Damon’s patience waned before his bruises did. He couldn’t stand it, the weird tension at home, the feeling of transience, like something wasn’t settled, wasn’t quite right. He didn’t know if his dad felt it, because his dad was the same casual, chill asshole next door he always was, making Damon breakfast and packing him lunch and asking if he needed anything and all that typical dad shit.

Damon found himself gravitating towards home more often than not, wanting to be near his dad, to share space, but tonight, he wasn’t going to do that. Nope. Tonight, he was going to stay out all fucking night, and if his dad noticed, boo fucking hoo.

Except, around midnight, he got a text.

Dad: Come home now.

Damon’s cock twitched in his pants, and he looked around the party, paranoid that the gay incest thoughts were somehow obvious in his expression. The music was loud and bad, girls were making out with each other, and Jonesy was on the couch fucking laying the pipe into Garnet who was hanging over the armrest, screaming like a pornstar ready to unionize. The drugs were clean, the alcohol plenty, and the only person who was paying attention to him was Garnet.

“Can I suck your cock?” asked Garnet, and unless it was her own pro-sex version of conversion therapy, the gay wasn’t visible. She was drunk but not sloppy drunk, her makeup smudged but intact enough that she looked like a smokeshow, all tits and ass and dripping pussy with Jonesy’s fat cock sliding in and out. Garnet gave the best head in school, and she’d held that trophy since freshman year, and they were seniors now. Lots of competition in the past three and a half years, but she came out on top. Or, in this case, doggy.

Damon deliberated for a moment, but the words come home now blazed in his brain like a field on fire, both a bad omen and a warning.

“Nah, I gotta get going.”

Whatever, the party was lame anyway.

Emmett was seated in the armchair when his son came through the front door, toeing off his shoes and determinedly not looking in his direction. It would have been more believable that Damon didn’t realize he was there like the last time they’d found themselves in this position if the boy’s shoulders weren’t so stiff and he wasn’t staring straight at the stairs like a robot on a mission.

“Damon.”

Damon froze and debated with himself for a moment before he turned to face his father. “Dad.”

His dad looked good tonight. He was wearing that one pair of dress pants that showed off his ass and legs along with a button up that advertised that the man went to the gym regularly, especially with the sleeves rolled up like that, showing off thick, veiny forearms. His golden brown hair, normally artfully disheveled by the end of the workday–since his dad had a habit of running his hands through it when he was thinking–was styled perfectly. Damon wondered if he’d been on a date, and why that possibility pissed him off so much. When had he noticed that Damon wasn’t home? Was he out until midnight? And why, Damon thought petulantly, could his father stay out as late as he wanted while Damon, a legal adult, had to be home by eleven?

“Come here, son.” His dad’s voice was calm but brokered no argument, brown eyes affixed to Damon’s in a way that was neutral but also vaguely threatening. Or maybe Damon just felt threatened, his dad’s presence large without him even trying to take up space.

“Why?” asked Damon, though he knew why. Or a small part of him hoped.

“Punishment,” his dad said. He propped an ankle over his knee and leaned back in his seat, a cocky air about him, like he didn’t think Damon would defy him–even though Damon had been defying him for years with increasing severity.

Or he was daring him to.

“No,” Damon refused.

The second the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake.

His dad rose from his seat, all six foot two of him, and Damon made a break for the stairs.

Emmett was on his feet and across the room with a handful of Damon’s hair before his son made it to the first step. He dragged the insolent boy to the armchair kicking and screaming–literally. His son had a grip on his wrist and was doing his best to trip Emmett, kick his knees, even tried punching his groin. Emmett easily evaded all of the blows, his cock growing thicker as his son fought.

It was cute that he thought he could get away, but Emmett had no intention of letting him go.

Emmett had the boy draped over his lap, wrists bound with his belt behind his back, and pants and underwear completely off in seconds, his son’s protests loud and increasing in volume and ridiculousness, threatening to stick his foot up his dad’s ass like he was Red Forman. Emmett hasn’t had experience with feet in asses, but he had with fists, and his cock jerked again at the thought of getting in his son’s tight little virgin fuckhole and making it swallow him to the elbow.

“Ew, are you fucking hard?” shrieked Damon, and Emmett chuckled at the ring of uncertainty in his voice, like even he didn’t believe his own disgust. He could try to commit to the farce of pearl clutching mortification, but they both knew Damon was just as hard as his dad was.

Emmett was beginning to wonder if there was some truth to what Dax and the rest of the men in his family had been saying. Their family thrived on physical contact, intimate touch, acting on their carnal desires and forging bonds through shared fluids and partners. There was something so right about controlling Damon in this way, of his hands touching him all over his body, bringing him pain and balancing him on the precipice of pleasure.

For that reason, Emmett decided to drop all pretense and commit himself fully to the family tradition–or family curse–of acting on one’s darkest, most depraved desires. Of fucking brothers and fathers, cousins and uncles. Some of the women joined in. The more the merrier.

Emmett reached under Damon and grabbed his son’s cock, which was rock hard and drooling precum onto his pant leg. “Does this disgust you, Damon?”

Damon froze. “Dad?” It came out a breathless whine. His dad’s hand was on his dick, squeezing it like he owned it, and Damon’s hips jerked reflexively, searching for friction, begging with his body for his father to stroke his cock.

His dad did the opposite, releasing his erection and cracking him hard on the ass. “Ow!” Damon yelped.

Dad spanked him again, and Damon tried rolling off of his lap, but he was having the same problem as last time, unable to get enough traction to leverage himself out of his father’s punishing grip, the hand not spanking him clutching his side unyieldingly.

“Stop!” Damon screamed, doing everything he could to get away from his dad.

Emmett took pity on his son who seemed to forget the rules. “‘Stop’ isn’t a number.”

“No!” cried Damon.

Dad spanked Damon even harder, and he gasped, “One!”

Damon counted and his dad spanked him. Damon lost count at one point, though his self-preservation had him counting anyway between cries of pain and sobs of humiliation, the words becoming unintelligible. His ass felt like he’d sat on a griddle, his body consumed by white hot pain, and his dick felt hypersensitive, like if he ground against his dad’s leg any harder, he would explode.

So he did.

Just as Emmett reached thirty spanks, not going easy on his son whatsoever, Damon had worked himself up to the point of cumming, ropes of jizz spurting from his smooth, pretty pink cock. Surreptitiously, Emmett reached down, catching some and bringing it to his mouth, closing his eyes and savoring the taste of his son’s creamy ejaculate. Delicious.

Damon was stunned by his own orgasm, suspended somewhere between crying and horror at his own body’s reaction to the stimulus.

Emmett freed Damon’s wrists and helped him up, settling his son into his lap and soothing him like he had last time. Damon wept into his neck, and Emmett shushed him. “It’s okay, baby. Breathe, just breathe. It’s okay to cry. Cry it out. Daddy’s got you.”

Damon tried to gasp words between sobs, confused and overwhelmed that the same man who loved him and cared for him was the same man who spanked him ruthlessly and was now comforting him. Damon felt betrayed by his father but also his own body because it, for some reason, seemed to enjoy the rough treatment. And his floaty, disoriented mind seemed to soak up and bask in the affection, the tenderness his dad was showing him.

Between gasps, he tried to speak. He repeated himself, over and over, never getting the words out quite right.

Emmett’s eyes widened when he heard his son apologizing in something resembling a chant, a prayer. Like he was asking a god for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Emmett rocked his boy, kissing his neck, his cheek, his forehead, his eyelids.

Damon tilted his face up, asking without words, and Emmett–against his better judgment–obliged him.

Any tension remaining after Damon had broken down was released the second his dad’s lips met his in a delicate kiss. It felt like he’d inadvertently issued a challenge, and his father rose to the occasion. And amidst all the love and safety and affection his father offered, there was still a part of him that felt unworthy.

He was vulnerable, but he wasn’t afraid anymore.

The kiss didn’t end, exactly, because their lips were still brushing, and they were sharing the same air. “I’m sorry,” whispered Damon. “I love you, I’m sorry.”

“I love you, baby,” Emmett murmured against his son’s lips, rubbing his nose against his baby’s, not minding the snot or tears or drool in the slightest. “You’re safe, and I love you.”

Damon held onto his dad, his protector, squeezing him tight, finding shelter in his arms.

It felt as if, with enough force, he’d be able to merge their bodies into one.

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading, rating, and commenting!

If you want to read about hot himbo jocks on campus, pick up my erotic short story Charlie and the Himbos on Amazon for $0.99.

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