Mom stayed quiet in the morning and distant, floating through the rooms in her usual medicated haze. Dad acted almost normal — short answers, the same heavy presence — but every time our eyes met across the kitchen or the hallway, something thick and unspoken passed between us. The memory of his weight crushing me into the mattress, the burn of his cock stretching me open, the way he had filled me and left without another word, sat constantly under my skin.
At the afternoon the house was quiet. Mom had gone to visit her sister. I was lying on my bed scrolling through my phone when I heard his voice from the hallway, low and firm.
“David. Garage. Now.”
My stomach tightened instantly. I got up, pulled on a pair of shorts, and went.
The garage door was halfway open. Heat rolled out in thick, heavy waves. Dad was bent over the open hood of his old pickup, shirtless, a wrench in one greasy hand. Sweat shone across the broad plane of his back and the thick muscles of his shoulders. Dark hair covered his chest and stomach, matted in places with black oil and dirt. Streaks of grease ran down his forearms and over the backs of his hands. He looked bigger like this — solid, working, completely masculine. The smell of motor oil, hot metal, and his sweat filled the space.
He didn’t look up when I stepped inside.
“Close the door.”
I pulled it shut. The temperature climbed immediately. The air felt thicker, harder to breathe.
Dad set the wrench down on the engine block with a dull metallic sound and finally turned around. His eyes moved over me once, slow and hungry. He was still breathing a little heavier from the work. A drop of sweat ran down the center of his hairy chest and disappeared into the dark trail below his navel. The front of his old sports shorts hung heavy.
“Come here.”
I walked over until I was standing in front of him. He reached out with a grease-stained hand, gripped my jaw, and turned my face slightly to the side like he was inspecting something he already owned.
“You sore from the yesterday?”
“A little,” I admitted.
“Good. I still got it.”
He let go of my face, grabbed my shoulder, and turned me around in one rough motion. A hard shove between my shoulder blades sent me forward until my chest hit the warm, dirty metal of the hood. The engine was still giving off heat. I braced my hands on the greasy surface. Behind me I heard the soft sound of him shoving his shorts down.
He didn’t prepare me gently.
He spat once into his palm, rubbed two thick fingers over my hole, and pushed them inside without warning. I groaned at the sudden stretch. He worked them in and out a few times, rough and impatient, then pulled them out. A second later the heavy, hot head of his cock pressed against me.
He pushed in with one long, relentless thrust.
His cock burned worse than the first time because I was still sore. I bit down on my own forearm as he forced every thick inch inside me until his hips were flush against my ass and I could feel the rough hair of his stomach and thighs against my skin. A broken sound escaped me.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Still so goddamn tight. This little faggot ass was made for my cock.”
He started fucking me immediately — hard, deep strokes that made the truck rock slightly on its suspension. One big hand locked around the back of my neck, pinning my cheek against the hot, oil-stained metal. The other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust drove me forward against the hood. The smell of grease, sweat, and sex filled my nose.
“You thought about this since last night?” he asked, never slowing down.
“Yes,” I gasped.
“Thought about your own father using this hole whenever he wants?”
“Yes, Dad—”
He fucked me harder. The wet, filthy sound of his cock driving into me mixed with the soft creak of the truck and the occasional metallic rattle from something on the workbench. Sweat from his chest dripped onto my back and ran down my spine. I could feel every inch of him, every vein, every time his heavy balls slapped against me.
“Say it properly,” he growled. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m your hole, dad.” I choked out. “I’m just a hole for you to use!”
“That’s right.” He shifted his angle and started hitting that spot inside me with every thrust. My legs trembled. “Your mother hasn’t given me this in years. So now I take it from my own son. And you love it, don’t you?”
“Yes—fuck—yes, Dad—”
He leaned over me, covering my smaller frame completely with his heavier, sweat-slick body. His thick chest hair scraped against my smooth back. His beard rubbed roughly against the back of my shoulder. The smell of him this close — oil, salt, pure male — was overwhelming. He kept driving into me with short, brutal strokes, using me exactly like something he had every right to ruin.
“Look at you,” he snarled against my ear. “Bent over your old man’s truck, taking cock like a bitch in heat. You were made for this. Hairless body, tight little ass, always walking around the house half-dressed. You wanted me to notice.”
I pushed back to meet his thrusts even though it hurt, wanting him deeper. He responded by slamming into me harder, the hand on my neck tightening until I could barely move my head.
“Take it,” he ordered. “Take every fucking inch. This is what you’re for when I need to empty my balls.”
He fucked me like that for a long time — deep, punishing, relentless. My arms started shaking from holding myself up against the hood. Every time he fuck me hard I felt the air punch out of my lungs. The garage was filled with the wet sound of him using me and the low, animal sounds he made whenever I clenched around him.
When he got close, his rhythm turned savage. He gripped both of my hips with greasy hands and pulled me back onto his cock hard, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, guttural sound tore out of his throat as he started coming. I felt every thick, heavy pulse flooding me, hotter and more than the first time. He kept grinding through it, forcing every drop as deep as possible, until he finally stilled on top of me, breathing hard and ragged against the back of my neck.
For several long seconds neither of us moved. The only sound was both of us trying to catch our breath and the soft drip of sweat and cum onto the concrete floor.
Then he pulled out slowly. I felt his cum leaking. Dad stayed behind me for a moment, one hand still resting heavily on my lower back, before he stepped away and pulled his shorts back up.
I remained bent over the hood, legs shaky, ass open and dripping, the warm metal sticky under my chest and stomach.
Dad picked up the wrench again like nothing had happened.
“Go clean yourself up,” he said, voice flat and controlled again. “And don’t walk around the house looking like you just got fucked. Your mother gets back in an hour.”
I pushed myself up on unsteady arms. Cum ran down the inside of my leg and dripped onto the floor. When I turned, he was already bent over the engine again, back muscles shifting under sweaty, oil-streaked skin, as if he hadn’t just used his own son over the hood of his truck until he came inside him.
I walked back into the house with his load still leaking out of me with every step, the taste of grease and sex thick in the air, and the clear knowledge that this was no longer a one-time thing.
He would call me again every time I was home from college breaks.
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