The lamp shattered against the wall inches from my head. I didn't flinch. I was used to Sabrina's rage by now, used to the way her eyes went dark and her voice climbed octaves until it was almost a screech.
"Get out!" she screamed, her chest heaving beneath the thin fabric of her tank top. "I want you out of here, Owen! Take your shit and go!"
"Sabrina, come on—"
"Don't 'come on' me!" She grabbed a glass from the kitchen counter and hurled it. It missed, exploding against the fridge. "I can't do this anymore! I can't live with a man who looks at other women like he's still single!"
"I wasn't looking at anyone—"
"You fucking were! At the party last night, I saw you staring at Jessica's tits like you wanted to bury your face in them!"
I wanted to argue, but the truth was—I had looked. It was a reflex, a bad habit I'd never fully killed. Before Sabrina, I'd fucked my way through half the girls in our social circle. Dozens of them. Maybe more. I'd been a playboy, a slut, whatever you wanted to call it. My body did the work for me—tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that girls called "dangerous." I'd loved the chase, the conquest, the way their legs parted under my hands.
Then Sabrina happened. She'd been different. Sweet, innocent, with a smile that made me forget every other girl I'd ever touched. I'd fallen hard, harder than I'd ever fallen for anyone, and I'd chosen fidelity. Chosen her. For five years, I'd been faithful. I hadn't touched another woman.
But looking? That was harder to kill.
"I'm sorry," I said, softer now. "I didn't mean anything by it. You know I love you."
"Love isn't enough anymore." Her voice cracked, and I saw tears welling in her eyes. That hurt worse than the screaming. "You need to leave, Owen. Now. I need space. I need to think."
I stood there, frozen, watching the girl I'd given up everything for cry because of me. Then I walked to the closet, pulled out a small duffel bag, and started packing.
I didn't take much. Just clothes, my toiletries, my laptop. A few days' worth of stuff. I kept hoping she'd stop me, tell me she didn't mean it, pull me into bed like she always did after our fights. But she just stood there, arms crossed, watching me with those wet, angry eyes.
When I was done, I paused at the door.
"Sabrina... please. Just give me a chance to—"
"Go."
I went.
---
The drive to my father's house took twenty minutes. I spent the whole time gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white, replaying the fight in my head, wondering where I'd gone wrong. We'd been together since we were eighteen. Five years. We'd moved into that tiny studio together two years ago, and I'd thought we were happy. We fucked like rabbits—every other day, sometimes every day. We had fun together. We laughed.
But lately, she'd been pulling away. Accusing me of things I hadn't done. Jealous of women I didn't even want.
Maybe she could sense something I couldn't.
I parked in front of my father's house—a modest two-story with a neatly kept lawn and a porch swing my mother used to sit on. She'd been gone two years now. Cancer. Fast and merciless. I'd moved out right after the funeral, unable to stand the silence of the house without her. Dad had stayed. Dad had always stayed.
I rang the doorbell, feeling like a stranger on a doorstep that had once been mine.
The door opened, and there he was. Andrew. My father. Fifty-four years old, with salt-and-pepper hair, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders that had only widened with age. He ran a big department store in town, and he carried himself like a man used to giving orders. But when he saw my face—red-eyed, broken—his expression softened immediately.
"Owen." He didn't ask questions. He just opened his arms.
I stepped into them and broke down.
I cried into his shoulder like I hadn't cried since my mother's funeral. He held me steady, one hand on the back of my head, the other gripping my shoulder. He smelled like soap and coffee and something warm I couldn't name.
"It's over," I choked out. "Sabrina kicked me out. She—she thinks I'm cheating, or looking, or—I don't know, Dad. I don't know what I did wrong."
"Shh." He guided me inside, closed the door, and led me to the couch. "Sit. Tell me everything."
I told him. The party. The look. The fight. The lamp and the glass and the words that cut deeper than any shard ever could. He listened without interrupting, his dark eyes steady on mine, nodding occasionally.
When I finished, he sighed and rubbed his face.
"Son, you've been with that girl since you were kids. People change. Sometimes they grow apart."
"I don't want to grow apart. I love her."
"I know you do. But love isn't always enough to keep two people together." He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "You can stay here as long as you need. Your room's still the same."
I nodded, wiping my eyes. "Thanks, Dad."
"Don't thank me. That's what family's for."
---
One Week Later
The days blurred together.
I woke up late, ate whatever Dad left in the fridge, watched TV, scrolled through my phone, and waited for a text from Sabrina that never came. I'd sent her a dozen messages. I'm sorry. I miss you. Can we talk? She'd either left them on read or replied with a cold Not yet.
I was going stir-crazy.
The house was too quiet. Dad worked long hours at the store, so I had the place to myself most of the day. I'd wander from room to room, touching things, remembering. Mom's old sewing corner. The photos on the walls. The backyard where I'd played as a kid.
And every night, I'd lie in my old bed and think about sex.
It was fucking torture.
Sabrina and I had been insatiable. We fucked every other day at minimum, sometimes twice a day on weekends. We'd experiment, try new positions, new places. She was loud, enthusiastic, and she knew exactly how to make me lose control. My hand had been my only companion for over a week now, and it wasn't enough.
I jerked off constantly. In the shower. In bed. Sometimes twice in an hour. I'd close my eyes and imagine her beneath me, her legs wrapped around my waist, her moans filling my ears. But it wasn't the same. I needed skin. I needed heat. I needed someone.
I was so fucking horny I could barely think straight.
It was on the seventh night that things got... complicated.
Dad had come home late, as usual. I heard him moving around downstairs—the clink of keys, the shuffle of shoes, the creak of the stairs. I was in my room, lying on my stomach, scrolling through my phone, trying not to think about the porn I'd been watching earlier.
I needed water. I got up, pulled on a pair of shorts, and headed to the bathroom.
The door was ajar. The shower was running.
I heard the water, the soft steam curling out through the crack, and I almost turned around. But something stopped me. Something stupid. Something hungry.
I pushed the door open just a few inches wider.
And I saw my father.
He was standing under the spray, his back to me, water cascading down his broad shoulders and spine. His body was nothing like I'd imagined—older, yes, but strong. Muscular in a way that surprised me. His arms were thick, his back defined, his ass firm and round. He was totally naked, completely unaware, and I couldn't look away.
I should have been disgusted. I should have felt revulsion, should have slammed the door shut and gone back to bed. But I didn't.
I felt heat.
A sick, confusing, undeniable pulse of arousal that spread through my gut like wildfire. My cock twitched in my shorts. My mouth went dry. I stood there, frozen, watching water slide down his skin, watching the way his muscles moved as he soaped his chest.
This was my father. The man who raised me. The man who'd held me while I cried a week ago.
And I was getting hard looking at him.
I pulled the door closed silently, my heart hammering. I leaned against the hallway wall, breathing hard, trying to rationalize. It's just the lack of sex. It's just my brain misfiring. I don't actually want him. I can't.
But the image burned behind my eyelids. The steam. The water. The body of a man I'd never seen that way before.
I went back to my room, locked the door, and jerked off furiously, trying to purge the image from my mind. But even as I came, I couldn't stop thinking about the curve of his shoulders, the strength in his back, the way the water traced paths down his skin.
This isn't right. This isn't me.
But the thought lingered, heavy and forbidden, as I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Two Weeks Later :
Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. And not a single word from Sabrina.
I'd stopped counting the messages I'd sent. Stopped checking my phone every five minutes. Stopped hoping. She was gone. Maybe for good. And I was stuck in my childhood bedroom, drowning in memories of a woman who didn't want me anymore.
I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think about anything except the empty space beside me, the silence where her laugh used to be.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. Dad was at work. I was sprawled on the living room couch, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on my chest. And then it cracked.
I started crying.
Not the quiet, manly tears I'd been holding back. Full-on sobs. Ugly, heaving, body-shaking cries that ripped out of my throat like I was being torn apart from the inside. I buried my face in a throw pillow and let it all out—the loneliness, the rejection, the aching need for someone to hold me.
I don't know how long I cried. Time stopped. Everything stopped.
Then I heard the front door open.
"Owen?" Dad's voice, soft and worried. He must have come home early. I heard his keys drop into the bowl, heard his footsteps cross the hardwood floor. "Son? What's wrong?"
I couldn't answer. I just kept crying, my shoulders shaking.
The couch dipped as he sat down beside me. His hand landed on my back, warm and solid. "Hey, hey. Talk to me."
"I—" My voice broke. "I can't take it anymore, Dad. She's not coming back. I love her so much and she's just... gone."
He didn't say anything. He just pulled me into his arms.
I collapsed against him, my face buried in his chest, soaking his shirt with tears. He held me tight, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other rubbing slow circles on my back.
"I love her," I whimpered. "I love her so fucking much."
"I know, son." His voice was thick. "I know you do."
"I can't do this. I can't—"
"I love you too, Owen." He squeezed me harder. "I love you more than anything in this world."
That made me smile. A tiny, watery smile against his chest. I pulled back just enough to look at him, my eyes red and puffy.
"You do?"
"Of course I do." He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on my cheeks. "You're my son. My baby boy. I'll always love you."
I sniffled, feeling lighter somehow.
Then his fingers moved. He poked my ribs.
"Hey!" I yelped, jerking away.
He grinned. "There's my boy. Come here, you little shit." He started tickling me—my sides, my stomach, my neck. I squirmed and laughed, the sound rusty and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.
"Dad—stop—haha—I can't—"
"Who's my silly little baby?" he cooed, his fingers dancing over my ribs. "Who's my adorable son?"
"Dad!" I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. Tears still streamed down my face, but now they were mixed with giggles.
He finally stopped, pulling me back into a tight hug. "There you go. That's better." He kissed the top of my head. "Poor baby. My poor little baby."
I melted into him. It felt good. Safe.
Then he kissed my cheek.
Just a quick peck. Innocent. But then he did it again, on the other cheek. Then another, closer to my mouth. Each kiss lingered a fraction of a second longer than the last.
Something stirred in my gut. Something warm and confusing and electric.
"Baby," he murmured against my skin. "My baby."
His lips found my neck.
A shiver shot down my spine, raising goosebumps all over my arms. I gasped softly. What was this? What was happening?
He pulled back, his thumb gently wiping the tears from under my eyes. "Don't cry, baby. I've got you."
And then—without warning—he stuck out his tongue and licked my cheek.
I froze.
The wet warmth of his tongue dragged across my skin, collecting the salt of my tears. It was so intimate. So strange. I should have been disgusted. I should have pushed him away.
But I didn't.
Instead, I felt a pulse of heat deep in my belly. My cock twitched in my jeans.
Dad looked at me, waiting. I smiled. A small, shy, uncertain smile.
He took it as permission.
He licked my other cheek, slowly, deliberately, leaving a trail of spit behind. Then another lick. And another. Each stroke of his tongue sent jolts of pleasure through me.
"Do you like that, baby?" he asked, his voice low and husky.
"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, Dad."
He groaned and leaned in, licking my cheeks more intensely now, coating them in his saliva. The wet sounds filled the quiet room. Then his tongue moved to my neck, tracing the curve of my jaw, dipping into the hollow of my throat.
A moan escaped my lips.
I was ashamed. This was my father. This was wrong. But God, it felt so good. My cock was rock hard, straining against my jeans. I was dripping with need.
"Don't stop," I whispered. "Please don't stop."
He didn't. He licked my neck, my collarbone, the sensitive skin behind my ear. Strings of saliva connected his tongue to my skin with every pass. I moaned louder, my hands gripping his shoulders.
Then, on impulse, I stuck out my own tongue and licked his ear.
He gasped. A shudder ran through his body. "Fuck, Owen..."
I licked again, tracing the rim of his ear, tasting his skin. He moaned—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through me.
We pulled back, faces inches apart. I could see the hunger in his eyes. The same hunger I felt.
I leaned in and licked his cheek.
He moaned again, his eyes fluttering closed. I licked his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. Each stroke made him tremble. He was enjoying this as much as I was.
He stuck out his tongue. I stuck out mine.
They touched.
A spark. A connection. Our tongues circled each other, sliding and intertwining like two snakes in a dance. The taste of him—coffee, salt, something uniquely him—flooded my senses. It was filthy. It was perfect.
We pulled apart, a glistening strand of saliva connecting our lips.
Dad grinned, a wicked, knowing grin. "You're a dirty slut, aren't you?"
The word hit me like a punch to the gut. Slut. From my father. I should have been shocked. I should have been offended.
Instead, it made me impossibly, unbearably hard.
He saw the effect it had. His grin widened. Then he crashed his lips against mine.
We kissed like animals. Tongues dueling, teeth clashing, spit smearing across our faces. I grabbed the back of his head, pulling him closer, devouring him. He groaned into my mouth, his hands sliding down my back, gripping my ass.
When we finally broke apart, both panting, he looked me straight in the eye.
"Do you want to be Daddy's little slut?"
My answer came without hesitation.
"Yes. God, yes."
He smiled, and I knew nothing would ever be the same.
The word still echoed in my skull. Slut. I was Daddy's slut. The thought should have repulsed me. Instead, it made my cock throb against my jeans, desperate for release.
Dad leaned back on the couch, spreading his arms wide. A commanding posture. A king on his throne.
"Get on your knees," he said, his voice firm but warm. "Show Daddy how much you want this."
I didn't hesitate. I slid off the couch and knelt on the carpet between his legs, looking up at him with wide, eager eyes. He smelled like sweat and fabric softener and something distinctly masculine. My mouth watered.
"First," he said, lifting his arm, "lick my armpits."
My heart hammered. It was degrading. It was filthy. It was exactly what I needed.
I leaned in, pressing my face against the coarse hair of his underarm. The scent hit me—sharp, salty, purely him. I inhaled deeply, letting it fill my lungs, before sticking out my tongue.
The first lick was tentative. Just a brush of my tongue against his skin. He grunted, and I took that as encouragement. I licked again, longer this time, tracing the crease where his arm met his torso. The taste was intense, bitter and sour and addictive.
"Good boy," Dad murmured. "Use your whole tongue."
I obeyed. I flattened my tongue and dragged it across his armpit in broad strokes, collecting his sweat, tasting his skin. I licked and licked until his pit was slick with my saliva, then moved to the other side. He sighed, his head falling back, his fingers threading through my hair.
"That's it, baby. Lick Daddy clean."
I moaned against his skin, my cock leaking precum into my boxers. I was so hard it hurt, but I didn't dare touch myself. Not without permission.
He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at him. "Now the feet."
I crawled down his body, my hands trembling as I reached for his shoes. I unlaced them slowly, reverently, pulling them off along with his socks. His feet were large, veined, slightly calloused from years of standing at the store.
I brought one foot to my face, inhaling deeply. The smell was earthy, musky, intoxicating. I licked the arch, tasting salt and dirt. Then I took each toe into my mouth, one by one, sucking and nibbling.
A dark pleasure bloomed in my chest. This was wrong. This was so wrong. And I loved every second of it.
Dad groaned above me. "You're such a dirty little slut, Owen. Licking your father's feet like a whore."
I looked up at him, his foot still in my mouth, and nodded.
He laughed—a low, wicked sound. "Now suck my cock. That's what you were made for, isn't it? That's how you came into this world."
I released his foot and watched as he undid his belt, unzipped his pants, pulled out his half-hard cock. It was thick, veined, familiar and foreign at the same time. My throat tightened.
"You made me," I whispered. "You gave me life."
"That's right, baby." He stroked himself, pre-cum beading at the tip. "And now you're going to worship what made you."
I leaned forward, parting my lips, and took him into my mouth.
He was warm and heavy on my tongue. The taste of him—musky, salty, overwhelmingly Dad—flooded my senses. I bobbed my head, taking him deeper, letting my saliva coat his shaft.
He gripped my hair, guiding my pace. "That's it. That's my good boy. You're so good at this, Owen. Such a perfect little cocksucker."
I moaned around him, the vibrations making him gasp. I took him deeper, gagging slightly, tears pricking at my eyes. I didn't care. I wanted to please him. I wanted to show him how much I needed this. How much I needed him.
"Look at you," he breathed. "My son. My own flesh and blood. Sucking my dick like you were born for it."
He thrust his hips, fucking my face in slow, deliberate strokes. I let him use me, tears streaming down my cheeks, spit dripping from my chin.
"You came from this cock, Owen. You were inside me, growing inside your mother because of this cock. And now you're back where you belong."
I whimpered, hollowing my cheeks, sucking harder.
"That's right, baby. Take it all. Take Daddy's cock."
I could feel him twitching on my tongue, taste the salt of his precum growing stronger. He was close. I wanted him to cum in my mouth, to fill me with his seed, to claim me in the most primal way possible.
But as his grip tightened, as his breathing grew ragged, he pulled away.
"No," he said, panting. "Not yet. Daddy isn't done with you yet."
I looked up at him, my lips swollen, my face slick with tears and spit. "Please, Dad. I need it. I need—"
He pressed his thumb to my lips. "Patience, baby boy. We're just getting started."
"Daddy isn't done with you yet." The words hung in the air, heavy and promising. I stayed on my knees, my mouth wet, my cock aching, my whole body trembling with need.
Dad stood up from the couch, his cock still hard and glistening with my spit. He looked down at me, a predator sizing up his prey. Then he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to my feet.
"Take off your clothes," he ordered. "All of them."
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, my belt, my jeans. I stripped naked in front of him, my erection bobbing, my skin flushed. He circled me, his eyes roaming over my body like he was claiming every inch.
"Turn around," he said.
I obeyed. His hands landed on my ass—rough, possessive. He squeezed hard, kneading the flesh, and I gasped, a moan escaping my lips.
"Such a nice ass, baby boy. Daddy's been wanting this for weeks."
He slapped my cheek, the sting sharp and delicious. I whimpered, pushing back into his hand.
"Now," he said, stepping away. "Watch."
He stripped off his shirt, revealing his broad chest, the graying hair, the soft belly he'd always been self-conscious about. But I didn't see flaws. I saw my father. I saw the man I wanted more than anything.
He unfastened his pants and let them drop, then his boxers. His cock stood thick and proud, curving slightly upward, the head purple and slick with precum.
"Come here," he said, his voice low and commanding. "Lower my boxers all the way, then get on the couch on your hands and knees."
I did exactly as he said. I bent down, picked up his discarded boxers, and folded them neatly—a strange, automatic gesture that made me feel even more submissive. Then I climbed onto the couch, positioning myself on all fours, my ass presented to him like an offering.
He moved behind me, his hands gripping my hips. I heard him spit, felt the wetness against my hole as he smeared saliva around the rim.
"This is going to hurt at first," he said, his voice softening. "But Daddy's got you, baby. Daddy's going to take care of you."
I nodded, my heart pounding.
He pressed the head of his cock against my entrance. I tensed, my breath hitching. He pushed gently, the pressure building until—
Fuck.
The pain was sharp, intense, like being split open. I cried out, my arms buckling, my face pressing into the couch cushion.
"Shh, shh, Owen. I've got you. Breathe, baby. Breathe."
His hands stroked my back, my hair, waiting for me to relax. I forced myself to inhale, to exhale, to let the pain settle into something more manageable.
"That's it, my love. You're doing so well. Just a little more."
He pushed again, and I felt myself stretching around him, accommodating his girth. Tears leaked from my eyes, but I didn't ask him to stop. I wanted this. I needed this.
"That's it, baby. Almost there. You're taking Daddy's cock so beautifully."
Slowly, inch by inch, he slid inside me. The fullness was overwhelming—invasion and intimacy wrapped into one. When he was finally fully seated, his balls pressed against my ass, he let out a shuddering groan.
"Fuck, Owen. You feel... you're perfect. My perfect little boy."
I sobbed—relief, pleasure, pain, love, all tangled together.
He began to move. Slow, shallow thrusts at first, letting me adjust. The pain receded, replaced by something else—a deep, burning pleasure that radiated through my entire body.
"Harder," I gasped. "Please, Daddy, fuck me harder."
He laughed, breathless and dark. "Such a greedy little slut."
He gripped my hips and pounded into me, his balls slapping against my skin. The couch creaked beneath us, the sound of flesh on flesh filling the room. I moaned, loud and shameless, my cock swinging with each thrust.
"Yes, yes, yes—Daddy, fuck—"
"You like getting fucked by your father, don't you, Owen? You like being my little bitch?"
"God, yes, I love it, I love it—"
He reached around and wrapped his hand around my cock, jerking me in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations drove me wild. I was drooling, babbling, lost in the haze of incestuous pleasure.
"I'm going to cum," he grunted. "Fuck, baby, I'm going to fill your ass with my cum."
"Do it, Daddy. Fill me up. Claim me."
With a roar, he slammed into me one last time, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside me. I felt the hot pulses of his seed, deep in my bowels, and the sensation sent me over the edge. I came into his hand, my vision whiting out, my body convulsing.
We stayed like that for a long moment, panting, sweaty, connected.
Then he pulled out slowly. I felt his cum trickling down my thigh, warm and wet.
"Get up," he said, his voice hoarse. "Kneel on the floor and lift your ass in the air."
I scrambled off the couch and obeyed, presenting my used hole to him. I heard him kneel behind me, felt his breath against my skin. Then his tongue—warm and wet, pressing against my rim.
I gasped. He was licking me clean, lapping up his own cum, his tongue probing inside me. The sensation was filthy, degrading, and so intensely erotic that I moaned into the carpet.
When he was done, he pulled me up and turned me around. His face was wet with my ass and his cum, and I didn't give a damn. I crashed my lips against his.
We kissed, deep and passionate, sharing the taste of him on each other's tongues. His seed mixed with our saliva, and I swallowed it greedily.
"I love you, Daddy," I whispered against his lips.
"I love you too, baby boy. More than anything."
We broke apart, foreheads touching, breath mingling.
To hell with Sabrina.
She was in the past. This—my father, his hands, his mouth, his cock—this was my future.
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