After Dinner

Marc took another bite of the roast and closed his eyes to savor the soft, but springy texture of the meat.

"Oh," he said. It was all he could say. The meal was leaps and bounds from the rabbit food he'd been eating for the last few days. Michael had been trying to get him to go vegan, but all he'd done was prepare his partner for the perfection, the absolute wonder that was his mom's pot roast.

"Oh," he repeated.

Carolyn Diaz beamed as Marc sunk about half of the food on his plate into his mouth in short order. She had the warm, sly look of a woman well-used to receiving such quiet, yet enthusiastic approval.

"Careful, too much excitement and you'll spoil her," said Jacob, Michael's smiling father.

"And what's wrong with spoiling a woman?" Carolyn asked while swatting her husband's hand playfully. "Not that any of you boys would know anything about that."

"You wound me, madam. I'd say you've been plenty spoiled thus far," Jacob replied, pretending to be dramatically stung by her words.

Their banter bounced back and forth while Michael rolled his eyes. Marc had been warned, multiple times, about what Michael called his parents' "corny Morticia and Gomez routine," but Marc found himself charmed by it. His parents, even when they had been together, hadn't been anywhere near as affectionate or breezy with each other.

"I'd love the recipe for this, Mrs. Diaz," Marc said, once there was a break in the interplay.

Carolyn affixed Marc with an evaluative stare that reminded him of a hawk or some other bird of prey. She raised one bemused eyebrow.

"Is that right? Then we'll have to print you a copy. Are you much of a cook, Marcus? I hope so because I've seen what my son calls cooking, even if I'm not brave enough to sample it myself."

Tittering laughter followed the gentle ribbing and Jacob, now playing the firm patrician, frowned.

"Leave the boys be, Carolyn. At their age, I could hardly boil water."

"And look how far you've come, sweetheart," Carolyn said warmly.

"Do you cook too, Mr. Diaz?" Marc asked.

Jacob's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Darling boy, you're eating my roast."

"I'm such a bonehead," Marc complained into his hands.

"You're fine," Michael replied. His parents had absconded with the dirty dishes, leaving the two of them alone for the first time since dinner started. "They set you up. It's what they do. Moves and countermoves. It's always chess with them. No one should blame the rabbit for walking into the snare."

"Now I'm the rabbit?"

Michael looked like he was about to say something, but just then Carolyn entered the room and with a warm—seemingly genuine—smile, announced that dessert was served.

The course involved a complex looking cake—Marc was careful not to ask who baked it—and a selection of cordials that left Marc's cheeks flushed and his lips looser than they'd otherwise have been.

"Thank you for having me in your lovely home," Marc blurted as Carolyn filled his glass with something that burned as it went down, but tasted as light as air.

"Of course," Jacob said. "We've been itching to meet the lad who's enamored our jaded little explorer."

Michael shook his head. "Not this…"

"What?" Marc asked, confused.

"It's dumb. So dumb."

Jacob spoke up, as if Michael hadn't protested. "As a child Michael managed to find his way out of this house at every opportunity. First the sleepwalking, then the 'exploration' of the nearby parks in the middle of the night, and of course, the requisite sneaking out. It's no wonder he ended up traveling the globe. Any way he could get out from under our thumb."

"It's not like that. I love this place. I just have wanderlust, I guess," Michael replied.

Carolyn, without missing a beat, added, "Darling, you know we don't take up carnal discussion until the coffee. No lust. Wander or otherwise."

More laughter and more affected groans on Michael's part.

After the coffee was poured, Carolyn, who'd been a dervish of activity all night compared to Jacob's cool, jocularity, finally sat down. The family sipped the sweetened coffee and listened to a record playing lightly in the background of the living room.

It was in this setting, under the warming haze of a minor buzz, that Marc started to notice the resemblance between Michael and his father: the same sharp nose and clear, brownish-hazel eyes. They even had the same reserved smile that always started at the corners. Where Michael was a fastidious gym goer, Jacob had settled into his slightly stocky build and the dusting of silver hair peppered into Michael's chestnut brown had bloomed on his father's sleek salt-and-pepper fade.

Jacob caught Marc staring and gave him a good-natured wink before standing and clearing the empty coffee cups from the table.

"I think the boys are well and truly knackered, Carolyn. We ought to leave them to it," Jacob said.

Michael's mother rose as well and began the inevitable process of running through a list of toiletries, towels, and midnight snacks on offer at the Diaz household should either of their guests find a need. Michael reassured his mother that he still had some idea of how to navigate his childhood home and hugs were shared all around. When it was time to embrace Michael's father, Marc tried to leave it at a polite one-armed hug, only to find himself enfolded in Jacob's arms.

"Sleep well. Delighted you're here, son," Jacob said. It wasn't a whisper, but just low enough that it only registered to Marc. The statement was innocuous and simple, but Marc had to convince his cock otherwise.

He thought about that line again and again: while brushing his teeth, while putting away his clothes. He tried to tell Michael about it, mentioning that it was a little strange, and Michael made a face.

"You'd prefer he said something homophobic?"

Marc was forced to admit that it was better to be welcome and that was the end of that. But later, while lying awake beside Michael who snored softly, Marc found himself still thinking about being called son by a man who wasn't his father. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, but he thought of his own dad: a distant, chilly figure and tried to imagine a father as playful and likable as Jacob. He couldn't, though he tried for a long time.

This restlessness got him up out of bed at three a.m. and Marc went downstairs to the kitchen dressed only in a pair of close-fitting boxer briefs and a t-shirt. Somehow he wasn't all that surprised to find Jacob Diaz sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar with a book propped up in one hand and his fingers curled around the handle of a steaming mug.

"Couldn't sleep, kiddo?" Jacob asked, before he looked up to see Marc instead of Michael. "Oh. Sorry, Marc. I thought it was our little explorer. Can't sleep either, eh?"

"For once I'm the one wandering around after hours instead of him. And you don't have to apologize."

"Pardon me?" Jacob asked, puzzled.

Marc knew there was probably a blush climbing his cheeks, but he fought his way through it. "You called me kiddo, then apologized. But it's all right. I don't mind."

Jacob shifted back in his seat and stared at Marc. It was the same look as his wife's: evaluation, a bit of sharp humor, but also frankly predatory. Marc wondered who had taught it to whom.

"I see. Well, if you can't sleep, you might as well relax. Cocoa?" Jacob lifted his mug.

Marc padded across the tile floor on bare feet to where Jacob was sitting. The younger man reached for the mug, but Jacob circumvented his efforts and himself lifted the mug to Marc's lips. As Jacob tipped the mug toward him, Marc slowly sipped the rich, hot, sweet cocoa and felt his dick filling out the pouch of his boxer briefs. He felt exposed, but Jacob murmured comfortingly at him: "There you go, son. Drink it down for me. Finish it up for dad."

Once the mug was empty, Marc licked the creamy residue from his lips and Jacob placed the empty mug on the counter. There was a moment of awkwardness between them as they both calibrated to the new reality between them. Marc swallowed around the guilty lump in his throat and Jacob reached out to fondle the growing lump in his underwear. A slick patch had begun darkening the gray fabric where it meant the head of Marc's cock. Jacob smeared the wet spot with his thumb.

"Making a little mess, eh, son?"

"I guess I am…dad."

Jacob looked up at Marc and really looked at him. Their gazes searched one another and whatever the conclusion Marc pushed his boxer briefs down past his crotch until they hung limp between his thighs. His cock bounced with rigid eagerness in the open air as Jacob stared. Mr. Diaz let a long slow exhalation out through his nose.

"You've grown up a lot," Jacob said, continuing the fantasy.

"Thanks, dad. I guess I have."

"Do you know what to do with it?"

"I do."

"Show me."

Marc was finding it hard to find a steady breathing rhythm, so he subsisted on short gasping breaths whenever he could. He fondled his balls with one hand and stroked the length of his cock with the other. It felt so good that he tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and hissed. When he opened them against, Jacob was watching him with rapt attention, rubbing the bulge in his plaid lounge pants.

"Keep going, son. Show me how you do it when you're alone in your room. When you think no one's watching."

Marc squeezed a little and a long string of precum dribbled out of his cockhead. He groaned. Jacob continued the slow, steady motion of his hand against the front of his slacks.

"Is this good, dad? Do you like the way I stroke it?" Marc asked.

Jacob started to speak, but his voice broke, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "I like it a lot, son. Keep going. You're making your dad proud. And horny. I want to watch you cum. Is that all right? Do you want your dad to see how grown up you've gotten?"

Marc's underarms tingled where sweat was starting to spread out and stain his white t-shirt, so he reached up, lifted it over his head, and tossed it to the ground. He returned to his cock.

"Getting a little sweaty there. Let dad smell you."

Marc shuffled closer and lifted one arm. Jacob leaned up and took a deep whiff; the outline of his cock throbbed hard.

"You smell like a man, kiddo. You're getting to be more than your old man can handle."

"I think you can handle me just fine."

"Oh yeah?" Jacob asked, grinning.

Marc's face flushed. He kept stroking his cock with one hand, savoring the delicious feelings and using his other to explore his body for Jacob's benefit. He traced the valley between his abdominal muscles and circled his left pectoral several times with his middle finger, collecting some sweat gathered there and putting that finger to Jacob's lips. The other man took another deep breath of Marc's sweat-stink before opening his mouth and sucking Marc's finger clean. Marc's cock reacted violently in his hand to that.

"Oh shit, dad. I'm…"

"It's ok, son. Show me how good you can make yourself feel. Spill your milk for me."

Marc stiffened as the euphoria rushed at him. He felt the reckless charge of making a bad decision, but not caring at the moment about the consequences. Jacob continued egging him on, encouraging him to shoot his spunk in the kitchen, where they might easily be caught. When he could no longer bear the tension, Marc uttered a strangled "fuck" and angled his cock toward the ground and came.

It was a series of noisy splashes that Jacob quickly, quietly added to as he whipped his own girthy cock out of his lounge pants and shot.

Whereas Marc had the foresight to aim at the ground, Jacob made no such moves, his cum arced across the short space between them and splashed against Marc's stomach, his cock, and his upper thighs. Marc could hardly believe how much of a turn-on it was to have the older man's cum covering him.

Marc rode the wave of arousal to its crest and then let himself—huffing and puffing—slowly come down. Jacob was already up and moving. He retrieved some towels from a drawer in the kitchen island and handed one to Marc then kneeled to wipe up the ample jizz from the tile floor.

"I know I don't have to explain that this should stay between us…" Jacob said. His head was down as he cleaned up the obvious evidence of their indiscretion.

Before Marc could reply, Michael's father—head still bowed—added: "Son."

Marc's cock bounced at that and then bounced again as he pulled up his boxer briefs and realized that several blasts from Jacob's orgasm had coated the inside and outside of his underwear. The cooling stickiness pressed into his perineum was a reminder of what they'd just shared. Marc swore he'd never wash this particular pair of underwear again.

"I'll keep it quiet, dad," Marc said, playing along.

"Good kid. Now get to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

Marc was halfway out of the kitchen when Jacob stopped him again.

"Oh, and Marc…"

"Yeah?"

"Welcome to the family."

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