Tuesday Night – Caught in the Act
Michael Thompson stood frozen in the doorway of his own home, suitcase still in hand.
The smell hit him first---thick, pungent, unmistakable. The entire house reeked of sex: stale cum, sweat, piss, and raw male musk. His eyes moved slowly across the wreckage: the ruined sectional couch with dark stains soaked deep into the fabric, cum puddles on the floor, discarded work clothes and empty beer bottles scattered everywhere.
And in the middle of it all lay his youngest son.
Jack was on his back on the living room rug, completely naked. His buzzed blond hair was matted with dried cum. Thick white ropes of semen covered his smooth chest, his stomach, his pretty face, and even his long eyelashes. Most devastating of all was the slow, steady river of cum pouring from his gaping, swollen, ruined hole---thick globs of it bubbling out and pooling on the carpet beneath him.
Michael’s voice came out hoarse. “Jack… what the fuck happened here?”
Jack blinked up at his father with those big, exhausted blue puppy-dog eyes. His voice was soft, almost apologetic. “Hi Dad… You’re home early.”
Michael dropped his suitcase. “Answer me.”
Jack shifted slightly, wincing. More cum leaked out of him. “The construction crew… they’ve been using me. A lot.”
Michael stared, face pale. “Using you? All of them?”
Jack nodded gently. “Yes. Twenty-five today. They just left.”
The silence stretched. Michael’s hands trembled at his sides.
“I thought you were a good boy,” he finally whispered, voice cracking. “I thought you were sweet. Innocent. Like your brother---serving in the Marines, making us proud. And here you are… lying in a puddle of strangers’ cum like a cheap whore.”
Jack’s eyes glistened, but he didn’t look away. “I’m sorry, Dad. I tried to be good… but it felt so good when they used me.”
Michael took a shaky step closer. His eyes kept drifting down to his son’s wrecked hole, the thick cum still slowly oozing out. Something dark and long-repressed stirred inside him.
“You let all those men fuck you raw?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes,” Jack whispered. “They came inside me over and over. I can still feel it sloshing around.”
Michael’s breathing grew heavier. He knelt down beside his son, unable to stop himself. His hand reached out and gently touched Jack’s swollen hole. Cum coated his fingers instantly.
“Jesus Christ, Jack…” he breathed.
Jack looked up at him with soft wonder. “You can touch it if you want, Dad. It’s okay.”
Michael’s resolve shattered.
He leaned down and pressed his face between his son’s legs, licking the cum from Jack’s ruined hole. The taste was overwhelming---bitter, salty, thick. He groaned like a broken man as he ate his own son’s cum-filled ass, tongue pushing deep inside.
Jack moaned sweetly, fingers threading through his father’s hair. “Oh fuck yeah, Dad…like that…”
Michael pulled back, face glistening, eyes wild. “I’m so disappointed in you,” he growled, even as he climbed on top of his son. “I raised you better than this.”
He kissed Jack hard---deep, angry, hungry. Jack kissed back eagerly, wrapping his slender legs around his father.
They fucked right there on the cum-soaked floor.
Michael pushed his thick, bare cock into his son’s loose, sloppy hole and started thrusting with long, possessive strokes. Cum from twenty-five other men squelched obscenely around his shaft with every movement.
“You’re nothing but a cumdump,” Michael panted between thrusts. “My own son… letting the whole crew breed you like a bitch in heat.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jack whimpered softly, eyes glassy with pleasure. “I couldn’t help it. Their cocks felt so good…”
Michael fucked him harder, tears of shame and lust mixing on his face. They moved from the floor to the couch, then to Jack’s bed. For hours Michael used his son in every position---missionary while staring into his eyes, doggy while slapping his ass, and finally with Jack riding him slowly, grinding down with rolling hips.
Each time Michael came, he pumped another heavy load deep into his own son, adding to the mess already inside him.
After the third round, they lay together in Jack’s bed, sweaty and exhausted. Michael stroked his son’s hair almost tenderly.
“I love you, Jack,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Even though you’re a disgusting little whore.”
Jack nuzzled against his father’s chest, voice soft and sweet. “I love you too, Dad.”
They fell asleep like that---father and son, naked, covered in cum, Jack’s ruined hole still leaking onto the sheets.
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