Author's Note: Thanks again for all the glowing feedback. Always happy to hear your thoughts! Feel free to email any additional feedback on this next installment ([email protected]).
We're back to Matt's perspective here. The Harding family's at it again, with layers of secrets to uncover.
Chapter 3: The Videotape
MATT
May 2025
Hit the play button.
The camera's focused right on the redhead's broad, beefy chest, and his large, pink nipples are center stage. A patch of chest hair's just starting to form in between. Panning down from his freckled shoulders, there's a strong but lean belly, with a single cleft running right down the center. The start of some strong abs. Check under the navel. A pencil-thin fuzzy trail leading you, the lucky viewer, to a mound of natural pube bush. And bobbing up and down on that crotch is the feathered blonde head of an anonymous sorority chick. But she's not the star of this show.
They've got company. The cameraman points down. There's his fat dick rammed right up her wet pussy underneath those round cheeks. No power-thrusting. This guy's enjoying the ride with some smooth and slow thrusts. His momentum's pushing her whole body, guiding the girl's mouth over his buddy's hog.
"Go harder, dude," the redhead says greedily. "I wanna ram her between us."
Voiceless, the cameraman obeys. He plays along. He's always been a good sport.
"Fuuuck, that's it." The ginger jock praises him, and the blonde girl's wordless moans echo out over the cock down her throat.
The cameraman's technique is clumsy. Mechanical. This is probably one of his first fucks. And he's only fucking one-handed, while playing video director with the other. He focuses back on the ginger stud and zooms out a bit. You can tell where they are now. Cinder block walls, pin-up girls for adornment and not much else. Yeah. This is some steamy, stinky college dorm who knows where.
The jock notices the camera's on him, and he looks straight at you.
"Yeaaahhh dude," he hoots. He makes Y-shapes with his hands, thumbs and pinkies wagging. Sticks his tongue out in a shit-eating grin. "Get a load of this shit. Eiffel Tower this bitch, bro."
He jerks his head in the camera's direction.
"Where should we cum, dude?" he continues. He asks their girl, "Baby, you spit or swallow?"
Her voice is barely audible, but you know she says "swallow" by the way her mouth-fucker smirks. His rhythm picks up and he lays both hands in her tousled hair. The camera zooms in closer on the stud now, the screen capturing everything from the mane of hair framing his square face down to the top of his unkempt, musky bush. It's intimate. No cock, no cum, but all eyes are on the jock's facial expressions reaching his high. He tilts his head down, and gazes right through you. A crooked smile pulled to one side, cocky like most early 20-somethings, daring you.
Then he whips his head up, eyes closed. He's feeling it now, and his moans are a low steady growl.
"Ohhhh yeahhh fuck, I'm gonna bust. Gonna get my nut," he hollers. "Dude, are you cumming yet? Are you cumming? C'mon creampie that pussy, buddy. Let's go! Let's fucking gooo!—"
... That moment usually does it for me. What a memory. I splattered my bare chest with a few good spurts, then hit the pause button with a lube-slicked hand. I wiped my brow. Ever since I got back to D.C. after that trip with Dad, I had to admit: threesomes were on my mind.
~ TWO YEARS EARLIER ~
July 2023
The first time I realized Uncle Patrick was lonely, he was laughing too loudly at his own jokes. He’d always been the jovial one. The booming voice, the back-slaps, the kind of laughter that could fill a stadium. It was a good complement to Dad's more reserved nature.
Then I heard about the divorce. When Uncle Patrick asked me to help him move out, he didn’t sound like himself on the phone.
"Just need an extra pair of hands, Matty,” he said. “The girls are busy at college, your dad's on vacation. Movers are booked up. Thought you might like a trip down memory lane if you don't mind flying out.”
I arrived a week later. Uncle Patrick’s house sat on the same quiet cul-de-sac he’d lived on for twenty years, all ranch-style roofs and windchimes. The air smelled like cedar mulch this time of year, not far from where we grew up. When I steered Dad's car up the driveway, I could see Uncle Patrick's large silhouette moving around through the window, packing up pieces of his own life.
“Matty, my man!” he bellowed from the foyer, arms spread wide. He looked almost the same as always: plaid short-sleeve shirt, cargo shorts, a navy blue cap turned backward. Dadcore.
But the lines around his bright green eyes were deeper. His hair, always more fiery than my own shade of copper-brown, now lost its shine. And the house behind him was half-empty. No framed photos, no couch, no sense of home.
“Hey, Uncle Patrick,” I said, managing a smile.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Almost didn’t expect you to leave that fancy D.C. life for a good ole Texas weekend.”
“Yeah, well. I owed you one.”
That part was true. Growing up, Uncle Patrick had been my safe harbor. Compared to Dad, he’d always been easier to be around. I’d always admired him in small ways: his ability to make a room laugh, his big-heartedness that sometimes teetered on manic. He’d been the family’s emotional center back when my parents divorced, driving up to Austin just to take Justin and me camping so we didn’t have to sit through the silence at home.
After some catching up, I pivoted. "All right, ready to get going?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be," he said. "Half the stuff’s already in storage. The rest goes to Goodwill... or straight to hell, whichever’s faster.” He clapped his hands once. “Grab a box, professor. Let’s get to work.”
We got to work quickly and fell into a rhythm. He’d already packed most of the kitchen and bedroom. We recounted memories that different trinkets brought back to mind. By midafternoon, the light slanted through the blinds, cutting golden stripes across the bare floor. Dust hung in the air, soft as fog.
The last room left was his study. His private domain. The study was tucked behind a narrow door off the hallway. It still had his scent: faint tobacco and musty books. A single plant, long dead, drooped in the corner. And the clutter of his life filled the space. A framed accounting degree. Family photos stacked in uneven piles. A mug that said "World’s Okayest Dad".
I sat cross-legged and started emptying the bottom drawers: old tax forms, batteries, a collection of nondescript VHS cassettes and DVDs. I read the labels on the cases.
2002 - Justin's Graduation
1997 - Colorado Bend
1984 - Patrick's Fun
“Hey, Uncle Pat?” I called out, holding that last DVD case.
Muffled footsteps, then he appeared in the doorway. “Find my secret stash?”
“Something like that,” I murmured. "I assume you want to keep all these?"
He stepped into the room. When he saw which case I was holding up, something flickered in his expression.
“Oh,” he said after a beat, voice a shade too shaken, his face ashen. “Those old things. Nah, don’t worry about it. I'll go through them later.”
“You sure?”
He waved a hand.
“Yeah, yeah. Just leave it to me.”
He smiled unconvincingly.
“Anyway, ya hungry?" he continued. "There’s a burger place still open down the street.”
And just like that, the conversation ended. He turned, already halfway down the hall before I could ask anything else.
I sat there for a while, staring at the cool plastic case in my hands. Every instinct told me not to pry. But curiosity has never been something I manage well.
After dinner, I waited until the house stood quiet. I slinked off of the mattress that Uncle Patrick blew up for me in the living room and crept into the study. Under the moonlight streaming in, I swiped the DVD case with the alluringly cryptic title and popped the disc into my laptop. "Patrick's Fun". The whir of the spinning drive filled out the silence. I lowered my laptop's volume just in case.
The tape started automatically.
"—Go harder, dude. I wanna ram her between us," a young man's voice rang out. "Fuuuck, that's it."
Holy shit, is that Uncle Patrick?
The video was grainy, blurry, just enough distortion to make it feel real. Surely this was digitized from an old VHS tape, with static on the edges of the screen. The time and date on the lower-right corner:
11:38:02 PM
NOV 30 1984
Raw. Vintage. The rowdy '80s, baby.
"Yeaaahhh dude. Get a load of this shit. Eiffel Tower this bitch, bro."
"Where should we cum, dude?" he continued.
Who's the guy filming? Some college friend? Fuck. Uncle Patrick had a bi threesome?
"Ohhhh yeahhh fuck, I'm gonna bust. Gonna get my nut. Dude, are you cumming yet? Are you cumming? C'mon creampie that pussy, buddy. Let's go! Let's fucking gooo!"
Uncle Patrick let out a growl, slow and low at first. Then louder as he stared at the top of the screen and blasted his cum down the throat of that blonde.
After an earthshaking orgasm, he let out a funny sound, half-giggling and half-panting.
"Dude, fucking cum already," he said, his hand extending to the lens and flipping the camcorder around.
On the other side was a skinny white guy. No hair on his chest but a thick pubic bush, as dense as the redhead's, crammed right against the blonde girl's buttcheeks. He was 19 maybe? He had bronze-colored hair, slightly shaggy but still well-groomed. He was sweating, half-smiling. One of his teeth was slightly chipped in a way that looked familiar.
"Ohh yeah," Uncle Patrick said off-screen. "Richie's first pussy."
Holy shit.
Dad?
* * *
I leaned in closer. I recognized him around the eyes now too. Still that steely gray but softer.
Dad was panting, staring down at his crotch pumping away. He bit his lower lip and looked deep in concentration.
"C'mon buddy. You're a man now," Uncle Patrick said off-screen. "Blow your splooge in her."
This is wild. I felt like I'd stumbled upon forbidden fruit that was never meant to see the light of day, much less my own eyes. But it was too late now. And I couldn't look away. My mind was swimming in confusion, turned upside-down.
"Oh— oh— I'm getting there," Dad said, his voice slightly higher than it sounds now. "Oh geez, oh geez. Patrick, turn the camera away."
"No way dude," Patrick laughed.
"Oh geez, oh crap. I'm doin' it, I'm doin' it."
The camera focused now on young Richard Harding's crotch, fully buried in this mystery girl's snatch. I could see his abdomen flex almost involuntarily while he pumped his seed out, my brothers and sisters.
Then Dad hobbled back a few steps, pulling his slick cock out. He leaned backwards against the wall to catch his breath and just laughed. The camera only caught him from the waist up. I wanted to see more of him. Then it cut to black.
I rewound the scene three times.
When it restarted for a second watch, my hand was already shoved down my flannel pajama pants, working my rock-hard cock up to a frenzy.
For the third watch, I hacked up some spit and used it to lube my cock. I played with my balls, pausing to stare at the best shots.
On the last watch, I was desperate to bust. I aimed my dick, holding it tight at its base, right at my laptop screen and came at the same time as Dad in the homemade porno. I timed it just right. Hot-white jets of cum shot out and drooled on the screen. Right where Dad's bush met the blonde girl's ass.
This. Was. Gold. I copied the file to my hard drive, in a new folder called "Fun". After leaving the DVD back in its drawer, I slunk off to bed. I could barely sleep.
* * *
The next day, Uncle Patrick and I were due to finish packing the last of the boxes. Over breakfast, every time I looked at him, I couldn't help but picture his college escapade with his own brother. While peering over the rim of my coffee mug, I imagined my uncle's tight college body under those clothes. He's definitely changed but still didn't look half-bad now.
It was hot as hell outside, the Texas sun bearing down right at us. We walked around shirtless, carrying the last remaining boxes into the U-Haul that Uncle Patrick rented for the weekend. His chest was furry all the way across now, just as I remember growing up, and years of leisure gave way to a little bit of a belly. Still, it looked good on him. Made him look strong. And he certainly was strong, hoisting the heaviest boxes of them all, right on his shoulders, his mature, furry armpits on display.
After driving the truck to Goodwill to donate the last few boxes, we returned home just before twilight. We entered the house exhausted, and Uncle Patrick gripped both my shoulders from behind: "We did it, champ," he grinned. "I'm beat."
The house was functionally empty now except for two inflatable mattresses, a few suitcases with clothes, and a frosty six-pack in the fridge that we had picked up to celebrate. After a quick bite, we sat together on the single mattress in the living room and recalled some old stories: good memories we had from decades at the house. Sprinkler parties on the lawn. Barbecues where Dad and Uncle Patrick would compete on who grilled the best burger. My brother Justin's engagement party about 20 years ago. Soon we were six beers down and barely noticed that the sun had faded, with only the light in the hallway for illumination.
I was already dazed, and I could tell Uncle Patrick was feeling it too.
"It's a special occasion, champ," he said, almost wistfully, with a hiccup. "I got some more booze in the kitchen that I was saving for tonight. Wanna take a shot?"
"Sure," I laughed. "It's now or never."
Uncle Patrick came back with a large handle of whiskey, half-drunk, and three red Solo cups, one filled with ice from the fridge.
"So Matty," Uncle Patrick said, clearing his throat and trying to seem nonchalant. "Are you still — you know — bisexual?"
The question caught me off-guard. He poured us each a shot of whiskey.
"Yeah," I said, tentatively. "I mean, I haven't fucked around with a lot of girls for a while, not since being with Steven. But technically, I am, yeah."
"That's cool..." he said, trailing off. We each took a shot.
I flashed back to the groundbreaking discovery I made last night and contemplated further. Wait, Uncle Patrick isn't bi, is he? Those were just some hot college shenanigans, taking Dad under his wing or something. Where's he going with this?
I put some ice in my cup and poured a stronger drink.
"And you know," I chimed, "I had some threesomes every now and then back in the day. With a guy... and a girl."
"Oh shit," he murmured. "That's kinda cool. For you, I guess."
"Yeah..." I paused. "Ha, you ever fool around like that too?" I asked casually, staring at the wall ahead and taking a sip.
Uncle Patrick hesitated a bit too long and distracted himself by pouring a stronger drink for himself too.
"Yeah, in college," he admitted with a chuckle. "Once or twice... Haven't really told a lot of people. But I guess you'd understand."
Now we're getting somewhere, I thought, leaning back against the wall.
We finished our whiskey and poured another.
"Man, I haven't fucked pussy in a while," I said, grinning at how my frankness made my uncle shift uncomfortably.
"Well..." he trailed off, weighing his words carefully. "I might have something for you."
He went to his empty bedroom, unzipped a bag, and came back holding a long velvet pouch. He tossed it between my open legs on the mattress, and I curiously peered in.
"My good ole Fleshlight," he said, as it dropped onto the sheets between my knees. It definitely looked used. The silicone pussy was gaped open. How big is this motherfucker anyway?
"Holy crap," I said, chuckling as I fingered the outside of the plastic pussy.
"You're, uh, welcome to try it out if you want," he said.
"Like now?"
"Have at it," he said. "Bathroom's down the hall. There's some lube in that bag too."
"Oh fuck it, I'll just do it here."
"Matty—"
"Nah, it's fine. I don't mind. I'll pull up some porn too," I said, reaching into the backpack at my side and bringing out my laptop. Now that I knew Uncle Patrick didn't mind seeing another dude's cock pumping up a pussy... I felt emboldened.
"Matty, I don't know—" Uncle Patrick said, just a bit tipsy.
"Let's pull up a threeway, what do ya say?" I said playfully. "Don't leave me hangin', Uncle Pat."
"Well... I guess it's a good way to toast the last day in the house," he said hesitantly.
Uncle Patrick and I stared in each other's eyes, as if daring each other, and slowly reached for our waistbands at the same time. He unbuttoned his khaki cargo shorts and slowly lowered his zipper, displaying a roomy set of light blue boxer briefs underneath, a tuft of belly hair peeking out just above. I went at his pace and dropped my navy gym shorts at the same time he did. Just two guys in their undies. His bulge was unmistakable, jumping around on its own.
I played with my growing cock through my white trunk underwear. He casually brought his boxer briefs down with a small cough to ease the tension.
My uncle, Patrick Harding, everybody. He was at full mast already, his thick, pale, uncut dong snapping back onto his belly with a thud. I could see he still kept his dark ginger bush naturally grown, just like in his unmentionable video. A good spread of hair down the thighs too, and a full set of balls hanging low on his taint. His cock was almost as girthy as my wrist. And his foreskin, wow. Even that looked thick around the tip. It just about covered his cockhead and looked moist with a pool of precum in his little pucker.
I must have been staring a good long time when I heard: "Ahem. Your turn, Matty... Fair is fair."
At this point, there was no doubt I was 100% full-length, full-girth, rock-hard solid down there for my uncle to see.
"Don't leave me hangin'," he echoed my words lightheartedly.
I dropped my trunks to my ankles, and Uncle Patrick gave a low whistle.
"Damn, bigger than Justin," he muttered under his breath.
"Wait what?"
"Bigger than Justin, I think," he said louder, sheepishly.
I wondered when the hell he would have seen my older brother's full-sized dick in order to compare. This was too much too fast.
"Yeah, I'd say you're closer to your Dad," he said. Noticing my smirk, he added, "Oh, yeah. I've seen his too."
What a damn sex fiend... That got my gears turning. Now I really had to see Dad for myself. I couldn't even get a glimpse of him in that sex tape. But that had to wait for another day.
"Well... let's see if we can get mine to cum just as well as his," I said awkwardly. Uncle Patrick snickered.
By now, I already had a porn site open and turned the screen to him.
"Take your pick," I said to my uncle.
"How about that one with the chick by the pool," he pointed.
"Solid."
I lubed up Uncle Patrick's pocket pussy and carefully positioned it at the tip of my cock. I could tell Uncle Patrick was watching hungrily to my left as I pierced his favorite toy with my eight-inch fucker. Thanks to my fingerfucking it for a while with the lube, the chute was slick and warm.
Three minutes in, Uncle Patrick was backstroking his cock with his left hand, playing with his balls with his right, and watching me go to town on the same piece of plastic that his divorced dadcock had been loving the last few months.
When the two studs in the video shifted around to DP the girl, Uncle Patrick and I both reacted greedily — oooff — and power-stroked our cocks even harder.
"Just keep the Fleshlight, Matt," Uncle Patrick said, cutting the silence between us. "Think of it as a gift for all your help this weekend."
"Ha, I guess you wouldn't want it back anyway after I've busted my load in it," I said teasingly.
"Yeah," he said tentatively. "Guess not."
A few more minutes in, and I could tell the lines were blurred and the boundaries were crossed like never before. It's time to get the whole truth out of him now.
"So what guy ever agreed to fuck another girl with you?" I asked innocently.
"Just some college buds," he said. He considered his next words very carefully. His mouth opened halfway twice, his eyes trained on the screen. "I also helped your dad get some... and just happened to be in the room."
So there it was.
"Well, actually I kind of set it up," he added with a devilish grin. "But just harmless fun, ya know? Boys bein' boys."
"Yeah," I said, deliberate not to fluster him. "Boys bein' boys."
Uncle Patrick continued, "I actually have some old tapes somewhere. You reminded me last night, as I was goin' through my collection. Shame we don't have a TV and DVD player anymore."
He said that last part jokingly, with a twinkle in his eyes, as if he never expected to play it in this house now devoid of his electronics. He thought he could leave it in the past, safe and secure. This was my fucking moment.
"Well," I said, "My laptop here has a disc drive. We can play it."
Now, silence, save for the moans of pleasure coming out of my laptop. Uncle Patrick and I stopped stroking. His green eyes met mine. At first, he was dumbfounded, stuck, desperate to eat his words. Then he smirked and tossed his head back, lost in the clouds of the booze.
"Oh fuck it," he said, getting up a second time and returning with another gift for me, no clue that I had the pleasure of my own copy right on my hard drive.
He tossed the thin and hollow case onto the mattress right under my balls. "1984 - Patrick's Fun."
Fuck yeah.
To hell with the threesome currently playing on-screen. Uncle Patrick and I were really going down memory lane now.
I popped the DVD in, and it was like deja vu.
"— Go harder, dude. I wanna ram her between us. Fuuuck, that's it," young Uncle Patrick said.
Now I had to give the best acting performance of my life, as if I'd never seen this.
"Hot damn, Uncle Patrick, is that you?"
"Hell yeah, boy. I didn't look half-bad, now did I?"
"No way. Got my good looks from somewhere," I joked.
The video continued: "Yeaaahhh dude. Get a load of this shit. Eiffel Tower this bitch, bro. Where should we cum, dude?"
"Now get a load of this," Uncle Patrick added as commentary, his voice dripping with lust. "Your dad's coming up next, I think."
"— Ohhhh yeahhh fuck, I'm gonna bust. Gonna get my nut. Dude, are you cumming yet? Are you cumming? C'mon creampie that pussy, buddy. Let's go! Let's fucking gooo! Dude, fucking cum already."
And now, coming into frame, here he was. Young Richard Harding getting his first pussy.
"Your dad just turned 19 that week," Uncle Patrick said. "That girl was a coed who lived across the quad."
"Ohh yeah," my young uncle said in the video. "Richie's first pussy. C'mon buddy. You're a man now. Blow your splooge in her."
"Dad doesn't look half-bad either," I said under my breath.
"Kinda like Justin, right?" Uncle Patrick said, looking right at me.
"Yeah," I whispered.
"Oh— oh— I'm getting there," my young dad said, that refrain so sweetly familiar to me now, while the camera stayed trained on him. "Oh geez, oh crap. I'm doin' it, I'm doin' it."
To my shock, Uncle Patrick then clamped his hand right on top of mine and shoved the Fleshlight down to the hilt.
"Just fucking go for it, Richie," he said to me, slurring his words. "I mean... Matty."
He pulled the Fleshlight up and slammed it down again twice.
"Uncle Pat—"
"—just get your nut. Isn't that a good fuckin' toy?"
The video now restarted by itself.
"— Go harder, dude. I wanna ram her between us—"
"This is just guy shit," Uncle Patrick said. "I know you get it, bud. Justin did too."
"I — yeah... I do."
"You can grab mine, Matty," he whispered.
I reached my left hand out blindly and grasped Uncle Patrick's cock at the base and held on for dear life. There was still more than enough room for him to work the top half of his own massive meat with his left hand, focusing on the swollen head.
"Are you a shooter, Matt?" Uncle Patrick said, whipping the Fleshlight off me, the cold air bristling my cock. "Do you blow big loads too?"
Uncle Patrick kept stroking his own dong. Now, with the Fleshlight lying slick and used between us, he grabbed my dick with his rough, warm hand, as big as an oven mitt.
"Oh fuck—" I exclaimed.
"Your dad was a shooter too," he said.
That's when the wave crashed into me. I clenched the sheets on either side of me, as Uncle Patrick fired away with his fist.
Spinning his hand on my cockhead like a doorknob, he milked gush after gush of white, sticky cum all over my T-shirt, just as young Uncle Patrick was getting his nut on the screen. I blacked out for a second and when I looked down, I could tell that Uncle Patrick came too, right at the same time like clockwork, strings of cum decorating his beard, collar, and belly — and our hands.
He smirked up at me, and I smiled back. Some spark of life was back in his bright green eyes.
"Don't tell your dad," he murmured.
* * *
I returned to D.C. the following evening. During the whole flight home, I replayed the prior night's events in my head for hours on end. Within the week, I knew what I had to do.
One weeknight, Steven was in his study working late. The warm light poured into the first-floor hallway of our townhouse. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, gold-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose. He was reading something dense and legal. He looked up, smiling faintly.
“Hey you, what's up?" he asked, lowering his glasses.
“Nothing much,” I said offhandedly, setting my laptop on his desk. “But I think you'll want to see this…”
~ PRESENT DAY ~
May 2025
Our clinking coffee spoons punctuated the hum of a Sunday morning. Dad's flight back to Austin had left three weeks ago, and the townhouse had settled back into its usual rhythm. Emails, espresso, the low thrum of Georgetown life outside.
Steven sat across from me in the bay window of our breakfast nook, hair still damp from his shower, scrolling through something on his iPad. He looked too focused for a lazy morning.
"You've been quiet," I said finally.
He didn't answer right away. The faint crease between his brows deepened, the one that appears when he's reading briefs or bad news.
"Just... look at this," he said.
He turned the screen toward me.
The image was grainy but unmistakable: the upstairs hallway of our townhouse, lights dimmed, timestamp blinking 12:08 a.m. My father, barefoot, in his briefs and gray Texas Longhorns T-shirt, standing outside the open doorway of our bedroom. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then he walked to the staircase and back. And now, his hand was shoved down his underwear, pumping away.
Steven tapped the screen to pause the footage.
“I only saw it because the alarm glitched last night,” he said. “Motion sensor caught it.”
I stared at the frozen image, the faint reflection of my father’s profile on the tablet glass.
"That must have been when we were fucking, Matt," Steven confirmed.
Now it all makes sense, I thought. I thought I imagined him standing there. It couldn't have been possible. But there it is in black-and-white. Richard Harding got off on his own son fucking his husband.
“Guess that explains why he was quiet that morning,” I murmured.
Steven studied me. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not surprised?”
I exhaled, slow. “Because,” I said, setting down my spoon, “there’s something you should know about our trip.”
—TO BE CONTINUED—
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