The Sins Of The Son (Patreon)

Hello all! Here is the first commission of the month. Enjoy!

Preview:

The kitchen light is the only one on. He pulls the ham out, the mayonnaise, two slices of bread that are starting to stiffen at the edges. He grabs the knife in the drawer where it always is, and spreads the mayo in a thick uneven coat then folds the ham when the sound comes again, louder now that he’s under it. Not furniture, more like a rhythm; Impact, pause, impact. The ceiling above the counter gives a small sympathetic tick.

Then he hears a voice. His dad’s voice, low and scraped, cursing for seemingly no reason. “Fuck! Sh-shit-”

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He stops a foot from the door. His mouth is dry, and he can hear breathing between the impacts, harsh, pulled in and shoved out. "Fuuuck..." A curse again, softer, almost private. The bed or whatever he’s braced against answers with another knock. Emmet’s ears begin to feel hot. It doesn't take a genius to guess what is going on. He knows what it is and yet he doesn’t want to know what it is, and both things sit in his head at once. He lifts a hand to knock but he stops. His voice comes out instead, thinner than it does in game. “D-dad?”

The rhythm stops like a wire cut. Silence, except for a breath that stutters and then holds. Emmet stares at the paint on the door, the scuff near the handle from years of feet. He almost turns around, then his dad answers, and his voice is wrecked, hoarse, pulled up from somewhere low. “Y-yeah, son?”

Emmet’s fingers curl against his thigh. “You good? I heard...it sounded like something fell.”

There is a pause long enough that he hears the lamp hum. His dad, Brian, swallows. When he speaks again the words are careful and gruff at the same time, like he’s forcing them through a throat that doesn’t want to work. “What? N-no, all good, Emmet. Just… I… uh… I just… I just found out about a new exercise that’s supposed to help with… with your health… and … uh… yeah… that’s it.”

**************************************

“Nuh-uh” Dylan coos, his tone mocking as he slows his thrusts to a deep, grinding roll, making the older man feel every inch, and every throbbing vein. “Come on, now. Don’t you bite that blanket, like a pathetic fag, you’ll ruin it. Open your mouth and let that slutty scream out for Daddy” He releases Brian’s hair only to snake his hand around, his fingers pressing against Brian’s lips. “Here. Bite me if you gotta. But you’re gonna take this dick like a good little bitch, and you’re gonna cum all over this bed, and you’re gonna thank me for it. Now, moan for me, bitch!” He immediately resumes his brutal pace. The PLAPPLAPPLAPPLAPPLAPPLAP returns, louder now, faster, a relentless drumbeat of possession. The air reeks like sex, sweat, and dizzying scent of testosterone as Dylan breeds the older cockwhore's cunt like he was paid for it, his own breathing becoming ragged, and his composure slipping into something raw and hungry. He watches the way Brian’s ass ripples with each impact, and a possessive thrill shoots through him. “Fuck, I can feel you shaking” The hung trap grunts, his hips stuttering. “You’re close. I can feel your fucking bitch-button fluttering around my dick. You wanna cum, you sad, pathetic fuck? Go ahead. Cream yourself. Let me fucking feel it, old man!”