This story contains themes of incest, homophobia and toxic masculinity. It is a work of fiction and its author does not condone, endorse, or glorify any of the depicted behaviors.
A Game of Catch
1.
The stale scent of toast and something cloying—Bryce’s cologne—hung in the kitchen air like an insult. Where did this fucking kid get off? Jake wanted to know. Not what Bryce was doing, but what right did he have to this casual disregard? The weight of it settled deep into his shoulders and back, heavier than any workout: Jake was an aggrieved man.
His wife was away, again. Sheila. She’d been gone a lot lately, visiting her ailing parents. Without her there to provide her usual buffer—the soft, unobtrusive cover over Bryce’s conduct—Jake could see their son. Truly see him. And it wasn’t good. Not good at all.
Every sloppy habit felt like a personal slight, chipped away at Jake’s accomplishments, his life’s work. He’d labored for this house, sacrificed, for this life, for them. And what did he get in return? A vague sense of being a glorified ATM and a barely tolerated housemate.
When Bryce shaved, he left his little blond whiskers, a careless dusting of disrespect, clinging to the porcelain of the sink. He made breakfast and left the butter out on the counter, uncovered, a softening yellow slab. And the pan he used, barely rinsed, still filmed with eggs. Another testament to his disregard.
He drifted through the house in his boxers, slung low on his slim hips, as if the place belonged to him alone. Built like a young god, sure. Jake understood—he’d had that body once. But Bryce squandered that too, and that was the greatest insult. That was another story.
He was always on his phone, messaging his friends—or boyfriends, Jake guessed, though he seemed to go through them, never bothering to bring them around. Another slight.
Rinsing the pan Bryce had used, the warm water doing little against the stubborn egg film, Jake thought this wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
He’d done everything expected of a man of his age, station, and abilities. As a boy, he’d excelled, working and playing hard, always pushing himself. He avoided excess, treated his body like a temple. He married young to a good girl, grew in his profession. He was a faithful and good provider. He kept himself as fit as he was in college, well into his forties, as his peers went soft. He saw their envious glances in the locker room, felt the subtle shift in their posture around him. At least they appreciated him in their small way.
He’d held up his end of the unspoken bargain and expected an easier middle age, a distant but eventual retirement, with a grateful, adoring family. He was owed adult sons who, in their turn, followed in his footsteps, perpetuating the cycle. A wife who kept herself as pretty as he kept himself fit, a partner who kept pace with him.
What he had instead was this: A middle-aged wife, distracted, leaving him in a sexless marriage more often than not. Escalating bills, for gadgets that didn’t even exist in his youth, more being invented every day. And a single son who turned out gay, ending Jake’s family line.
To add insult to injury, Bryce could have had it all. He was blessed with the best of both parents, blended to greater effect in him than in either of them. He had Jake’s natural athleticism and his mother’s blond good looks, making him broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, pretty in the face without being feminine at all. Jake had, on occasion, caught himself staring, a flicker of something he quickly dismissed as pride in his genetics.
Fuck. He never should have let his only son be given a pussy name like Bryce.
Couldn’t he have kept that homo shit bottled up? Jake wondered, scrubbing harder. Couldn’t he just do what was expected, and take care of that other business on the side? Instead, he was wasting the gift of his body on the dead end of—Jake assumed—receiving other men’s pleasure.
Couldn't he have just used the body Jake gave him to create grandchildren, to pass on Jake's line?
Not a single person in Jake’s house appreciated what he’d done for them.
2.
“Bryce,” Jake said, his voice clipped. He held a baseball, its worn leather rough beneath his thumb, and two mitts. “Catch.”
“Not now,” the boy replied, barely looking up from his phone, thumb gliding. A casual dismissal.
“Catch,” Jake said, more sternly, getting the boy’s attention with the edge in his voice. He threw the ball hard—hard enough for Bryce to feel it, when he instinctively raised his hands to catch, just barely shielding his shoulder from the sharp, intended impact.
Good boy. If he had to be gay he at least still had a good eye and hand. Jake had given him that, too.
“Catch. Now.”
Bryce might be an obstinate young man, almost twenty, but Jake had the advantage of years of Bryce seeing him as bigger, indomitable. Even pissy and disrespectful, Bryce couldn’t just shrug off that conditioning. His defiance folded under Jake’s force, as he roused himself, following Jake out to the fenced backyard.
The property had been bought by the sweat off Jake’s back, figuratively, but as surely as he’d made Bryce with his cock and balls and DNA. Whatever the boy was, he owed half of it to the sweat off Jake’s back—literally.
They threw the ball back and forth, harder than necessary. Jake put his weight into every throw, pushing from his dense, years-forged core, sending the ball with a force that showed he wasn’t just playing. Bryce caught with a fluid ease, his young body absorbing the blows with a supple give that both impressed and irritated Jake.
The funny thing about this game, Jake had often thought, was that it was called catch, not throw, even though throwing is half the equation. The name of the game puts the burden on the one who receives. Another funny thing—no winners, no losers, just the endless back and forth. Drop the ball, pick it up, keep going. But this game, today, felt more like a war of attrition. Nothing friendly about it—just a relentless exchange, each throw more laden than the last.
“You left a mess in the bathroom,” Jake said. Throw.
The ball hissed through the air, a physical manifestation of his simmering resentment.
Catch. “What?” Bryce asked, flat, his arm aching. Throw.
Catch. “When you shaved. You need to clean the damn sink.” Throw hard.
The fastball slammed into Bryce’s mitt with an angry pop. He stumbled back a step, but caught it. Good boy. His eyes met Jake's with a flicker of challenge.
Jake recalled a line he'd read somewhere, from a poet to a student who had figured out a line he’d written: It’s nice to have someone catch what you’re throwing. Jake threw. Bryce caught. But he wasn’t catching the message. Not the real one.
And so they played, back and forth, neither enjoying the game but neither yielding. Jake’s throws were backed with resentment. Bryce, with his bruised palm and aching arm, caught every one, absorbing the impact, matching it with his own youthful defiance, refusing to yield.
The heat and silence of the day played on them until their faces ran with sweat, their shirts darkened in the armpits and backs. When the sun passed its peak, their arms ached and their cheeks and noses were ruddy.
Bryce had youth, but Jake had endurance. That’s why it was Bryce who ultimately—hours after they began—caught his last ball and dropped it to the grass, done. He massaged his shoulder gingerly. Though Jake’s own dense bicep throbbed with a dull ache, he felt a deep wave of satisfaction. He’d outlasted the young stud, beaten him through sheer will. His enduring power confirmed.
Bryce turned, still rubbing his shoulder. His voice was raw, stripped of the usual bite. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He stared at Jake, searching for something in his face. “What are you punishing me for?”
3.
What wasn’t wrong? Jake could have asked in return.
His son was a faggot. That was the blunt, brutal truth.
Jake was never the type to throw the word around. In the locker room, out for beers. When the other guys sneered it, he kept his mouth shut. Let it go. But facts were facts, and the word was now his burden too. That was the ugly, undeniable fact in the middle of his life.
Those other guys—his colleagues, his competitors at the club, the men who measured themselves against him daily—they’d know eventually. They’d start asking, their voices too cheerful by half, about when Bryce would bring a girlfriend around. A good-looking stud like him—he must have to beat them off with a stick, they’d say.
Jake could play dumb. Say Bryce was just picky, or too busy, or couldn’t settle on just one girl. He could lie. Or he could tell the truth.
They’d have one up on him. The biggest one. The ultimate failure. Knowing his only boy, Bryce, was getting his ass plugged by other men, like a fucking pussy. The son he had created, with his own seed, his own strong genes, to carry on his line.
All of Jake’s investment, his whole life’s work, his carefully constructed legacy, would end there, in a faggot’s ass. No grandchildren. The final, humiliating door slamming.
He might as well be the fag himself, might as well be the one taking it, for all the good his efforts had done him. This was the biggest grievance of all.
It wasn’t just the perverse use of his able body, though that was enough to make Jake’s stomach churn. It was the ingratitude. The deliberate, flagrant disregard for all Jake had built, all he’d given. Every dollar earned, every sacrifice made, every drop of sweat in the gym, all for this: a son who would turn his back on the very natural order Jake had upheld his entire life.
Bryce actively—willfully—chose to squander the gifts Jake had bestowed upon him, using his perfect body as a gift to other men instead of its rightful purpose—to pass on Jake's name.
It offended his every sensibility as a father. To picture another man using Bryce’s body, splitting him open, dumping his load there—Bryce arching his back like a bitch, groaning, begging for more—sickened him.
That body was meant for sports, hard work, the kind of life Jake understood. Broad shoulders, strong legs. But Bryce, careless, was making it into a whore’s—something for other men to use for their own idle pleasure. A body made for building, turned into one for serving.
Other men would be getting off on him—hell, getting off in him—and Jake would be the only one left with nothing. No appreciation. No legacy. Just the taste of betrayal.
He knew the sneers he would face, the pitying looks. He'd seen them given to other men whose daughters had "gone wild," or whose sons were soft. He'd contributed to them himself. Now, it was his turn, and he felt a bitter rage.
He’d thought, vaguely, of starting again. Getting a divorce and a new young wife, fucking a load of sons into her. He got enough looks from women to know it was possible, and even at 47 he was an undiminished fucker. If anything he’d held so much in reserve, it would be good to cut loose—with someone young enough, hungry enough for him, to take it. It would be good to be wanted again.
Instead, he spent this summer while his wife was away circling Bryce like two panthers in a zoo enclosure, with too little space for both their territories, the hair on their necks bristling as they passed each other. Bryce, on his phone, always messaging someone, or disappearing to God knew where. Always pushing Jake’s limits. Always trying to provoke… something.
Jake ought to get something out of this all. A return on his investment. An acknowledgment.
And Bryce’s question still hung there. What was Jake punishing him for?
Might as well spit it out—it wasn’t going to change any time soon.
“For being a faggot,” Jake said, low and raw. There. It was out. And the release, the brutal truth, was a shot of pure satisfaction.
4.
“That’s it?” Bryce asked, with a slow head shake. “Guilty as charged.”
He stepped up close to Jake—closer than he had in a long time. His eyes—pale amber like his mother’s—locked on Jake’s. He moved with a liquid grace that prickled something in Jake—a carelessness that suggested no effort—to a man who had fought for every inch of muscle, every territory, every achievement.
“Suck my dick,” Jake said. The words emerged from his throat with a strange calm. He groped at the raging hardon that surged beneath the thin cotton of his gym shorts. God, it felt so good to say it, to finally articulate the raw demand. It felt like a right neglected, now claimed.
Bryce’s gaze never wavered. His hand, more slender than Jake’s, but strong, wrapped around his father’s straining bulge through the fabric, his fingers tracing the rigid length, the thick head. Jake felt a dizzying jolt of something pure he quickly dismissed as the thrill of dominance.
“Get that faggot mouth on my dick,” Jake rasped, watching Bryce’s face. It was like the boy was daring him, meeting him and egging him on.
Bryce went down. Not in a rush, but not slowly either. Faster than he responded to play catch earlier, faster than he ever cleaned his goddamn sink, faster than he ever met Jake’s eye unless provoked. It was a deliberate descent, with an athlete’s control.
He pulled back and down Jake’s shorts without hesitation, leaving Jake briefly wondering how many times he’d done this with other men. His cool about it suggested many, the idea of which made Jake’s cock surge. But Bryce’s next act jerked him out of his head and back into his body.
Fuck, Jake thought as the soft, warm mouth enveloped his cock—a sudden shock rippling through him. I should’ve done this instead of that dumb game of catch. This was instant interest on the boy’s part. This was attention.
Bryce took him deep, and Jake could see right off how good it was going to be. There was nothing tentative about Bryce now; he was hungry. He worked the length of Jake’s cock with his lips and tongue and hand, a fluid, knowing motion.
Jake watched, mesmerized by the swirl of pale blond hair as his fingers came to rest in it—by Bryce’s devotion. He seemed to admire the cock that made him. He fucking adored it, in a way Jake hadn’t felt in so long. And it was about fucking time. Jake felt a surge of triumph, a perverse sense of finally having his potency acknowledged.
As he watched how aggressively Bryce gulped down his length and came back for more, the awareness settled on Jake that he could, if he chose, fuck that sweet mouth. He could slam into the soft pillows of his lips, the snug cleft in his throat. Not a modest girl or a weary wife, Bryce could take it. He’d want that.
He might be a faggot, but he was a young man, with a young man’s appetites and endurance. He was built for it. For this. The perfect match for Jake, for his body and for his appetite. The realization was both sickening and exhilarating.
“Is that what you do, faggot?” Jake asked, his voice rough with a mixture of disgust and rising desire.
“It is,” Bryce rasped, his voice rougher for his effort, hand working Jake’s throbbing cock. He rose to his feet, standing so close their bodies almost brushed. His lips wet, shining, the tips of their noses grazed. His eyes held Jake’s, unwavering.
“Faggot.” Jake could hardly believe he was talking to his own boy, to Bryce, this way. But Bryce took it in stride. He welcomed it—seemed to absorb the insult, made it his own, and then threw it back, transformed. Catch.
He pressed his wet lips to Bryce’s—a slow, deliberate seal—but it was Bryce’s tongue, tasting faintly of Jake’s own body, that pressed into Jake’s mouth. Hands on waists pulled each other close and cocks grinding against each other, Jake’s already aching for more. Bryce’s hands settled on the thick muscle of Jake’s chest, Jake’s own hands instinctively pressing into the firm mounds of Bryce’s ass, pulling him in.
Fuck, it felt good. Jake thought, with a flash of perverse pride, *he’s perfect. My creation.*
“Is this what you built yourself up for?” Jake asked between kisses, their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. “For men to use you? To fuck your faggot ass?”
The words, intended as an accusation, now felt like a question for the universe itself: How could it be that Bryce’s body could be used for the pleasure of any man—every man—except for the solitary exception of himself—the one who made it?
“Not for men,” Bryce answered, his voice humming against Jake’s lips. “For you.”
5.
Fuck.
The words hammered into Jake, settling deep in his core. Bryce had taken the good raw material Jake had put in him—the athleticism, the strong frame, the tenacity—and sculpted himself into something not for men, but for Jake.
The bands of muscle in his chest for grabbing onto, the V taper of his back, the faint vein in his bicep and shoulders like marble. The firm cusps of ass, so perfectly formed for prying apart, to get to the fuckhole between. It was all a perverted but undeniable tribute. And Jake, in his gut, recognized the beauty of his own design, the flawless execution of his seed.
Looked at properly, whatever they might do—what he now intended to do—wasn’t cheating.
The boy was half him and half his wife—not so different than fucking her or jerking off. It was the completion of a cycle so logical he couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen it sooner. The body of his son, a direct extension of himself, could fulfill him in a way his wife couldn’t, and his legacy never would. It was his due.
And why should he be the single man in the entire wild world denied this? The only man not allowed to partake of his own handiwork? It was owed to him.
Jake turned Bryce around, manhandling him with a sudden, rough surge, jerking down his shorts to reveal the pale globes of his ass. Throw.
Bryce smirked as he braced himself against the cool, hard surface of the counter, even as a tremor ran through his sore arm, slightly spreading his legs. Catch. Good boy.
As Jake pressed against him, he could feel the fine hairs on Bryce’s neck, one aching arm around the boy, the warmth radiating from his body and the subtle play of muscle in his back as he fingered his ass, hand wedged between athletic thighs.
The entry was tight. So damn tight. Jake wanted in—needed in—but he didn’t want it to be just pain. Fuck, he wanted him to like it, to need it as much as Jake did. It was good to be needed. That would make it so much better.
On the counter, still, was the butter left out from breakfast. Bryce’s carelessness now an invitation. Jake scooped some up in his hand, the slick fat cool against his veined, aching cock. He greased his length and girth with it, an animal preparation. The rest he pressed into Bryce’s tight hole, easing his fingers in, working the ring with his thumb, stretching him open.
Bryce gasped, arching his back and wrapped hands around Jake’s thick forearm held across his chest, a subtle signal. The faggot was ready.
Jake eased in the head, jaw clenched to steel his resolve, holding his breath as the thick, engorged tip found its way in. Then the rest, an agonizingly slow push, until it was all in. Bryce’s snug insides hugging his cock like a second skin. So tight. So warm. So perfectly formed to take him.
This wouldn’t take long. He knew it.
Jake rocked his hips into the boy, surprised at how easily Bryce took it, how his body seemed to simply yield. He even reached down to work his own erection as Jake’s thrusts fucked a clear stream of fluid out of it, leaking onto the kitchen floor—a physical mirroring of Jake’s own pleasure.
He reached around to hug the boy’s chest. It was firm but supple, like his ass—not like a woman’s tits, with the bands of muscle beneath. But it felt good, so good, to get his hands on them, to possess this body for his own pleasure.
It caught Jake by surprise, the swell of his cock, going harder than before, the edge of climax burning. He pulled Bryce closer, grinding, muttering, “Fucking faggot.” The words, no longer an insult, but a perverse expression of their match to each other.
The words put him over, a tidal wave of pure, uninhibited release. His hard thrusts slammed Bryce against the counter, digging into him, feeling the deep, fulfilling grind as he shot his load.
He could see it in his mind’s eye, gushing inside Bryce, filling him, meeting the end of his line in this grotesque way. He couldn’t stop, shoving in, fucking his load into the shuddering, beautiful boy, his supple muscles tensing as he absorbed every thrust.
“Take it… faggot whore,” he grunted, a final, choked gasp, and settled against Bryce, muscled back, kissing the nape of his neck in gratitude.
Jake pulled out, suddenly and crashingly sober to what he’d done. The silence of the kitchen, the sticky warmth of their mingled fluids, grease and filth on his half-hard cock. The reality of Bryce’s bowed back.
A cold dread swept through him. Oh fuck, he thought, reeling, leaning back against the counter he’d just had Bryce bent over. What had he done? The sheer enormity of it threatened to crush him.
Then, the boy turned and dropped to his knees again, his head bowed, his warm mouth on Jake’s leaking cock, engulfing it. Cleaning him off. Like a supplicant.
Jake realized that for everything that aggrieved him, for every slight and bitter resentment, he’d found his grotesque answer. He had a boy who would always worship him, precisely the way he deserved.
END
