This story is pretty straightforward. It's for those who have read my original stories—I went back to my old style and wrote with a lot more detail, which is different from my more recent work. I hope you feel the nostalgia.
Oh and. This is a one-shot. It's written in parts, but this is the entire story from start to finish. So I won't be continuing it.
The phone vibrates against the wood of the table. A single notification from Jax lights up the screen. Just a video file. No caption. We’re eighteen, seniors in high school. We’ve been running this town since eighth grade, and competition fuels us.
I unlock the phone and tap play. The familiar interior of my own house fills the frame. The home gym. The iron plates are racked, but the mat is occupied.
I know what comes next. I check the time stamp, 2:00 PM on a Saturday.
There’s my dad. Big Mike. Forty years of pure, callous, hardened iron worker muscle. He’s massive, a wall of dense meat. He is on his hands and knees on the rubber matting, stripped naked, glistening with a thick coat of sweat. And Jax is behind him. That’s my best friend. It looks like a nature documentary where the smaller, faster predator takes down the heavy buffalo. Dad is out, maneuvered. Jax has that wiry, explosive build, all fast, twitch muscle and endless stamina, and he is using every ounce of it to completely dismantle the tank of a man beneath him.
The audio kicks in with a wet, heavy slap of skin against skin. Jax has a fistful of my dad’s short, blonde hair, yanking his head back to force him to look at the camera lens. Dad’s face is a ruin of lust. His eyes are unfocused, swimming in a haze of endorphins and adrenaline. Jax grins, that cocky, shit, eating smirk he wears when we pull a slick move on a chick. He drives his hips forward. The impact sends a shudder through Dad’s massive frame.
Jax is buried to the hilt. The visual contrast is insane. Jax looks like a wiry stick behind a mountain, his torso narrow and lean, ribs showing under the tight skin. But attached to that slender frame is a thick, nine-inch black rod that looks too big for his body. He wields it like a weapon. He slams his hips forward with a snap, driving that massive shaft deep.
Mike absorbs the violence. His ass is two heavy, dense slabs of muscle, spread wide to accommodate the invasion. Jax’s narrow pelvis crashes against those giant glutes with a wet, heavy smack. The force ripples downward. Mike’s thighs are thick as telephone poles, massive logs of meat that shake and jiggle with every impact. The shockwave travels from the point of entry, shaking those heavy ass cheeks and vibrating down through his hamstrings. Jax is a lithe, wiry prowler with unflagging energy, using his oversized cock to hammer the biggest muscular prey into submission.
He tries to brace himself, thick arms shaking as they hold up his weight, biceps bulging under the strain.
"Look at the camera, Mr. Big," Jax barks, his voice breathless. "Show your son how much your 'pussy' loves my big fat cock." He heavily implies that word.
Dad tries to speak. Nothing comes out but a broken, guttural groan. He is past words. He is past thought. The sheer volume of Jax inside him has short-circuited his nervous system. Jax releases his hair and slams a hand down on Dad’s sweating, heavy glutes, leaving a red handprint on the skin. He grips the waist, digging fingers into the muscle, and increasing the amplitude of his movements.
The sound is violent. Meat slapping meat. Heavy breathing. The squelch of sweat and lube. Dad’s head drops, swinging loosely between his shoulders. He looks concussed. A thick rope of saliva swung from his jaw, anchoring him to the black rubber floor in a glistening pool. He was drooling with the senselessness of a wounded animal. Jax sees it and laughs, a harsh, triumphant sound. He leans forward, his sweat-slicked chest sliding against Dad’s back, grinding his pelvis against those massive buttocks.
Jax recoiled for a heartbeat—the sound of skin-on-skin friction sharp in the air—before slamming back home with catastrophic force. Dad’s elbows gave way instantly. His forehead met the mat with a sickening, hollow crack. The impact flattened him into a sprawling wreck of muscle and spent breath, with his ass high in the air. Jax didn't break rhythm. He stayed high on his knees, his hands locked onto Dad’s heavy hips like he was manning a jackhammer, driving into the severe, punishing angle. It forces that thick, nine-inch black cock to scrape the deepest, most sensitive walls of Dad’s insides. Every thrust drags out a wet, desperate whine from my old man’s throat.
Jax is a machine. His lean, dark torso gleams with sweat, muscles corded and tight as steel cables. He snaps his hips, burying his length again and again. The sound of balls slapping against Dad’s heavy, sweat-drenched ass cheeks echoes in the gym.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The assault was a rhythmic, punishing clockwork. Dad’s body buckled and jerked with every impact, his nervous system misfiring under the weight of the blows. His toes curled, digging uselessly into the mat. His massive hands scrabbled against the rubber, fingers sliding through a film of his own sweat and spit as he hunted for purchase that wasn't there. He was drowning on dry land, his mind lost in the sensory overload.
Jax leaned down, his shadow swallowing the older man. “You wanted this,” he growled, the words thick with a dark, simmering heat. “Don’t think I didn’t see you watching me last night. Take it.”
He reached down, his fingers sinking into the meat of Dad’s thick thigh. He wrenched the leg out, widening the stance, forcing the older man to lie completely open, exposed, and broken. The hole gapes, pink and raw, swallowing the black shaft whole, then spitting it back out only to be invaded again instantly.
Dad is gone. His eyes roll back in his head, showing only the whites. His tongue lolls out, dragging through the puddle of spit. He’s babbling incoherent nonsense. “Unnf... F, fuck you... Big... too... gah...” The pleasure is too sharp, too deep. It’s frying his brain.
Jax leans back, leveraging his weight to drive deeper. He finds the prostate and hammers it. Dad’s spine snapped into a violent arch. A strangled, broken sound tore from his throat as his entire frame seized. Every muscle locked into a blinding spasm. Jax stayed heavy, riding the wave of the seizure. He ground down in a slow, circular grind with his pelvis, keeping the pressure buried deep into those massive, masculine prostate. Beneath him, Dad was a wreck of convulsing meat; thick slabs of his back jumped and twitched in a rhythmic, helpless dance. The room was hollow, filled only with the wet, rhythmic squelch of suction and the steady thud of impact. It was the sound of a total, systematic invasion.
Jax grips my dad's muscular waist with bruising force, his dark fingers digging deep into the pale, sweaty flesh of those love handles. He pulls back almost all the way, exposing the thick, glistening length of his black cock, veined and throbbing, coated in the older man’s internal juices. The head is bulbous, purple, black, and flared wide. With a grunt of effort, Jax snaps his hips forward. He buries the entire nine inches in one smooth, devastating stroke.
Dad’s roar is soundless, just a sharp intake of air as his diaphragm spasms. His massive ass cheeks clap against Jax’s thighs. The visual is stark: the smooth, dark power of Jax’s lean frame dominating the hairy, hulking mass of the older man. Jax piston again, faster, a blur of motion. My dad can stand that is very impressive.
"You like that, Mr. Big? You like taking this big fat black cock?" Jax taunts, his voice low and raspy. He leans forward, slapping Mike’s heavy right glute. Smack. The flesh ripples. Smack. A red handprint blooms instantly on the white skin.
Dad offered no answer. His face was a distorted mask crushed against the mat, features flattened into the black rubber. A thick, viscous rope of saliva anchored his slack jaw to the floor. His eyelids fluttered, revealing nothing but the stark, porcelain whites of his eyes rolling in their sockets. He was unplugged. The circuitry had fried, his mind retreating into a dark basement to survive the overload. Only the primal systems remained online; his big muscular pussy buckled and surged in a rhythmic, desperate reflex, absorbing Jax’s big black cock with the involuntary spasms of a dying engine.
Jax feels the grip tighten. He knows what’s coming. He doesn’t pull out. He drives deep, locking his hips against Mike’s wide ass, burying his cock to the root. He growls, a primal sound, as his body tenses. He unloads. Hot, thick ropes of seed shoot deep into Mike’s gut, pulsing with powerful spurts.
Mike groans, a long, pitiful sound of surrender. He feels the heat flooding him, filling that battered space. His body goes limp, collapsing completely onto the floor, a sweaty, twitching heap of defeated muscle. Jax rides out the orgasm, grinding his pubic bone against Mike’s tailbone, milking every last drop inside.
The video cuts to black.
A second file blinked into existence, and I tapped play. The aftermath was a different kind of violence. Dad was off the floor, positioned on a heavy wooden chair in the corner of the gym, back to the lens. The lighting was harsh, turning the sweat on his skin into a coat of liquid glass. His back was a jagged landscape—trapezius muscles bunched like tectonic plates, his lats flaring into wide, bruised wings.
The camera dipped, zeroing in on the new reality. He was kneeling on the seat of the chair, his massive knees forced wide to the edges of the wood, his massive, round ass thrust out towards the lens. The glutes are huge, two globes of dense muscle, reddened from the impact, glistening with cum, lube, and sweat. The hole is visible, a pink, gaping ring that pulses slowly, leaking a steady trickle of Jax’s cum. The white fluid mixes with the clear lube, running down the crack and dripping onto his heels.
Dad turns his head over his shoulder. His face is still slack, eyes heavy, lidded and drunk on the dopamine crash. He looks wrecked. His hair is matted to his forehead. He licks his lips, struggling to form words.
"Tell him, Mr. Big," Jax’s voice comes from behind the camera, authoritative and smug.
Dad swallows hard. He looks right at the lens, right at me. "Thanks... thanks, Jax..." His voice is a gravelly ruin, thick and slurred. He shifts his weight, presenting the hole even more, spreading his cheeks with his own thick hands to show off the mess inside. "Thanks for... for the load..."
"For the what?" Jax snaps.
"For the... the nine inches..." Mike stammers, eyes rolling back slightly again as the memory hits him. He looks absolutely vacant, a hollowed-out shell filled with cum. "Thanks for the... big fat black cock... filling me up... Jax."
He holds the pose, that massive, leaking ass center frame, a trophy on display. The cum continues to drip while the video is ending.
Life didn't flip upside down. It just… tilted. The foundation is the same, but the whole house is leaning at a forty, five, degree angle.
My dad, Mike, is still... him.
Dad still struts around, shirtless, his chest a wall of thick, hairy muscle, talks to me with that same rough edge he’s had for eighteen years, ever since I was cut out of my late mother’s belly. He still benches three hundred pounds in the garage, the clang of iron a constant soundtrack to our weekends. He is still the boss on the site.
The difference is what he wears at home and how his body tells the story. The heavy denim and flannel are gone.
Today, he walks into the kitchen in a pair of neon pink spandex shorts. They are skin-tight. They grip his massive thighs and ride up the crack of his ass. You can see the outline of his dick, the heavy hang of his balls, and the dark shadow of his hole through the thin fabric. Yesterday, it was a white mesh jockstrap and nothing else. He sat at the table reading the paper, his bare, round glutes spilling over the sides of the chair.
He doesn't hide it. He doesn't care if I’m in the room. He bends over to get milk from the fridge, spreading his legs, exposing the red, irritated skin between his cheeks. Sometimes, a thin line of white, dried cum is still crusted on his inner thigh from the morning session.
The laundry hamper is the evidence locker. It used to smell like sawdust and sweat. Now, it smells like bleach and sex. I see expensive silk panties mixed in with his work socks. I see jockstraps with the elastic blown out and stretched useless from being yanked aside roughly. The fabric is often stiff, stained with dried cryptic fluids, and the heavy, industrial-grade lube they use by the gallon.
His body has changed to match the gear. He shaves everything now. Chest, pits, legs, balls—all smooth, hairless, and exposed. Without the hair, the damage is obvious. There are fresh, purple suck marks on his thick neck. His nipples are swollen, red, and chafed raw from constant abuse. His pecs look bigger, puffed out, and sensitive. He’ll stand there talking about the job site, absentmindedly rubbing a bruised nipple, totally unbothered.
He carries this look with zero shame. He struts through the house with the same heavy, iron-worker swagger. He manspreads on the couch in a thong, scratching his balls, commanding the room like a king. He is a tank in lingerie. He knows I see the bruises. He knows I see the leak in his ass. He just drinks his coffee and dares anyone to say a word. I mean, anyone does.
Ah, the biggest change happens when Jax shows up, because the air gets... lustful?
Like... We’re still bros, and we're talking shit about all the shit we've seen. Everything seems normal.
Except it isn’t. For example, one of our dinners on the weekend.
Dad is holding court. He’s eating a massive bowl of chili, shoveling the food in with heavy, efficient motions. He’s starving. Getting pounded for three hours burns calories.
He sits on a folded yellow towel on his dining chair. He’s leaking, and he doesn’t care who knows. He looks like a king on a throne.
"Inspector delayed us a week," Dad says, pointing his spoon at me. "Cited the cement bags. Total bullshit."
He shifts his weight and winces. His ass is wrecked. He grunts, adjusts his heavy hips on the towel, and takes another huge bite.
Jax watches him, smirking. "You sore, Mike?"
Dad swallows and looks Jax dead in the eye. "I’ve had worse from you. You hit the spot, though. Pass the hot sauce. "
He goes right back to talking about the job site. Under the table, Jax’s hand is busy. His thick fingers are buried knuckle-deep in Dad’s hole right through those thin mesh shorts. The rhythmic clink of Dad’s heavy metal watch against the table matches the driving motion of Jax’s shoulder.
Jax ignores his own food. He’s focused on the work under the table.
Dad doesn't stop talking. He grips his spoon, his bicep flexing. Mid-sentence, his eyes widen. His breath hitches sharply and loudly as Jax hits his prostate. Dad’s hand spasms, hitting the bowl.
He doesn’t apologize. He doesn't ask Jax to stop. He just grips the table edge, rides out the wave of pleasure with a low, masculine grunt, and picks the spoon back up.
"Anyway," he says, his voice a gravelly rasp, his face flushed dark red. "Get your food down. I need you in the bedroom after this. I’m not done with that cock." He continues eating, his expression steady and tough, while Jax pumps two fingers in and out of him.
Then there are the times I walk down the hall.
Dad’s bedroom door is always wide open. I don’t have to stop or even slow down to know exactly what’s happening. The sound hits you first, a wet, rhythmic slapping of skin that echoes off the walls. It’s the soundtrack of the house now.
In the second it takes to walk past the doorway, I get the whole picture. It’s a snapshot of total demolition.
Jax is a machine of lean, dark muscle, his hips a blur. He’s mounted on top of my dad, driving deep. Dad is flat on his back, a sprawling mass of pale, heavy muscle completely pinned beneath him. His tree-trunk legs are hooked over Jax’s shoulders, his own massive hands gripping his thighs, pulling himself open wider for the abuse. He’s taking the full nine inches, his whole two-hundred-forty-pound frame jolting as the headboard smacks the wall with every brutal impact.
As I pass, I catch the words, torn from his throat between heavy grunts. “Fuck… yes… Jax… Right there… breed my fucking pussy…”
I don’t break stride. I just keep walking to the kitchen. It’s just background noise.
You think I should be pissed. But I can’t be. Because two nights ago, I was at Jax’s place, and his older brother, Dema, a tatted-up beast, greeted me at the door with a chest bump and a rough, “Sup, bitch?” Five minutes later, he was on his hands and knees on the living room sofa, ass in the air, growling at me to hurry the fuck up. He still acts like the biggest, baddest motherfucker when he sees me, but the second my thick white cock is out, he’s begging. “Fuck, boy,” he’d grunted, his voice thick with need as I rammed into him. “Put it in my gut. I want to wake up with your cum leaking out.”
So nothing really changes between Jax and me. When I roll up to breed his big bro senseless, he just opens the door with that same cocky grin, slaps my back, and goes back to his room. When he comes over to flood my dad with another load, I let him in like always. We’re still best friends. We’re still competitive as hell. We’ve just shifted targets.
Now, we’ll sit across from each other at the dinner table, smirking, while our “alphas” sit there. They’re still the kings, and all while squirming on plugged holes, dripping cum from the afternoon’s session, barely holding back the need to get on their back and get fucked stupid all over again.
Many times, we’ll compare notes over a game of FIFA, the trash talk evolving indeed.
“Heard my Dad from the hallway today,” I’ll say, not looking up from the screen. “You make him walk with a limp tomorrow, and he’ll be pissed he has to create an excuse at the site.”
Jax just grins. “He took three loads. Begged for a fourth, but I told him I was saving it for his morning coffee. How was my big bad bro? Did you leave bruises on his ass again? He was showing them off to me like they were fucking trophies.”
“He begged me to knock him up again,” I shot back. “He begged for it. Told me he wanted to carry my kid. He’s obsessed.”
The door to the hallway opens. Dad walks in. He’s wearing a towel around his waist and nothing else.
He looks like he just went twelve rounds in a boxing ring. His hair is wet and messy. There’s a fresh, purple bruise on his neck and many on his pecs. His legs are shaking so badly that he has to lean on the doorframe. A mixture of lube and cum is running down his shin, pooling at his ankle.
He doesn't look ashamed. He doesn't pull the towel down. He just limps over to the fridge, grabs a Gatorade, and cracks it open.
"Who's winning?" he grunts, staring at the TV screen.
"I'm up by two," Jax says, not even looking away from the game.
"Defense is sloppy," Dad critiques. He takes a long swig of the drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and limps back toward his room. "Don't stay up too late. We got logs to split tomorrow."
As he turns, the towel slips. His ass is bright red, the hole still gaping open, dripping onto the linoleum. He pulls the towel up casually and shuts the door.
Soo... It’s a new game. The objective is simple: who can make their rough alpha bull a little further? Who can make him moan louder, take more loads, turn that tough guy act into a thin veneer over a greedy, addicted whore? We’re not stripping away the swagger that makes them so fucking hot to ruin. We’re just reprogramming it, turning these big, masculine beasts into the most loyal, cock, hungry sluts, one brutal fucking at a time.
A year changes things. High school is over. Now it's college, which means Jax and I are in different states, living different lives. The daily competition is gone, replaced by long-distance texts and the occasional weekend visit.
But it's Christmas break. I'm stuck in my dorm, three hundred miles from home, with a final project that couldn't wait. Jax went back.
He told his family he was staying at our place to keep Dad company since I couldn't make it. He wasn't wrong. The house has been quiet for months, but I knew this week would be a different story. It’s the reason I keep the Nest cam app on my phone's home screen.
I tap the app on my phone, and the live feed from the living room camera flickers to life. The angle is wide, showing the whole leather sofa. My dad is stretched out on his back, propped up on the pillows. He’s on the phone, one hand holding it to his ear, the other resting on his chiseled, completely hairless chest. His body is a clean landscape of smooth, hard muscle, gleaming under the recessed lighting.
“No, the shipment is confirmed for Tuesday,” he says, his voice calm, level. “Just make sure the crew is on site by seven. I’ll handle the permits.”
Between his powerful, spread thighs, Jax is feasting. My best friend’s head is buried between my dad’s massive glutes, his dark hair a stark contrast against the pale, smooth skin. He has Dad’s legs hooked over his shoulders, giving him complete access. From this angle, I can see the starving, craved way Jax uses his tongue, circling and probing, his hands gripping the heavy muscle of Dad's ass cheeks, spreading them wide.
Mike doesn’t even flinch. He continues his call, his voice unwavering. But I know what to look for. I see his free hand clench into a fist on his chest, the knuckles white. I see the muscles in his thick neck cord as he swallows hard. A subtle tremor runs through his right thigh.
“Right. Email me the final invoice,” Dad says, his voice a little tighter now. Jax shoves his tongue deep into the slick, waiting hole. A long, slow probe that makes my dad’s entire frame go rigid, a full-body electrocution. His abs, chiseled slabs of rock, clench so hard they look like they could stop a bullet. He starts to rock his hips, a slow, desperate grind, trying to force Jax’s tongue even deeper into his gut.
Jax takes the cue. He pulls his tongue out with an audible pop, then latches on again, his mouth sealing over the hole. He creates a powerful, wet suction, pulling the sensitive pink ring of flesh into his mouth and sucking hard. The sound is unmistakable, even through the cheap phone speaker: a series of wet, gulping slurps, like a starving animal devouring its kill. Dad's eyes have rolled back in his head, the whites showing.
“Okay. Talk then,” he grunts, his voice strangled, barely holding on. He ends the call and throws the phone down. The second it hits the cushion, the tough-guy facade evaporates.
A ragged, desperate groan rips from his chest. “Fuck,” he gasps, the single word a surrender. His head thrashes back into the pillows, his thick neck corded and exposed. “You eat my pussy like a fucking animal! Don’t you dare stop.”
Jax doesn’t. He just feasts like it's his last meal, his tongue a relentless engine of pleasure, driving my dad higher and higher. Dad’s big body starts to twitch, his hips bucking weakly against Jax’s face. He’s panting now, the sound rough and ragged.
After another minute of this, Jax pulls away. Dad groans in protest, his eyes flying open. They’re glazed over, pupils blown wide. Jax is already moving, crawling up my dad’s body. He’s hard, his thick black cock slick and ready just with his own precum. He positions himself at dad’s pink pussy hole, the wide, purple head nudging against the prepped, slick hole.
“Ready for me, Mr. Big?” Jax whispers, his voice a low rumble.
Dad doesn’t answer with words. He just reaches down, grabs Jax’s hips with both hands, and yanks him forward with surprising strength. He impales himself, taking the entire nine inches in one smooth, breathtaking motion. A choked, guttural sound rips from his throat. His back arches off the sofa, his entire body a taut bow of muscle and nerve endings.
Jax lets him feel the fullness for a moment, the sheer overwhelming presence of it. He’s seated deep, their bodies locked together. Then, he starts to move. It’s not a frantic pounding. It’s a slow, powerful, deliberate drive. Each thrust is a deep, claiming motion, sinking all the way to the root, stretching him, filling him completely before withdrawing just enough to do it all over again.
Yeah, Dad is gone... by far. He’s lost in the sensation. His hands release Jax’s hips and scrabble at the leather cushions, his fingers digging in. His smooth, powerful legs tremble, locked around Jax’s waist. What's a big needy slut.
“God... yeah. Right there,” he gasps, the word barely audible. “Fuck, Jax… deeper.”
Jax obliges. He changes the angle slightly, leveraging his weight to drive his cock against that one spot deep inside that makes my dad come undone. He finds it. Dad roars, a deep, chest-rumbling sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His eyes roll back in his head, and a thin line of drool escapes the corner of his open mouth. He’s being a slut, and from three hundred miles away, I can see he wouldn’t have it any other way.
I watch him come apart for another minute, his whole body shaking. Then I close the feed. I’ve got my own work to do. That was just Tuesday.
A few days pass. And now it's Christmas Eve.
The dorm is silent, the hum of the heating vent the only company I have while the rest of the floor is home for the holidays. I’ve got three textbooks spread out, but my eyes keep darting to the corner of my laptop screen. The nest cam feed is a portal back to a world where finals don't exist.
It’s ten p.m. I open the kitchen feed. The dinner plates are stacked by the sink, but the cleanup stopped halfway through. My dad is currently being used as a piece of gym equipment on the marble island.
He’s face down, his massive, smooth chest pressed against the cold stone. Jax is behind him, his lean, explosive frame a dark shadow over my dad’s pale, mountainous back.
Jax has Dad’s arms pinned behind him, a total chicken wing lock. He’s driving that thick, nine-inch black cock into Dad’s heavy, rounded ass with the force of a wrecking ball.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The sound is sharp, echoing off the tile. Dad’s head is hanging off the edge of the island, his face a mask of ruined pride. He’s all he can do is let out these low, gravelly grunts with every impact. His eyes are glazed, fixed on the dishwasher, his jaw working but no words coming out.
I look away for twenty minutes to highlight a chapter on structural engineering. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Jax: “Your old man is a fucking tank. Takes every hit and asks for more.”
I text back without looking up from my book. “You left him starving for four months. What’d you expect?”
I flip back to the feed. They’re gone. The kitchen is empty, just a few folders of invoices scattered on the floor. I cycle through the cameras. The office. The laundry room. Finally, I hit the master bedroom feed.
It’s ten, fifty-five.
They’re in the middle of a war zone. The heavy oak bed is creaking under the combined weight of over four hundred pounds of prime masculine meat. Jax has Dad in a brutal mating press. He’s folded Dad in half, those tree, trunk legs shoved up toward the ears of the man who raised me.
Jax is buried to the hilt, his hips a blur of frantic, high-intensity motion. He’s trying to drill through him. Dad is a wreck. The hair was a matted mess of sweat. His tongue is lolling out, a thick string of saliva pooling on the Egyptian cotton sheets. His eyes are rolled back, showing nothing but white, flickering with every deep, gut-punching thrust.
“Yeah… take it, Papi,” Jax growls, his voice a low vibration that carries through the mic. He reaches down and slaps one of Dad’s massive, trembling glutes. The sound is like a gunshot. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”
Dad tries to answer. It’s pathetic. It’s hot. “Ugh… J, Jax… fff… black… c, cock… shit!…” It’s incoherent babble, the sound of a man whose brain has been short-circuited by nine inches of relentless pleasure. He’s twitching, his toes curling and uncurling, his huge hands clutching the headboard until the wood groans.
Midnight hits, Christmas Eve. I just leave for ten to fifteen minutes, and they're gone. So, through the channels, I cycle the camera to the main living space.
The festive glow of the tree in the living room flickers, casting red and green light across the slick sweat on my dad's broad, pale back. An angel ornament on a low, hanging branch sways back and forth, keeping time with every one of Jax’s brutal thrusts.
My dad is down. He is on all fours, his massive chest brushing the floor, ass arched high toward the lights. Jax is behind him, his dark, corded arms wrapped around Dad’s middle, hauling those two hundred and forty pounds of meat back and forth with relentless power.
The sound is catastrophic. Every time Jax’s hips snap forward, the impact sends a wet, heavy thud through the speaker. My dad’s bulk is being dismantled. His face is buried in the shag rug. His breathing has devolved into a series of jagged, rhythmic gasps. Jax is buried deep, his nine-inch black cock disappearing completely into Dad’s raw, pulsing hole with every driving thrust.
"Look at you," Jax growls, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He reaches out and grabs a handful of Mike’s thick, short, cropped hair, yanking his head up.
My dad’s face is a complete ruin of pleasure. He’s gone. His eyes have rolled back into his skull. A thick, clear rope of spit hangs from his open jaw, dripping onto his sweat-drenched chest. His muscles, the heavy delts, the tree, trunk thighs, are twitching in a violent, involuntary spasm. Jax has reached the end. He increases the tempo, his hips becoming a blur, his dark body a piston firing into my father’s gut.
Dad’s head flops back and forth, his neck loose. He’s incoherent, babbling some broken, vowel-heavy language that isn't even English anymore. Jax holds him in place, hands like iron clamps on his waist, and delivers the final three strokes.
On the third, Jax slams home and stays there. He unloads everything he has. His whole frame locks tight as he shoots pulse after pulse of hot, thick seed deep into Mike’s core. Dad lets out a sound that I’ve never heard from a man, a long, high, pitched, warbling cry of absolute surrender. His whole body seizes, vibrating under Jax’s weight.
He collapses. Dad falls flat, his face mashed into the rug, belly down. Jax stays buried deep for a long moment, his dark, sweat-slicked chest rising and falling against Dad’s broad, pale back. The room is silent except for the heavy, ragged breathing of two men who just went to war. Mike is pinned under Jax’s lean weight, his face mashed into the rug, his massive arms spread wide like he’s been crucified. He’s a landscape of trembling muscle, his skin glowing red from the friction and the heat.
Jax pulls out slowly. The sound is a wet, slurping schlock as the vacuum seal breaks. Mike’s hole stays open, a gaping, red ring that twitches and leaks a mixture of clear lube and thick white seed onto the rug. Mike collapses flat, his face mashed into the carpet, his massive arms useless at his sides. He is a heap of twitching, conquered meat.
Jax stands over him, chest heaving, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looks down at the wreckage with a smirk, then nudges Mike’s heavy, gelatinous glute with his foot.
"Eyes up, stud," Jax commands.
Mike groans. It’s a deep, broken sound. He tries to push himself up, triceps shaking violently, but collapses back down. He manages to lift his head, a thick rope of drool swinging from his slack jaw. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing the iris, seeing nothing but stars. He looks completely brain-dead.
"Your boy called me two months ago," Jax says, pointing a thumb at the blinking red light of the camera. "Said he felt bad leaving his old man alone with no one to spot him. Said you get 'restless' without a heavy load to manage."
Mike blinks, his brain slowly rebooting. He looks at the lens, dazed, sweat dripping off his nose.
I press the talk button. My voice booms through the surround sound. "Merry Christmas, Dad. I knew you’d go crazy without a project to work on. Figured Jax could keep your hands and your pusy full."
A slow, drunk grin spreads across Dad’s face. He wipes the drool with the back of his hand and looks back at Jax’s softening cock, then at the camera.
"Yeah..." Dad rasps, his voice totally wrecked. He pats Jax’s calf, a gesture of appreciation for a job well done. "Good looking out, kid. Best damn gift under the tree."
He drops his head back onto his arms, content to lie there in his own mess. Merry Christmas, Dad. Enjoy the fill.
January 2nd. The calendar on my desk is a death sentence. The holiday high is gone, replaced by the cold, heavy reality of the spring semester. Jax is packing his shit to head back to his own campus, which means the house will go quiet. For the past week, it’s been anything but. The silence will be jarring after the constant soundtrack of the headboard slamming against the wall, the wet slap of meat, and my dad’s wrecked, guttural groans.
Their routine was simple. They moved like a two-man army. Dad would be up at dawn, brewing coffee, while Jax would stumble in and grab a bottle of water. They cooked meals, moving around the kitchen in a silent, Jax ‘helped’ my dad with the chores, efficient rhythm. No soft touches. No hand-holding. They’d watch the bowl games from opposite ends of the couch, crushing beer cans, their only physical contact a rough shoulder check when one of them got up for a piss.
Yeah, calling my best friend "stepdad" isn't happening.
Because the "buddy" vibe was just the quiet part. The rest of the time, the house was a fuck pad. I’d log in to see them checking the oil in the truck, and five minutes later, Dad would be bent over the hot engine block, his massive, smooth ass high in the air while Jax hammered him into the metal. I saw Jax fuck him on top of the laundry machine, Dad’s huge body vibrating with the spin cycle while Jax drilled him from behind. I saw Dad’s face mashed into a pile of sawdust on the workbench, hole gaping, taking a pounding between projects. It was just another thing they did, like splitting logs or drinking a beer.
And their last clip, from this morning, is still burned into my fucking brain. They’re in the garage. Dad is trying to organize his tool bench, wearing nothing but a pair of loose grey sweats that hang low on his heavy, muscular hips. Jax comes up behind him, doesn't say a word, just reaches around and hauls those sweats down to Dad's ankles.
Dad doesn't even fight it. He just plants his thick, calloused palms on the workbench, his wide shoulders bunching as he prepares for the impact. Jax is already hard, that nine-inch black cock throbbing and ready. He positions himself at the entrance of that pink, greedy pussy and drives forward.
The sound is a wet, heavy crack that echoes off the concrete walls, mixing with the smell of motor oil and sawdust. Dad’s entire body jiggles on the screen from the force of it. The heavy pecs, now smooth and sensitive from his new shaving routine, bounce with a soft, fleshy percussion that’s completely at odds with the hard muscle underneath.
Two hundred and forty pounds of prime, muscle-bound man rippling like water under Jax’s instinct. He’s trying to punch through the front of my dad’s pelvis. He stays standing, his narrow hips snapping forward with violent, mechanical speed, burying his length deep into my father’s gut.
Dad is holding on for dear life. Jax reaches out, grabs Dad’s hair, and yanks his head back, forcing the older man to look at his own reflection in the grease-smudged mirror above the bench.
“Look at you, Mr. Big,” Jax growls, his voice a low, raspy vibration. “Better than any chick at school. No one handles a pounding like you.”
Dad is gone. His eyes have rolled back into his skull. His mouth is hanging open, a thick, silver string of saliva dripping from his chin and pooling on a stack of oil racks below. He’s babbling, his voice a series of incoherent, wet stammers.
The jiggle is constant. With every hit, Dad’s massive chest bounces, his heavy tits swinging, his thighs trembling. Jax is relentless, his dark, corded arms wrapped around Mike’s waist, hauling the big man back onto his cock every time he tries to lean away from the pain, pleasure. It’s a total takeover. Jax leverages his lean, explosive strength to dive deeper, pinning Dad flat against the workbench. No escape. Every brutal plunge forces a fresh, broken moan out of him.
He speeds up. The sound in the garage is a cacophony of meat slapping meat and the rhythmic creak of the workbench. Jax is huffing now, his own body slick with sweat, his torso gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He delivers a final, catastrophic string of thrusts, each one bottoming out so hard I can see Dad’s toes curl against the concrete floor.
Jax lets out a primal roar, his whole body tensing as he unloads deep into my dad’s core. He shoots pulse after pulse of hot, thick seed, filling that battered hole to the brim. Dad’s body goes into a full-scale seizure. His legs buckle. His arms give out. He collapses forward, his face hitting the workbench, his ass still pinned against Jax’s groin. He’s twitching, his muscles locking and unlocking in a violent dopamine crash. He’s drooling on the tools, his eyes flickering white, totally disconnected from reality.
Ten minutes later, the feed shows them in the kitchen.
It’s a perfect domestic scene, if you ignore the details. Dad is at the stove flipping pancakes, his focus intense. But he’s not wearing sweats. The house is warm, so he’s in a pair of thin, white mesh shorts that are basically transparent. You can see the dark curve of his massive ass, the heavy hang of his balls. He’s standing with his legs planted wide, a stiff, careful stance that says his insides are wrecked.
Jax is leaning against the counter, sipping a cold brew. He’s laughing at something on his phone, looking completely relaxed. He glances up at my dad, and that cocky, “I own you” smirk spreads across his face.
I hit the talk button. My voice fills the kitchen. “Morning, guys. Smells good. Hope you didn’t break any of the power tools.”
Jax looks right at the camera and bursts out laughing. “Nah, just your old man. I think he’s permanently stuck in that cowboy walk.”
Dad turns from the stove, spatula in hand like a weapon. He glares at Jax, then at the camera lens. The flush on his neck is more anger than embarrassment.
“I’m fine,” he grunts, shifting his weight and immediately wincing. He tries to cover it, but it’s obvious.
“Sure you are,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Hey, Jax, before you take off, make sure you leave him enough to get through the winter, alright? I don’t want him calling me in a month all antsy.”
Jax shakes his head, taking another sip of his coffee. “Dude, I’ve tried. I’ve been emptying the reserves into him all week. This guy’s appetite is a black hole. He’s insatiable. I don’t think there’s enough cum in the state to actually fill him up.”
That gets a reaction. Dad points the spatula at Jax. “Bullshit. Don’t listen to him,” he barks, his voice a low gravelly growl. “Kid’s got no stamina. He shoots his wad in five minutes and thinks the job is done. I was just getting warmed up.”
It’s a classic Mike move: turn it around, make it about the other guy’s performance. He’s not ashamed of taking it; he’s just pissed about being called out for needing it so badly.
Jax just grins, completely unfazed. He walks over, gets right behind Dad, and drops his voice to a low rumble for the mic to pick up. “Oh, yeah? Warmed up? You were screaming my name so loud I thought the neighbors were gonna call the cops.” He reaches out and gives one of Dad’s massive, mesh-covered ass cheeks a hard, proprietary squeeze.
Dad freezes. His whole body goes rigid. He closes his eyes for a second, riding the jolt of pleasure from the touch. The fight just drains out of him.
He turns back to the stove, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Shut up and get a plate,” he mutters. “Pancakes are getting cold.”
They fall back into their routine. They’re just pals about to have breakfast. And tomorrow, Jax will drive away, leaving my dad alone in that big house with a hole that’s been thoroughly used.
I’m sitting here in my dorm, a a bunch of pages of engineering theory staring me down, but I’m not worried. The old man is fine. He’s got his pride, his pancakes, a belly full of my best friend’s cum to keep him swell untill summer, and he’s been properly serviced. It’s the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him.
Best Christmas ever.
--The End--
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