I’ve always been a simple man.
Suburban dad. Decent job. Same poker night with the same group of guys for almost twenty years. I kept the lawn neat, paid the bills on time, and told myself I was content. Most days that was enough. Lately it wasn’t.
I was forty-four years old and my wife had stopped reaching for me in bed months ago. The house felt too quiet. And every time I looked at my nineteen-year-old queer son, Julian, something dark and restless stirred low in my gut.
Julian had always been soft. The kind of boy who wore shirts that rode up when he stretched and jeans so tight you could see every curve of him. I’d caught myself staring more than once—at the way his ass filled those jeans, at the slim line of his waist, at the way he bit his lip when he was nervous. I’d shoved those thoughts down for a long time. Tonight I stopped shoving.
The basement that my ground rented for men time smelled like beer, old wood, and the faint metallic tang of the tools along the far wall. John, Cyprus, JD, Peter, and Silas were already there when I came down the stairs with a six-pack. Big men. Rough hands. Bodies shaped by years of real work.
They’d been my brothers since we were young and stupid. Tonight I was about to ask them to cross a line none of us would ever talk about outside these walls.
I cracked a beer, took a long drink, and set it down hard on the card table.
“Not playing tonight,” I said.
John raised an eyebrow. “You good?”
“I’m done waiting.” I pulled out my phone and opened the Grindr app I’d downloaded three days earlier. “I just need a hole. Something easy. Something that won’t make me work for it. Gay guys are always looking, always willing. No games. No headaches.”
The room went quiet for a second. Then Cyprus laughed—low, dirty, almost approving.
“You’re a sick bastard, Ethan.”
“My son’s one of them,” I said, scrolling until I found Julian’s profile. The photos were soft and carefully angled. “He’s nineteen. If he’s already out there offering it up, he might as well give it to us. Better we use him than some stranger.”
Nobody argued. They just started moving.
We dragged the old spare mattress into the center of the room and cleared the beer bottles and poker chips. Someone pulled out the box of Marvel masks from last Halloween. I took the Batman one and pulled it over my head. The others did the same—Captain America, Iron Man, a cracked Spider-Man mask, two plain black ones. Every face disappeared. Every identity hidden.
I made a fake profile with a stranger’s face and a name that wasn’t mine. Then I messaged my own son.
The text was short and clear:
Come to the this address queer. Blindfold yourself at the door. Don’t ask questions. Come alone.
I sent the address of our location and the side door that led straight down to the basement.
Thirty minutes later the knock came.
John opened the door. Julian stepped inside wearing a tight black crop top and jeans that looked painted on. His blond hair was slightly messy. His eyes were wide—half fear, half something hotter. He had no idea his own father was standing a few feet away, completely hidden behind a mask.
“Blindfold him,” I ordered. My voice came out rough and low.
John tied a thick black cloth tight around Julian’s eyes and shoved him forward. Julian stumbled onto the mattress on his hands and knees, breathing fast. The thin fabric of his jeans stretched tight across his ass.
I stepped up behind him first.
My hands settled on his hips. His body was warm and slim under my palms. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his jeans and underwear and yanked them down hard, exposing the smooth, perfect curve of his ass and the tight little hole between his cheeks. My cock was already aching.
I spit on two fingers and shoved them inside him without warning. Julian gasped and clenched hard around the sudden intrusion.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” I muttered, working them deeper, stretching him open. “You been saving this hole for someone, slut?”
He whimpered. “Yes, sir—”
I slapped his right cheek hard enough to leave a bright red handprint. The sound cracked through the basement.
“Louder.”
“Yes, sir!”
I pulled my fingers out, spit into my palm, and stroked it over my cock. Then I lined up and pushed. The head of my cock pressed against his hole for a second before the tight ring gave way. I didn’t ease in. I forced every inch inside him in one long, heavy thrust until my hips were flush against his ass and he was shaking underneath me.
“That’s it,” I growled. “Take every fucking inch.”
I started fucking him hard and deep, gripping his waist and dragging him back onto my cock with every thrust. The wet, filthy sound of skin slamming against skin filled the room. Julian moaned into the mattress, high and broken. His own cock was hard and leaking steadily onto the sheets.
The other guys had formed a circle around us, already stroking themselves through their pants, watching from behind their masks. Cyprus stepped closer and slapped Julian’s other cheek hard.
“Look at that little hole stretch,” he said, voice thick with lust. “Destroy it, Ethan.”
I did. I fucked him harder, angling deeper, making sure he felt every brutal stroke. Julian’s arms gave out after a few minutes. His chest dropped to the mattress while his ass stayed raised, taking everything I gave him. I could feel my orgasm building fast, but I didn’t slow down. I wanted to be the first one to fill him.
I buried myself to the hilt and came hard, pulsing thick ropes of cum deep into my nineteen-year-old son’s ass. The pleasure was sharp and dirty and better than anything I’d felt in years. When I finally pulled out, a thick string of cum connected us for a second before breaking and dripping down his balls.
Cyprus took my place immediately.
He didn’t waste time. He shoved in hard and started pounding Julian in short, vicious strokes that made the mattress shift across the floor.
“Fucking take it,” Cyprus snarled. “You love this, don’t you? Being used like a cheap toy.”
Julian could only moan. His voice was already wrecked.
John went next—thicker, heavier, grinding deep like he wanted to leave a permanent mark. He held Julian’s hips so tight there would be bruises. Then Peter, who talked the entire time, calling him every filthy name he could think of while he fucked him raw. JD was quieter but just as rough, leaving fresh red handprints across Julian’s already marked ass. Silas finished last. He was the biggest of us, and he used it, forcing himself in deep and holding Julian down while he unloaded with a low, almost angry groan.
By the time the last man pulled out, Julian was completely ruined.
His hole was swollen, red, and wide open, overflowing with six thick loads that ran down his thighs in heavy white streaks and soaked into the mattress. His cock was still hard, twitching against the wet sheets, completely ignored. Cum and sweat covered his lower back and the backs of his thighs. His blond hair was damp and stuck to his forehead.
I pulled the blindfold off.
Julian blinked up at us, dazed and used. His lips were parted and swollen. His eyes were glassy. For a long second he just stared at the six masked men standing over him with their cocks still out, shiny with his ass and their cum.
“Who… who are you?” he whispered.
I crouched down so he could see my eyes through the Batman mask. My voice stayed low and rough.
“Just some friends of your dad’s, kid. And we’re not done with you yet.”
I stood up and nodded toward the door.
“Get dressed. Go home. Sleep with our cum inside you. Don’t you dare clean it out. I want your father to smell it on you in the morning.”
Julian scrambled for his clothes on shaky legs. He pulled the tight jeans up over the mess between his thighs without looking at any of us. Cum immediately started soaking through the denim. He didn’t speak. He just walked to the door with his head down, moving like a well-trained little slut who had just learned exactly what he was for.
The door clicked shut behind him.
We stayed in the basement for another hour, still masked, drinking and laughing, already talking about the next time. Because now that we’d started, there was no reason to stop.
And I already knew I’d be thinking about the way my nineteen-year-old son’s tight ass felt around my cock for a long, long time.
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