This is a completely rewritten and expanded older story. Thanks to Hayden for helping make it better-and more horny.
GO HOME
1. The Road to Reckoning
I tell Boon it’s hard to explain my dad.
“He’s just—he’s a narcissist, I guess. Everything always has to be about him.” My voice rises, but I can’t stop it.
“Like how?” Boon asks from the driver’s seat, eyes on the road.
“Like when I unfriended him on Facebook. You’d think I committed a crime. He ranted for days, saying I was punishing him over politics. I told him it wasn’t about that—it was about wanting Facebook to be about friends, not fights. Didn’t matter. He told me to get over it and stop bringing it up. As if he wasn’t the one who brought it up in the first place.”
Boon chuckles softly. “Griff, everyone’s got problems with their parents.”
“Don’t minimize it, Boon.” I watch the passing freeway signs, taking us deeper into the rural areas.. “Then, this one time he went to a chain restaurant on Veterans Day and was shocked—shocked!—that they didn’t have free meals for veterans. It’s not the fifties.”
Boon glances sideways, a small smile tugging at his lips. I’m reminded again that English isn’t his first language—like last week when he called my phone “younger” instead of “newer.”
“He was in the army?”
“For like, five minutes,” I say with a humorless laugh. “To hear him talk about his time in basic training you’d think he was Nelson Mandela. The only bad things that count are the things that happen to him. What did he expect from Denny’s? A parade? And he told me twenty times afterward, like it was some personal insult.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“More than that. Every time I talk to him, he asks if I’m working out—always pushing. Seven days at the gym? Not enough. Deadlifting? Apparently, I’m slacking.”
“Look,” Boon says gently, “he’s okay with his only kid being gay. He wants a relationship with you, and he’s cool with you bringing your fiancé to visit. Seems pretty okay to me.”
I shake my head. “He doesn’t want a relationship.”
“What does he want then?”
“A relationship means real interest, real engagement. He just wants to do what he wants—and expects me to follow.”
Boon drives on, steady and quiet for a moment.
“It’s just one day,” he says. “After tonight. Saturday. Then Sunday rolls around and we’re out. We got this.”
He lifts a fist off the wheel, holding it up for my response.
The fist bump is a Boon thing: no matter if one of us is mad, sad, anxious, or all of it, it has to be met. I roll my eyes but make my own fist, tapping his.
“Well?” he asks, a grin in his voice. “Ready to go home?”
I look out the window where the freeway blurs and say, “Home is with you. This is just where I grew up.”
2. Days Past
I don’t tell Boon everything. Some things are too messy for someone as good as him to hear.
Mom left when I was a kid. I never resented her for walking away—or for leaving me with him. She married young, and Dad would’ve been impossible for anyone. He wanted a wife who was pretty as a model, cooked like a chef, cleaned like a recruit at boot camp, and worshiped every weird quirk of his like it was a gift.
An eighteen-year-old girl didn’t stand a chance.
“He wants me to iron everything,” Mom once said. “Even his underwear. Who does that?”
Once she was gone, Dad’s rules loosened. But the house stayed obsessively clean. Dad was freaky about that.
Life took on a stripped down quality. The dining room became his personal gym—weight bench and barbells shoved in where the table and chairs were. Meals were slapped together, served from pots, eaten off paper plates. Who needed more dishes? The things that make a house a home weren’t his thing.
Dad was proud of his body—and never bothered hiding it. At home, white briefs or a jockstrap were basically his uniform. Less laundry. More muscle on display.
I couldn’t not notice.
His thick blond hair and jaw scruff always sucked up any available light. Built like a pro wrestler—powerful chest and broad shoulders tapering to sturdy hips. Sparse gold hair hugged his pecs and abs, drawing every curve and ridge into sharp relief.
It was worse when he worked out right there in the living room, muscles swelling like the bara men in the manga I hid under my bed.
Judge me if you want—I was a horny, isolated gay kid trapped in a house with a half-naked testosterone storm. He’d say everyone has a talent. His was turning steaks into muscle—one thing I couldn’t argue with.
There was a time when his smile was like sunshine to me. Being in his arms felt so safe, and I was so proud to be seen with him. But by my teens, Dad was both my torment and my secret craving. My biggest secret. Being gay was one thing. Wanting him? That was something else.
Sometimes I fantasized we were something like married. Just the two of us, me doing things for him, and him… well. He was the center of gravity in the house anyway. Ridiculous, impossible because of my age and our relationship, but I longed for it anyway.
He had other plans: women. As many as he could have. Mostly blondes—young and easy—but not limited to that.
He’d bring them home, charm cranked up to eleven. They camped out in his room, a cardboard wall separating their world from mine. Then the fucking would start.
I learned his rhythm—the build-up, the bed pounding against the wall. His hardest thrusts, building toward a climax, narrated: Fuck, fuck, FUCK! And the slowing thuds after.
Sometimes I couldn’t take it anymore. One night, I banged hard on the thin wall.
“I CAN HEAR YOU IN THERE!” I yelled, voice cracking.
Silence. Then muted laughter—a joke shared without me.
Sometimes they floated out afterward, flushed with sweat, making breakfast before heading back for more.
I tried to time jerking off to cum with him. Tried to blot out the women’s groans and laughter—to hear only his. To imagine his hard body moving rough over mine. That wicked grin.
When his women were around, I was invisible. Nights, weekends, sometimes weeks alone. I cooked for myself and buried myself in sketchbooks filled with superheroes—big chests, strong arms—hinting at everything I couldn’t say.
Dad soared high until the inevitable fight came. Or one got too cozy, suggesting a future. Then she was gone, like the others. I never bothered learning their names.
Then it was just the two of us again, Dad revelling in his restored freedom.
“Please, just wear a condom, Dad,” I said one morning after, not even looking up from my drawing. “The last thing I need is some bastard of yours turning up to share my bedroom.”
Despite my jaded tone, I was seething inside.
“Why the long face, sourpuss?” he asked, grinning like he hadn’t a clue. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”
Oblivious. Always.
3. Arrival
Pulling up to the house, I spot Dad under the hood of his car in the driveway. He’d worn me down, finally—asking when I’d come home. I tell myself it’s just for the weekend—one debt to settle, then I’m free again.
I want to believe he’s frailer now, or slower. Less imposing. But no. Even bent over I can see his frame has softened only a little—the snug henley stretched tight across hulking shoulders and chest, clinging to every swell. His jeans sit low on slim hips, and there’s a bit of belly now—a rugged weight that somehow fits him.
My first instinct is to slam the car into reverse and head straight to the gym.
“I’m out of shape,” I mutter under my breath. “Need to work out. Now.”
“You’re fine. Better. Fine as fuck,” Boon says, eyes on me. “Transitions are just hard. It’ll get better.”
Dad stands up as we pull close, flipping the car hood closed with a grin straight out of the aspirational “after” of a Viagra commercial—bold, confident, owning every inch of his rugged, woodsy domain.
His thick sandy hair has thinned at the crown, leaving a tuft in front like a blond rooster’s comb. There are crinkles at the corners of his eyes. A handlebar mustache blends into rough blond scruff along a solid jaw, effortlessly masculine.
“Hello, boys,” he says, voice gravelly, shifting weight onto one leg.
“Hello, Mr. Griffin,” Boon says, stepping forward, hand out. “Boon-Nam Sangprathum. Please call me Boon.”
Dad doesn’t move. The hand dangles awkwardly.
He sizes Boon up—slow, sharp, head to toe.
“So—Boon? You’re the one fucking my boy?”
Five beats stretch out. Boon’s hand still waits.
Then Dad roars with laughter. “Just fucking with you.” He pulls Boon into a bear hug, slapping his back hard—nearly crushing him. “Welcome to the family.”
“Jesus, Dad,” I snap. “Don’t be such an asshole.”
Then, like a switch flips, Dad’s grip loosens. With a quick shove, he casts Boon aside like he’s nothing. Boon stumbles, caught off guard, as Dad pivots, all eyes on me.
“Maybe if I wasn’t a pariah, I’d be better socialized,” he says. “But your own son unfriends you on Facebook? What can you expect?”
“Not fucking Facebook again.”
“Stop bringing it up.”
“Bringing it up? You just brought it up! You—”
I don’t finish. Dad traps me in a vice grip—warm and suffocating, like a meaty avalanche.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, whiskers scraping against my ear. “Welcome home.”
4. The First Night
After an awkward dinner of Dad’s home-cooked steak and greens, Dad drags Boon on a grand tour of his woodworking shop. Boon asks thoughtful questions while I trail behind, like I don’t already know every dusty inch of his sawdust kingdom.
Eventually, Boon and I slip away to my old room. Almost everything’s the same—faded bedspread, old comic books pinned crooked on the walls, the shaky first sketches that sparked my graphic novels.
The bed’s a cozy fit, but still the least uncomfortable thing about being here.
“He’s not that bad,” Boon whispers, inching closer. “Just that stupid hetero macho bullshit.”
“You don’t even know,” I whisper back, voice low enough that even the walls won’t hear.
“I can handle him,” Boon says quiet but sure. “Did you see how I introduced myself? Told him to call me Boon?”
Before I can answer, the bedroom door bursts open. Dad stands there—shirtless, blond fur framing his chest, red flannel pajama bottoms slung low. He leans in the doorway with a cocky grin.
“Eyes up here,” he chuckles, waggling two fingers at his face. “You ladies need anything? Warm milk?”
I snap, “Please, Dad. Knock next time. Go to bed.”
“Afraid I’ll see something new?” Dad grins wider, smug as hell. “Okay, Duchess.”
“DAD. That’s homophobic.” My voice cracks on the word.
“Junior, I don’t have a homophobic bone in my body. In fact, I’ve got a theory on the evolutionary purpose of gay men. You see—” He launches in like it’s a bare-chested TED talk.
“Dad, no. If I have to hear this now, I’ll be too irritated to sleep.”
He shrugs, adjusting his flannel bottoms casually, letting them slip a little lower.
“Thanks, Mr. Griffin,” Boon says cool but firm, sitting straighter. “Goodnight, sir.”
Dad closes the door with a smirk. Silence drops between us.
“You’ve gotta admit,” Boon whispers, “not every het guy would be that comfortable seeing his son and his boyfriend in bed together. Try to find the good.”
I let out a short, sour laugh, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah, well. It wasn’t always like this.”
Then my eyes catch the sheets tenting. I shake my head, a smirk tugging my lips. “Boon, you’re hard as fuck.”
He chuckles, leaning closer. “Come on. Isn’t it kind of hot? First time with a guy in your childhood bed, crazy dad just a few feet away?”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide the grin. “I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t the first time.”
“WHAT? Dish. Now.”
So I tell him about Jake.
5. The Old Crush
In my senior year of high school, I started hanging out with Jake.
No one would’ve pegged us as friends. Especially not me. I was the weird, artsy kid; he was rough and tumble, from an even worse side of the tracks.
His home life was a nightmare—mom screaming, a revolving door of “step-dads,” an older brother who slapped him around. Looking back, his family made my dad look like Father of the Year.
I guess I thought I could save him, though really, he probably needed CPS more than some smitten gay teenager. And smitten I was.
He was just a kid, like me. But back then, Jake seemed ridiculously hot. A total high school jock: confident, effortlessly physical. So… straight.
Looking back now, it’s funny how much Jake resembled Sam—smaller than him, but the same thick sandy hair. The same eyes, in retrospect. The same sideways humor. How at home they both were in a world where I felt so out of place.
I never saw it then, caught up in the chaos and my crush. I thought I was chasing something—someone—different from my own fucked-up life. But Jake was, in his own way, just a younger Sam.
We bonded over comics, sci-fi movies, music—all that shit. He started coming over more and more. Soon, he was crashing overnight. First once, then again. Before long, it was several nights a week. He just slept in my bed with me.
Nothing sexual ever happened. Ever. Not for lack of me wishing. I prayed he’d kiss me. Let me jerk him off, blow him—didn’t care if he ever reciprocated, just that he’d let me. I wanted to be close, and clung to this insane hope that someday we would be.
One day, Dad told me Jake couldn’t sleep over anymore. I asked why. Some bullshit about privacy. Like he ever cared about mine—the place was his whorehouse half the time. I pushed back. If he could have whoever he wanted over, why couldn’t I? Jake was my best friend. Wasn’t it my house too?
He said I was just a kid, not an adult. Then—then he said if I was into girls, he wouldn’t let me have a teenage girl in my bed either.
If I was into girls.
The thing is, I’d never told him I was gay. But right then, it was like every secret, every mask I’d worn caught fire at once. The way he said it—like he already knew everything I felt, everything I wanted. I was scorched.
I wanted to scream, to vanish. Instead, I swallowed the heat in my chest and said, tight and sharp, “You don’t have to worry. Jake’s like you. He only likes girls. Not me.”
My own words hit harder than I expected. My own admission of the hopelessness of my crush.
I turned away, burning inside, hoping no flames showed on my face. But they did, I guess, because he kind of backed down.
I thought things could go on like they had. But a few nights later, I woke up alone. Thought Jake was in the bathroom—then I heard voices. I got up and found Dad and Jake deep in conversation in the living room.
Dad told me to go back to bed—that they were talking man to man. I said no way. But Jake looked back at me, telling me to scram.
I went back to bed and waited. Waited for Jake, until I fell asleep.
In the morning, I asked what that was about. Jake said Dad wanted to know about his home life, said he could keep staying over, but no more than three nights a week.
Not what I wanted, but I could live with it.
But things shifted. Slow at first, but Jake got distant. Our differences grew. I didn’t know why he still came over.
I went away to college. We never spoke again.
Last I heard, he moved to Alaska—the universal refuge for people too fucked up for normal.
That’s the story of Jake. And how my dad fucked up my one best friendship—and my almost boyfriend.
6. His World
Saturday means one thing: Dad’s world, full stop. He likes company on his errands—his version of quality time. He goes to Home Depot, and we follow like extras on his stage.
From the moment we step inside, you know who owns the place. In beat-up Carhartts, a weathered cap, and a sleeveless tee that shows off beefy shoulders and biceps, Dad moves like a bull in a china shop.
Every employee who crosses his path gets the full Sam Griffin treatment—a cold, assessing stare. Not one earns a nod. It’s like watching him mark territory, down to the blond pit hair flashing as he stretches for the highest shelves, leaving his scent behind.
Then, just like flipping a switch, he’s sweet as honey to the cashier—a barely pretty girl with mousey hair pulled back in a lazy ponytail—but he treats her like Miss America: warm smile, flirty winks. “Thanks, darling.” I can practically see him turning up the charm knob. She’s somewhere between flattered and embarrassed.
Dad saunters out, lumber and rebar balanced on his shoulder so everyone can admire the form and strength that owns this territory.
Next stop: the mechanic’s. Dad scans the bill like it’s a personal insult.
“It’s parts, Sam,” the mechanic shrugs. “Just passing on costs. Don’t take it personal.”
Dad’s smirk curls. “Gee thanks. But do me a favor—I like a little reach-around when I’m getting fucked, y’know?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam. See you for poker next week.”
I shrink back, cheeks burning. I’m embarrassed for Boon to see this place I came from. It feels like being outed—exposed.
Lunch is at Dad’s favorite diner. Of course, he doesn’t ask where I might want to eat after being gone all these years. He’s always the main character.
At the table, Dad’s eyes drop to my forearms—sleeves rolled up, ink blooming on my skin.
“So you got flower tattoos?” His voice is low and rough.
“Yup. Dahlias,” I say, propping my arms on the table.
He grunts. “I don’t judge. You got your canvas. I got mine.” His meaty hand scratches his side, biceps flexing. The unspoken message is clear: I build muscles, you draw flowers.
Boon pipes up. “He was so tough getting inked. Barely winced. You should have seen. Did his sleeves in one sitting each.”
I remember those sessions—the sweat damp on my skin, breaths shallow and controlled, fingers clenched, desperate not to show pain.
Dad smirks, lifting his shirt a bit. “Ever see my appendectomy scar? Now that was pain.”
“Dad, I was there.”
He launches into the story. “So this one day—”
“Dad. I was there. Enough.”
Boon jumps in, like an eager kid swimming in water too deep. “Junior’s comic—his graphic novel—is doing really well. Selling a lot.”
“Junior?” I shoot Boon a sharp look. “Don’t you start calling me that.”
Dad puffs up. “Samuel Ulysses Griffin Junior. I gave you my name.”
I roll my eyes. Giving someone your name instead of letting them have their own is dumb. I go by Griff. A compromise. It’s what my friends call me, what’s on my books. What else does he want?
“I have an idea for your comic,” Dad says, struck by his own genius. “At the hardware store, there’s this display fridge, perched on a high shelf. It tips over. I catch it just in time—save two pretty girls. Retro, like those old Charles Atlas ‘Hero of the Beach’ ads.”
“That’s not my style,” I say flatly.
Dad raises his eyebrows. “Well, it could be.”
Our food arrives. I poke at my sad excuse for a Greek salad while Dad demolishes his roast beef sandwich, wiping his mouth on his forearm like napkins haven’t yet been invented.
I glance at Boon. My eyes silently plead—I want to be somewhere softer. Somewhere people don’t talk like this. Where Drag Race runs on TV, rice noodles steam in bowls on our table. Where my graphic novel sits on bookstore shelves, and I sleep in my own bed.
Boon blinks back, lashes thick and dark. I worry half of it got lost in translation.
7. Tensions Rise
“What kind of name is Boon anyway?” Dad asks over dinner, eyes glinting with that annoying mix of bored curiosity and challenge.
“It’s Thai,” I say quickly, trying to shut him down before he gets started.
“I know that,” he says, cocking an eyebrow, burger halfway to his mouth for effect. “But what does it mean?”
“It’s short for Boon-Nam,” Boon says evenly. “It means good fortune.”
Dad leans in, eyebrows knitting like he’d just opened a new puzzle. “So let me ask you something, Boon-Nam—”
“Please, just call me Boon,” comes the interruption, calm but firm.
“I don’t think so. I like Boon-Nam. It’s... lyrical.” Dad wipes grease from his mouth on his palm, licks his lips.
“Mr. Griffin, I insist—” Boon begins, voice firmer now.
Dad slams his fist on the table—hard enough to jolt us both. “Son, don’t try to dom me in my own house. Now, Boon-Nam, you friends with your parents on Facebook?”
“Jesus Christ!” I snap, irritation flaring.
“Well, Mr. Griffin,” Boon says, steady as ever, “I am. But it’s a different kind of relationship than you have with your son.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Dad,” I cut in, exasperation rising. “I’m not here to argue about—”
“Oh, spare me,” Dad interrupts, rolling his eyes. “What exactly are you punishing me for?”
Boon clears his throat, voice steady. “I think if you both could just—”
“SHUT UP, BOON!” we both snap, like live wires, in near-perfect unison.
I lock eyes with Dad. “This is why! You—you make everything about yourself.”
“What pussy shit is this? I didn’t raise you like this.”
“Raise me?” I bark. “You think you raised me? I raised myself. You don’t even know who I am!”
Dad’s face twists sarcastically. “Wow. What a shitty dad I am. Boon, you’re so lucky to have my prince of a son. Never does anything wrong!”
I hiss, “Leave him out of it. You already—”
I catch myself, but I’ve already put my foot in it. Silence hangs over the kitchen table.
Dad stares me down. “Already what? What exactly did I do that was so bad?”
“I DON’T EVEN KNOW!” I snap, voice cracking. “But it’s whatever you did with Jake.”
“Jake who?”
“Jake! My best friend when I was eighteen.”
Dad chuckles, sucking the air from the room. “Oh. Jake. Jake, Jake. Sweet as cake. That one.”
“Yes, Dad. That one. The one you couldn’t stand me having someone in my life who wasn’t you.”
“You got it wrong,” Dad says, shaking his head. “If I’m so bad, why was he still coming around after high school? You weren’t even here anymore.”
I’m confused, but Boon watches silently, eyes wide but quiet.
Dad leans closer, voice dropping low. “It’s not what you think. Not by a long shot.”
The air shifts. There’s something unsaid, waiting.
I see my chance—like a candle wick, dwindling, but there.
“Dad, tell me. What happened?”
8. The Other Story
“You had this kid staying over all the time,” Dad starts, his voice sounding distant. “Jake. Kid had a few strikes against him. Rough home, tough family. Could’ve been better. Hell, I had it worse and still turned out okay.
“But this kid? Always trying to get my attention. Making eyes. Comes out of the shower, towel hanging low on his waist, peaches-and-cream skin, flexing, making sure I see him. ‘Good morning, Mr. Griffin.’
“In the kitchen, he squeezes past me just right—his ass pressing against my johnson. Opens the bathroom door while I’m taking a leak, acts all clueless, says he didn’t know I was in there. He knew.
“Where the fuck you were through all this I don’t know. Most oblivious kid on Earth. Head in the clouds while your best friend was making moves on me every day.
“Look, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings—tried to be decent. Told you to make him scarce. But you got pissed, probably because, I don’t know, you’re a horndog who wanted the kid yourself.
“One night, you’re asleep. Jakey comes out for water or some excuse. Truth is, he heard me out there, came out in his drawers, flirting. ‘What are you doing, Mr. Griffin? Can I help?’ So I say, ‘Jake, let’s talk.’
“You’ve been coming around a lot, I say, and it’s a little awkward. I like my privacy. I like to walk around in my skivvies at home, maybe less.’
“‘I wouldn’t mind that at all, Mr. Griffin,’ he says.
“I’ve been around enough to see what’s going on here, so I tell him to start shooting straight with me.
“He tells me he doesn’t know, maybe he’s bisexual, but he wants to be with me, asks if he can suck me off.
“And you said…?” I ask, heart pounding like it might jump out.
“Come on, Junior. No one says no to a free blowjob. I’d been dry a while. Single dad to a weirdo teenager isn’t exactly a prize, you know?
“And that kid…” Dad’s voice drifts, almost wistful. “Bblond, creamy. Fit—firm, but not hard. Those lips. Just my type, other than being a boy.”
“He drops to his knees and gets on my pecker, and if I close my eyes it could be Marilyn Monroe for all I know. Don’t know where he learned it, or maybe he was a natural. But that kid sucked cock like a pro. You don’t know how hard it was keeping quiet not to wake you up. Got a load out of me fast. Over the lips, past the gums, look out stomach—here I cum.”
I ask quietly, “And?”
Dad shrugs. “I knew if I told him not to come back, I’d have to deal with you being pissed at me 24/7. And all of a sudden, having him around didn’t seem so bad to me either.
“So we sat down to have a talk about terms. You walked in on that conversation. Maybe you don’t remember. My boner was still settling in my pajamas, his lips were satiny, digesting my load in his belly, and he was hungry for more.
“Told you to go back to bed while we finished talking. You looked steamed, but I was looking out for your feelings, you ungrateful shit.
“Said he could stay over three nights a week. Could blow me too, if he wanted. But had to keep it secret. Anyone could tell you had it bad for the kid. It was a messy situation.”
“So from there, we kept doing it when you were unaware. God, what a mouth. Took to it like it was a sport. Could go from giving head to watching sci-fi with you like nothing had happened.
“He got what he wanted, I got off regular, and you got your boyfriend around to moon over. It was a good deal for everyone.
“Can’t tell you how many times you almost caught us. Always an inch away from ruining everything. He was eager. Undisciplined. I warned him to stay cool—didn’t want to see him break your heart.”
Dad falls silent, like he’s savoring the memory.
9. Revelations
Dad’s words land like a gut punch. I want to look away, cover my ears—but after all this time, I need to hear it—no matter how raw or twisted it makes me feel.
Boon prods gently, “What happened then?”
“One day Junior’s off to the city. Some art bullshit. Jake comes over, and we take our sweet time. No prying eyes. I’d grabbed that bubble butt before, but this time I took it a step further—started fingering his hole. Kid moaned through a mouth full of cock, arching his back. Then he let go with a wet pop. ‘Fuck me, Sam.’
“Look, boys aren’t my scene, but this kid… he was small but athletic. Tough. But still, there was something plush about him. Pink nipples, blond pubes, tight waist you could hold onto. Easy—like vanilla ice cream made to be eaten slow with a spoon.
“And he was asking for it. Not just the way he acted. Literally. ‘Fuck me, Sam.’”
Sam shrugs. “Fuck, I’m no saint.
“So I got him on his back, and since it was his first time, I took it slow. Kid was tough, but what, five foot seven? Gonna feel every inch of it.” He gestures down to the tight bulge in his jeans.
“I don’t mind telling you, it took some serious restraint—holding back every inch, letting him adjust. He whimpered but wanted more.
“Finally, we’re almost there—him on his side, one leg cocked up. I pull back and he begs me to put it back in. ‘Hold still,’ I say. Slide in steady. ‘You got this.’ Get in deep, to the balls. He gasps, looks at me—open mouth, raised blond eyebrows like he’d found his damn purpose.”
“And...?”
“Didn’t last long, but when I came it was like a rocket—shooting deep inside him. Felt every muscle lock and clench around me when I did, like he was pulling me in, holding me there. First boy I fucked, and it hit hard. Got him off too.
“I was surprised as fuck myself. But the way his body took me—it was too real to ignore. Even with everything else tangled in it.”
Dad’s grin fades for a moment. He looks off at some distant point, lashes low.
“What a slice,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Like cake.”
Then the smirk slips back into place.
“You said he came around again after graduation,” Boon says, stepping in for me like he always does.
Dad smirks. “You don’t miss much, do you? Yeah, he did.
“Junior went off to college—finally gave me some peace and quiet. But Jakey boy? No college for him. Saw him bagging groceries. Still the best lips in town, still fit as fuck. Muscles working under his sleeves, packing bags. Looking at me too. Hard not to think how many loads he’d swallowed, and that ass. And I got hard—Pavlov’s dick.”
Boon asks gently, “What happened then?”
“He came around. Wanted more. We fucked every which way. Regular. Kid loved getting fucked. Never got knocked up no matter how many times you busted in him.” He chuckles.
“But I could tell he was training me up. I stopped closing my eyes when he sucked me off—stopped thinking of girls. Loved those pink nipples, slapping that creamy ass. But I never begged for it, not once. Even when my balls ached for it. Never been a slave to any pussy, wasn’t gonna be to any ass.”
There’s a low, slow growl in Dad’s chest.
“After a while, he talked about moving in. Him and me. I get it—shit home life, thinks this is a way out. Just like Junior’s mom. And we all know how that ended.
“Fuck, I didn’t want to be tied down, especially not to some boy. He was supposed to be a fun sidepiece, but he was crazy—just like any girl.
“So I told him I was done. Cut him off.
“Kid’s no idiot. Got it bad, but when he saw I wasn’t budging, he figured it out, then took off—Alaska, I guess? Heard he sucked off every lumberjack from here to the North Pole.
“Don;t mind telling you, I missed those lips. A hand’s a poor second for a hungry mouth. But easy come, easy go, right?
“And it was all without you knowing a thing—till now. So you could keep your dreamy vision of your boyfriend.”
Boon and I just listen, silent.
“And that’s the story, Junior. Got what you wanted?”
10. The Secret Triangle
All the pieces I’ve been chasing—Jake’s distance, the way things changed, Dad’s sharp glances—snap into place, forming a puzzle I don’t want to see.
They were so alike, Dad and Jake, I can see how they fit together in a way I never could. Like they were made for each other. Me? I was the outsider—a piece from a different box.
“You want me to believe…” I ask, voice barely steady, “Jake was in love with you the whole time he was my friend?”
“Love, lust… what the fuck ever,” Dad shrugs like it doesn’t matter.
“God, you’re such a narcissist,” I mutter. Of course the one boy he’d get hard for was the one who looked so much like him. Not… I can’t finish the thought.
Dad grabs two red apples from a bowl on the counter, tosses one at me, hard. I catch it by instinct. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Not everything’s about you, Junior.”
“Dad, the idea you had a thing with Jake, fine. Got head. Okay. But the idea that hiding it was to ‘protect’ me? That’s bullshit. You never gave a damn about anyone but yourself. Your reasons were yours, don’t chalk it up to looking out for me.”
He bites into the apple with a snap, chews it slowly, then speaks, mouth full. “Don’t believe me? Ask Boon-Nam here.” He sucks in the juice. “Haven’t made a damn move on him.”
“Me?” Boon squeaks, caught off guard. “I wasn’t part of any of this.”
“Nope.” Dad smudges his wet lips on his forearm, then leers. “But you’ve been throwing fuck-me looks since you got here, haven’t you, boy?”
Boon stares, speechless, cheeks burning.
“Boon?” I ask, confused. “What the hell is he talking about?”
“I didn’t do a thing,” Boon says, hands raised. “But… if I’m honest, there is an attraction.”
“Well, that’s just fucking great,” I say. “This has been a damn ice cream sundae of a trip, and that’s the cherry on top.”
Dad just grins. “See? Oblivious as fuck.”
Boon cuts in. “Hold on.”
I don’t know who looks more surprised—Dad or me. Dad’s used to dominating every damn conversation. He spreads his arms, showing off his build, like it’s Wrestlemania. “You saying you don’t want some of this?”
“Yeah,” Boon says, calm but firm. “Yeah, I do. So what?”
I blink, thrown off by Boon’s coolness. He’s the opposite of my hot spikes. And suddenly, this is the most interesting conversation I’ve ever heard in this house.
“Of course I’m into you,” Boon says. “You’re just like the man I love. He’s darker than you... slimmer… but same face. The way you laugh. You’re him—plus twenty-five years and seventy pounds of muscle.”
“HEY!” Dad and I snap, each flattered and offended at the same time.
“It’s true,” Boon insists, as if he’s talking about gravity. “I’m into you because I’m into your son. I hope he still looks like you when he’s your age. I’ll have the hottest husband in town.”
“Glad you see it that way,” Dad begins, side smile curling up. “‘Cause I—”
But Boon raises a hand and silences him. I’ve never seen that before.
“Sam, your son’s not a boy,” Boon says softly. “He’s a man—the smartest, funniest, most decent man I know. Not that I’ve seen a lot of that since we got here, to be honest. But how he turned out this way with you is a mystery. If you want us to stay in this house and not walk out this minute and drive away forever, you need to stop treating us like this. Now.”
I hold my breath, expecting Dad to explode. Instead, he looks down, then back up, slow and measured. “Let’s try again.”
I step closer, drawn in by the change in him, close enough to see every whisker, every twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“All I wanted back then was to be with you,” I say. “Did you know? Or were you oblivious?”
“That’s your beef?” Sam laughs. “Not that I was fucking your eighteen-year-old buddy?”
I lean in, voice tight. “I’m a thirty-two-year-old gay man. You think I haven’t seen age gaps before? Haven’t been on the other side of them myself? Fuck. You missed my whole daddy phase. Fucked men in their forties when I wasn’t much more than eighteen myself. Got fucked too.” I hit where I hope it hurts. “A lot of them looked like you. Before Boon.”
I feel the toe of Boon’s shoe graze my calf.
Sam’s jaw tightens, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. “Hell, I was barely older than that when I fathered you,” he says, voice rough. “If they’re adults, I’m not one to judge.”
A long silence. “You never said a goddamn word,” he murmurs.
“What was I supposed to say?” I ask, gulping. “ ‘Hey, Dad, wanna get naked with me?’”
For a long beat, we hold each other’s gaze. Then Sam scoffs, breaking the moment.
“You think there aren’t dads and sons having threesomes with girls in small towns like this?”
He tosses his apple core into the sink with lazy disdain.
“Hey! I didn’t want a threesome with a girl,” I snap.
“Well... there’s no girl here now, is there?” he says, eyes flitting between me and Boon.
The three of us fall silent. Only the ticking clock fills the kitchen.
“Fuck, I don’t know,” Dad mutters. “I just do my thing. You say you’re not into it? There isn’t a limp dick here, that’s for sure.”
He’s not wrong. Whatever I feel—rage, disgust, horniness—it’s tangled up tight. And from the heat coming off of Dad and Boon both, I’m not the only one.
“You know what? I’m going to my room,” I say, stomping out like the dumb teenager I feel like inside.
11. Regrouping
“Hey. HEY,” Boon calls, following me into my room and shutting the door behind him.
I strip out of my clothes and crawl into my childhood bed—the same one Jake and I shared most of senior year.
Boon climbs on top of me, curling under the threadbare bedspread until I roll to face him.
“I’m talking to you.”
“What?”
“You were hot as fuck back there. Proud of you for telling him what you did.”
“Yeah?” Surprise flickers through me. “I guess... yeah.”
He smiles—soft, steady. I can’t meet his eyes.
“My feelings are all twisted up. I don’t want you to hate me.”
Boon’s voice is calm. Soothing.
“Oh buddy, I don’t hate you. What you’ve got with your dad? Yeah, it’s messed up. But it’s ordinary as fuck too. It’s a whole smut genre. ”
I can feel my heat lowering.
“Gay guys grow up with their feelings all… bottled up. Trying to figure it out on your own. It’s not so crazy that your wires get a little crossed and the first guy you’re attracted to is the one you’re closest to: your dad. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong.”
Slim as he is, Boon’s weight anchors me.
“And if your dad looks like... well, your dad, you’re gonna notice. Hell, I would.”
I turn on my back, eyes locked on him. He pulls the sheets back a little.
So handsome—black hair, clever eyes, sharp jawline.
“Do I really look like him?”
“Younger. Darker. Thinner.” He pauses, then grins. “Hotter.”
I don’t believe the last. But I love him for saying it.
“But save some crazy for the wedding. I can only take one insane Griffin at a time.”
For the first time since arriving, we have a laugh. A real one.
“One of us at a time? You don’t have to make it sound sexy,” I say, feeling myself stiffen against him.
“There’s lube,” Boon practically purrs. He reaches for his dopp bag on the bedside table, pulling it onto the bed. “Poppers too.”
We melt into a kiss, and Boon shifts, pelvis grinding against mine in a long, slow stroke. Our cocks slide together, heat building.
“That was some fucking story,” Boon murmurs into my ear, his breath hot. “Did your dad always talk so dirty?”
“Worse,” I say, louder than I mean to—and we laugh again.
His voice drops, eyes darken. “You think it’d be fun to get fucked in your childhood bed? With your hot dad on the other side of the wall?”
Boon’s hands trap mine on the bed, our lips lock and he grinds against me, cock to cock.
The bed creaks. The frame rattles and the head thumps against the wall as the rhythm builds—harder, faster, knocking against the wall.
Then—
A sharp pounding from the other side.
“I CAN HEAR YOU IN THERE!” Dad’s voice roars, cutting through the moment.
“GOOD!” we shout back together.
Laugh bubbles up between us, so much we have to break apart, breathless.
I look up to see Boon’s eyes, his glossy dark hair. The sly grin. He’s gorgeous.
And then he asks, barely a whisper.
“Should we stop torturing him?”
“If you’re okay with it,” I answer.
“SAM!” Boon yells out, “YOU CAN COME IN.”
Half a minute later, the door swings open.
Sam fills the doorframe with his broad shoulders and thick chest. His manly belly is firm, rising and falling with slow breaths. But this time, no pajamas. His cock sways, hard and heavy, cupping his balls in one big hand.
Other than… all of that, he looks like a boy on Christmas, asking to go see what’s under the tree.
“Can I watch at least?”
12. The Reading
Dad’s hand grips his hard cock tight as Boon drops down on me, pinning my arms to the mattress. His tongue traces slow, teasing circles on my nipples before sliding down my abs to wrap around my cock.
He’s a master—taking every inch, swallowing again and again. His Adam’s apple bobs—gunk, gunk, gunk—like a piston firing in the tightest, warmest vice I’ve ever known. The sound is obscene, but nowhere near as intense as the heat flooding through me.
“Jesus, fuck,” Dad murmurs, his voice rough, caught somewhere between captivated and desperate.
I tilt my head, voice low but clear enough for him to catch: “He’s amazing at this. And Dad… I get it all the time. And give back just as good.”
Boon’s mouth never stops, but I catch the quick head shift, his eyes flickering to Dad.
When Boon pulls free, my cock gleams, pulsing hard. I shift onto my knees and lean into him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before taking his cock into my mouth. I drink in every inch, careful to catch Dad’s breath, his eyes—until my own close and I go deep.
I might put a little juice on the effort, for Dad’s sake—but I swallow deep, lips sliding all the way to Boon’s balls, bobbing there, tasting him—feeling his hands grip the nape of my neck, pulling me closer with every thrust.
When I pull back, my eyes sting with pleasure, my mouth slick and dripping. I wipe the wetness on my forearm and realize, I’ve got his moves down: apple, tree.
“You guys gonna leave me dry here?” Dad’s voice pulls me back, cocky grin lighting his face.
Boon and I exchange a fast, knowing look. Monogamous, yes — but a threesome? For a special situation, maybe. And it doesn’t get much more special than this.
We both turn, beckoning Dad toward the bed.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Dad says, cracking his neck like a pro wrestler swaggering into the ring. “Thought you ladies were never gonna—”
Boon raises a hand, cutting him off.
“What now?” Dad asks, frustrated cock on hold, swaying between his legs.
“None of that ‘ladies’ shit if you want in.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so sensitive. What’d I tell you about trying to dom me in my own goddamn house?”
His tough-guy act suddenly seems thin as paper. I can see how much he wants this—what I’ve waited my whole life to see.
I start to say okay, but Boon holds firm. “Sam, I’m guessing your sex life’s been thin for a while. Small town, low-hanging fruit long picked clean. Mid 50s. And now—”
“Early 50s,” Dad interrupts.
“Fine, mid 50s.” Boon persists. “Pool’s dried up. You’re checking out women you wouldn’t have glanced at ten years ago.”
“Everyone hits a dry patch,” Dad grunts, arms crossed over his chest. For the first time, I notice silver threads weaving through gold chest hair.
“So—you’re horny as hell,” Boon says, nodding toward Dad’s hand wrapped tight around his impatiently throbbing cock. “And we know what we’re doing—like you saw. If you want in, you respect us. Service is earned, not given, in our house.”
Dad’s scowl falters—softens. Lips thin, then quirk up into a grin as he runs a hand through his hair. It’s a rare glimpse beneath his tough shell—a kid trying to ask for what he wants without losing face.
“Okay, okay,” he says, wagging his erection. “But you gotta do that thing.”
He flicks a finger up and down his Adam’s apple — Boon’s signature move.
I shrug at Boon. Not the most evolved response. But you have to have realistic expectations.
13. Crossing the Line
My bed’s already too small for just Boon and me. When Sam wedges himself in, it’s ridiculous. But somehow, he makes it work, even as the bedframe groans under us. Maybe I was wrong about his epic proportions all along.
We settle knee to knee, eyes locked. I guess it had to happen.
Boon slides up behind Dad, one tan hand gliding under his arm, sweeping over his broad chest, fingers tangling in golden hair as they clutch a firm pec. The other hand drifts lower, wrapping firmly around the rigid cock.
The touch sends tiny tremors rattling through Dad—and through the air to me. Boon’s lips and teeth graze Sam’s neck, moving free and easy—something I can’t match yet.
I’m too tight, and it’s too much. He’s too much. Like staring straight at the sun.
I catch the swagger I know all too well curling his grin. “This what you wanted?”
My voice catches. “Kinda.” My heart pounds like you could see it through my skin. But we’ve come this far. I’ve wondered for so long. “Dad… did you know?”
A small but telling shrug, eyes dropping low. “Kinda.”
There’s more I want to say but can’t. You picked all those women. You even chose Jake, but not me. The gravity of it feels like it could crush me.
Instead, I close my eyes, let my fingers glide over Sam’s skin, brushing Boon’s hand in the mix. Some things I might never know. But for now, I can touch the solid muscle, the rough hairs I’ve imagined for so long. I lean in and our lips touch—light at first, testing, until the heat pulls us tighter.
I feel his tongue slide in, meeting mine, as my palm grazes a nipple, feel his heartbeat beneath, and his hand trails down the plane of my belly.
He takes hold—my dad’s actual hand wrapped around me, jerking, pulling me closer in his rough grip.
I’m aware of Boon moving somewhere on Sam’s chest, latching on. Sam shivers, his fingers twining in silky black hair, steering Boon’s head down between us.
A tongue lands against my cock, then lips. I know the closed, wet sensation of Boon’s mouth. Then he breaks free to take on Sam’s.
I’m still eye to eye with Dad, Boon twisted around him from behind so the cock slides straight into his throat.
And then I hear the familiar sound of Boon at work—gunk, gunk, gunk—and feel Dad melting into it.
We stitch closer, the sound of Boon’s wet, deep swallows, Sam’s rough “Fuckkk,” and his fingers teasing my cock. He catches a bead of precum from me, raises it, pressing his thumb into my mouth. As I suck it off, I catch the scent of his sweat filling the space between us.
It’s beautiful watching him let go, owning the space, even as he surrenders his pleasure to Boon. Some men are born to paint, some to lead others in war. Sam Griffin? He was born for this—using his body for pleasure. His and others’.
He moves closer, lips on my neck, teeth on my collarbone as his rough fingers take my nipples. Beneath, I see Boon’s head bobbing, alternating between sucking Dad and then me, then Dad again.
Feeling more ready, I drop down, adding my mouth to Boon’s—both sliding down Dad’s wet, hard cock. Then he fades back, and I take over. Thick as it is, it slides in smoothly, wet with Boon’s spit, filling my whole mouth—heavy, alive.
I feel Boon beside me, rising. A quick, teary glance up catches him standing over us, his cock at Sam’s lips, teasing. Then Dad’s hand taking it, bringing it into his mouth, welcoming him in.
More than ever, I want to give Dad something amazing. Something he’ll really feel, under all the bullshit.
I take the poppers, pulling a sharp hit through each nostril. The heat floods my skin and my vision blurs. I pull Dad’s cock in again, heart slamming in my ears, lips and tongue working down till my lips ghost his balls, his length cradled in my throat.
Above me, a gravelly “Jesus fuck”—all Dad—and hands too big to be Boon’s grip my head hard. Sam’s hips jerk forward, grinding against my mouth. I clutch the curve of his ass, drawing him deeper again.
Everything loosening inside me but my hunger for him, I draw up and dive down again, over and over, throat-fucking myself on his cock—the only thing that matters, not even embarrassed by the slobbering, croaky sounds spilling out of me.
Dad’s hips stutter. “Fuck, fuck FUCK,” he almost whimpers.
He suddenly stiffens and a sudden hot gush floods my mouth—thick, overflowing. I fight not to retch as it chokes me, swallowing fast as I can. His hands drop to my cheeks, cupping my face as his hips grind, slow and steady. I suck at him to catch every drop.
His hands lift my head, pulling me up. My eyes bleary, breath ragged—but I catch something in his face I’ve never seen before. A post-cum openness, emerging from beneath his cocky grin.
So that’s what all those women saw, before me.
He pulls me in close, kissing me—full mouthed, wet and sloppy. Traces of his cum in my spit sliding back and forth in the kiss.
I jerk myself fast, chasing the damn sun as it sets before me.
And then I feel it—Sam’s hand slipping under me, fingers pressing into the cleft of my ass, teasing at my entry. The world tips on its axis and I shudder, lose myself, and cum hard, shooting hot streaks over Dad’s thick forearm beneath me.
“That’s my boy,” Sam breathes, raw and low in my ear, as beneath us my load runs, catching on blond hairs and falling. I want to believe it.
Boon’s still standing, hips pitching into his fist. “Fuck yeah,” he says—then lets go, a choke in his throat as he sprays hot semen across Sam’s chest, white streaks painting gold fur, clinging.
Sam doesn’t flinch. He takes Boon’s cock in his mouth, eager to taste him. The whole scene—Dad sucking my boyfriend, swallowing his cum, as Boon’s fingers twist in his hair—is almost more than I can handle.
We slump back, slick and spent; breath slowing, heartbeats softening.
Sam breaks out the cocky smirk. “You guys know how to cook?”
I brace for the worst. “Why?”
His eyes gleam, a grin pulling up the corner of his mouth. “I like to eat before round two.”
14. Scraps and Afterglow
The kitchen glows low and tired in the late night—the old bulbs barely pushing back the dark. We’re still naked here, clothes forgotten or unnecessary after what came before. Drying patches of sweat and lube and cum cling to skin.
Boon moves through the small space, humming under his breath. He’s a master of leftovers—rifling through the fridge, pulling scraps like they’re treasures. Eggs crack with quick snaps into the pan. Cilantro scraped from wilted stems. Cheese shredded like magic dust.
“Fish sauce would be too much to hope for,” he mutters, eyes on a lonely lime in the fruit bin.
The pop and sizzle of butter fills the air as Boon jerks the pan with a practiced flick, coaxing the eggs into soft, wrinkled pillows that gleam under the low light.
Sam leans on the counter, arms folded tight but eyes wide, watching like Boon’s pulling miracles out of thin air. His damp blond fur catches the faint light, there’s a thin scar under his ribs—his appendectomy. His version of a war story. Lower, the slow twitch of his spent cock is impossible to miss—a hunger that’s deeper than appetite.
When Boon slides the plate across, Sam snatches it like he’s been starving for days. A forkful hits his mouth, and surprise flickers in his eyes.
“Fuck,” he exhales, blowing a plume of steam. “That’s… damn.”
This isn’t his basic eggs—stripped down, bare. It’s something rich, made with care—tender and precise. Like Boon himself.
Sam drops the fork mid-bite, fingers scooping the warm mess straight to his mouth, wolfing it down like he’s desperate for the comfort of it. When it’s gone, he licks his palm, the buttery sheen catching the light as he drags his tongue over his fingertips with a satisfied grin.
His gaze locks with mine in the quiet kitchen. There’s a looseness in him now that tugs at a raw place inside me.
I know Sam Griffin better than anyone, but there are shadows still, parts I’ll never hold, alternate lives that might have been
I glance at Boon, drawn by his effortless grace—tan skin glowing warm under the flickering light, square shoulders and subtle abs flexing as he moves. He makes his quiet strength look easy.
Across from them both, I’m aware of my own lean muscles beneath olive skin, all angles and sharp lines. Sam’s kid, in ways I’m only beginning to understand. My own man—I hope.
The three of us seem to fit together. Sam’s power, Boon’s flow, and my own restless reach for whatever’s next.
Sam’s blue eyes dart up, meeting mine. “You’re a good looking kid,” he says, the edge gone from his voice. It’s quick, an almost shy appraisal.
I smirk, leaning back against the counter. “Narcissist much?” I glance at Boon, then back to Sam. “I hear I look like you.”
Sam’s grin spreads slow and easy—a crack in the mask. “Could be.”
Boon closes in. Our shoulders brush. A hand resting easy on a back. It’s quiet, no words needed, but the space between us feels warmer, smaller. More like home.
Meanwhile, Sam’s fingers drum the countertop, restless, impatient. His blue eyes shimmer.
Then he snaps, like a lit fuse.
“So, you guys. We gonna fuck, or what?”
The laugh that follows crackles with a longing that won’t quit.
15. The Puzzle
We slide into Sam’s big bed. I know it, for before, but not like this—three of us pressing together, like pieces from three different puzzles, trying to fit. After the cramped squeeze of my own bed, this feels like a stretch of freedom—a chance to spread out, to explore.
The heat from before is still there but different—less urgent, deeper now. Boon’s fingers trace over Dad’s belly as their tongues flick together, and I tease Boon’s cock with my mouth. Dad’s teeth and lips graze the dahlias inked on my forearms, and seconds later his tongue trails a lazy path through my armpit, and Boon moves lower.
Dad hauls me close, chest warm and solid against mine, while Boon mouths his cockhead. Fingers roam, teasing at the tight crack of my ass—whose touch I can’t place. My lips close around a nipple, and the weight shifts around me again. There’s the scratch of fur against my thigh, tongues tangling, and we roll again.
Somewhere in the blur, Boon and I share a look. No words needed. Everything’s good. We’re good.
Then I see Dad’s hand clamp hard on Boon’s ass, rough and commanding, yanking him closer on his knees. My chest tightens as he lifts him by the hips—Dad’s cock rigid against Boon’s rear. A sharp snap—the lube bottle’s seal breaking—and I watch as Dad gives his cock a quick smear and lines up, presses in. Boon gasps, breath trailing.
A deeper shove follows. Boon’s fists clutch the sheets, nails digging in as Sam fills him out. Even then, wild eyed, Boon reaches for me, fingers threading through mine, pulling me closer. I settle beside them on my knees, coiled.
The tension curls in my chest—arousal tempered by nerves. I catch every roll of Sam’s hips—speed and force picking up. Unrelenting as he fucks my fiancé. Boon’s gasps come sharp every time that cock hits home in him.
For all his bluster, Dad’s no joke—he fucks like a beast. Sweat beads on his skin, muscles bunch beneath taut flesh. A flash hits me: stallion, bull—all that raw power knotted with a certain wild grace.
He meets my eyes, grins. “Want some of this?”
“You know I do,” I breathe, chest rising fast. “Asshole.”
Sam smirks, pulling free from Boon without hesitation, rolling him away like he’s nothing. Like the day we arrived—but this time his cock is jutting out, dripping with lube, still with Boon’s body heat on him.
Caught in a daze, I ease back down, sliding onto my back, in Boon’s place, as he lies at my side. Sam looms between my thighs, fingers running under the weight of his dripping cock, gathering lube before sliding his fingers in me. He’s not soft, not brutal—but steady, surely taking what’s offered.
Our eyes lock. His mouth quirks at the corner as he strokes himself with one hand, fingering me with the other.
“No going back now,” he warns, cock nudging my entrance.
I have nowhere better to go back to with him. So I answer by pulling my legs wide, opening for him.
My breath catches as he sinks deep. I’m no rookie, but Sam’s size and speed shake every nerve. My face betrays the truth—skin prickling, burning as he fills me whole. Boon’s hand runs over my chest and belly, tempering.
Boon reaches for the poppers, but I shake my head. It’s tempting to heighten the experience—that heady high—but I want to stay fully here, feel every inch, every pulse. I’ve dreamed enough with Sam.
Like with Boon, Dad proves all that muscle isn’t just for show—he drives into me with a relentless and sure rhythm. I loop a leg around his waist and he holds the other back, effortlessly. Boon’s tongue fills my mouth, and stars bloom behind my closed lids when Dad hits that sweet spot inside me.
It’s dumb—maybe—but it feels like we’re made for this—the way his cockhead knows exactly where to strike.
It’s all good—him dominating, the way he does. The roughness, and the flicker of a snarl at his lip as he loses himself inside me. Every drop of sweat that falls from him onto me feels like a gift.
I want it all—for him to unknot, to flood me.
But nearing that edge, I’m aware of Boon behind Dad—a click and a slicking sound. Sam freezes.
“Whoa.” His jaw tightens. “Boon-Nam—?”
A low groan rumbles from him—surprise and discomfort tangled with something more.
I know Boon enough to guess. His fingers are pressing against Dad’s tight hole, pushing with his own determination.
Dad shudders, twisting sharply as Boon’s fingers twist in him. He pulls out of me, and we shift again—reconfigure, reshuffle.
A hollow ache blooms in me, my insides grasping for the ghost of him.
But this—this is far from over.
16. Chasing the Sun
We circle Dad, Boon’s fingers sliding expertly between his solid, gold-furred cheeks. Dad’s breath catches at that sweet moment as Boon slides up behind him, cock slicked and ready—posed at the edge of something forbidden.
“All that’s supposed to go in me?” Sam’s voice wavers, edge of doubt showing.
I stroke myself slow, lost in the scene. “Only if you want.”
Sam shifts onto elbows, jaw clenched. “Guess I deserve it.”
We line up—me leaning back, Dad on his knees facing me, Boon crouched like a panther behind him. My heart hammers as my hand closes around the dark glass bottle of poppers, ready.
“You can try,” Sam says, bluster engaged. I raise the bottle to his nose, pinch a nostril as he inhales deep, then the other.
“I’m tight as a drum back… therrre…” His blue eyes glaze, face flushing crimson beneath blond whiskers.
Boon presses the head of his cock against Dad, then slides in with precision—halfway, then back. In again, deeper, inch by inch, until even I can feel him fully buried in Dad’s heat. I imagine the tight walls embracing, releasing, as Sam’s body tenses, then melts.
“Fuck…” Dad murmurs low. Boon grabs a shoulder, pressing Dad down, and begins long, deep strokes. Dad’s lips brush the sheets beneath, breath catching as Boon pushes into that tight coil—slow, steady, relentless.
I lean in, mouth on Boon’s, tasting him. Beneath us, Dad grunts—the sound low and ragged, raw in the quiet room. Our kiss deepens and so does Dad’s breath, in sync with every thrust.
I pull back and catch Dad’s hand fumbling for the poppers bottle—two quick sniffs, cap twisted tight. As the bottle slips, he’s already gone—skin blooming red, hips rising, soft moans caught in his throat to take Boon deeper.
Boon and I exchange a look—fingers tangled in damp hair, hips relentless in their work.
There’s a steel in this man, a strength alloyed with vulnerability. How did I ever doubt him?
With a smooth pull, Boon frees himself—cock glistening, pulsing—Dad groaning under him.
“Did you...?” Dad’s voice is husky, but crackling—like he’s feeling the absence already.
Boon bites his lip, clutching Sam’s firm ass. “Sam, when I do… you’ll feel it.” Not if, but when.
His eyes find mine. Fist raised—his solemn oath. “Your turn.”
Sam’s face flickers—wariness, acceptance, resolve. His gaze slides down to my cock.
“That’s a big one.”
“Apple,” I say as I slick myself up, glancing between Sam’s cock and mine. Not so different, after all. “Tree.”
He shifts, rising on one elbow then falling back, a sneer playing at his lips. “Be gentle,” he warns—but I know that beneath the cocky bluster, as his ribs rise and fall, both our hearts are pounding wild.
I slide fingers down, probing between his legs, seeking that Boon-softened place. Slick and open, ready—though his brows knit as his abs tighten, his hole clenches around my touch.
I press my cockhead to him, the urge to be inside stronger than the need to breathe. I want this moment to last, to stretch out, but I know once I’m deep, there’s only one way this ends.
“No turning back,” Sam breathes—a challenge, a surrender.
“Guess not,” I answer, pushing in, the way eased by Boon before me.
I hold still for a breath, letting him adjust, his insides warm and tender around me. I push in, and when we bottom out, he gasps like it surprises him.
Boon’s close—hands under Dad’s legs, cradling his head. None of this could happen without him—the three of us intertwined. But this moment coils around just me and Sam as I drive harder, hips moving with my own whip crack of power.
“That’s it, boy,” Dad grunts, sweat gleaming, muscles alive with every slam. “Fuck me.”
Like I need encouragement.
I push deeper, testing limits, and Dad pulls his legs back, giving me more—taking me farther. His cock throbs precum with each strike, as I pound his pleasure center without a break.
I’m fucking it out of him—hard and fast.
“Oh, fuck.” I growl, voice breaking into a tremble. I won’t last long.
Our eyes lock; his lips twitch—a question. This it? What you wanted? His hand glides to the thick shaft, thumb flicking over wet skin.
I nod without thinking.
Give it to me, Dad, I want to beg, but the words catch in my throat. I can only speak in my thrusts now, carving my need into his body.
Boon lifts the poppers bottle again, thumbs closing Dad’s nostrils one by one. Dad flushes—whiskers pale against reddened skin. His eyes glaze, features softening in surrender.
I’m close—so close—fighting it. But seeing him like this sets the wave roaring high. His clutch on me, chest heaving with my rhythm, gold and silver hairs a blue. His eyes on mine, never straying. I can only hold on so long.
Then his face shifts—bravado fades, vulnerability blooms. Eyes glassy, lips part in a breathy gasp, a lifted brow like a silent plea—the Sam I never knew but always hoped for. Open, exposed, wanting.
He tenses from head to toe, groans “FUCKKKK” as thick jets spray onto his belly. Whatever roars inside him doubles down, squeezing me harder as another rush splashes, and another.
Tight eyes shut, greedy pleasure across his skin—he shatters me. I crash into him harder, mouth on his, chasing the sun as it sets. I taste him as my own heat breaks free.
I spill deep—grunting against his lips. Hips grind relentless, determined to fill him, steal his every moment with me.
That’s when Boon’s release splatters warm across my back and shoulders—some streaking down onto Dad below. I lift my head, see him drawing out his last wave. I part my lips—taste him—his cock sliding in with his final tremble.
A finish.
We collapse, a slick mess of limbs and sweat and ragged breaths—breath and pulse tangled so tight it might as well be one body. Sam’s head rests on Boon’s chest; Boon’s arm loops around me, cheek warm against Sam’s shoulder.
The sheets twist and shuffle as our shapes settle, melting and melding together. Eyelids flutter and everything softens, fades out, darkens.
Soon—too soon—a blade of pale dawn slips through a crack in the curtain. Morning.
The unstoppable world outside.
It’s time.
17. The Fragile Aftermath
On Sunday morning my eyes sting, but the shared spit, cum, and sweat are gone—washed clean. The itch of years of desire is scratched. Not completely. Not gone. But enough to hold onto for now.
Dad walks us out in his red flannel pajamas—shirtless, of course. Boon loads the car as we say our goodbyes.
“So, this beef between us, over?” Dad asks, voice like gravel, glancing at Boon as he slams the trunk shut.
“Are you kidding?” I ask. “One three-way doesn’t change everything. And if you need a reminder, you wanted to fuck my fiancé right under my nose.”
Dad smirks. Thumb jerks over his broad back. “Well, we know how that turned out.”
“Yeah. Dad. We have to go.”
“What about Facebook?”
“What about it?”
“You gonna accept my friend request again?”
My eyes drift back to the house, letting go. “I don’t even use Facebook. It’s for old people now—full of conservative bullshit.” My voice softens. “You should get off it too, Dad.”
He shakes his head slowly, voice low. “You treat all your relationships like this, son?”
“Relationships? Are you kidding? You’re gonna lecture me about relationships?”
“Get it out, boy. Say whatever you need to.”
I don’t blink. Not after everything last night burning the lies away. “Okay. You were married for five minutes in your twenties—then Mom left. You never had a real relationship after that. Except maybe with Jake. And when that got close? You ended it. No close friends. We barely talk. I have this amazing guy who loves me. Friends who know me, who care about me. Between us, I’m not the one with a problem with relationships.”
Dad exhales, steps back, gestures at his own face. “Tell you what, sport. You want to take a swing? I won’t even move. Get it out of your system.”
“I’m not gonna punch you, Dad. That won’t solve anything.”
“Most guys would take the shot.” He shrugs, arms open wide.
“I’m not most guys.” I turn, nearly walking away.
He mutters behind me, “You got that right.”
My fingers curl into a fist. Before I can think, I spin. The crack against his cheekbone is loud—ricocheting through me.
Dad stumbles, falling hard onto the grass.
I stare at my knuckles, sharp sting spreading out. “Ow.” I shake my hand, flinching at its betrayal.
“You’re such an asshole,” I say, barely steady. “Why are you such an asshole all the time?”
“I yam what I yam,” he growls, rubbing the spot tenderly.
“Jesus Christ, that fucking hurts. What the fuck?”
“Time to go,” Boon calls, calm as ever, dopp bag in hand. He doesn’t ask why Dad’s on the ground or why I’m wincing, shaking my hand.
“That’s some tiger you’ve got there, Boon,” Dad says, pushing up on one elbow.
“I know,” Boon replies, breezy. He tosses the bag into the car, slides behind the wheel without missing a beat.
I breathe deep, heart full of knots. I’m tangled in what to say next—how to say goodbye. Unsure, I slip into the passenger seat, the door closing behind me.
Boon starts the car. Dad waves at me to roll down the window.
“See you at Thanksgiving,” he says, leaning in as Boon idles.
“Dad, no. We’re not coming here. We have our own Thanksgiving. With friends.”
The purple bruise blooms on his cheek.
“Who said anything about here?” Dad grins, blue eyes sparkling. “Maybe it’s time I meet those friends of yours.”
Oh no. “Dad. No. No. You will not.”
The vision intrudes—Dad at the center of my world again, but this time surrounded by a half dozen of my gay guy friends with daddy issues. I shake my head and have to chuckle. Maybe it was inevitable.
As the car picks up, he chuckles, rough and certain. “Yes, I will, Junior. You’re not done with me yet.”
Boon slows at the gate, foot holding the brake steady.
“Ready?” he asks.
“You saved me back there,” I say, voice low but steady.
“Guess we just have to keep saving each other,” Boon answers.
I hold up my aching knuckles. He taps them—a quiet promise, always.
“Ow.”
Boon grins. “I left the poppers. He seemed to like them.”
We laugh, the tension thawing. “Let’s go home.”
I sink back into the seat, eyes fixed on the road’s unspooling ribbon, into the future.
END
Author's note: Sam and Jake's story is fleshed out in another story, Trading Desire. Not a sequel or prequel, but a companion piece.
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