Forbidden Request
The question, direct and uncompromising, pierced through Lionel's shame, through his confusion, and landed squarely on a newly exposed nerve. The room seemed to tilt. The humiliation, the betrayal, the loss of Paul, combined with the forced intimacy of the hand-holding and the forbidden kiss—it coalesced into a desperate, almost feral need to finally be utterly, brutally honest, regardless of the consequences. If they wanted the "truth," he would give it to them, in excruciating detail, a truth far more disturbing than they could have imagined.
Lionel’s eyes, glazed with unshed tears and a profound, bitter self-loathing, fixed on his father. Tony flinched, instinctively recoiling from the raw intensity in his son’s gaze. Lynn, beside Tony, gripped his arm, her own eyes wide with a dawning terror as she sensed the imminent verbal explosion. Father Michael remained perfectly still, his gaze unwavering, a silent, implacable demand for confession.
Lionel’s chest heaved. He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat visibly working. His voice, when it came, was a harsh, rasping whisper, thick with shame and a horrifying defiance.
"It would… it would look like this," Lionel began, his words slow, deliberate, as if each one were being dragged from the deepest, darkest recesses of his soul. His gaze never left Tony's face. "I would… I would beg you, Dad. I would drop to my knees. Right here. In front of all of you." He made a small, almost imperceptible movement, his body tensing as if preparing for the act of supplication.
Tony let out a small, strangled sound, pushing himself deeper into the sofa cushions, his eyes wide with terror. Lynn gasped, a sharp, choked sound, pressing herself against Tony.
"I would… I would crawl to you," Lionel continued, his voice gaining a chilling, detached quality, as if he were merely describing a scene in a perverse play. "I would reach for your legs, grab on. And I'd look up at you, desperate. And then I would… I would ask you to breed me. To take me. To punish me." A flicker of something dark, almost triumphant, crossed his features before being swallowed by profound misery. "I'd want you to tear my clothes off. To not care about me crying, or begging you to stop. Just to do it."
Lynn made a soft, guttural sound, like an animal in pain, pulling closer to Tony, who was rigid with horror, his face ashen.
"And then," Lionel pushed on, his voice cracking with the sheer force of his own horrifying admission, "I would… I would open for you. I would spread my legs wide, right here, and I'd expose myself. To you. To all of you." His eyes, though filled with tears, burned with an unnerving intensity as he stared at his father. "And I'd want you to take me. Hard. Deep. To shove yourself inside me, until I screamed your name. Until I couldn't breathe. And I'd want you to not stop, no matter how much it hurt, or how much I begged you to. To just… to just use me."
A shudder ran through Tony's body. He closed his eyes, a low moan escaping his lips. Lynn was openly weeping now, her face buried in Tony’s shoulder.
"And then," Lionel continued, his voice dropping to a low, raw whisper, imbued with a chilling intimacy, "I would… I would call you Daddy. Over and over again. And I'd want you to fill me. To feel completely, utterly consumed by you. To be your boy. To be nothing but a vessel for your desire. To be completely yours."
The living room descended into a profound, suffocating silence, broken only by Lynn’s ragged sobs and Tony’s shallow, rapid breathing. Lionel, having spoken his truth, sat trembling, tears now freely flowing down his face, his body wracked with the terrible shame of his confession, yet also with a strange, dark sense of release. He had given them the "truth." And it was every bit as monstrous as they had feared.
The living room remained steeped in a profound, agonizing silence, broken only by Lynn’s shuddering sobs and Tony’s ragged breathing. Lionel, having laid bare the darkest, most shaming corners of his subconscious, sat trembling, tears streaming down his face, utterly exposed.
Father Michael, however, remained unnervingly composed. He simply nodded, his gaze unwavering as he looked at Lionel, then turned to Tony. "Thank you, Lionel," he said, his voice soft, almost serene, as if Lionel had just delivered a perfectly normal confession. "That took immense courage. Honesty, even when it is difficult, is the first step towards true healing and spiritual clarity."
Then, his gaze, calm and expectant, settled on Tony. "Now, Tony. It is your turn. We have heard Lionel's truth, bravely spoken. I want you to tell Lionel, in your own words, exactly how that makes you feel. Be honest, Tony. Completely honest."
Tony’s head snapped up, his eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, widening in renewed horror. He stared at Father Michael as if the priest had just asked him to perform a profane ritual. The words Lionel had just uttered echoed in his mind, vivid and sickening: beg you… crawl to you… take me… shove yourself inside me… make you scream my name… call you Daddy… use me… your boy… yours. Each phrase was a fresh stab, a vile desecration of everything he understood about fatherhood, about his son, about himself.
His mouth worked, but no sound came out. He looked at Lionel, his son, sitting there, vulnerable and weeping, yet whose words had just painted such a monstrous, perverse tableau. The overwhelming urge was to recoil, to deny, to escape. But Father Michael’s gaze was unyielding, a silent demand for accountability.
Lynn, still sobbing softly beside him, instinctively reached for his hand, clutching it in a desperate shared misery.
Tony finally managed to draw a shuddering breath, his chest heaving. His voice, when it came, was a raw, choked rasp, barely above a whisper, filled with a visceral blend of terror, disgust, and a profound, aching despair.
"Lionel," Tony began, his gaze fixed on his son’s tear-streaked face, yet seemingly looking through him, at some unspeakable horror beyond. "That… that makes me feel… sick." The word was spat out, a bitter, guttural sound. "Physically ill. My stomach is churning. I… I feel like I'm going to throw up." He swallowed hard, his face paling even further.
He continued, his voice trembling with barely suppressed revulsion. "It's… it's repulsive. It's the most… hideous thing I have ever heard. To hear you… to hear my son… describe… that." He gestured vaguely, unable to even articulate the act. "With me. With your father." His eyes, filled with a tortured anguish, met Lionel's. "It makes me… it makes me feel violated."
A tremor ran through Tony’s body. "I feel… disgusted. Not just by the thought of it, but… but by the fact that those thoughts are… are in your head. My son. My own son has… has that inside him." He shook his head slowly, a look of profound bewilderment mixed with utter horror. "It's… it's wrong, Lionel. So profoundly, deeply wrong. It twists everything. Everything I thought I knew about you. About us."
He clenched his free hand, knuckles white. "And I'm… I'm terrified." The word escaped him, a raw admission of his deepest fear. "Terrified of… of what this means. For you. For our family. For… for me." His voice cracked, tears finally brimming in his own eyes. "I never… I never in a million years… I never imagined I would hear those words from my son. It's a… a nightmare. An absolute nightmare."
Tony leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands, shuddering uncontrollably. The silence in the room was thick, heavy with the weight of Tony’s raw, unfiltered disgust and fear. Lynn sobbed quietly beside him, mirroring his profound distress.
The raw, guttural sounds of Tony's disgust and terror hung in the air, thick with despair. Lynn wept softly beside him, her face buried in his shoulder. Lionel, utterly broken, sat motionless, tears tracing paths down his cheeks.
Father Michael, however, remained impassive, his gaze shifting from the distraught father to the weeping son. He nodded slowly, then cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the thick emotional fog with surprising clarity and an almost clinical detachment.
"Tony," Father Michael said, his tone gentle but carrying an unmistakable note of admonishment, "I understand your immediate reaction. It is human to recoil from what appears to be… transgressive. But you are penalizing Lionel's honesty. You asked for the truth, and he, with immense courage, gave it to you. To respond with such profound disgust, to shame him further, will only drive him deeper into this distress."
Tony lifted his head, his eyes wide with a mixture of bewilderment and resentment. "Penalizing? Father, he just… he just said…" He gestured helplessly, unable to articulate the unspeakable words.
"Yes, Tony, he did," Father Michael interrupted, his voice firm, unwavering. "And he used language, graphic and disturbing, to express what is, at its root, a perfectly normal human longing. Lionel, in his confusion and his… spiritual turmoil, is sexualizing a deeply rooted, nonsexual desire for physical intimacy with his father."
Lynn’s head snapped up, her sobs faltering. Tony stared at the priest, his mouth agape. The absurdity of the statement, juxtaposed with the horrific words Lionel had just spoken, was staggering.
"Think of it, Tony," Father Michael continued, leaning forward slightly, his eyes earnest. "Children crave affection, closeness, validation from their parents. Lionel, perhaps due to emotional distance, or subconscious fears of rejection, has been unable to express this fundamental need in a healthy way. So, his mind, grappling with complex adult desires and his emerging sexuality, has latched onto this fundamental need for paternal intimacy and twisted it into something aberrational."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "Your son isn't inherently perverse, Tony. He is crying out for connection. For physical reassurance from his father. For a simple hug, a comforting touch, a feeling of safety and acceptance that perhaps he feels has been absent or withheld. But because he is a young man, navigating his sexuality, his desperate need for this healthy nonsexual intimacy has manifested in a distorted, sexualized fantasy."
Lynn looked at Tony, then back at Father Michael, a flicker of bewildered understanding warring with her profound disgust. Tony, however, looked utterly lost, torn between the priest's calm, authoritative reinterpretation and the vivid, horrifying images Lionel's confession had conjured.
"Therefore," Father Michael stated, his gaze settling firmly on Tony, "the solution is clear. You must provide that healthy, nonsexual intimacy, Tony. You must reparent him, in a physical sense. You must show him that your love is unconditional, that touch is not always sexual, and that his deepest desire for connection with his father can be fulfilled in a loving, pure way."
Tony swallowed hard, his throat dry. "You mean… what, Father? Hug him?" he croaked, the thought still feeling utterly alien and laden with the recent, terrifying context.
"More than just a perfunctory hug, Tony," Father Michael urged, his voice soft but insistent. "You must initiate it. Regularly. A gentle embrace. A hand on his shoulder. A reassuring arm around him. Long, warm hugs, where he can feel your presence, your comfort, your unconditional love. You must allow him to lean on you, literally and figuratively. Give him that physical closeness he craves, but in a way that is utterly nonsexual, utterly paternal." He then looked pointedly at Lionel, whose head was bowed, tears still silently falling. "This will help Lionel to recalibrate his subconscious. To understand that the longing he expressed is for something innocent, something healthy. It will allow him to process and eventually move on from this aberrant fantasy as he recognizes that his core need for paternal affection is being met in a loving, appropriate way."
He then looked at both Lynn and Tony. "This will be challenging, I know. It will require patience, consistency, and immense grace from both of you. But it is the path to healing your son, and healing your family. And only once Lionel has begun to move past this misdirected longing will we even consider the prospect of discussing Paul's return. First, we heal Lionel."
Lynn stared at Father Michael, her mind reeling, a strange mixture of relief that Lionel's confession was being reinterpreted as a "normal" need, and a deep-seated discomfort at the thought of Tony having to physically provide this "nonsexual intimacy" after what they had just heard. Tony, meanwhile, looked utterly stunned, caught between his profound revulsion and the authoritative pronouncements of his priest. The air was thick with the impossible task now laid before him.
The air in the living room remained thick with the astonishing pronouncements of Father Michael. Tony stood, reeling from the instruction to "reparent" Lionel with physical affection, his mind still struggling to reconcile the priest's words with the vile confession he had just heard. Lynn, beside him, was a statue of bewildered horror. Lionel, his tears still fresh, looked up at Father Michael with a flicker of desperate hope.
"Lionel," Father Michael began, his voice soft, returning his focus to the young man. "Now that we understand the nature of your underlying need, we must begin to address it in a healthy, appropriate way. To help you move past this… misdirection. What, my son, is a nonsexual form of physical intimacy you truly crave from your father? Something that would make you feel safe, loved, and connected?"
Lionel hesitated, his gaze darting to his father, then to his mother, before settling on the kind, unwavering face of the priest. The question, stripped of its recent horrifying context, seemed almost innocent. What he truly craved was not the grotesque desire he had just articulated, but the primal comfort he felt he had lost, or perhaps never fully had.
His voice, though still quiet, was laced with a raw, undeniable yearning. "I… I just want to feel safe," Lionel whispered, his eyes welling up again. "Like when I was little. I… I want to sleep in bed with him. And have him cuddle with me all night. Like he used to, when I was scared."
The words landed with the force of a physical blow. Tony’s eyes widened to saucers, his face draining of all color. Lynn let out a soft, choked gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes darting between Lionel and Tony in utter disbelief. The thought of their adult son, who had just described perverse acts with his father, now requesting to sleep and be cuddled by him, was a fresh wave of unspeakable horror. The "nonsexual" caveat from Father Michael felt like a cruel, mocking lie in the face of Lionel's request.
Tony could feel a cold sweat break out on his forehead. His heart hammered against his ribs. Sleep in the same bed? Cuddle all night? With Lionel? After… after everything? His stomach churned with a profound, bone-deep fear. It was the fear of the unknown, of a boundary utterly obliterated, of being forced into an intimacy that, regardless of the priest's assurances, felt utterly, profoundly wrong and dangerous. He looked at Father Michael, his gaze pleading for reprieve, for a reinterpretation, anything but this.
But Father Michael merely nodded, a serene, almost approving look on his face. "A primal need for comfort and security," he murmured, as if Lionel had asked for nothing more than a glass of water. He then looked at Tony, his gaze firm and expectant. "Tony. This is precisely what we discussed. Your son needs this. It is a vital step in his healing. Are you willing to provide this comfort? To show him this unconditional, nonsexual love?"
Tony swallowed hard, his throat dry. He looked at Lionel, whose face, though still tear-stained, held a vulnerable, desperate plea. He looked at Lynn, whose face was a mask of silent, pleading horror, begging him with her eyes to find a way out of this. But then he looked back at Father Michael, whose eyes held a quiet, unwavering demand. To defy the priest now, after everything, felt like defying God himself. To refuse would be to condemn his son, to admit his own "failure" as a father, to perpetuate the "aberrant fantasy."
He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. But he was trapped, caught in a spiritual vise. With a profound, agonizing sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all his fears, Tony finally, reluctantly, forced the words out.
"Yes, Father," Tony rasped, his voice barely audible, filled with a terrible resignation. "I… I will. If it helps Lionel. I… I agree."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Lionel's face—perhaps a shadow of triumph, quickly masked by a fragile relief. Lynn’s head dropped into her hands again, a soft whimper escaping her lips. Father Michael, however, smiled faintly, a look of serene satisfaction settling over his features. The impossible task had been accepted. The stage was set for a night that would redefine their understanding of family, intimacy, and perhaps, the very nature of their souls.
The guest room, usually a beacon of quiet normalcy, had transformed into a crucible of unspoken desires and profound discomfort. The overhead light was off, plunging the room into a deep, velvety darkness, broken only by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the blinds. Tony, with a profound sense of dread, had crawled into the bed beside Lionel, the mattress dipping under his weight. The air, already thick with the lingering scent of anxiety and the faint memory of Lynn's panicked sobs, now felt charged with a new, unsettling current.
"Goodnight, son," Tony mumbled, his voice strained, as he settled onto his side, his back rigid. He felt Lionel shift behind him, then the warmth of his son's body pressing against his. Lionel, true to his word, had spooned in, his front molding against Tony’s back, an intimate closeness that sent a shudder through Tony’s entire frame.
Tony’s breath hitched. He tried to focus on anything else—the cricket chirping outside, the hum of the refrigerator downstairs, the oppressive weight of the covers. This is just cuddling, he chanted inwardly, a desperate mantra. Nonsexual. Healing. For Lionel. But his body screamed a different message. The warmth radiating from Lionel, the soft press of his back against Tony’s chest, the way he shuddered somewhat when he felt Tony’s breath on his neck—it was too much. Every nerve ending seemed to prickle with a horrifying awareness.
Tony's Inner Monologue:
Oh, God, this is wrong. So, so wrong. What have I done? What has that priest done? My back is stiff as a board. I can feel him. Lionel. Right there. His leg is touching mine. This is supposed to be… healing. But it feels like… like I'm drowning in quicksand. This isn't paternal. This is… this is just him. An adult man. My son. Pressed against me.
I shouldn't be thinking this. Don't think about it. Don't think about his words from earlier. Beg you… crawl to you… shove yourself inside me… make you scream my name. No. Shut it down. This is my son. My son. But God, he's so close. Too close.
My mind is racing. Is he… is he feeling this too? This… this tension? This terrible awareness? Or is it just me, a perverse, disgusting part of me that’s reacting to this absolute nightmare? I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I have to stay here. For him. For his healing. But what about my healing? My soul feels like it's being ripped apart.
And then I feel it. A subtle shift, a growing pressure. A stiffness. My breath catches. No. It can't be. Not now. Not here. I try to mentally shrink, to force my body to betray itself, to deny the undeniable. But it’s there. Hardening. Growing. A horrifying, undeniable response to the warmth, the pressure, the forbidden intimacy. Oh, God. Oh, God. I’m getting an erection. My own son. My own son is pressed against me, and I’m… I’m getting hard. This is the ultimate betrayal. The ultimate disgust. I want to die. Just disappear. Lynn. What would Lynn say? What would Father Michael say now? This isn't nonsexual. This is… this is my worst fear come to life. And it's Lionel. My son. And he's right there. Can he feel it? He must. He must feel it. The shame is going to consume me.
Lionel's Inner Monologue:
He’s here. He actually did it. He’s in bed with me. His muscles are so strong, so solid. Just like I remembered when I was a kid. He smells like… Dad. That familiar scent, faint traces of soap and something uniquely him. It's comforting. And terrifying. This is what I asked for. This is what Father Michael said I needed. But it feels… different now.
My heart is pounding. I’m pressed right up against him. My back against his chest, my leg tucked between his. It's so close. So intimate. A part of me, the part that begged for this, is sighing in profound relief. I’m safe. I’m connected. I have my Dad. Just like I wanted.
But then… the other part. The part that said those words earlier. The words that drove Paul away. The words I’m still ashamed of. It’s stirring. The warmth between us. The softness of the blankets. The shared breath in the dark. It’s not just safe. It’s… it’s electric. I’m trying not to think about it. Trying to keep my mind blank, pure. Nonsexual. Nonsexual. Nonsexual. Just like Father Michael said. Just like Dad probably wants it to be. Let me turn over. Bury my face in his chest. Nothing could be more comforting than that.
Oh shoot. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s getting harder. Literally. My body is responding. To him. To Dad. The forbidden nature of it just makes it worse, makes it sharper, more intense. I can feel myself getting hard. A slow, agonizing ache building. No. Stop. This is wrong. This is the aberrant fantasy. This is why Paul left. But it feels… it feels good. And horrifying.
And then, I feel it. Against my hip, pressed against me, a growing stiffness. A rigidity. My breath hitches. He's… he's hard too. Oh, my God. Dad. My Dad is getting an erection. Right here. Spooning with me. The realization slams into me, a wave of profound shock mixed with a thrilling, terrifying validation. It’s not just me. It’s him too. This unspoken, unspeakable desire. It’s real. It’s mutual. And we're both trying to pretend it isn't happening. The shame is unbearable. But the thrill… the thrill is almost more so. This is a nightmare. And it’s exactly what I wanted.
The Next Day:
The guest room, no longer a mere place of rest, now held the charged memory of a deeply unsettling night. Lionel stirred first, the warmth of his father’s body against his a constant, undeniable presence. He could feel the residual stiffness between his legs, a dull ache that served as a physical reminder of the night's unspoken, yet profoundly felt, arousal. He shifted, a soft sigh escaping his lips, and felt Tony stir in response, a subtle tightening of the muscles in his back. The awareness of their shared physical state, the undeniable intimacy of their bodies pressed together for hours, hung in the quiet air between them.
A few minutes later, the faint scent of coffee and sizzling bacon drifted from the kitchen, beckoning them. Tony finally moved, a slow, deliberate unwinding of his body. He sat up on the edge of the bed for a moment, his shoulders slumped, before pushing himself to stand. Lionel watched him, a strange mix of dread and a lingering, forbidden warmth swirling within him. They avoided eye contact, a silent, mutual agreement to bypass the unspeakable.
They found Lynn in the kitchen, a little too busy at the stove, her back to them. She wore a bright, almost frantic smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The table was set with the same meticulous care as the day before, a desperate attempt at normalcy.
"Morning, you two," Lynn chirped, turning with a plate of scrambled eggs. Her gaze flitted between them, searching, probing, trying to decipher the unspoken secrets of the night. Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the plate down. "Sleep well?" The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken subtext.
Lionel swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He slid into a chair, trying to appear nonchalant. "Yeah, Mom. It was fine." The words felt like a lie, utterly inadequate to describe the turmoil, the fear, the shameful thrill of the past hours. He picked up a piece of bacon, his gaze fixed on his plate.
Tony took his seat opposite Lynn, his face a carefully constructed mask of composure. He avoided Lionel’s eyes, focusing instead on pouring himself a cup of coffee, his hand steady despite the faint tremor that still resonated deep within him. He took a long sip, then met Lynn’s expectant gaze, his own eyes holding a haunted, distant quality.
"It was fine, Lynn," Tony echoed, his voice flat, devoid of any genuine emotion. The word felt like a betrayal, a profound understatement of the agonizing intimacy, the silent erections, and the crushing weight of Father Michael's pronouncements. He could still feel the imprint of Lionel’s body against his, the terrifying, undeniable response of his own flesh.
Lynn’s forced smile wavered. She looked from Lionel’s averted face to Tony’s blank one, searching for any flicker of true feeling, any crack in their united front of dismissive normalcy. "Just… fine?" she pressed, her voice thin with disappointment and an underlying dread. She wanted to hear that the "healing" had begun, that the "aberrant fantasy" was already receding. But their terse responses, their shared, evasive gaze, told her nothing. In fact, it told her everything.
The breakfast proceeded in a suffocating silence, punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery and the occasional forced cough. Each bite felt like sawdust in their mouths. Lynn watched them, a knot of fresh anxiety tightening in her stomach. Tony stared blankly at his plate, the horrifying echo of Lionel’s words and the unsettling reality of their shared physical response still replaying in his mind. And Lionel, trapped between the shame of his admission and the terrifying allure of the intimacy he had just experienced, simply ate, counting the minutes until he could escape this agonizing breakfast and the unspoken truths that suffocated them all.
The goodbye at his parents' house was mercifully brief, a blur of strained smiles and hollow platitudes. Lynn pulled Lionel into a tight, almost suffocating hug, whispering, "Call us, darling. We'll talk more." Her eyes, however, held a complex mix of relief that he was leaving and a lingering, profound confusion. Tony offered a quick, firm handshake, his gaze avoiding Lionel's. "Take care, son." The unspoken words hung heavy between them: Don't bring your aberrant fantasies here again. The drive away was a release, the suburban landscape blurring into a forgettable backdrop as Lionel sped towards his own apartment, towards the grim certainty of facing Paul.
The key turned with a dull click in the lock, a sound that felt deafening in the silence of Lionel’s apartment. He pushed the door open to find Paul standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, his jaw tight. The usually warm light filtering through the windows seemed cold, casting harsh shadows on Paul’s face. His eyes, usually so kind, were now hard, glinting with a raw, furious resentment.
"You're back," Paul said, his voice flat, devoid of any welcome. It was not a question, but an accusation.
Lionel flinched, the exhaustion and emotional torment of the past two days crashing over him. He dropped his bag to the floor with a thud and took a hesitant step forward, his hands outstretched in a pleading gesture. "Paul, please. Let me explain. I'm so, so sorry." His voice was hoarse, thick with tears that had been threatening to spill all day.
Paul didn't move, didn't uncross his arms. "Explain what, Lionel? Explain how you chose me because I look like your father? Explain how you've been carrying around some sick, twisted, incestuous fantasy for God knows how long, and I was just a convenient stand-in?" His voice rose, each word laced with a bitter venom that ripped through Lionel. "Explain that, because I'm genuinely curious."
Lionel stumbled closer, tears finally streaming down his face. "No! No, it's not like that! Not consciously, Paul, I swear! It was… it was the pressure. My parents, the priest… they pushed me. They twisted everything. I didn't mean it! I love you! Only you!" He reached out, desperate to touch Paul, to bridge the chasm that had opened between them.
Paul took a step back, his eyes burning with a cold fury. "Don't touch me." His voice was a low, dangerous growl. "You stood there, Lionel. You actually confessed to it. You looked at them, at that damn priest, and you let them put those words in your mouth, words that shattered everything we had." His voice cracked, a flicker of profound hurt breaking through the anger.
"I was confused!" Lionel sobbed, shaking his head frantically. "I was trapped! I didn't know what to say! I was trying to make them understand, to make them see that it wasn't about… about him. But it just came out wrong! You know me, Paul, you know me. I love you!"
Paul let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, a bitter, broken sound. "I thought I did. But apparently, I was just a living, breathing substitute for your deepest, most fucked-up desires. How do you think that makes me feel, Lionel? To know that every time you looked at me, every time we touched, every time we made love, you were seeing him? Your own father?" He shook his head, his gaze filled with a profound disgust that cut Lionel to the core.
"You're sick, Lionel," Paul spat, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and heartbreak. "You're genuinely, utterly sick. And I can't… I can't be with that. I can't be your stand-in. I can't be the substitute for your incest fantasies. Go get your ass pounded by your own damn father if that's what you truly want."
Lionel's breath hitched, the words hitting him like physical blows. "Paul, please! Don't say that! Please, don't leave me! I can fix this! I'll explain to them, I'll tell them it was all a mistake, I'll—"
"No," Paul interrupted, his voice firm, unwavering, imbued with a terrible finality. "There's nothing to fix. And there's nothing to explain. You can’t take back what you said. You want your dad. Not me. It’s disgusting and I won’t be a part of your daddy fantasy anymore. It's over, Lionel. I'm done. I'm out of here." He turned and walked into the bedroom, leaving Lionel standing alone in the living room, tears streaming down his face, the bitter silence of the apartment closing in around him. Moments later, the sounds of drawers opening and closing, the rustle of clothes being packed, confirmed the agonizing truth. Paul was leaving. And this time, he wouldn't be coming back.
The apartment felt hollow, vast with the echoing silence left by Paul's departure. Lionel sat on the floor, phone clutched in a trembling hand, the sound of his own ragged sobs filling the empty space. He tried to think, to breathe, but only one name, one desperate hope, surfaced through the haze of his despair. He dialed, the numbers blurring through his tear-filled eyes.
Tony's phone buzzed in his pocket. He was in the garage, trying to lose himself in the familiar scent of oil and tools, trying to purge the sickening memories of the last 24 hours. He saw Lionel's name flash on the screen and hesitated, a fresh wave of dread washing over him. He almost didn't answer. But the image of Father Michael's stern, knowing gaze, urging him to provide "nonsexual intimacy," still haunted him. And a father, no matter how disgusted, couldn't completely abandon his son. He answered, his voice tight. "Lionel? Are you alright?"
"Dad! Oh, Dad!" Lionel's voice was a raw, broken sob, barely coherent. "He left, Dad! Paul left! He called me… he called me sick! It's all gone! Everything is gone!" His voice cracked, dissolving into hysterical weeping. "Please, Dad. Please come over. I can't… I can't be alone. I need you. Please, just… just comfort me. Just for a little while."
Tony closed his eyes, a profound weariness settling over him. The thought of going back into that charged atmosphere, of facing Lionel's pain, and the terrifying shadow of their last night's intimacy, was almost unbearable. His stomach clenched. But the sound of his son's raw, utterly desolate grief was a physical wrench in his gut. And Father Michael's words, still echoing: healing, recalibrate, unconditional love.
"Lionel," Tony said, his voice hesitant, laced with a deep reluctance. "Son, are you sure? I… I don't know if that's a good idea right now."
"Please, Dad! Please!" Lionel's plea intensified, laced with a desperate urgency. "I need you! I'm begging you! Just come over. I promise… I just need comfort. Please, Dad. Just come. Please."
The desperation in his son's voice finally broke through Tony's resolve. He sighed, a sound of profound resignation. "Alright, Lionel. Alright. I'm coming. Just… calm down. I'll be there in twenty minutes." He hung up, feeling as though he was walking into a trap, his heart heavy with dread.
A Forbidden Request and a Final Rejection
Tony found Lionel huddled on the sofa, still sobbing, his face blotchy and tear-streaked. The apartment felt cold, sterile. Tony approached cautiously, his senses on high alert. He sat down beside Lionel, a safe distance between them, unsure how to offer the "nonsexual intimacy" Father Michael had prescribed without triggering another wave of terrifying desires.
Lionel immediately shifted, closing the distance, and buried his face in Tony’s shoulder, his arms clinging to his father’s waist. Tony stiffened, but allowed the embrace, trying to focus on the paternal duty, on the "healing." He awkwardly patted Lionel's back, a gesture devoid of warmth.
"He's gone, Dad," Lionel mumbled into his shoulder, his voice thick with tears. "It's all ruined. And it's all my fault. I said those things… and it was so stupid. I just wanted them to stop… and then… then Paul left." He pulled back slightly, his face still streaked with tears, but his eyes, red-rimmed, held a new, startling intensity.
"Dad," Lionel whispered, his voice dropping to a low, desperate plea that sent a chill down Tony's spine. "I… I need you. Just once, Dad. Please." He looked up at Tony, his eyes wide and pleading, a horrifying echo of the desire he had confessed just hours before. "Just once, Dad. Please. Let me… let me fellate you. Just once. And then… I swear, Dad. Never again. I promise. I just need… I need to know what it feels like. And then I can move on. Really. Please, Dad."
The words hit Tony like a physical blow, colder and more horrifying than anything he had yet endured. His breath hitched in his throat. The "nonsexual intimacy" had shattered, revealing the grotesque core of Lionel’s "aberrant fantasy." This wasn't comfort. This was a desperate, depraved negotiation.
Tony felt a profound nausea sweep over him, a wave of disgust so powerful it made him physically recoil. He pushed Lionel back, gently but firmly, his face a mask of utter revulsion. "No," Tony choked out, his voice a raw, horrified whisper. "Lionel. No. Absolutely not. I can't. That's… that's completely out of the question." His stomach lurched, the bile rising in his throat.
Lionel stared at him, his eyes widening in disbelief, then hardening with a sudden, furious resentment. The desperate plea melted away, replaced by a raw, wounded anger. "No?" Lionel spat, his voice rising, cracking with betrayal. "No?! After everything?! After you and Mom and that priest pushed me to say those things?! You want me to be 'honest' and then you just throw it back in my face?! You just leave me here to rot?!"
He scrambled off the sofa, his body trembling, his face contorted in a mask of furious despair. He pointed a shaking finger at Tony, his voice escalating into a full-blown scream. "Then just leave!" Lionel shrieked, tears and spittle flying from his mouth. "Just leave and never come back! I don't want you here! I don't want any of you! Just go! Get out! And never come back!"
Tony stared at his son, utterly stunned by the raw hatred pouring from him. The depth of Lionel’s despair, now twisted into rage, was terrifying. With a profound sense of defeat, of utter failure, Tony slowly pushed himself off the sofa. He didn’t say another word. He simply turned, walked to the door, and left, the harsh slam of the door echoing the finality of Lionel's rejection.
Alone once more, the fury that had consumed Lionel slowly began to burn down, leaving behind a cold, desolate emptiness. He picked up his phone, his fingers shaking, and dialed another number.
Father Michael answered, his voice calm and reassuring. "Lionel, my son. How are you feeling?"
"How am I feeling?" Lionel's voice was a low, dangerous growl, devoid of any tears now, replaced by a simmering, cold rage. "I'm feeling like my life is destroyed, Father! And it's all your fault!"
"Lionel, please. I understand you're distressed—"
"Distressed?!" Lionel shrieked, cutting him off, his voice rising to a raw, ragged shout. "My boyfriend left me! My father just walked out and will probably never speak to me again! And it's all because of your 'healing'! Your 'honesty'! Your 'nonsexual intimacy'!" His voice broke, laced with bitter contempt. "You made me say those things! You pushed me! You told my father to cuddle with me! You made him believe it was normal! And now I'm alone! Everything is ruined! You did this, Father Michael! You ruined my life!"
He hung up the phone with a violent slam, the sound echoing through the desolate apartment.
Father Michael held the phone away from his ear for a moment, listening to the abrupt click of Lionel hanging up. A slow, chilling smile spread across his face, transforming his usually benevolent features into something cold and calculating. He didn't just smirk; his lips curved into a subtle, almost imperceptible upturn at the corners, a silent acknowledgment of a job meticulously executed.
He lowered the phone, placing it gently back into its cradle. His eyes, which moments before had held compassion, now glinted with a detached, almost intellectual satisfaction. The room, usually a sanctuary for solace and confession, seemed to hum with his unspoken triumph.
Mission accomplished, he thought, the words a silent caress in his mind. The threads of their lives, once tangled by a simple, if unconventional, desire, were now meticulously unraveled, stretched taut and broken, precisely as he had intended. Lionel, stripped bare and isolated. Tony, reeling in disgust and confusion. Paul, alienated and gone. Lynn, caught in the crossfire of her own misguided judgment. The family, fractured beyond repair.
He rose from his chair, his movements unhurried, graceful. He walked to the window, looking out at the quiet suburban street, the ordinary houses bathed in the afternoon sun. The world outside remained oblivious to the carefully orchestrated destruction within. He had found the hidden shame, whispered the inciting words, created the conditions for chaos. He had pushed them, ever so gently, to confront their deepest fears and, in doing so, to destroy themselves.
A true artist didn't wield a sledgehammer; he found the hairline fracture and applied the precise, unyielding pressure to shatter the whole. And in this masterpiece of familial demolition, Father Michael found a profound, perverse satisfaction. He hummed a low, tuneless melody, the quiet hum of a craftsman admiring his finished work. His mission was indeed accomplished.
Meanwhile, Tony drove aimlessly around town. He couldn’t face Lynn, couldn’t share with her the horrible thing that had just happened.
A pervert. The word was a hot, hissing coil in his mind, wrapping around the memory of his son’s face—that familiar, boyish face, twisted into an expression of desperate, terrifying sincerity as he laid out his proposition. It was a spiritual acid that had eaten through every last, fragile strand of connection between them. His Lionel, his firstborn, the boy he had dressed in white for his First Communion, was utterly and irrevocably corrupted. He had raised a monster.
Father Michael wasn’t surprised when, an hour later, he received a call from a desperate Tony, who told him all about Lionel’s disgusting, incestuous proposition.
Father Michael answered on the second ring, his voice a warm, steady bass, a temporary harbor against the storm. "Tony? Are you all right? It's late."
"Father," Tony choked out, his voice a ruined, desperate croak. "Father, it's—it's Lionel. I just left his place. I had to leave, Father. He... he is corrupted. Completely. He proposed... he proposed something utterly, vilely unnatural. Something only a... a pervert would conceive of. My son, Father. My son."
On the other end of the line, unseen to Tony, Father Michael’s face displayed the most satisfying grin as Tony recounted to him every detail of his trip to Lionel’s apartment, where Lionel had proposed performing fellatio on him. Father Michael knew there were only a few dominoes left to knock down.
"Tony," Father Michael finally said, and the warmth was gone, replaced by the granite severity of moral duty. "I hear the terror in your voice. I understand the temptation to flee from the sight of such grievous error. But listen to me, Tony. Listen closely, as you would to the voice of God himself."
Tony leaned his head back against the gritty wall, tears finally escaping the burning confines of his eyes. "I'm listening, Father. Tell me what penance I must pay. Tell me what purification I require for having raised such a thing."
"Stop that self-pitying nonsense," the priest snapped, the unexpected harshness slicing through Tony's wallowing. "This is not about your pride. This is about his soul. And souls are not saved by abandonment, Tony. They are saved by relentless, painful, divine intervention. You cannot walk away."
The word "walk away" hung in the stagnant air, an accusation, a blasphemy.
"He is your son," Father Michael continued, his voice now regaining its steady, persuasive power, tinged with a dangerous, righteous certainty. "And you, Tony, are his father. You are the architect of his morality, however flawed the final structure has proven to be. To walk away now is to surrender him to the abyss. It is to sign the warrant for his eternal damnation with your own neglect."
Tony gasped, the air feeling thin and poisonous. "But... what do I do, Father? I can’t look at him. I can’t breathe the same air as that vile suggestion."
"You return," the priest commanded, his voice utterly devoid of compromise. "You go back, not as a judge, but as a shepherd to a stray. You go back, and you lay the heavy burden of God’s love and your own uncompromising moral authority on his doorstep. You do not condone. You do not negotiate. You remind him of the stakes. You show him the hideous face of the sin he courts, and you drag him back to the light, kicking and screaming if necessary."
"You are the only person who can save him, Tony. Do you understand me? You do not walk away from your son. Go back. Go now. And pray for the strength to deliver the painful truth."
The line went dead, leaving Tony with the echoing sound of the priest’s unwavering resolve. You do not walk away. The words were no longer comfort; they were a manacle of moral obligation clamped around his wrist, chaining him back to the source of his horror.
He pushed off the wall, the initial panic of his escape replaced by a cold, leaden determination. He was not a judge; he was an executioner of error. He was not a father; he was a necessary instrument of celestial correction. He had been given a divine directive.
The long walk back was a torment of self-righteous agony. Every step was a martyrdom. He replayed Father Michael’s words, each one a nail driven into the coffin of Lionel’s soul. Grievous error. Abyss. Damnation. He inflated his own sacrifice, viewing himself as a biblical figure returning to wrestle with the demon possessing his kin. The initial disgust had curdled into a hard, protective shell of superiority. He wasn't fleeing the perversion anymore; he was returning to confront it, armed with the unshakeable certainty of the righteous.
When he reached the building, a cheap block of concrete and fading dreams, he didn't use his key. He rapped sharply on the door, three precise, demanding knocks—not the hesitant, familiar rhythm of a father, but the insistent drumbeat of a moral reckoning.
Lionel opened the door, and the sight of him struck Tony with a renewed, sickening force. Lionel hadn't changed clothes. He was in a worn t-shirt and loose track pants, his red-rimmed eyes wide with a fragile, hopeful relief that instantly hardened into weary resignation when he saw the cold, determined set of his father's jaw.
"Dad," Lionel started, his voice a low, tired rasp. "You came back. I thought..."
"Shut up, Lionel," Tony cut him off, his voice flat and brutal, precisely calibrated to wound. He stepped across the threshold uninvited, his presence immediately dominating the small, cluttered space. The air was thick with the scent of cheap noodles and the faint, sweet smell of something Tony immediately cataloged as decadent.
"I came back because I was told to come back," Tony stated, turning to face his son, his posture rigid, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as if restraining himself from violence. "A good man, a truly spiritual man, reminded me that to walk away is to be complicit in your utter destruction. I have not returned to listen to your disgusting propositions. I have returned because my conscience—guided by the Church—will not allow me to surrender you to the eternal fires."
Lionel’s face, which had held the faintest flicker of hope, now crumbled, the resignation settling in like dust. He didn't look defiant; he looked impossibly old, tired, and deeply, terribly hurt.
"You talked to Father Michael," Lionel said, his voice barely a whisper, a broken realization.
"I called my spiritual guide because I was drowning in the filth of your suggestion," Tony hissed, taking a deliberate step closer. "He told me to return. Not to hug you. Not to understand you. But to lay down the law. To remind you what you are risking with this... this perversity you are now embracing."
Tony looked around the room—at the mismatched furniture, the stack of unwashed dishes, the general air of a life lived outside his control—and let his disgust show, let it radiate from him like heat from a furnace.
"I look at you," Tony continued, his voice gathering self-righteous momentum, "and I see a sickness, Lionel. I see all the hope I had for you—the man I raised—rotting away because you have decided to prioritize some dark, selfish desire over your immortal soul. You called me here, you cornered me, and you tried to poison me with your warped little… suggestions."
Lionel finally lifted his chin, a flicker of something that was not anger, but a profound, aching disappointment, crossing his features. “You don’t have to tiptoe around it dad. Fellatio. I suggested performing fellatio on you. It was a mistake, obviously. I should have known."
Tony winced. "Don’t repeat it! Your life is not your own to ruin. It is a gift, and you are desecrating it with this… this perversion."
He paused, letting the silence scream with the weight of his judgment. His eyes, cold and hard, bored into Lionel's.
"You have a choice, son," Tony concluded, the words delivered with the finality of a death sentence. "The path of decency, of God, of your family... or the abyss. Father Michael was right. I will not walk away. I will simply stand here, Lionel, and I will be the living, breathing judgment until you crawl back to the light."
Lionel stood motionless, absorbing the venom, the manufactured pity, the toxic obligation. He didn't speak. He just watched his father's face, and in his eyes, the last, tiny spark of hope flickered and died, extinguished by the smothering pressure of a father's unconditional judgment, perfectly and cruelly fulfilled by the priest's misguided command. Tony had returned, but only to ensure his son knew the full, damning extent of his rejection. The true cruelty was not walking away; the true cruelty was returning only to condemn.
“You have a choice, dad. Either drop your pants and let me suck that big fat dick, or walk out of my life forever. I felt you getting hard last night, dad. I know you want me. I know you've thought about me on my knees before you submissively sucking…”
Tony backhanded Lionel across the face before Lionel could finish the sentence.
Tony had delivered his verdict, the final, crushing sentence of his condemnation, and now he stood, chest heaving, waiting for the dramatic repentance. He was ready for the tears, the protestations, the agonizing collapse that would confirm his role as the necessary, heroic executioner of sin.
But Lionel didn't scream. He didn't even cry.
He merely stared at his father, and the expression on his face was worse than any rage or sorrow could have been. It was the absolute, hollowed-out vacuum of final understanding. It was the look of a man who finally, definitively, knew he was utterly alone, and the knowledge wasn't painful—it was merely a numb, terrifying fact of the universe.
"Okay, Dad," Lionel said, his voice quiet, steady, and utterly flat. He finally dropped his gaze from Tony's eyes, looking instead at the floor, at a scuff on his worn sneakers. "I understand. You just... stand here and judge me and hate me for the rest of my life. Got it."
He didn't move to embrace Tony, didn't move to argue, didn't move at all. He simply pulled his lips into a tiny, dreadful smile that never reached his dead eyes. It was a smile of utter, perfect severance, of the child finally cutting the last, frayed psychological cord to the parent.
That absolute detachment shattered Tony’s righteous armor more effectively than any scream. The quiet finality of it was a seismic psychological shock. The sheer lack of dramatic resistance made Tony's own histrionics look childish and ugly. He hadn't broken his son; he had lost him, and the chilling emptiness of that loss rushed into the space where his self-pity had been, cold and sharp. Tony’s chest seized, not with the triumph of duty, but with a terrifying, immediate anxiety. What if I broke him too far? What if he really does walk into the abyss, and now I'm the one who pushed him over the edge?
His resolve evaporated like dew in a sudden, scorching sun. The priest's stern counsel was just noise now, replaced by the deafening silence of Lionel’s absolute spiritual withdrawal. Panic, cold and raw, clawed at his throat. He had followed the instructions, he had done the painful truth, and the result was far more terrifying than he had anticipated.
Tony fumbled for his phone again, his hand shaking so badly he nearly dropped the device. He hit the speed dial for Father Michael, his movements jerky and frantic.
"Lionel, wait," Tony stammered, his voice suddenly weak, a pitiful mewl compared to his earlier roar of judgment. "Don't... don't look at me like that."
The phone connected. Tony stabbed the speakerphone icon with a shaking thumb, and the priest's weary, "Tony, I was just about to pray for you," echoed loudly in the small apartment, a jarringly spiritual sound in the profane atmosphere of human misery.
"Father, it's not working!" Tony blurted out, the moral panic overriding his dignity. He was practically shouting. "I did what you said! I told him. I laid down the law! But he's... he's gone blank, Father! He's just looking at me like... like he's already dead! I've done it wrong! I've lost him for good!"
Lionel, standing several feet away, remained utterly still, listening to the desperate dialogue of his two tormentors.
"Tony, calm down," Father Michael's voice came through the speaker, strained, suddenly sounding tired and old. The severity of the previous call had vanished, replaced by a sudden, pragmatic exhaustion, the sound of a man retracting his foot from a moral quagmire. "You mustn't lose control. Look, Tony, it's late. You've been through a tremendous spiritual trial. Sometimes... sometimes the righteous path is too much for a fragile soul."
"So what do I do?" Tony begged, his eyes darting frantically between the unreadable stoicism of his son and the blinking screen of his phone. "Tell me the next step! Tell me how to pull him back!"
Another pause, this one heavy with the smell of institutional compromise. Tony could almost picture the priest scrubbing his face with a weary hand, the weight of his impossible command finally pressing down on him. Unbeknownst to him, the priest was releshing the moment he'd waited for: the moment of checkmate, when he'd knock down what remained of Tony's willpower.
"Tony," Father Michael said, his voice slow, measured, and utterly devastating in its total reversal. "You are not God. You cannot dictate the path. I told you not to walk away, and you haven't. That is enough. Now, you must change your approach. You must show him compassion, not condemnation."
"Compassion? After he proposed… proposed… doing that to me?" Tony shrieked, momentarily forgetting the proximity of both his son and the microphone.
"Yes! Compassion!" the priest insisted, his voice rising slightly in panicked defense of his new, safer stance. "Tony, sometimes... sometimes a person is simply too fragile to be corrected. You have to meet them where they are. You have to minister to their needs, whatever they may be. Do you understand? Your job now is to be the loving father, not the rigid authority. You must give Lionel whatever Lionel needs. Give him comfort. Give him support. Whatever he asks for, Tony, you give. Do not push him away further. Do not let him sink. Do you hear me? Give him what he needs."
The line clicked dead. The silence returned, but this time it was a chaotic, ringing silence, filled with the wreckage of Tony's entire moral framework. He stood there, phone still in hand, staring at Lionel, his face a mask of abject, terror-stricken bewilderment.
"Whatever... whatever you need," Tony whispered, the words tasting like ash and humiliation. The perversion had won. The priest, the Church, his own convictions—they had all crumbled, yielding instantly to the immediate, terrifying threat of losing his son forever. "Tell me, Lionel. Tell me what it is. I'll give it to you. I'll... I'll help you with it. Whatever it is. Just... just talk to me. Don't look at me like that again, please."
He was utterly defeated, his moral sword dropped and rattling on the floor. He was ready to enable the very perversion he had just denounced, his soul screaming in confused, horrified submission. He looked at Lionel, waiting for the word that would seal his own damnation, desperate only for the warmth of his son's gaze to return.
“I want to fellate you, Dad,” Lionel said.
A tear ran down Tony’s cheek. He no longer hesitated, realizing that he had no choice if he wanted to save his son. He began undoing his belt as he prepared to lower his pants. He was going to give Lionel what he wanted. What he needed.
To Be Continued…
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