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Nate’s lying on his stomach. He almost looks small, keeping his arms close to himself in the middle of his king-size bed, fingers clamped tightly in the sheets. The basketball shorts he sometimes wears around the house are down past his thighs. It’s a humid summer day so he had thrown his T-shirt off hours ago, he’s left only covered by thin socks and a pair of tight black boxers.
Behind him, Cal takes a moment to admire the view. Lucky son of a bitch, that he is.
His boy grew up beautiful, he really did. Cal lets his eyes rake over the wide planes of his back, the knobs of his spine, over his clothed ass and all the way down to his muscular legs. It was his good genes at work, here, Cal thinks. Nate is perfect because Nate is his, down to his bone marrow.
Cal’s always known his youngest would be a stallion, that he’d shine bright and bold. He did everything he could to show Nate how to be a man, how to stand up for himself, fight for what he wants. How to get on top. Nate didn’t always seem to appreciate it, but that’s alright. His son might not know of all the things that were given to him by his father, much less of everything Cal could, therefore, take away, whenever he wants. That’s okay, even if Nate’s anger seeps into everything around him, even if he’s ungrateful and waiting on his chance to step in Cal’s place, to become a bigger man than the man who made him who he is. Some Freudian shit like that.
It’s all okay, because Cal’s taking now.
As is his right… The days of restraint, of sneaking out to the Travel Inn to satisfy his shameful, innermost desires, those are well behind him. They want normalcy, Marsha wants to avoid the fuss and keep the family in one piece? He can do that. He won’t go looking for hot pieces of ass every week or so. Simple. Keep it in the family.
Cal lightly squeezes a buttock, lifts his son’s hips and pulls the boxers off, all the way off. It’s like unwrapping a present, like tearing the wrapper away. And he is a starved man, he’ll probably pass out if he has to spend one more minute without skin contact, he’s not ashamed to admit that he needs something from the kid. A bite. Sustenance, meat down his gullet, whatever. Cal takes notice of Nate’s hard cock as it slaps against his stomach, he figures it’s not from excitement but rather his body’s reaction to the fear and the adrenaline. He knows this about his son, the kid does not go down without a fight. If his surplus violent energy isn’t streaming forth freely or exploding out of him, maybe it’s… Well, who knows. But Nate never knew where to put it down. Cal accepts that he wants to flee, welcomes it, even, because it’s a challenge. He’ll want it soon enough, too, Cal's sure. Jesus, he just can’t wait to have him crying on his cock.
He proceeds to climb over his son’s tense form, lets their legs brush up against each other, it earns him a flinch and a slight shudder. He can tell Nate hasn’t had his hair cut in a while, it’s a little longer than usual, short chocolate-colored strands softly bracketing his head. Cal wants to see those eyes, the storm brewing somewhere within, wants Nate present when he starts taking him apart.
Nate is scared. He has the sense that he’s watching himself from far away. He’s already apart, he’s scared, and he shudders, because it feels more real with every touch and after each one, he needs to force himself to breathe evenly to calm down. Terror, then composure, disarray, then order. Back and forth. But static, because he’s not really here, not doing anything. Losing composure is a kind of terror, having his last line of defense destroyed. It should be an impossibility, people don’t do that to him, they don’t get to strip him bare (except for his father, as it turns out). He does this all the time, though, he adjusts. He’s not just a fighter, he’s been taking the time to learn this recently: he’s an endurer. Some things, you’ve got to endure instead of bang your fists against and sink your teeth and nails into; Dad taught him that, without ever really saying it outright.
He's scared. This is what he’s been fearing since he was a kid, so he should have been prepared. He had lots of time to ready himself. And he did have a plan, a strategy for if Dad ever went too far, he’d think about it and think it over again and again, the different branches of possibilities, different ways for things to play out, if legs mobile, do X, if immobile, do Y. So on. He mentally catalogued the heaviest and sharpest objects in his room, as if he didn’t have something more useful to do. Ridiculous. He could’ve planned a murder in all that time he wasted. He’s kept a box cutter in the side of the mattress for years now. Just in case. “In case”, he knows what that case is, knows exactly. He hasn’t even tried reaching for it.
And he didn’t figure out how to make it look like an accident, and it’s too late now.
The thought of seriously injuring Dad makes his stomach roil, never mind the consequences, which would be dire. Maybe he could just threaten Cal? But no, it wouldn’t work, no way, he’d see right through Nate, he’d look at him and know. Just know. As he thinks it over one last time, he figures he had made his choice already. He does have choices, there always are diverging paths, you just have to find the right direction and decide you want to go that way.
That makes this his choice. He’ll try to remember later, when rage is running through him like an electric current, that if he’s going to be angry with anyone, he should start with himself.
Cal grabs Nate’s hips (fuck, he’s fantasized about the sight of his hands on those hips, just below that thin waist, and it doesn’t fail to turn him on) and raises them so he can reach around to touch. Nate’s big there, too, what a shame that he won’t get to make use of that now. Indeed, a shame. He squeezes and rubs, not too much, just to tease and see Nate squirm, watch the muscles tighten and let go rhythmically. Cal likes having all that muscle in his bed. Willing but unable to admit it.
When Cal starts caressing a particularly sensitive spot under the head of his dick, Nate breaks his silence and lets out a quiet, restrained moan, along with a single word.
“Fuck,” he mutters into his forearm. He’s breathing more rapidly, looks like he’s enjoying it at least a little bit, so, of course, Cal keeps at it.
“You eager little thing,”—he can’t help but smirk—“that feel good? Hmm?”
He's looking to break Nate, be the cause of his pleasure and anguish and humiliation and release. Nate never offered much, wouldn't let his father get close, he just dangled the possibility of connection in front of Cal by craving it very conspicuously, but denying himself at every chance. His boy is stubborn, got a head as hard as tempered steel. The two of them share this unbecoming tendency, the proclivity for bone-deep hunger and bone-deep guilt, and the suppression that follows.
This might be Cal's best chance yet (or only chance) to get to know his own kid intimately... To see him for who he really is, as he is, and to take it all in. Get at the creamy insides. He had been denied so long, admittedly denied himself, as well, out of some sorry attempt at order and at playing the part he's supposed to play. The dutiful husband, the family man, the caring father. Looking back, it’s hilarious.
But he does care, and he’s willing to be the one to break their figurative chains. He can help Nate throw the shackles off, he knows his son’s been on the brink of breaking underneath the same massive weight that Cal had carried for a long, long time. Until he set himself free. What kind of father would he be if he didn’t even do this for his boy? Being dicked down so good that there's no more nerve and no more of all that ill-fitting effrontery left in him is what Nate needs. He just doesn’t know it yet.
He pulls one of Nate’s cheeks to the side and watches the puckered muscle contract, then release. Squeezes.
A faint plea, near inaudible, “Don't—Don't look—”
The words are steeped in embarrassment. It’s cute. Cal can count on one hand how many times he’s seen Nate broken down like this, he never shows this side of himself. Maybe never gets to feel this open with others, in daily life. This vulnerable. Nate’s even better than him at the Jacobs men’s specialty, the real family business: facades. And he’s fucking sick of it, no more stony expressions, no more high horse. As he's working Nate’s cock, he thinks all that skin is his now, and that broad back and that pretty face. I’m gonna ruin him. Fuck him hard until he cries, show him what a man can do. He foregoes watching the strikingly erotic display of his son’s hole fluttering as he jerks him off and leans down to suck and bite at Nate’s neck, presses his face to the hot skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder, inhales deeply. Sour sweat tinged with what Cal is pretty sure he recognizes as the distinct smell of dread; the lingering spicy, woody smell of the cologne Cal gifted him last Christmas; and just him, just Nate and his skin and his body heat. His young flesh. Another sharp pang of hunger hits Cal.
He won’t play around anymore, they’re both undeniably worked up, the jeans and the briefs are pulled off and then he reaches for the lube he left out on the blanket. Nate's face is turned to the side, Cal watches him look back. What he sees must not put him at ease. His eyes are wide. Must be dawning on Nate, what’s about to happen, that it’s really happening and he’s not getting away. He’s not trying very hard to get away, anyway, there’s no fight in him, just shakes his head (but doesn’t raise himself or turn around, so it’s more like he’s rubbing his face into the sheets) and oh yeah, there are the tears Cal’s been waiting for. Beautiful. He’s beautiful like this, under him. Cal needs to have him.
As Nate continues his feeble protest, the side-to-side movement of his head more for his sake than his father’s, he starts begging audibly. Cal doesn’t even have to make him beg, which is insanely arousing. He’s going into hysterics quietly, staying in place, holding it in, the persona of the well-behaved young man still sticking to him like eggshells to a chick. Hiccupping the slightest bit. He takes stuttering breaths as he chants.
“Don’t, please, don’t, Dad, please…“
His words are flowing into each other, leaving his mouth in a steady stream, unwittingly. First it bursts out of him and then peters out, like he’s giving up already. Cal almost wishes he was met with more resistance, confrontation between them didn’t happen often until now, but it was always electric. Now he’s reminded of when Nate was very small and wouldn’t immediately get the toy that he wanted or that second scoop of ice cream, and he would cry just like this. And then he would give up.
He always submits. It makes Cal rock hard.
He can’t wait to see if his son's still got his smart fucking mouth with a dick inside him, and then he's thinking about what he'll sound like, the grunts and the moans Cal will force out of him, it’s like he can already taste them.
He needs to get on with it, so he hastily slicks up and puts his cock right in the cleft of Nate’s ass, letting him feel the weight. He’s impatient, but he won’t put it in like this, maybe he would with a faceless, fully insignificant motel fuck, but he can’t allow himself to be that self-serving now. Rarely does he get to savor a body, and there’s no better subject for that than his gorgeous, defiant, desperate Nate. He slowly rubs the head of his cock over the furled muscle, just because he craves the reaction, Nate’s face going pale, all the little indicators that make it crystal clear that he’s scared. That he wants to get up and beat the living shit out of Cal, but something’s keeping him from it. He’s never been with a man, Cal’s sure, doesn’t even seem like the type to ever let a girl put a pinky in him, much less let himself be fully penetrated by anyone or anything. Cal didn’t raise him like that, admittedly. He loses himself in the fantasy of thrusting in just like this, opening Nate up with force, swallowing all of his pain. But Cal intends to do this again, and again and again. Maybe keep him coming back of his own accord. Maybe he’ll be as rough as he wants some other time. He’ll be wrecking the kid today, either way.
He won’t put it in just yet, but it has Nate so tense, tense and dead silent, when he thrusts between his thighs and lets his cock push up against his balls, it’s delicious. Cal pulls away shortly, straightens up, then proceeds to coat his fingers in lube. It’s dripping on the sheets, he’s not sparing any. The things he does for this boy... He’s practically spoiling him.
Nate has gone back to hiding his face, and that won’t do. Cal reaches up with his mostly dry hand to grab onto the short strands and tug. He tugs until, in order to ease the sudden pain in his scalp, Nate’s back curves and forms an arch. Like an animal in heat, submissive. He lets out a hiss. A number of secret encounters pop into Cal’s head, same pose, different lighting, the way they would whine. Everything is different about this, everything, it’s dirtier, better, because it’s Nate and he would trade all of those times in the motel for this, right here. He almost regrets that he waited so long.
He lowers Nate’s head with his face turned to the side (wouldn’t want to miss a single one of the expressions he’s working so hard to coax from him) and reaches between his cheeks with the other hand. Nate jolts, his eyebrows are drawn together. He maintains his death grip on the sheets, still. Cal puts a hand on his nape, applies enough pressure to let him feel it, as if to say: behave. Be good. Show me everything. Meanwhile, he starts rubbing at Nate’s taint and then his hole, generously issuing a warning and allowing him a couple seconds to get used to Cal’s touch, before he plunges a finger in.
“Hmmph—“
Nate sounds sweet. How new, almost discordant, but Cal already can’t get enough. He’s panting, he’s so hot inside, burning up. Cal makes an effort to avoid his prostate. He hopes that’ll rile him up while allowing him to be a little more comfortable with the unfamiliar sensation of something entering him. He pushes another finger in alongside the first, too soon, and hears the answering whine. Tight fit. Expected.
Nate’s tried to dissociate, take his mind somewhere else, but it was of little help. He’s vaguely aware that his father’s indulging himself and his sick fantasies first and foremost and this is not an attempt to do the most damage he can to Nate, physically or psychologically or in any way. Not so direct. What he wants or doesn't want is just in the way. Just smashing through walls and the walls happen to be him. Destruction is often exciting, tantalizing (he knows this better than most). Plus, they’re the same thing, aren’t they? His pain, his dad’s pleasure. He still feels like there is a laser focus on him, that he's being felt up for his weak spots to be found and the punch is coming any time now, right there, where he's soft and vulnerable. And shit, he was making excuses for his dad again, wasn't he? While he’s actively forcing himself on Nate. He just can’t help that… He's been making them for so long. The fingers inside him feel strange, rubbing and curling, but it's not very bad, or good, or much of anything, other than strange. He knows he's freaking himself out, just scared, it's just fear and a scathing, helpless feeling. That feeling is useless, he needs to get back to himself and weather it.
Nate always felt this was inevitable. It was going to happen; it was just going to. Part of him is comforted. Reassured. Another part would be fighting tooth and nail, if it wasn’t absolutely fucking exhausted from it all.
He focuses on the seams of the pillow in his line of vision, neat, straight, artificial, keeping the fabric together and tries not to be horrified with himself when he notices he's started riding the wave.
Once Cal feels Nate loosen up around his fingers (quickly checks in with Nate’s dick that’s trapped between the mattress and his stomach – yeah, still hard, like he thought), he drizzles some more lube on his cock, drapes himself over Nate. Nuzzles into his neck again and rubs against the wet, open hole between his legs. He’s getting what he wanted. He drinks in the fear radiating off his son, it's duller than before. Growing faint. Well, he can bring it back around.
“Do you know what I’m gonna do to you?” he asks, and it comes out like a low growl, close to a purr. Nate's lower lip starts trembling. Cal bites his earlobe, breathes raggedly into his ear for a moment that feels like eons, deliberately, hopes it’s coming across how animalistic he feels. How Nate makes him feel.
“I'm going to make you scream.”
And as soon as he’s said it, he’s impaling his son on his cock. Tries not to push in all at once, still, Nate’s wheezing and shaking and Cal watches his face contort in pain. So warm inside. Cal’s going to rush it, he knows, not good. Really not good. He’s not being very considerate. But he just has to pull out and slam back in as hard as he can. He grinds in deep and Nate can't even make a sound at first, his mouth gapes, nothing comes out, he's gasping into the pillow and all his muscles are locked in tight.
When the pain and the pressure catch up with Nate, he howls. It fucking hurts, he wasn’t ready for how much it would feel like his insides are being torn apart. He feels out of his mind, stupid with humiliation, his dad seeing him cry and whine from the pain and try to twist away might be worse than the sensation itself. It’s unnatural. His body’s doing its utmost to protest, trying to push Cal out, and when he starts thrusting, Nate’s hips instinctually jerk away immediately as he lets out another wounded, high-pitched noise. Cal won’t let him crawl, holds onto him with a forearm across his chest and stays inside, so deep, too deep.
It can’t get any worse, surely there’s nothing worse. The throbbing cock inside him feels like it reaches all the way to his stomach, to his lungs, like not even his internal organs are safe from his father. What a horrific thought, that not even his insides belong to him, nothing's ever been his. Something’s going to get punctured, he’ll bleed out, the burn just grows and doesn’t stop. He can’t stop making noise. His vocal cords must be Dad’s, too. To play with, to manipulate. Nate sings for him.
Cal sees Nate tremble and clench around him so hard his dick is going to get cinched off any time now, but the unpleasant feeling doesn’t matter, his full attention is on his boy. He needs to hear it, grips Nate’s nape tight with one hand.
“How’s it feel?”
The reply doesn’t disappoint. He says through tears, rushed and pathetic, soft, “Hurts, Dad, take it out, take it out—“
Cal gets so horny so rapidly at that he blows out a low fuuuck and goes “Son, I need you to relax. Relax or I'm gonna have to tear you.”
Nate pushes his face back into the pillow and his entire body is shaking and he tries to adjust, but the sharp, blazing pain persists. It aches and burns and his father tearing his asshole open is not a relaxing thought, but soon he feels his muscles let up the slightest bit. He can’t afford to make it harder than it needs to be, not even having accepted that it’s his own violation he’s assisting in… Disgusting, filthy, he’s totally filthy. So weak, if this wasn't happening right now, maybe it would've happened later, with someone else, because he invites it, by acting like a little bitch, letting someone take from him. Dad should've gone ahead and killed him, put him down, should’ve gone all the way with it. Instead, he practices cruelty like an ancient art form... Follows it religiously, as if it mattered to him personally. On purpose. God, it really is on purpose. Nate feels a bit like Isaac, on the mountain, or wherever the fuck that was. He gets the basics of the story. Father, capital F; father, lower case F; he can’t tell which role Cal gets, it's a higher force and its fixed purpose and its ever-changing whims leaving someone disfigured, either way.
Dignity, humanity, trust, all gone, ripped apart in a delicate minute. A hungry void left in its space with questions starting to fill it. Why couldn't you love me any other way besides sacrificially?
When Cal’s sure there won't be any lasting damage, he goes to town on the kid. He keeps his hold on Nate’s neck with one hand and grabs his hip with the other, then pulls out until he’s almost left the tight grip of Nate’s hole, only to drive back in deep and hard. It jostles Nate’s whole body, and a shriek-turned-moan leaves his mouth. He’s never been touched like this, Cal thinks, never tasted a total lack of inhibitions before. He gets to break him in. It’s truly special, blows his mind how good it is. Everything’s so hot, both the velvety insides of his youngest son under him and his desperate way of clawing at the sheets and his desperate little sounds, torn out of his throat.
“Please...” Nate intends to beg for Cal to stop, but it sounds unconvincing even to his own ears, more like a plea for more, faster, harder. I sound like a slut. Maybe I’ve been asking for it since 11. He didn’t and couldn’t mean it, can’t even say “stop” (much less say it resolutely, like a sane person would), and it’s not just because if he opened his mouth, he’d make noises he’s never made before in his fucking life. He knows it’s not really what’s going on, but it feels like his insides are trying to rearrange themselves around Cal, like his organs are trying to flee because Nate hasn’t fled, like they’re picking up whatever’s in sight and running from the burning building. It’s overwhelming, stifling, the mixture of physicality and emotions. Humiliation is at the forefront and weirdly enough, it feels distinctly new, too, brand new. The sex he’s had so far doesn’t compare, for obvious reasons… He wonders if girls feel like this when they’re getting fucked, if he ever made someone feel like this. Nate’s afraid to check, but his dick must be hard as steel, he’s not even himself (this isn’t him; this can’t be him). He probably won’t even be a man after this. His eyes squeeze themselves shut and the thought makes him feel like a child, what a stupid fear. To be made a woman. Just a hole, an open wound, that’s what he feels and what he is now, so maybe holding on to this hasn’t been so stupid. The nightmares never made him feel anything like this and it’s so much and so new and his father’s weight pushing him into the mattress and his smell enveloping Nate and his big cock fucking into him steadily, mercilessly, like he can take it, it all goes to Nate’s head. Like strong liquor.
When Cal finally hits Nate's sweet spot dead-on, it's apparent from the girlish moan he can't help but let out. When he thrusts just the right way, Nate fucking mewls. Tries to keep himself quiet by biting into his arm. Overwhelmed and embarrassed tears pearl at the corners of his eyes (he valiantly does not let them escape). It's music to Cal's ears, just what he needed to hear, so he tries to adjust how he's supporting himself and slam into Nate at the angle that draws more of those sweet sounds out of him.
“There? You like that?”
Nate’s gasping “No no no, d-don't—ffu—“ and then on the next thrust, there it is, like ambrosia — “Dad,” and he's keening as his dad gives it to him good and hard. “Fuck, you do like that. Got such a sensitive little sweet spot inside you, yeah? You’re just, just. Made to take it, fuck,” Cal gets out between gulps of air and vigorous snaps of his hips. He reaches with his left hand for Nate’s and laces their fingers together, his boy's gripping so tight, God, he's delectable when he's terrified and in pain, but the full course meal is him losing himself in pleasure, coming apart on Cal’s cock, learning what it's like to be taken by a man. Cal loved doing this to the femboys and twinks he fucked, turning their brains into mush, when it's just the two of them and it's just where they're connected, everything cumulates in the movement of his hips, in his partner's expressions and sounds and the smell and the taste. They don’t even begin to compare, though, his son is sweeter than any of them, sluttier than any of those sluts. Cal wants to tell him as much.
“You’re being so good, so good for daddy,” he grunts near Nate’s ear, frenzied. Doesn’t expect Nate to moan loudly at his words. He’s really been good for Cal from the start, not fighting him every step of the way and giving himself over, it's something gorgeous, poetic. All masks are off now, he’s sure he’s really seeing Nate when the kid's letting out these bitten off ‘ah, ah, ah’ sounds as Cal drills him into the bed.
Cal wants to pry. He could eat the boy up, wants to see him in ecstasy every day instead of some shade of resentful, impassive, or furious. It’s a good look on him. “Tell me how it feels, baby,” he hears himself ask. Nate is hardly in any state to put together sentences, but he makes a concentrated effort.
“Ff-fuh, feels, —nngh— feels good, fuck, Dad...”
He’s beyond denial. All he can think about is that his father is churning his insides, fucking him, this is what he’s been terrified of since childhood, since then. This is the boiling point of their messed-up relationship, Nate crying under his dad’s solid form. Letting it happen. He must be going crazy, every other brutal thrust has the head of Cal’s cock dragging over that spot where it feels amazing. He doesn’t recognize his own voice, the high, broken moans leaving him involuntarily every time his dad rams into him balls deep. He feels dirty, debased. The sound of skin slapping wetly against skin is loud and ugly, but it barely reaches his brain. The pain and the pleasure numb all else.
“You want it harder?” His father’s voice rumbles from somewhere above him.
Nate doesn’t remember saying he did, but he wants it so bad he could die. He might die. He thinks he’s nodding, he’s not sure, although he’s sure Cal can tell. It almost feels warm and nice, like the firm, steady caress of sunrays, to be paid pure attention to, be opened up and looked at, but it only lasts a minute.
The thrusts have slowed, nearly stopping. “Can’t hear you, Nate.”
Smug cunt. Why does he have to be cruel? (Whatever, it’s kind of a turn on, to Nate’s embarrassment). He takes a few proper breaths and decides he’ll give up more of himself. Today, he’ll be good, if this is what that gets him instead of the fights and the searing pain from earlier. “Yeah… Yeah, yeah, want you.” He sounds pathetic to his own ears, not like the confident seductress who could handle this whole disgusting, depraved mess, not at all like that. Fuck. “Please, Dad,” he tacks onto the end.
“C’mon…” Cal knows he’s pushing it, but he thinks it’s worth a try. The kid even said please, all demure, just gagging for it, maybe he can be encouraged to talk... He puts a soothing hand on Nate’s back. “Be a good boy. Tell me what you want me to do. Go on.”
A groan of exasperation. “Fuckin’, fine, I’ll— I…” Nate blows out a lungful of heavy air, “Want you, to, to fuck me. Fuck me hard.”
Cal caresses his clean-shaven face, the sharp cut of his jaw, and grins. “Good. Thought you’d be more creative, but it is your first time. We’ll work on that.” A light slap on Nate’s cheek. “Good boy.”
Oh, that pisses Nate right the fuck off. The bittersweet condescension dripping from the words. What does Cal expect, that he’ll whip up a porno-level monologue? Write an ode to his anaconda and ask to be called ‘kitten’? Fuck no, no. He shoves with his upper body and rises to his elbows, which jostles Cal’s cock inside him a little and that makes him let out an involuntary whimper. Not helping his case, still, what’s the worst that can happen if he talks back?
(In a dark and mildewed part of his head, that line of thinking is continued, rather snarkily: what could he do in retaliation, hurt me? Violate me? Oh, right...
And a beating wouldn’t be any worse. Finally ending everything with his face pushed into the pillow and held there wouldn't be any worse, but Cal's not stupid enough to do something so final; plus, he's not clever enough to dispose of a corpse, or explain an absence, not ruthless enough, not determined enough in his hatred. He wouldn't end this, he would stretch it until it wears thin. He forgets that Nate knows him. He's just an animal. Get up.)
“What the fuck? Why don’t you run your mouth, then, because it looks like you’re more interested in listening to your own voice than giving me what I w—”
Cal slaps him, hard, this time.
Then sticks two fingers in his mouth, far enough to have Nate gagging with drool running down his chin and convulsing against Cal. The message is received, loud and clear: don’t forget who’s calling the shots. Don’t make me hurt you again. Nate hardly gets any time to remember he never said yes and couldn’t say no now (because Cal would fuck him anyway and get off to his pain and degradation) or wonder why his dad’s such a natural at this, at hurting him, why he does it so readily. What he sees inside Nate that he despises. Because as rapidly as they entered his throat, the fingers are gone and Cal has already pulled out. He sputters and coughs a little, then Cal bends one of his legs so he can grab at the back of his knee and roughly turn him over. Face to face, suddenly. Oh God, this way Nate can’t help but let his eyes jump there, look at the cock that was just inside him. Belonging to his father, shit, it’s so fucked up. But it’s some view, alright, one he’s never had before. And it’s a nice cock, long and thick, he thinks he wants it inside him again, have his dad make him scream like he promised. Whore, a part of him pipes up, don’t cry and complain when you get fucked like a whore. Enjoy it. Might as well.
“Hands by your head.” Cal’s own hands are gently roaming his legs and his hips and stomach, tracing his happy trail. The eye contact almost stings, but he can’t look at anything else except the open expression on his dad’s face, saturated with desire. “Say you want me to put it inside you. That you want to be stretched by a thick cock.”
Come on. Alright, yeah, Nate’s cock twitches at that and he immediately knows he won’t say that to his father, especially fucking not with their gazes locked like this. His face reddens and grows uncomfortably hot in record time, and he doesn’t dare move his hands. When the silence stretches on too long for Cal’s liking, or at least the only sound that can be heard is the two of them breathing rapidly, he straightens up.
“Fine, that’s okay, I’ll run my mouth, then. You asked.” He strokes Nate firmly, gathers the pre-come pouring out, presses into the slit a little too hard. “I want to do so many things to you. I want to stuff you full, want you full of me. All the time.”
Without warning, Cal slaps his son’s cock with his other hand. Just once, fast and hard. Nate’s resulting pained moan trails off into a whimper, he sounds pitiful, like dogs do. Cal sets his teeth against his ear and grunts, “Want to make you cry. Corrupt you, fucking destroy you. Pound that little hole until you can’t take it.” Another slap, this time he aims for the head and this time Nate not only yelps, but his hips rise off the bed, and he softly mutters an ah, fuck. The muscles in his legs keep twitching and his arms are still up, where Cal left them. The kid must already be near overstimulated, too bad for him. Cal pumps his dick slowly.
“And then some. And when you can’t take it,”—a slap, a whine—“I’ll fuckin’ make you take it. And you’ll love it.” Slap. “I’ll make you want me so much you’ll be asking me to ruin you all over again.”
Nate’s so embarrassed he wants to disappear. The assault on his dick hurts, but the impulses seem to reverberate deeply in his core and turn into these peculiar, intense waves of pleasure… Partly. He could cover himself, if he would just move his arms. Or close his legs. If he wanted to stop, hypothetically, if that was what he wanted. His dad’s talking so nasty, Nate’s face has grown very hot by now, he’s been trying not to let any tears of humiliation escape. But Cal wants that part of him, as he’s said. It’s terrifying. Fears should be faced and conquered, yeah? Shouldn’t they? He’s not a pussy, that’s why he can admit to himself that he can’t hold out.
“I want to, no, I will make you forget everyone else, everyone who’s touched you, felt you, tasted you… Have you only thinking about me inside you, and how good I fucked you. And how no one’s had you like this before.” The finishing slap is harsh and rings out loud, Nate’s body seizes from the pain.
Cal applies more lube to his dick. He pushes Nate’s wrists into the mattress with a crushing grip on either side of his head. Nate can’t help but let his legs spread around his father. Caged in. But it’s a rather nice cage. He thinks he owes Cal at least a fraction of the same honest, deep red want and speaks.
“Yeah, okay. I want… That. All that.” He gets the urge to cover his eyes with his hands and rub his sweaty palms against his face, but he missed his chance to move, so he squirms instead. He turns away as much as he can, his lips brush the sheets as he talks. He hopes he sounds frustrated at the situation instead of… Frustrated as in hungry. “Get on with it, Dad, please?”
Asking to be fucked with his brows furrowed, looking anywhere else, almost pouting, his son reminds him of a grumpy kid refusing to admit he’s lost a game. Cute. Ah, right, his pride is hurt… That can’t be demolished in one day, of course, and it wouldn’t be fun if there was no pride to fight. He needs the struggle, needs to be the one to guide Nate, teach him how to take what Cal’s going to give him. The thing is, Cal fucks, but he never gets to keep these days, he just doesn’t keep anyone, but he craves it. The process. The kid basically agreed to have horrible things done to him. By Cal. His beautiful, strong boy, his Nate. Ready to be tamed.
It’s what he’s been doing anyway, isn’t it? Keeping Nate, training him. Much like a dog. A treasured one, pedigreed.
He doesn’t waste another second gawking and salivating and stewing in desire, he thrusts right in and Nate’s body welcomes him back. Nate lets out a moan like he’s been stabbed, Cal wants to carve him up, dig around in his guts, and he will. The continuous whining is only broken by the force of Cal’s thrusts, unrelenting, a litany through cracks and fragments. He pushes one leg up by the back of the knee. It’s a practiced motion. This way Nate gets the full length of him every time. His hole is so slick and tight, Cal hopes he’ll leave his shape inside him, he wants to cover his son in his come, his piss, property of Cal Jacobs, he’ll leave fingerprints and handprints and bruises. But for now, he just wants to lick the tears off Nate’s pretty face, echoing his own, and fuck him so hard the plaster is banged off the wall.
Twisted up in each other and making up one beast together, skin and veins fusing together with how hard they’re holding on, Cal can easily tell Nate’s getting close, just needs a little bit more to get him there, even more. He doesn’t let up on the pumping of his hips, the long, even strokes that he knows are reaching the right places. From the way Nate claws at the fabric underneath him, the way he can’t stay still and he’s drooling and tears are streaming down his face, he can tell he’s doing something right. That’s Cal’s doing, his, his, all his. His son’s finally under him and he’s going to come with Cal inside him.
“Nate, it’s okay, let go. Let go for me.” Cal notices his voice is tinged with uncharacteristic tenderness. He starts stroking Nate off again, trying to match the rhythm of his thrusts. “Almost there.”
Loud keening is his reward. “Can’t, I can’t—“ Nate sobs, throws his head back and Cal is desperate to kiss and suckle at his strained neck. As he nips at the skin, he realizes something. He’s done a lot of things, reached and touched places he didn’t think he could before, but he hasn’t kissed Nate. He needs his spit in Nate’s mouth stat, to lick at his teeth…
Nate is lost in it. He struggles and pushes against Cal and feels his thighs try to close around his father’s torso, feels them slip and slide on his side, his hips, from their combined sweat. His cock drips on his stomach while Cal jerks him off intently, fast and violent. His entire lower body tingles, he can’t come, Jesus fuck, he can’t come, not even with a hand on his dick, he might die; he’s going to die. But he revels in the fight, the crashing-together of it all, even if he’s bound to lose. Maybe he’s allowed to like losing, just sometimes. If it feels like this. If it’s Dad.
Cal yanking his head towards his own and pushing his tongue into Nate’s mouth catches him off guard. (And he wasn’t even on guard.) All of a sudden, he’s joining the dance and kissing back, arching into it like he can suck Cal’s decayed soul out through his mouth, steal something back. His dad keeps hitting that spot inside him, barely grazing it and then pushing on it directly every other thrust and making Nate shake with how good it feels, while his tongue moves in Nate’s mouth, chokes him, opens up his lungs, gives him oxygen. A strange and tender feeling blooms deep in his chest, leaks out through his tear ducts, it climbs and climbs and he’s kissing his father and his father’s kissing him and the closeness is blinding, deafening, paralyzing—
He shoots on his stomach, all the way up to his neck, shaking feverishly during and after. Cal pulls away and watches him orgasm, pupils blown, vulture-like, and after a few more thrusts that he really only does to hear Nate whimper from the pain of overstimulation, he pulls out of the kid. Quickly jerks himself off and adds his come to the mess on Nate’s body, lets it dribble over Nate’s spent cock, too.
Once he’s come back to himself, Nate just pants and then begins to reevaluate everything he thought he was; then, he notices that Cal hasn’t fallen on top of him or by his side with exhaustion. Nate thought once his dad was finished with him, he’d be told to clean up, probably with the helpful reasoning included that he’s dirty like a used whore, and Cal would fuck off to have a shower, wash himself clean of what they’d done. But he’s still between Nate’s thighs, body lax, upright. Just looking. At Nate, into his eyes, now that he’s looking, too. Caught you. Then he does fall on Nate to kiss him some more — it’s as unexpected as the first time and just as good. Right, somehow. Their tongues curl around each other, no sense of urgency, sweeter than before. Cal stops the kiss and Nate leans after him, feeling needy and brittle (it’s a new, horrible feeling, shame immediately shoulders its way forward and sours it more), but Cal’s already gotten up and off the bed.
“Clean yourself up. I’m showering first, you don’t want that to dry.” He’s off to Nate’s bathroom, not a single glance back.
Right, there it is. How romantic.
Actually, he doesn’t need an insult to make him feel grimy and disgusting, he can do that on his own (and his father’s contributed plenty already). He can’t believe it’s over and done and he’s still here, barely changed physically, completely different in other ways. And it’ll never be over now. No path backwards.
Nate feels like crying. Angry tears, all kinds of tears, he doesn’t even know, he doesn’t know anything. He stares at his white ceiling, the gray pillows, everything sickeningly neat and gray. The room reminds him of a morgue. He, the corpse — still fresh.
He wants to cry. He wants. He shouldn’t, the dead don’t cry.
Suits him just fine.