Wearing my newest silk gown and briefs, I floated around the house, dusting, cleaning. Peter was at work and I was being the perfect houseboy. I smiled to myself. Peter had laughed when I first called myself that. I’d graduated from college and managed to somehow get signed with one of LA’s best stage performance agencies and had done a few productions. I was still working at the coffeehouse, but with nothing but a few days a week at the community theater and some auditions to fill in my time, I spent most of my days at home being a well-kept houseboy.

Peter’s houseboy.

And I loved every minute. My friends would shake their heads at me, but there was something deeply satisfying for me to look after him. To make my Daddy happy. He certainly looked after me, in every possible way.

He was a born protector and provider. Nothing pleased him more than to ensure I was happy and well cared for. And I very happily returned the favor.

I also wore his ring on my left hand. Not a wedding ring. Not yet, anyway. Peter had given me this ring as a promise to one day replace it with a wedding ring when I was ready. And it was really just a matter of time. I would spend the rest of my life with Peter. I had no doubt.

I’d spent the day doing some reading and research on a role I was getting ready to audition for. I’d annoyed Neenish until she glared at me to leave her alone. I was also working on a screenplay. The one Patrice had me start almost two years ago was being fleshed out―if it ever saw the light of day it would be a miracle, but it was cathartic to write.

I’d cleaned and straightened as well, and dinner was in the oven. Now all I needed was my daddy to come home and tell me what a good boy I was.

My balls ached at the thought.

When my phone rang and Peter’s name flashed on screen, I answered with a purr. “Hello, handsome.”

I could hear sounds of traffic and knew he was in his car. He sighed. “Well, your voice just improved my day by ten thousand percent.”

He sounded miserable. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a shit day. Shit meetings, shit clients, shit boss. Even the traffic is shit.” He very rarely swore, so I knew his day must have been bad. He let out a frustrated growl. “Just one of those days when everything went wrong.”

I leaned against the back of the sofa. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I can’t wait for you to get home. Dinner’s cooking and I’m wearing the new dressing gown you bought me.” This new one was purple, like they all were—something about the color purple spoke to me, reflected the inner me—and it came to my thighs and tied off around my waist. It was flowy and light and felt divine against my skin. It made me feel sexy, and Peter loved it.

Now he groaned. “Sounds like a perfect night.”

I leaned over the back of the sofa, pressing my hardening dick against the leather, imagining Peter was standing behind me. “How long will you be?”

“Twenty minutes. Traffic is bad.”

“Mmm.” I rolled my hips, enjoying the friction the sofa provided, letting my imagination run wild. “That’s just enough time.”

“For what?” His voice had an edge to it. “Yanni, what are you doing?”

I smiled, knowing exactly what I was going to do. “You’ve got twenty minutes to get yourself nice and hard, thinking about how much you want to be inside me. Because the second you walk through that door, I’ll be bent over the sofa with my ass ready and waiting. All you’ll need to do is unzip your fly and slide right into me―”

“Jesus Christ, boy.”

I moaned dramatically into the phone. “Eighteen minutes, Daddy,” I said, ending the call and throwing my phone onto the couch. I went to our room and fetched the lube and walked back to the living room. We really should consider leaving some out here on the coffee table.

After my final stage play at the academy, to another standing ovation, I might add, we’d celebrated with everyone―my classmates, the Landons, Andrew and Spencer, Jordan and Skylar, George and Ajit―and afterward, we came home but made it no farther than the living room. Lube on the coffee table would have been handy that night…

I leaned over the back of the sofa again, lifting my gown up and pulling my briefs down just far enough to get my hand in. I slicked and stretched myself. Never as good as when he did it for me, though. Nothing could compare to the time and care he took getting me ready for him.

But I was soon ready enough, and an ache to be filled had spread from my balls to my belly. I was getting desperate.

I heard his car pull up and my stomach clenched. His keys in the door made me smile. The sound of the door closing behind him made me grind my cock against the couch. The sound of his groan followed by his zipper made my knees go weak.

Oh, God, yes.

He stood behind me and pressed his hot, hard erection against my briefs, along my ass crack. With a strong arm around my waist, he stood me up straight and whispered in my ear. “You made me speed. You almost made me wreck my car.”

I panted, desperately wanting more. “Sorry, Daddy. You had a bad day, and I wanted to make it better.”

He turned my head and slanted his mouth across mine for a messy kiss. “You make everything better,” he grunted and pushed me back down. He slid my briefs down to my thighs and pushed the gown up my back and slid his cockhead over my hole. “You ready for me, boy?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He pushed into me, slow and deep, until he was fully buried inside me. I gripped onto the cushions, groaning loudly at the beautiful intrusion. His huge cock throbbed inside me, and then he began to move. He gripped my hips and pushed me against the back of the sofa, filling me over and over with each thrust.

This was perfection. Being everything my daddy needed, making him happy, making a bad day good was a need that burned in my heart. Letting him have me as he wanted was heaven, demanding yet still gentle, still Peter, always Peter.

His pace quickened and I knew he was close. I wanted it so bad…

He scooped one arm around my chest and brought me upright so my back was against his chest. I was impaled on him, my feet barely on the floor, and he came inside me. Pulse after pulse spilled into me, and he roared as his orgasm took hold.

It was everything.

He eventually sagged, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving. He kissed my back, my shoulder, my nape. “I love you,” he murmured over and over.

I basked in his tenderness, his complete adoration.

Eventually, reluctantly, he slid out of me. He quickly pulled up my briefs and turned me in his arms, kissing me thoroughly until we both needed air. He held my face and kissed my forehead, my eyelids. “You’re such a good boy,” he whispered.

I chuckled. “And you’re such a good daddy.”

He hummed and stepped back, his spent cock hung heavy out of his suit pants. “I should have bad days more often.”

I smirked. “I can greet you like that every day if you’d like?”

Now he laughed. “Shower now? Or later?”

“Later,” I replied. “There will be round two after dinner.”

He kissed me again with smiling lips. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

I stared into his eyes. “You loved me in all the right ways.”

“Correction. I love you in all the right ways. There is no past tense on that word. There will never be past tense on that word. Forever, Yanni.”

“Forever, Peter.” I meant it every time I said it. He was it for me. Forever. I reached down and gave his ass a squeeze. “Now go get changed. Dinner will be ready soon.”

He kissed the side of my head and walked away, peeling off his suit as he mumbled something about his bossy boy. I hummed in satisfaction, aching in all the right ways, just as my phone rang. I picked it up off the sofa and saw Spencer’s name on screen.

“Hey Yanni,” he said. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

I laughed. “Ten minutes too late for that. What can I do for you?”

“I have a favor to ask,” he said. “And it’s a big one.”

By the time Peter walked back out in his old, comfy jeans and a T-shirt, I’d told Spencer I would do anything he needed me to. Now I just had to tell Peter.

“Who was on the phone?” he asked, checking the tray of bubbling kartoshnik, a Russian-inspired dish I’d made decidedly Greek, which Peter loved. “This smells divine. Can we eat it already?”

I turned the oven off, smiling. “It was Spencer.”

Peter grabbed two plates. “Oh? How’s he doing?”

We’d only seen him last week to congratulate him on Andrew and his engagement. “He’s great. He uh, wanted to ask me a favor. Well, both of us, actually.”

Peter started to pour two sparkling mineral waters but stopped and stared at me. “What was it?”

“You’ve been to Australia before, right?” I bit the inside of my lip. “Not that it matters, I guess, because he asked if I’d like to be a guest speaker at the grand opening of his Sydney foundation for LGBT youth, and I said yes. Which means you have to come because I can’t go without you.”

Peter stared. “Uh… When?”

“In seven weeks.”

He blinked, then sighed. “You already said yes?”

I nodded quickly, then leaning up on my toes, I kissed him and fluttered my eyelids a little. He was a sucker for my eyes and long lashes. “Thank you, Daddy.”

He fought a smile. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Tell me about it. I was the luckiest man on the planet. “I know.”

* * *

When Spencer asked me to be a guest speaker at the Archer Cohen Foundation’s opening night in Sydney, I said yes without thinking. Of course, I would help him. He’d basically saved my life―well, he was the one who put the wheels in motion―and I owed him everything.

So Peter and I found ourselves in Sydney, Australia, four days before opening night. Spencer and Andrew were staying on for an extended holiday with Lewis, Spencer’s brother, but Peter and I had to go home.

Not only did Peter have work to do, but I did too! I’d scored a role in a play at Geffen Playhouse, LA’s most glittery theatrical venue. It was only a small role in a local production of the Carol King Story, but it was a huge step for me. And I needed to be back in LA a few days after my speech for Spencer.

I had no clue what I was supposed to say. It would be a full house of not only struggling LGBT people but also people and representatives of companies who had donated huge sums of money. And it was a monumental life-changing moment for Spencer and Lewis. They were doing this to honor their brother, Archer, who they’d lost to suicide.

I had to get it absolutely perfect. I couldn’t let Spencer down.

Peter and I walked into our hotel room in awe. It was very nice and didn’t cost us a cent. Spencer had booked us into Bondi Beach’s Atoll Hotel, a five-star executive suite, and told us the only thanks he wanted for our accommodation was for us to have a lot of sex on any flat surface we could find. He spread his hands like a rainbow. “We need to put the gayness everywhere,” he said brightly. “I hear the owner would love it.”

Peter and I stared at him, wide-eyed, and Andrew burst out laughing. “Ignore him,” Andrew said, pushing Spencer toward the door. Then Andrew stopped and made a thoughtful face. “But, just so you know, the owner would really appreciate it if you could leave lube everywhere.”

Spencer laughed some more and pulled Andrew out the door. “Have fun, boys. See you at dinner tonight.”

After they’d gone, I turned to Peter. “Do you know what that was about?”

He shook his head sadly. “No clue.” After we’d unpacked, Peter was googling stuff to do in Sydney when he turned his laptop around to face me. “Check out the name of the guy who owns this hotel.”

There, in black and white, on some financial subsidiary listing of the Atoll Hotel chain was the name Cohen & Sons. I shot Peter a look. “Do you think…? Cohen, as in Spencer Cohen?”

Peter laughed. “I’d put money on it. I could look a little further.” Tracing financial histories was part of Peter’s job, and he was clearly very good at it. “But Spencer did say the owner. I’d bet it’s his father.”

I chuckled. “Well, then. We best do our part of spreading the gayness,” I said, doing the rainbow thing with my hand.

Grinning, Peter picked me up and spun me around. “On every flat surface, I believe was the official request.”

We were both laughing as we fell onto the bed. It was flat, after all.

* * *

Sitting on the balcony, overlooking the glorious Bondi Beach, I scrunched up my fiftieth piece of paper and growled in frustration. This was worse than penning my damn screenplay. “What the hell am I supposed to say? It needs to be perfect.”

I’d been trying to write this damn speech since we arrived three days before. Peter had suggested sightseeing, a walk on the beach, shopping, anything to clear my head. Nothing had worked, and at this rate, I’d be walking out on that stage and doing a mime performance.

Peter had tried to explain that I could get up in front of packed audiences and put on a Tony-worthy performance, and I should treat this no different.

“I’m not worried about stage fright,” I replied. “I don’t know what to say. Why did Spencer even ask me to do this?”

Peter pulled his chair around and took my hand. “I’ll tell you why. Because you’re living proof that it works. Cities need these places because there are people, kids―human beings―that get treated like garbage, like they don’t even exist. And that has to stop. Every kid on the streets is you. They have the potential to be happy, to be safe and healthy, and to dream. Just like you. Yanni, you are proof that it works. That what Spencer and Lewis are doing is a very good thing. It shouldn’t take private funding. It should be a government-led initiative.” He took a breath to calm down. He was as passionate about this as we all were. “Just get up there and speak to them like you spoke to Tyler. Like you spoke to the homeless people on Skid Row. Tell this audience what you told them. Imagine you found a young kid on the street who had lost all hope. What would you tell him?”

And just like that, it was crystal clear. I kissed him, then picked up my pen and began to write.

* * *

When it was time for my speech, I wasn’t even nervous. I was ready like I’d always been ready for this.

Sure, the venue was packed, there were youth caseworkers bumping shoulders with Sydney’s elite, champagne was flowing, checkbooks were open. Spencer and Andrew looked incredible wearing tuxedos, and it was a truly touching moment when Spencer and Lewis unveiled the name and logo of their brother’s memorial foundation.

Other people spoke before me, and one or two were due to speak after me. But Spencer welcomed me on stage. “I’ve invited a personal friend of mine,” he said to the audience. “He’s come all the way from LA to speak tonight with an insight, firsthand, of how foundations, such as this one saves lives… Please give a warm welcome to Mr Yanni Tomaras.”

I walked out and was given a hug by Spencer before he left me alone in front of the podium. This was it. Hundreds of faces, a few flashing bulbs, a few rolling cameras. Peter stood in the wings, my pillar of strength, and gave me an encouraging nod. His ring on my finger bolstered me even more.

“Good evening,” I started, looking out at the audience. My voice was loud and clear, as was my path. I could do this, without a doubt.

“Thank you, Spencer, for the warm welcome. Before I start, I just want anyone in the audience tonight who questions their worth, or who is without hope, to know there are good people in this world. If there is anyone here who doubts what The Archer Cohen Foundation is capable of, I want you to know, I have stood where you stand. I have been where you are. I can tell you, there is hope. There is a way out. It’s not easy, but the Archer Cohen Foundation will save lives. I know this because Spencer Cohen saved mine.”

I took a deep breath. “My name is Yanni Tomaras, and this is my story.”

~ The End