Dad was strapped to the bed, arms spread wide, on his stomach. His ass was red and covered in welts. A big red ball was perched between his drooling lips. My cock was leaking.
I was sure my parents were going to get divorced.
It felt like all they did was fight. It was constant. As soon as I got to high school, it was like a switch flipped—we went from a big, happy family to two archenemies competitively trying to parent one teenager. It was exhausting. They worked tirelessly to find minute details to fight over, from doing dishes to washing the car to picking me up from soccer practice. Once they bought me my own car, they gave up on “who will pick Max up” and moved on to “who will pay for gas.”
There were only two times they weren’t fighting. The first was when they weren’t speaking, just letting the harsh, silent resentment bubble up between them, building until it noticeably lowered the air temperature.
The other was when they were fucking.
And boy, did they fuck.
I gathered from my friends in high school that it wasn’t normal to listen to your parents fuck like that. Apparently, some parents are discreet, and some pretend like they don’t have sex at all. Not my folks. An hour and a half, two, even three hours at a time, they would go at it like screaming, sweating, moaning maniacs. The floors would shake and clothes would rip and once or twice a neighbor even called the police; Mom would come down to the door to meet the officer, a towel thrown quickly over her body for modesty.
On one occasion, the cop, a young, new officer, asked to take a look around the house. I happened to be upstairs in my room at the time. Through the door, I heard my mother waffle for a moment on whether that was a good idea. I crept out and looked down the stairs; there she was, towel and all, and there was the thin-faced cop with his hand on his hip. Finally, she said yes, he could come take a look around. There was a strange look on her face when she agreed.
The cop didn’t linger long. He took a sweep of the main floor, checked the basement, and headed upstairs. Mom lingered behind him in her towel, occasionally making an awkward comment about the house to ease the tension. I could hear her voice flitting from floor to floor, babbling about vaulted ceilings and natural light. Finally, they came upstairs. I posed myself casually on the bed when he knocked on my door; he poked his head in, nodded, and closed the door again, continuing his search. Strange; I was sure he’d at least say something to me. I opened the door a crack to spy on him; I couldn’t help it. He was an invader, and I was curious.
I saw him pace slowly across the hall, open the door to the master bedroom, then quickly slam it shut. He turned around, his face plastered with shock, and quickly made for the stairs. Mom flapped after him, talking much faster now, blabbering how the bathrooms perfectly suited our little family. I heard him say something quick and polite on the stairs, then the indistinct murmurs of her explaining something.
Curiosity overwhelmed me. Where was Dad? I knew he had to be in the room, but why hadn’t I heard his voice? Was he okay? I had to act fast, before Mom came back upstairs. I bolted out of my room, hesitated for just a brief moment at the master bedroom door, and peeked inside.
There was Dad, alright—he was strapped to the bed, arms spread wide, on his back. Cuffs ensnared his wrists, holding his arms down to the bed. But his ankle cuffs did not keep his legs down—instead they pulled his legs straight up, the cords running to my parents’ huge headboard, leaving his ass exposed in a toppled sitting position. His ass, big and lightly furry, was red and covered in welts. A big red ball was perched between his drooling lips. Clamps held tightly to his nipples. He was wearing a blindfold.
And, of course, his cock was hard. It pointed up weirdly at his face in his reclined position, nestled in a neatly trimmed bush of brown. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I could see it throb gently as I watched. He was loving this.
That was when I saw that there was something in his ass. Something dark and… wide.
I heard Mom’s footsteps on the stairs again (having seen the cop out the door), and I sprinted back to my bedroom. I heard door to the master close, and it wasn’t long before the screams and moans started up again. This time, though, I could imagine my father’s bright red ass when I heard the thudding of flesh, and his big, beautiful dick when he moaned in ecstasy.
It was overwhelming. For the first time, listening to them fuck, I took my cock out. I jerked it frantically, keeping myself teetering on the edge until I heard the earthshaking holler that announced Dad’s climax. I made sure to cum at the same time.
Soon after, they started fighting over the thermostat.
I didn’t think things would work out long-term. I couldn’t imagine that the crazy sex was enough to keep them together; I figured that it was me. So when I left for college, I prepared for the call, or the text, or the visit home that would announce that they were separating.
When I left for college, they would barely talk to each other. They stood an awkward two feet apart and waved as I pulled out of the driveway with a car full of cheap dorm furniture. Dad was wearing a neatly pressed button down shirt, tucked carefully into his khaki pants. Mom was wearing a t-shirt and jeans.
Then there was the day that changed everything.
I got home from college with a duffel bag and a backpack. I was wearing a baseball cap turned backwards, a t-shirt, and shorts—all of it lightly sweaty from the early summer heat, if I recall. As soon as I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, I slipped my shoes off. I started to head upstairs when I heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh—someone was fucking in the kitchen. Only distantly surprised, I moved to the stairs again, but something about the sounds gave me pause. The slapping sound was normal for my parents, but the low growls, the deep moans, they were not. Mom was usually every bit as loud as Dad—why was she being so quiet?
Then, the impulsive thought. Maybe I should take a look.
And maybe, just maybe, I could catch a glimpse of Dad, sweating, cock flexing, ass jiggling…
So I peered around the stairs into the kitchen, where something altogether different was happening.
It was Dad, alright, moaning and groaning and whimpering on the kitchen island. He was on all fours, and slam fucking him with the biggest dick I’d ever seen in person was our big, hunky neighbor, Mr. Jones.
They were both naked, both dark and hairy, both glazed with a light sheen of sweat; both had clearly been athletes in their youths, but both (especially Dad) had filled out from years of comfortable suburban living. They looked… physically similar, almost, if not like brothers then like cousins. However, the similarity was only physical; their roles could not have been more different. Dad’s eyes were rolled back, his face was desperate and grateful and submissive. His back was arched, and his moans were light. His mouth was agape in ecstasy. Mr. Jones was growling, grunting, slamming Dad as hard as he could with slow, powerful strokes. His face was screwed up with intensity. But to top it all off, he was saying the most filthy things I had ever heard in my entire life.
“Take that fucking dick, faggot,” he said, yanking on my dad’s thinning hair to arch his back more.
“Yes, sir,” said Dad breathlessly between moans. “Whatever you want, sir.”
“I own that cunt, don’t I, bitch? This ass is fucking mine to seed whenever I want?”
“Yes, sir! Whenever you want!”
“Take this fucking cock, boy. You’re going to have to work for this load. You’re going to have to earn it.”
“Please sir,” Dad started to undulate backwards, grinding Mr. Jones’ cock deeper inside of him, “please, sir, I need your fucking load. I need it inside me.”
“You my good faggot cumdump?”
“I’m your fucking faggot cumdump SIR!”
Mr. Jones slapped his ass. Hard. I noticed that there were dark red handprints on Dad’s ass already. How long had they been at this?
“Fuck, faggot, I’m getting close now. Are you ready for my cum?”
“Please! Yes, sir! Breed my faggot ass!”
“You’re fucking lucky you get this load, boy.”
“You’re lucky I’m not shoving it in your wife’s cunt.”
“But you earned it, didn’t you, faggot? And now you’re the lucky cunt, instead of her.”
“Of course, sir! Thank you, sir!”
“Get ready, boy.”
It was at this moment that Mr. Jones looked up and saw me standing by the entryway, watching in shock. His eyebrows shot up in surprise; he pulled out of Dad’s ass with a faint pop. Then, he shoved himself all the way inside again. His eyes flicked around the kitchen for a moment apprising the situation, and then he started fucking away again. He started to smile, mischievously, smugly. Dad didn’t notice; he thought that this was just part of the fuck. He couldn’t see the look on Mr. Jones’ face as he found a new level of humiliation for his bitch: his son. He gestured for me to come toward the island. I did. In that motion alone, I could see why Dad did as he said; he had a kind of magnetism to him, a kind of persona that emanated like the smell of his sweat. He leaned forward to talk into Dad’s ear.
“You ready?” he said softly.
“Fuck yeah,” said Dad.
“You’re such a lucky cunt,” he said, “you get to show what a worthless cumdump you are to the world. Starting with your son.”
Dad’s eyes opened wide; he seemed to come back into himself, sobering up after being cockdrunk. He turned, saw me, and started to get up, but Mr. Jones shoved him down, pressing his face to the marble countertop of the island. Dad struggled, but Mr. Jones’ grip was hard. He struggled to form the words to protest. Mr. Jones laughed.
“Here it fucking cums, faggot.”
“No, no, please no! Not in front of Max. Max, look away!”
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I said nothing.
“I’m about to cum, boy,” said Mr. Jones, jackhammering away at Dad’s hole. “Do you want this load or not?”
Dad looked into my eyes. His horror ran deep. It was too late for him. It had probably been too late for a long time. There was no going back.
“Please sir,” he said quietly. “Please breed me. I need your cum.”
“Fallen far, haven’t you, bitch?” said Mr. Jones, and he started to moan and pound as he came hard in Dad’s ass. His climax was long and intense. His head jerked like he was possessed. He clawed at Dad’s back and shoulders, spewing every profane word I’d ever heard and a few I hadn’t. After what was probably a solid minute of this, he finally took a deep breath and slowly pulled his cock out of Dad. He wordlessly stepped off the counter.
“Don’t move,” he said to Dad. Dad had raised himself back into an all-fours position and started to sit back on his heels. He froze.
Mr. Jones went to the oven and took one of the hanging hand towels, wiping the sweat off his face. He made to wipe the lube, ass, and cum off his dick, but before he did, an idea struck him. He turned to me, half-hard cock swinging.
“It would be a shame to waste all this cum,” he said, pointing to the white smears on his dick. “You want some?”
My hesitation was all he needed. “Get down here, boy, and clean this cock off.”
My mind seemed to go blank. I could hear Dad’s voice say “no” distantly, but I couldn’t think of anything else—I needed to do as I was told, and I had been given a direct order. Surely Dad couldn’t blame me; he was under the same spell. I knelt down and gently brought Mr. Jones’ dick to my lips. I brought it into my mouth and slurped it clean. The taste of cum was faint, but enough; I felt my already hard cock throb, and I felt a glob of pre-cum seep into my underwear. Mr. Jones laughed.
“Like father, like son, eh?” I pulled off of Mr. Jones’ cock long enough to see my dad shake his head in disbelief. Mr. Jones guided me back down to the hilt. “You’re not done till I say you’re done.”
It took another few minutes before I had cleaned his cock satisfactorily. Finally, he pulled me off my by ears and grabbed my boner through my shorts, pulling me into a standing position.
“How did that taste, boy?”
I swallowed. “Good, sir.” It was only a half-lie; I couldn’t really taste anything but slight saltiness because my head was pounding so hard. But what I tasted, I liked.
“I’ll bet you’re as obedient as your dad here. Aren’t you?”
“I—I don’t know sir,” I said. “Maybe.”
“Let’s find out,” he said, a wicked glint in his eye. He guided me by the shoulder around the island to Dad’s ass.
“Your daddy’s got a good ass here, doesn’t he, boy?”
“Let me tell you, kid, he fucking loves having cock in there. It’s just about his whole purpose in life, now. He’s obsessed with it.” He grabbed Dad’s cock and balls to pull them out of the way so that I could see the counter between his legs. It was splattered with big, white drops. Those couldn’t be from Mr. Jones’ load… had Dad… did he cum just from being fucked?
Was that before or after I walked in on them?
“I shot a huge load in there, kid,” Mr. Jones added, slapping Dad’s red ass cheek. Dad jumped; I saw his asshole wink. A white drop of cum leaked out and ran down his hairy taint.
“You heard him beg for that load, didn’t you, boy?”
“You know how much he wants it.”
“But I’ve changed my mind.”
I thought I saw Dad tense up. His asshole winked again.
“He doesn’t get my load, not today. But you do.” He leaned in close to my face; his breath was intoxicating. I could see beads of sweat on his forehead. His eyes seemed to glow. “You got a taste of me; do you want the rest of my load?”
I gulped. “Y-yes, sir.”
“Then eat it out of your daddy’s ass… faggot.”
I nodded shakily. Mr. Jones’ cock chubbed half-erect again.
I turned to Dad and pried apart his glowing ass cheeks (they were so warm!), leaning in to his swollen pucker. I kissed it first, gently, feeling that first drop of cum on my lips. Cautiously, I stuck my tongue out and probed Dad’s ass. Goose bumps flooded his thighs. I licked and poked my tongue in as deeply as I could; I was surprised when it passed easily through Dad’s first ring. Mr. Jones must have totally destroyed Dad’s ass.
I heard a growling voice in my ear, felt the bristles of his dark beard on my cheek.
“Like you mean it, boy.”
Just sticking my tongue in wasn’t good enough; I had to prove to Mr. Jones that I wanted it. I went to town, licking, rubbing, even fingering Mr. Jones’ load out of my father’s ass, savoring the saltiness of it, feeling the alkaline flavor coat my tongue. This time, I could taste everything, and I fucking loved it. Dad moaned and flexed and panted, his sensitive ass bucking from his son’s touch. Mr. Jones spoke to Dad directly:
“Let him have it, faggot. It’s not yours to keep.”
I felt Dad push, and more cum cascaded onto my tongue. How could anyone produce this much jizz?
I licked and fingered and swallowed for God knows how long before Mr. Jones finally pulled me back.
“That’s enough, faggot. I don’t think he has any more to give. You did a good job.”
“Thank you, sir,” I intoned automatically. Is this who I am now?
“There’s just one more item of business I want to take care of before I go,” Mr. Jones said, suddenly businesslike. He went over to the counter, where his clothes had been neatly folded and placed. He rummaged around in his pocket for a moment, then turned to me with a clump of plastic.
“Your father will do anything I ask him to. He is utterly subservient to me, and I control him. This is a chastity cage. He won’t be able to even get hard when he wears it, let alone jerk off. He will become nothing but a vessel for cock.” He handed the cage to me. “You put it on him.”
Dad looked over his shoulder at us, eyes wide in terror. It seemed that they didn’t discuss this in advance. Interesting.
“What happens if I do?” I said cautiously.
“It means you’re involved,” came the easy answer. “It means you do as I say. It means you control your father as my proxy when I’m not around. And it means… that you want this.”
I looked at his blazing eyes and then at my father, who looked desperate. I took the cage.
“Yes, sir.” I said. I put the ring around my father’s balls, stuffed his cock into the black plastic tube, and fastened the lock. I started to offer the key to Mr. Jones, but he shook his head.
“You keep it. For now. If you’re in this thing, he needs to know you’re above him in the pecking order. I’m going out of town tomorrow morning. You’ll have a week to break him in.”
“How long does he have to stay locked?”
Mr. Jones shrugged. “A day? Three? All week? Forever? It’s up to you, kid, until I get back.”
He dressed and strode out the door without saying another word. Dad looked at me sheepishly.
“Can I get off the island now?”