Page 2 of Finding His Silver Fox Daddy

Because I was finally free.

I didn’t have to pretend anymore.

Chapter one

Henry

Four Years Later, July

Idropped onto my comfy brown leather sofa with a huff. Cheese pizza—I liked to keep it simple—and an IPA sat on the coffee table in front of me, calling my name. It’d been a long day helping an old college friend move in with yet another girlfriend who’d dump him in a few months and an even longer night slinging drinks at the gay bar I owned, Mix It Up.

I let out a loud sigh. Since Carrie had left four years ago, I’d been able to express my emotions freely without having to explain myself to someone else, and I’d relished it in the beginning. Now, it was yet another stark reminder that, even after four years, I hadn’t found someone to spend my life with. No one was around to care what I did.

Oh, I’d popped my guy-virgin cherry a long time ago, and I’d even started to realize some things about myself I’d never have considered in my former life, but as I neared fifty, the longing inside me to settle down with someone I could share my hopes, dreams, and bed with was becoming uncomfortable. Unbearable, even.

Things needed to change.

After staring at my flat screen mindlessly—not really knowing or caring what was on—and two slices and a bottle of beer later, I muted the TV and opened my laptop. I’d embraced my bachelor life since the divorce—the only time I’d ever lived on my own—and figured I might as well live that shit up. So I navigated to my favorite cam site right in the living room. It was linked to the only relationship app I was on, Daddy’s Boy, and I could even access the cam site through the Daddy’s Boy app on my phone. Which I sometimes did.

But never at work.

Okay, rarely at work. Inventorying straws and napkins in an empty bar got super lonely sometimes. I’d never get myself off at work, though, because, one, gross. Health code violations and shit. Two, I was way too old and professional for that nonsense. And three, I loved the thrill of being edged, physically or mentally. Which one didn’t matter—I was all about both. So I kept it in my pants and just worked myself up because . . . well, I was a glutton for punishment.

Like, literally. I was hella kinky, one thing I’d discovered not too long after the divorce. I’d chosen to embrace that, too.

Of course, as a newly minted gay man, I’d explored my attraction with porn. My later-in-life sexual awakening had come about because of gay porn, after all. But in the intervening years since that particular discovery, I’d realized I preferred live shows to prerecorded scenes. I could feel the intimacy that way, and that was what I craved—something I’d never truly had. I wanted to be sexually attracted to someone who also desired me, who wanted me as much as I wanted them. Someone who felt compelled to be around me, not someone who was forced to be there out of some sense of obligation or someone who “needed” me because of what I did for them.

I wanted someone to cherish.

Okay, I was a romantic. Yet another discovery, one I hadn’t seen coming until . . . well, right now.

I clicked around on the site with ease, quickly checking my favorite accounts to see if anyone had posted new content or scheduled a live stream. A few had some new pics and recorded videos, and one in particular had my jeans tightening, so I sent him a DM. We chatted for a while, nothing overtly sexual but sensual just the same. The connection was nice, and he even sent me a pic of him in a black sparkly jock and nothing else.

That was hot. And earned him a decent tip.

During my time patronizing the cam site, I’d come to realize I had a type. I liked them a lot younger than me. I’d felt like a pervert for a few months until I’d come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t after anyone even close to eighteen. No, I much preferred men in their mid-to-late twenties. But still, that made them a good twenty years younger than I was.

But if I couldn’t get my dick wet with a hot young twink—or hell, I wouldn’t discriminate if a built man paid me any attention—what the hell was a single-as-shit guy to do? I kept my body in good shape, prioritizing the gym far more often than pizza and beer nights like these. It had taken me awhile, but I now realized what a catch I was. Most days, I believed it.

As I wrapped up my conversation, I got a notification that an account I’d followed but hadn’t checked out before was going live. Wondering if it was kismet, I clicked through.

I swear my soul left my body.

The room in the video was well-lit with soft lighting, and the large, cozy-looking bed was set between two wooden nightstands against a red brick wall adorned with a variety of eclectic art. The effect was homey and warm, but I barely even registered it.

Because the man who was commanding the screen was drop-dead, overwhelmingly, perfectly gorgeous. He appeared to be a little on the stronger side, with lightly muscled and smooth shoulders, arms, and chest, the only parts of him that were naked and visible in the stream right now. Most of his face was expertly hidden behind a sensual mask—white lace and feathers covered the Mardi Gras-style face covering—and I wondered if I’d ever get to see what it was concealing. He spoke with an affected British accent that was actually quite good if not for his decidedly US word choices and the American way he structured his sentences. His voice was inarguably masculine and deeper than I’d expected. I figured he was probably pitching it lower than it normally was, likely to further conceal his identity. And his hair . . .

A light pink lock, obviously from a wig, fell in front of the mask as he talked, introducing what he’d be doing tonight—which sounded fucking hot so far, by the way. He swiped the strands out of his eyes with long fingers and a steady hand. I’d only gotten a glimpse, but my dick was rock hard, and I wondered if I was a . . . hand guy? Was that a thing?

Or maybe every single part of this guy just took my breath away.

Through the small openings in the mask, his piercing blue eyes seemed to stare directly at me as he continued talking, his muscles flexing and relaxing with a fluidity I’d never seen before, even in all the porn I’d watched since I’d discovered I was into guys. I wanted my mouth on every goddamn inch of him.

“. . . so tonight, I’m trying out the newest discreet vibrator from Heavenly Toys, one designed to be worn under clothing, hence the ‘discreet’ part. This one is gender-neutral, and since I don’t have a vagina, you can guess where this is going.”

His smirk—thankfully the mask only covered the top half of his face—had me palming my dick for a little relief.

The guy on the screen, “Substar” according to his profile and male per his pronouns, had completed his speech and moved on to finish getting undressed. And goddammit, he was working it. I pulled out my rather large dick and massive balls from the sweats I’d donned after my late-night shower and squeezed my cock as he wiggled out of the shortest shorts known to man.