Chapter Text
The garage door groaned shut behind him, swallowing the last sliver of afternoon light. He set the toolbox down with a metallic clatter and wiped his palms on his jeans—another long day of pretending.
He closed the door behind the babysitter, a nearly blind grandma from next door, and turned towards the staircase. Upstairs, bathwater splashed, followed by a high-pitched giggle that made his pulse hitch. His fingers twitched toward his belt before he caught himself, exhaling sharply through his nose. Not yet. Routine first: leftovers nuked till the plastic warped, cartoons flickering silently in the living room, the ritual of pajamas with ducks on them.
He nudged the bathroom door open with his knee, steam curling around his head as he entered. Tiny fingers slapped the water's surface in greeting. "Da!" The word bounced off the tiles. He scooped the dripping body into a towel, rubbing too hard where the skin would stay pinkest longest. The child squirmed, but didn't cry. Not this time.
Pajama buttons slipped under his fingers as he dressed him. Cotton stretched taut over the fresh diaper and rounded toddler thighs—he'd bought them a size too small on purpose. His palm spanned the entire width of the small back as he carried him downstairs toward the couch, thumb pressing just above the tailbone where he knew the bruises from last night hadn't faded yet.
"Story?" The boy clutched a chewed board book against his chest, oblivious to the way his father's pupils dilated at the sight of his round butt raised in the air as he clambered up onto the couch. A damp curl stuck to his temple. He peeled it back slowly, letting his fingernail scrape the delicate skin beneath—just enough to draw a thin white line that would pinken later.
The microwave beeped. He exhaled through his nose again, willing the bulge in his jeans to subside as he dumped lukewarm mac and cheese onto a plastic plate. The boy's knees left damp prints on the couch cushions while he ate, tiny teeth clicking against the fork. Grease smeared across his cheek when he rubbed his face, and the man's tongue darted out to wet his lips.
The board book lay forgotten on the coffee table. His fingers traced the spine absently—then snapped it shut with a sharp crack that made the boy flinch. "Bedtime." The word came out thicker than he intended.
Upstairs, the nightlight cast elongated shadows across the changing table. He slid down the pajama bottoms with deliberate slowness and removed the still clean diaper, watching the toddler's toes curl against the cold plastic. The faint metallic scent of old blood and fresh baby powder perfumed the air. With a slight smile he pushed up the sleeves of the pajama shirt and with his thumb brushed the faint bruises circling small wrists—mottled purples and yellows from last night's adventure.
The boy kicked weakly and whimpered when the man's fingers pinched him under the guise of tickling . "Shh," he murmured, pressing a calloused palm over the trembling mouth. "Daddy's just playing." His other hand worked the buckle of his belt, the clink barely audible over the choked breathing beneath his fingers.
As he leaned over and spread the boy open he admired the fresh and old bruises that decorated his thighs and hips. With his one hand still over the boys mouth he immediately inserted two fingers into the partially opened hole and warmth gushed over his knuckles, slicking the way deeper. A short muffled scream came from under his hand and small hands fluttered like trapped birds against his chest before going limp. Always better when he stopped fighting.
Cotton pajama bottoms were thrown to the floor while his other hand worked in rhythmic pulses. Too dry still. He spat into his palm and watched the saliva mix with blood, and old cum, pearly threads swirling pink down the trembling thighs. The boy made a wet, clicking sound with each shallow breath, fingers splayed like starfish against the vinyl changing pad. Downstairs, the microwave clock ticked over to 8:17pm. Someone’s dog barked three houses down. Normal sounds, the kind that usually anchored him to the careful performance of fatherhood. Now they just underscored the wet squelch of his knuckles disappearing inside his son, the way the tiny hole fluttered around his fingers like a hungry mouth.
The boy’s whimpers had faded to shallow, hiccuping gasps—better, easier. He withdrew his fingers slowly, watching the abused flesh gape for a second before closing slightly. Blood and spit dripped onto the changing pad. He wiped his hand on the boy’s pajama shirt, smearing red across yellow ducks. “Good boy,” he murmured, thumbing a tear from the child’s cheek only to lick it off his own finger with a satisfied hum.
His belt, already undone, slid free with a whisper. The boy’s breath hitched at the sound, eyes squeezing shut. He popped the pants button and pulled down the zipper and shoved his jeans down his hips, freeing his hard, pulsing cock. He chuckled, gripping the small hips to yank him closer, the plastic beneath them creaking ominously. “Look at Daddy,” he ordered, slapping the boy’s thigh sharply when he didn’t obey fast enough. “This is what you were made for,” he said with a smile when their eyes met. With those words he flipped the toddler over onto his stomach.
The first inch was always the hardest—not for him, but for the boy. The choked scream was muffled by the changing pad, his little body arching off the table in silent agony. He paused, savoring the way the tight heat clenched around him, the shuddering sobs vibrating through his cock. Blood welled where skin tore anew, dripping onto the changing pad with soft plips. He rocked forward experimentally, groaning at the exquisite friction.
Something gave way inside with a wet pop—maybe the last vestiges of resistance, maybe an old stitch. The boy's legs jerked spasmodically, toenails scratching at the pad as he sheathed himself completely. "Fuck," he hissed, hips flush against tiny buttocks, the scalding tightness almost unbearable. He stayed buried like that, hunched over the tiny form, inhaling the mingled scents of fear and baby shampoo.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, landing between the boy's shoulder blades on one of the little ducks that decorated the pajama top. He paused for a moment to remove the top so the boy was completely bare before him. His grip shifted, fingers digging into soft belly flesh hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents. Slowly, he pulled out until just the tip remained inside, reveling in the way the tortured opening clung to him, blood-slick and twitching. The boy made a gurgling sound, spit bubbling at the corner of his mouth as his father's hand pressed down on the back of his head.
He thrust back in with a grunt, this time at a sharper angle—upward, seeking that fragile inner wall he knew would tear so prettily. The changing table slammed against the wall with the force of it, rattling the framed ultrasound photo above them. As the photo landed on the pad next to the boy the glass cracked diagonally across the black-and-white blob that used to be his son's grainy likeness. He laughed breathlessly at the symmetry, hips pistoning faster now that the boy's hole had grown sloppy with blood. Each withdrawal pulled out ropes of crimson, pooling on the pad and then slowly dripping onto the floor between his boots.
The boy's body had gone frighteningly still except for the involuntary tremors that wracked him with every brutal thrust. A wetness spread across the changing pad below him—he'd pissed himself again. The man inhaled sharply through his nose, drunk on the stench of fear and copper and ammonia. His free hand wandered down to pinch the boy's limp cock between thumb and forefinger, rolling the tiny flesh as he fucked into him harder. "Gonna make you cum," he slurred, though he knew the child couldn't possibly at this age. Not really. But the thought of forcing those underdeveloped nerves to fire off uselessly anyway made his balls tighten.
Down the hall, the toilet tank groaned as it refilled—a mundane sound that somehow made the obscene squelching between them louder. Blood pooled beneath the changing table now, dripping in fat dollops onto the baby-blue bath mat the holes grandmother had knitted as a shower gift two years ago. The man’s rhythm grew erratic, his thrusts losing finesse as pleasure coiled low in his gut. He withdrew completely just to watch the ruined hole flutter open, raw and glistening, before slamming back in to the hilt with a wet slap.
The boy’s head lolled limply to the side and saliva trailed from his slack mouth onto the ultrasound photo’s broken glass—a grotesque parody of a kiss. “Stay awake,” the man growled, pinching a nipple between his nails until the child’s eyelids fluttered. Tiny fingers clawed weakly at the vinyl pad, still trying to get away.
A hot, stabbing pleasure built at the base of his spine as his thrusts turned jagged, each snap of his hips punctuated by the wet slap of flesh and the rattle of the safety rail. He yanked the boy’s hair to arch his spine further, savoring the way it tightened around his cock. The child’s breath came in shallow, whistling gasps now, his ribs visible under paper-thin skin with every labored inhale.
His own sweat dripped onto the boy’s back, tracing the ladder of vertebrae. The scent—blood, sweat, urine—thickened the air, cloying and metallic. He groaned, twisting his fingers deeper into the boy’s hair, pulling until the scalp blanched white under his grip. The tiny body beneath him convulsed once, a weak, wet cough and cry muffled by the changing pad.
Then he felt it—the telltale tightening in his balls, the heat coiling up his spine. His hips stuttered, driving in brutally one last time before his cock pulsed deep inside that ravaged hole. He came with a choked roar, spilling into the torn flesh, his fingers leaving bruises on the boy’s hips where he held him flush against his own body. The child’s whimper was barely audible, a broken sound lost under the man’s panting.
He didn’t pull out right away. Instead, he leaned down, pressing his lips to the boy’s damp temple, tasting salt and tears. “Perfect,” he murmured, dragging his tongue along the shell of his ear before biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. His softening cock slipped free with a wet sound, followed by a trickle of his own spend mixed with fresh blood. He watched it drip onto the changing pad, fascinated by the way it pooled in the creases of the vinyl.
The boy’s breathing was shallow and uneven, his little chest rising and falling too quickly. His fingers twitched weakly, but he didn’t otherwise move—just lay there, limp and pliant, like a discarded toy. The man traced a finger down his spine to his hole, pausing where the skin was split and raw. He pressed down experimentally, grinning when the boy let out a thin, reedy whine. “Hurts, huh?” he cooed, digging his nail in deeper until fresh blood welled up. He wiped it on the boy’s cheek, smearing it like war paint.
The nightlight flickered, casting jagged shadows across the ceiling. Downstairs, the TV mumbled some canned laughter—bright, meaningless noise. The man exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he glanced at the wreckage beneath him. The changing pad was slick with fluids, the vinyl warped where his grip had bent it out of shape. He stepped back, admiring his handiwork. The child’s thighs were streaked red, his hole still gaping slightly, pulsing with each shallow breath. A dark bruise was already forming on his hip where the man’s fingers had dug in too hard. He ran a thumb over it, satisfied when the boy flinched. “Daddy’s gonna clean you up,” he murmured, though the words carried no comfort.
He stepped across the hallway with the child in his arms and laid him on the counter top. The sink faucet groaned as he turned it on, waiting for the water to warm before soaking a washcloth. Steam curled around his wrist as he wrung it out, the heat just shy of scalding. He dragged the cloth between the boy’s legs without warning. The child jerked, a broken cry escaping his throat as the rough fabric scraped over torn flesh. “Shh,” the man soothed, his grip tightening on a bony knee to hold him still. He worked methodically, wiping away blood and semen, pausing only to admire the way the wounds glistened under the bathroom light. The washcloth came away pink, the water in the basin murky with filth. He dunked it again, watching the tendrils of red swirl and dissipate. The boy’s breathing hitched when fingers probed inside him once more, checking for damage. His hole was swollen, the rim raw and ragged. Perfect. He pressed two fingers in slowly, relishing the way the tight heat clenched around him despite the abuse. A fresh trickle of blood followed his withdrawal, dripping onto the sink countertop. “Good boy,” he murmured, patting the boy’s thigh with mock affection. “Took Daddy so well.”
The boy didn’t respond—just lay there, shivering slightly, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The man chuckled, tossing the soiled washcloth onto the floor.
He scooped the limp body into his arms, savoring the way the boy’s breath hitched when his hand brushed against the fresh bruises on his back. They returned to the nursery where he carried him to the crib, the bars rattling slightly when he lowered him onto the mattress. The boy curled onto his side instinctively, his knees drawn up to his chest, his breath coming in shallow, whistling gasps.
The father lingered, tracing a fingertip along the boy’s back and down his crack, stopping where the hole was split, swollen and still leaking. He pressed down just enough to elicit a thin, reedy whimper before pulling away. The man reached for the discarded pajama bottoms, balling them up before pressing the fabric between the boy’s legs. “Hold that,” he ordered, guiding small hands to clutch at the makeshift compress. The boy whimpered but obeyed, his fingers trembling around the bloodied cotton. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small, polished wooden plug—another "toy" for later. He tucked it between the boy’s clenched thighs, grinning when he felt the tiny body tense. "A new game for tomorrow," he whispered, patting his son’s hip before turning away.
"Sweet dreams," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.