on my inner thighs and rubbed his nose in my bush before he kissed his way back up. "You're so sexy, Daddy," Sören whispered before he licked at my stomach, nibbled. "So gorgeous. So masculine."
"Oh, baby." I stroked his cheek. "You want Daddy to make you come, now?"
Sören nodded vehemently. "Please."
Sören slid up and kissed me. "Can I get a horsey ride, Daddy?" Sören asked.
Oh god, something about that was so hotwrong. "Yes, baby boy." I propped up the pillows and leaned back, then I spread for him and patted my thighs.
Sören straddled me and sank down. I moaned as I watched myself enter him once more. Sören gasped and shivered, then leaned in to kiss me hard and fierce, breathless. Then Sören began to ride, rocking his hips, my cock gliding in and out of his cunt.
I'd thought that the way he responded during our first fuck was the hottest thing I'd ever seen, but Sören riding me was even hotter. I loved watching him work his body, watching my cock slide in and out, his own little cock hard and needy. I played with him again as he rode, making Sören moan louder and buck faster, while my free hand played over his beautiful body, wanting to touch every part of him, wanting to please him. But then when Sören grabbed onto my shoulders, hips thrusting wildly, moaning "Daddy, Pabbi, Daddy, Daddy," the beast in me took over. I spanked his arse and the V of my fingers squeezed his cock, stroking it back and forth.
"That's it, baby. Ride Daddy's cock. Show Daddy what a cock-hungry little slut you are..."
Sören cried out and bounced madly, panting, playing with his luscious pierced nipples. The minutes felt like an eternity, both of us going deeper into sensation, my eyes not able to get enough of the sight of him completely lost in passion, riding me with abandon. Sören moaned and I grunted and the wet, juicy sound of our cunts slapping almost undid me again. Then Sören found his words once more, calling out "Daddy. Daddy. Pabbi, Daddy, Pabbi, pikkurinn þinn er svo góður..."
I growled and smacked his arse again. "Yes, baby. Such a good boy for Daddy, taking Daddy's cock like a big boy..."
Sören bit his lip and whined. "Daddy! Pabbi! Daddy, Daddy..."
"Mmmmm, Daddy's good boy." I spanked his arse again. God, I loved smacking that arse, and he loved it too - I felt him flutter a little and knew he was getting close. "Daddy's good, good boy. Such a good little cockslut for Daddy."
"Yes, Daddy, yes, more..."
"Mmmmmm, is my baby boy gonna come soon? Be a good boy and show Daddy how much you love taking your Daddy's cock in that hot, slutty boypussy and come on Daddy's cock, baby -"
And there it was. "PABBI!" Sören threw back his head and I felt his cunt walls slam down on my cock, squeezing, throbbing. I watched his cock twitch, and then he was gushing, pouring. "Daddy, Pabbi!"
That sent me over the edge, squirting up and into his cunt, making him contract again. I let out a deep, primal grunt as my second orgasm pulled me under, making my toes curl involuntarily with the sweet, sweet relief of each wave of pulsating pleasure. "Oh, fuck." I shuddered, and sighed. "Oh, baby..."
Sören and I kissed, then I pulled him close and held him tight. "Good boy," I whispered, rocking him. "Good boy. Such a good boy. Daddy's good boy."
"Oh, Daddy..." Sören heaved with a deep sigh. His eyes were shining and the ecstasy on his face went straight to my heart. I would give the world to make him smile like that every day in my arms. "Daddy." Sören put his head on my shoulder.
After awhile Sören was snuggled up on my chest, sucking my thumb as my other hand pet his curls, rubbed his back. The l-word was close to the tip of my tongue but I didn't say it. I let Sören rest in my arms, let him be a boy cradled by his Daddy, precious and protected.
I looked out through the camper van window at the stars, and I once again thought of what it would be like to move to Iceland and start a life with Sören. It was a lot to consider, even more than when I had left the UK for the States so Steve couldn't make things interesting for me after my transition. I knew I was in over my head, falling this hard for someone I met, but he felt so right.
"Sweet dreams, sweetheart," I whispered, and kissed his forehead. As I watched him drift off to sleep, I thought to myself: You are my dream.
chapter 19 | return to A Place Called Home | return to Original Works | return to index