Left with Dad

The rental car smelled like stale cigarettes and regret, a fitting aroma for Zeke's eighteen years culminating in being dumped on the doorstep of a father he barely knew existed. Eighteen. Supposedly an adult, but feeling more like a package marked 'Return to Sender' after Mom decided 'another man' was more appealing than, well, him, apparently. The house was a boxy structure on a street that faded into anonymity. He killed the engine, the silence deafening after the road noise. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

The front door opened before he could even get out. Standing there wasn't the vague, flickering image from ancient, faded photographs. This man was solid. Hulking. Mark. Salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, a few strands of silver catching the weak afternoon sun. Forehead furrowed, a roadmap of lines Zeke didn't recognize. But it was the sheer size of him that slammed into Zeke first. Broad shoulders stretching a simple t-shirt tight across a chest that looked carved from granite. Biceps bulging, thick forearms crossed over a flat stomach. Mark wasn't just tall; he was wide, dense, like a tree trunk. Forty-five, Mom had said. Forty-five looked good, looked dangerously good on Mark, a brutal kind of handsomeness Zeke wasn't prepared for.

"Zeke," the voice rumbled, deeper than Zeke expected, like gravel rolling downhill. No warmth, just recognition.

"Uh. Hey. Mark." Zeke managed, climbing out, feeling small and insubstantial under that gaze. The man's eyes were dark, appraising, giving nothing away.

Mark didn't offer a hand, didn't offer a hug. He just nodded towards the door. "Come in. Got a room ready."

The house inside was sparse. Clean lines, functional furniture. No clutter, no softness. It felt like a place designed for one large man who didn't need much besides space to exist. Zeke hauled his duffel bag, Mark taking the heavier suitcase with ridiculous ease, muscles shifting under the fabric of his shirt. Zeke watched the movement, a knot tightening low in his gut that had nothing to do with nerves about meeting his dad. It was purely, crudely, physical.

The room was basic. Bed, dresser, desk. A window looking out onto a patch of dry grass. "Bathroom's down the hall," Mark said, dropping the suitcase like it weighed nothing. "Kitchen's through there. Help yourself." He gestured vaguely, then just stood, watching Zeke. Waiting. It was unnerving.

Days bled into a routine of awkward silences and polite, stilted conversation. Mark worked long hours. Construction, Zeke gathered. It explained the build. When he was home, he was usually lifting weights in the garage or watching sports with the volume low. He cooked simple, large meals -- steak, potatoes, protein everything. He didn't pry, didn't ask about Mom, didn't ask about Zeke's life beyond the bare minimum needed to coexist. The estrangement was a physical wall between them, built over eighteen years of absence. Yet, the house was small, and Zeke couldn't avoid seeing him, couldn't avoid noticing the way the man moved, the sheer mass of him, the way his shirt clung to his back muscles when he reached for something, the scent of sweat and something else, something musky and potent that clung to him after a day's work.

One night, Friday, Mark came home earlier than usual. He had two six-packs of local craft beer and a bottle of something brown and potent on the counter. "Thought we could... uh... unwind," he said, cracking open a bottle of beer. It was the most conversational he'd been all week.

Zeke, surprised, grabbed one too. They sat in the living room, silence still heavy, but the beer chipped away at the edges. Mark talked, slowly, about his work, about the heatwave settling in. Zeke talked about finishing high school, about not knowing what came next. The beers went down easy. Mark opened another bottle, and then another. Zeke followed suit, feeling the familiar buzz loosen his limbs, dull the sharp edges of anxiety.

Mark switched to the whiskey. Poured two fingers into a glass, offered Zeke one. Zeke hesitated, but the need to break the tension, to connect just a little, overruled his caution. The whiskey burned going down, then spread a warm, heavy heat through his chest and belly. It tasted like peat and something earthy, wild.

They talked more freely now. Mark asked about Mom, not with longing, but with a detached curiosity that felt worse than anger. Zeke answered honestly, about her restlessness, her finding someone else who wasn't "stuck in the past." Zeke didn't mention how abandoned he felt. The whiskey made it easier to look at Mark, to really look at him. The lines around his eyes seemed softer now, the hard set of his jaw less rigid. His salt-and-pepper beard, a new addition since the faded photos, was thicker than it looked from a distance, sprinkled with more grey right at the jawline.

"Tough on you, huh?" Mark finally said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. His gaze felt heavy.

"Yeah. Kind of sudden."

"She always was like that. Flits. Never sits still." He took a long drink, his eyes fixed on Zeke. Not just looking, but seeing. Really seeing him, maybe for the first time. Zeke felt himself flushing, the whiskey heat mixing with something else, a hot blush spreading up his neck.

Mark's t-shirt was damp with sweat from the evening heat and the beer. It clung to his chest, outlining the hard peaks of his nipples beneath the fabric. Zeke's eyes dropped, lingering there for a moment before snapping back up. Had Mark seen? Did he notice? The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things, with the smell of whiskey and two men breathing the same hot air.

"You grew up," Mark said, his voice low. Almost a growl. "Last time... you were just a kid."

"Eighteen now," Zeke mumbled, feeling awkward again, yet coiled tight with an unfamiliar energy.

"Eighteen," Mark repeated, rolling the word around his tongue like the whiskey. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but intense.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thick thighs. The motion pulled his shirt tighter, the muscles flexing. Zeke couldn't look away. His mouth felt dry. He wanted another drink, badly.

Mark reached across the coffee table for the whiskey bottle, his arm brushing Zeke's knee. It wasn't a casual brush. It lingered for just a second, his large hand closing around the bottle, the veins prominent against tanned skin, before he pulled it back. Even that fleeting touch sent a jolt through Zeke, sharp and unexpected.

He poured another shot for himself, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn't offer one to Zeke this time. He just watched him, a small smile playing on his lips, the kind that didn't reach his eyes but held a wicked secret. Zeke's heart hammered against his ribs. The air felt charged, heavy with something volatile.

"Hot in here," Mark said, though the fan in the corner was pushing air around. He reached for the neck of his t-shirt and pulled it away from his skin, a small, simple gesture that exposed the thick column of his neck, the curve of his collarbone, the upper swell of his pec. Zeke swallowed hard.

"Yeah," Zeke managed, his voice a little rough.

Mark leaned back, sprawling slightly on the sofa, radiating heat. He smelled stronger now, more potent, the mix of sweat, whiskey, and that deep, musky scent. Zeke shifted, uncomfortable, the sofa suddenly feeling too small, their knees almost touching.

"Never thought you'd end up here," Mark mused, not looking at Zeke, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, maybe eighteen years ago. "Never thought I'd... have you here." The phrasing felt strange, possessive.

"Yeah, well. Plans change."

Mark turned his head then, meeting Zeke's eyes head-on. There was no detachment now. Only raw, hungry intensity. The small smile was gone, replaced by a hard, direct stare that pinned Zeke in place. The whiskey had lowered their guards, yes, but it had also stripped away the artifice, leaving only raw nerves and burgeoning, forbidden desire exposed between them.

"They do," Mark agreed, his voice low and husky. He lowered his gaze again, but only as far as Zeke's mouth. Zeke felt a shiver crawl down his spine. His lips parted slightly without conscious thought.

The silence was deafening. The fan whirred, the ice in their glasses clicked, and their breathing seemed unnaturally loud. Every cell in Zeke's body screamed, both in alarm and in frantic, desperate anticipation. This was wrong. So wrong. It was his father. The man who was a stranger, a myth, now flesh and blood and radiating a dangerous, carnal heat that Zeke, eighteen and stupid and filled with whiskey courage, found himself inexplicably drawn to.

Mark's hand, the large, calloused one, moved slowly from his knee. It didn't go far. It just rested on Zeke's thigh, heavy and solid through the thin fabric of his jeans. He didn't squeeze, didn't move his fingers, just let the weight of it settle. It felt like an anchor, or a brand.

Zeke froze, his breath catching in his throat. His mind screamed run while his body arched instinctively towards the pressure, towards the heat blooming where Mark's hand rested. It felt forbidden, thrillingly so.

Mark's dark eyes watched his face, searching. The rough pad of his thumb moved then, a slow, deliberate slide against the denim over Zeke's inner thigh. Back and forth. Slow. Measured. A deliberate violation of the unspoken boundary between them.

Zeke's legs twitched. A low, involuntary sound caught in his throat. His eyelids fluttered closed for a second, overwhelmed by the sensation, the sheer audacity of the touch. The smell of whiskey and Mark filled his head, intoxicating, drowning out the last vestiges of sanity.

"Easy," Mark rumbled, his voice a low vibration that Zeke felt in his bones. His thumb continued its slow, relentless stroke against Zeke's thigh, inching closer and closer to the swelling heat at the top of his leg.

Zeke couldn't speak, couldn't move. He was mesmerized, trapped by the raw magnetism of the older man, by the sudden, brutal intimacy of his touch. The air was thick with tension, coiled tight, waiting to snap. Every nerve ending felt alight, humming with a forbidden energy. This wasn't just father and son. This was something else entirely, something raw, primal, and terrifyingly exciting. Mark's touch wasn't gentle; it was possessive, heavy, a claim being staked without a single word being spoken. And Zeke, lost in the haze of whiskey and shock and something hot and needy, found himself yielding.

Mark's hand moved again, the heavy weight of it sliding from Zeke's outer thigh to the inside, palm flattening against the taught denim. The rough wool texture of the sofa cushion seemed to amplify the friction, the slow rub of Mark's thumb over the fabric. Zeke sucked in a shaky breath, eyes wide, fixed on Mark's face. The older man's gaze was unwavering, dark with a predatory hunger that made Zeke's stomach clench and his dick throb beneath his jeans.

"You're all... tight," Mark rasped, his voice a low, rough sound that vibrated through Zeke's bone. He wasn't talking about his muscles. His hand was warm, heating through the denim, pressing down, feeling the rigid line forming beneath. "Look at that." His thumb moved again, bolder this time, pressing directly against the straining bulge at the crotch of Zeke's jeans.

A small, choked sound escaped Zeke's throat. A whimper he instantly regretted. The sensation was agonizing, exquisite, a raw, desperate need coiling low in his gut. He couldn't pull away. His body felt heavy, rooted to the sofa, bound by the sheer force of Mark's will, the heat radiating from his hand, the dark intensity in his eyes.

Mark chuckled then, a low, dry sound in his chest. "Yeah. That's it." His hand didn't stop. It moved, cupping the hard length of Zeke's dick through the heavy fabric. He kneaded gently, exploring the shape, the thickness. Zeke's head fell back against the sofa cushion, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "M-Mark," he stuttered, but it wasn't a protest. It was a plea, for what he didn't know. For him to stop, or for him to go further? The whiskey had blurred the lines between terror and insatiable want.

"Shhh," Mark murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive growl. His thumb worked against the head of Zeke's cock through the denim, drawing a desperate groan from the back of Zeke's throat. He twisted his hips instinctively, a helpless reaction to the pressure, the delicious agony.

Mark's other hand came up, thick fingers tangling in Zeke's hair at the back of his neck. Not gently. It was a firm grip, pulling his head forward, tilting his face up. Mark leaned in, his face close now, smelling of whiskey and man. Zeke closed his eyes, anticipating a kiss, terrified and yearning.

Instead, Mark's lips brushed the shell of his ear, his warm breath sending shivers down Zeke's neck. "You want this, don't you?" he whispered, the words scraping like sandpaper against Zeke's skin. "Been wanting it since you walked through the door. Since you saw me, huh?"

Zeke couldn't answer. Couldn't even form a coherent thought. All he could do was feel: the relentless, knowing stroke of Mark's hand on his dick, the pressure of his fingers in his hair, the intoxicating scent of him, the suffocating heat in the room.

Mark straightened up slightly, but his hand remained cupping Zeke's crotch, the thumb still working. His dark eyes swept down Zeke's body, a slow, possessive gaze that made Zeke feel completely exposed, even through his clothes. "Look at you. All hard for your old man." The vulgarity was sharp, deliberate, and it hit Zeke like a physical blow, shocking him out of his daze for just a second before the sheer carnal power of the moment pulled him back under.

"I... I don't know," Zeke whispered, but the lie was pathetic, even to his own ears. His body screamed the truth.

Mark's smile returned, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. He leaned closer again, not stopping at Zeke's ear this time. His gaze locked onto Zeke's mouth, then dipped to his throat, the frantic pulse beating there. With excruciating slowness, Mark lowered his head.

Zeke braced himself, expecting a kiss, or maybe a rough bite. But Mark didn't touch his mouth. Instead, his warm lips, slightly parted, descended to Zeke's neck, right where the pulse fluttered. He didn't kiss. He licked. A slow, wet swipe of his tongue across the sensitive skin of Zeke's throat.

A shudder racked Zeke's body. His back arched off the sofa. "Hnnh!" A choked cry escaped him, louder this time. The vulgarity of the lick, so public, so wrong, yet undeniably arousing, sent a jolt of raw need through him. It wasn't romantic; it was primal, aggressive, a claim.

Mark's tongue retreated, leaving behind a slick trail of moisture. He pulled back just enough to look into Zeke's flushed face. His eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Tastes good," he rumbled, his voice rough with desire and something colder, more possessive. "Like yours."

His hand left Zeke's crotch, and for a terrifying second, Zeke thought he was stopping. But then Mark was kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa, directly between Zeke's splayed legs. His dark eyes never left Zeke's face as his large, calloused hands went to the button of Zeke's jeans.

Zeke watched, mesmerized, breathing heavily. This was happening. His dad. Kneeling in front of him. Undoing his pants. His fingers were thick, slightly clumsy with impatience as they worked the button, then the zipper. With a rough zzzzzzt, the zipper came down, revealing the dark cotton of Zeke's underwear straining over his erection.

Mark paused, looking at the bulge, a look of intense, focused hunger on his face. "God damn," he breathed, the words almost reverent, yet hard with possessiveness. His eyes met Zeke's again, daring him to look away, to protest. Zeke could only stare back, trapped, wet inside his mouth with anticipation and fear.

Mark reached out, his hand closing around the thickness pressing against the fabric of Zeke's briefs. He didn't hesitate. He gripped it, stroked it, measuring its heat, its length through the soft cloth. "Nice and hard," he murmured, a hint of a satisfied smirk on his lips. "Been thinking about this, huh?"

He didn't wait for an answer. His fingers fumbled slightly with the waistband of the briefs, his eyes still locked on Zeke's. Then, with a swift, rough motion, he pulled Zeke's jeans and underwear down in one go. They pooled around Zeke's ankles, leaving him completely exposed to Mark's gaze.

Zeke felt the cool air on his skin, the sudden vulnerability. He flinched, wanting to cover himself, but Mark's intense gaze held him captive. He looked down at Zeke's naked erection, thick and fully hard, glistening slightly with pre-cum at the tip.

Mark's dark eyes traveled up the length, taking in the color, the shape, the sensitive head. His gaze was devouring, possessive. He let out a low groan, deep in his chest. "Fuck," he breathed, the single word laced with raw, potent desire.

He reached out, his large hand encircling the base of Zeke's cock. His thumb brushed lightly over the swollen head. Zeke gasped, his hips jerking forward. The touch was electric, overwhelming after the teasing through the denim.

Mark stroked him then, once, slowly, sliding his hand from the base to the head and back. His grip was firm, commanding. Zeke cried out, "Ah... Mark..."

"Shh," Mark rumbled again. "Just feel it. Feel what your old man wants." His stroking intensified, growing faster, firmer. The feel of his rough, calloused hand gliding up and down Zeke's sensitive shaft was almost too much to bear. Zeke panted, head lolling back, watching Mark work him, his broad shoulders hunched over, his expression one of fierce concentration and raw lust.

"Look at me," Mark commanded softly. Zeke forced his heavy eyelids open, met Mark's gaze. There was no gentleness there, only burning need and ruthless intent. "You're beautiful, boy," Mark said, the unexpected word hitting Zeke with surprising force. "So fucking hard for me."

He leaned down, his head dipping lower. Zeke watched, heart hammering, blood rushing to his ears, drowning out all other sound. Mark's lips, still slightly wet from licking his neck, touched the tip of Zeke's cock.

Another gasp tore from Zeke. This was it. This was happening. His father. Taking him into his mouth. Mark opened wider, slowly, deliberately taking Zeke's throbbing head onto his tongue, swirling around the sensitive crown.

"Oh god... Mark..." Zeke groaned, his hands fisting in the sofa cushions. His body trembled, a fine tremor running through his limbs. The sensation of Mark's warm, wet mouth on him was mind-numbing, erasing everything else.

Mark drew back just enough to look up at Zeke through heavy lids. "Like that, huh?" he rasped. He dipped his head again, this time taking a little more length into his mouth. Not much, just past the head, suckling hard. The wet, sucking sound filled the small room, loud in Zeke's ears, making him clench his jaw to keep from crying out. Sllp... ngghh...

Mark's hand was still at the base of Zeke's cock, occasionally squeezing, guiding, adding another layer of intense sensation. He began to take more of Zeke into his mouth, slowly, his cheeks hollowing as he worked his way down the shaft. His eyes stayed open, locked on Zeke's face, watching his reaction, feeding on his obvious distress and burgeoning pleasure.

"Look at you," Mark mumbled around Zeke's cock, voice thick and distorted. "Throbbing for me... your old man's mouth..." The words were rough, violating, and they sent another wave of conflicting sensations through Zeke -- shame, disbelief, and a potent, driving surge of pure, unadulterated lust.

Mark took another inch, working his jaw, his throat flexing. His rhythm was picking up, a steady, powerful pull and release that was rapidly driving Zeke closer to the edge. Zeke's back was fully arched now, his neck strained, breathing like he'd just run a marathon. He could feel the heat building inside him, the pressure mounting.

"Fuck, Mark... oh fuck..." he panted, reaching down blindly, needing to touch, to grasp onto something, anything. His fingers tangled in Mark's thick, salt-and-pepper hair. He pulled slightly, not wanting to stop him, but needing some control, some connection to the man who was driving him insane.

Mark groaned, a deep sound from his chest, the slight tug on his hair seeming to egg him on. He took Zeke's whole shaft deep into his mouth, his tongue lashing at the sensitive underside, the frenulum. Ssssluurrrp. Zeke roared, a ragged sound of pure, uncontrolled pleasure and release building rapidly inside him.

"Yeah... ride it, boy," Mark ground out, his voice muffled around Zeke's cock. He worked faster, deeper now, the wet, aggressive strokes sending waves of intense pleasure through Zeke. Zeke couldn't think, could only feel. Feel the hot, slick mouth, the knowing hand, the hard floor beneath Mark's knees, the oppressive heat of the room.

He was nearing his limit, shaking, panting, unable to hold back. "M-Mark! I'm gonna... oh god... Mark!"

Mark didn't ease up. He quickened his pace, working his mouth furiously, swallowing Zeke down his throat with each stroke. His eyes, when they flicked up to Zeke's, were burning with triumphant desire. "Give it to me," he demanded, voice a rough snarl around the thick length filling his mouth. "Give it all to your old man. Right here."

The raw command, the proximity, the sheer depravity of it all... it was the final push. Zeke convulsed, his back bowing even further, fingers gripping Mark's hair tight. He came in a hot, violent rush, groaning and sobbing Mark's name as his load pumped deep into the back of the older man's throat.

He shuddered uncontrollably, coming again and again, feeling himself empty out, collapsing back against the sofa cushions, breathing harsh, rattling gasps. Mark swallowed, his throat working, not pulling away until Zeke was fully drained.

Mark's mouth finally left Zeke's cock, wet and glistening with pre-cum and Zeke's own come. He remained kneeling, looking up at Zeke, his face smeared slightly, his eyes still burning. A small amount of cum dripped from his chin onto his chest. He didn't wipe it away. He just stared at Zeke, breathing heavily, the sounds loud in the silence that followed Zeke's release.

"Cleaned you out," Mark rasped, his voice thick. He reached up, his hand cupping Zeke's limp shaft, weighing it. "Good boy." The words were rough, possessive, not praise but ownership.

He got slowly to his feet, towering over Zeke, who was still sprawled, panting, half-naked, his jeans and underwear tangled around his ankles. Mark looked down at him, the possessive hunger in his eyes deepening. He was still fully dressed, but his own erection was visible now, straining hard against the fabric of his pants. It looked huge.

"Now me," Mark said, his voice low, guttural, leaving no room for argument. He wasn't asking. He was telling. He stepped out of his own shoes, then went to the button of his pants. His fingers worked them open, slower this time, his gaze never leaving Zeke's.

Zeke watched him, his mind numb, his body buzzing with the aftershocks of orgasm and the fresh surge of dread and anticipation. He just came. Came into his father's mouth. And now his father wanted him. Wanted him to return the favor, wanted something more.

The zipper of Mark's pants came down, zzzzzzz. Zeke's eyes widened. Even through the thick material of his briefs, Mark's cock was immense, thick and long, pressing hard against the cloth. Mark reached in, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and briefs, and pulled them down, letting them fall around his ankles like Zeke's.

Mark stood there, naked from the waist down, his erection springing free. It was enormous, thick as Zeke's wrist, hard and dark red, glistening under the room's dim light. A prominent head, thick veins winding along the shaft, a heavy weight at the base. Zeke had never seen anything so big, so raw, so masculine. His breath hitched again.

Mark held his gaze, letting Zeke take him in, letting him see exactly what he was dealing with. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached down, cupped his heavy balls in one hand, weighing them, while he stroked his own cock with the other. Once, slowly, deliberately.

"Come here," Mark commanded, his voice rough and heavy. "On your knees. For your old man."

Zeke hesitated for only a second. The command was absolute. The shame was crushing, but the primal urge to obey, to submit to the raw power emanating from Mark, was stronger. His body felt heavy, leaden, but he pushed himself up, knees finding the carpeted floor between Mark's splayed legs. His undone pants and underwear were still around his ankles, a physical symbol of his surrender, his vulnerability.

He looked up at Mark, chest heaving, eyes wide and fearful, yet drawn by a magnetic pull he couldn't fight. Mark stood over him, powerful and dominant, his huge erection throbbing at eye level. He reached down, fingers roughly tangling in Zeke's hair again, pulling his head forward. "Take it," Mark ordered, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Just like I took yours. Take all of it."

He guided Zeke's face closer, until Zeke's nose was inches from the massive head of his cock. The smell of him was overpowering now -- sweat, musk, sex, and that distinct scent of the man who was his father. The reality of what he was being told to do, what he was about to do, crashed down on Zeke, cold and terrifying, yet mixed with a perverse, desperate curiosity.

Zeke parted his lips, the taste of Mark's come still faintly on his tongue. He reached out a shaking hand, tentatively touching the thick, smooth shaft of Mark's cock. It was hot and hard beneath his fingers. He looked up at Mark one last time, pleading silently. Mark's face was set, hard, utterly without mercy, driven only by a fierce, possessive lust.

"Open," Mark commanded, his fingers in Zeke's hair tightening, pulling his head forward decisively. And Zeke, his body humming with a confusing mix of fear and desperate need, surrendered, opening his mouth as Mark guided his enormous cock forward, pressing the blunt head against Zeke's lips, a silent, brutal demand.

Zeke felt the tip, slick and hot against his mouth, smelling powerfully of Mark, a scent both alien and disturbingly familiar. His body screamed no, a primal fear seizing his gut, but the hands in his hair held firm, forcing his head forward, closer. Mark's breath was heavy above him, ragged, full of anticipation.

His lips parted, a trembling, involuntary response to the pressure. The head slid inside, thick and blunt, pushing against his teeth. Zeke gagged, a strangled sound tearing from his throat. It was too big, too much, a solid, demanding intrusion. Gaaaah. He tried to pull back, but Mark's grip tightened, a warning squeeze that brooked no resistance.

"Take it," Mark repeated, his voice low and hard, right above Zeke's ear. "Open wide, boy. All of it."

His fingers in Zeke's hair guided, pushed. Zeke swallowed convulsively, forcing his mouth open wider than he thought possible. The head pushed deeper, stretching his lips, his jaw aching instantly. It felt like his face was being taken over, consumed. The texture changed from smooth tip to the thick, veined shaft pressing further in. It was rougher, hotter, a throbbing cable of flesh demanding entry.

He could feel the frenulum scraping against the sensitive underside of his tongue as Mark pushed another inch. His eyes were watering, face tight with the effort of not gagging again, not biting down. His hands, still tangled in his own jeans around his ankles, clenched into fists.

Mark groaned, a deep, guttural sound of satisfaction this time. "That's it. Good boy. Takes it." The grudging praise was almost worse than the command, binding him to this humiliating, depraved act. Mark shifted his weight, his heavy legs pressing against Zeke's shoulders, pinning him in place.

Zeke's cheeks hollowed as Mark pushed even deeper, working past the curve. His mouth was full, overflowing. He could feel the thick shaft pressing against the back of his throat. He choked, a desperate, muffled sound buried deep in his mouth, swallowed by the sheer mass he was attempting to accommodate. He felt himself start to gag, stomach lurching. Hnggaahhh....

Mark pulled back slightly, just enough to let Zeke gasp for air, for sanity, before pushing forward again, slower this time, but just as relentless. "No," Mark rasped, his voice hard steel. "You take it. You take all of me. You got a good mouth, ain'tcha? Use it."

He released Zeke's hair, and Zeke's head fell forward instinctively, resting against Mark's upper thigh. The coarse hair there scratched against his cheek. Mark's hand went lower, cupping Zeke's jaw firmly, tilting his face up. "Look at me," he ordered.

Zeke obeyed, eyes squeezed tight, then forcing them open, looking up at Mark through a haze of tears and burgeoning arousal. Mark's face was intense, flushed, his eyes burning with a brutal pleasure. He saw Zeke's fear, his struggle, and it only seemed to fuel him.

"Suck it," Mark commanded, his voice dropping lower, rougher still. He guided Zeke's head, pressing his mouth back onto his cock. Zeke swallowed, a bitter, frightened taste filling his mouth along with the potent, carnal scent of Mark. He wrapped his lips tighter around the thick shaft, instinct kicking in over conscious thought. He began to move his head, a slow, awkward up and down motion, guided by the firm grip on his jaw.

Sllp... sllp... The wet sounds were loud, echoing in the otherwise quiet room. Humiliatingly loud. Each stroke filled his mouth, stretching his throat, forcing a gag reflex that he desperately fought to suppress. He could feel Mark's erection swelling even larger in his mouth, responding to his efforts. The veins pressed hard against his tongue, his palate.

Mark groaned again, a deep, rumbling sound. His hand left Zeke's jaw and went to the back of Zeke's head, his fingers burying themselves in his hair, pulling him deeper, setting a rough, faster pace. "Yeah... that's it," he grunted. SLLP... SLP... GA-HNG...

Zeke's nose pressed against Mark's groin, the musky smell thick in his nostrils. He could taste the salt of Mark's skin, the raw, animal heat emanating from him. His own body, despite the fear and discomfort, was responding. The lingering ache from his own orgasm was replaced by a dull throb of arousal. He was doing this. He was sucking his father's cock. And part of him, a sick, twisted, hidden part, was getting off on it.

Mark's hips began to move, a slow, powerful thrusting motion that added more pressure, pushing deeper into Zeke's mouth, driving against his throat. HNGH... NNGH... He was using Zeke's head like a tight, living sheath. The roughness of it, the raw, uncontrolled power behind each thrust, was terrifying and incredibly arousing.

"Take it all, boy," Mark ground out, voice tight with building pleasure. "Gag on it. That's right. Feels good... feels so damn good... your mouth... so tight... hngh!"

Zeke's hands finally came free from the tangled denim. He instinctively reached up, wrapping them around Mark's thick thighs, gripping the hard muscle through the fabric of his abandoned pants around his ankles. He needed to hold on, to anchor himself against the relentless, pounding rhythm. His breathing was frantic, shallow gasps around the cock filling his mouth.

Mark's pace quickened, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. Zeke's head bounced with the force of each plunge. He choked, coughed, his body protesting the depth, but Mark held his head firm, driving in relentlessly. FUCK... YESS... SLURP....

Zeke felt the pressure building again, not inside his head this time, but in the back of his throat, a raw, visceral resistance. Mark's hand clamped tighter on the back of his head, burying Zeke's face deeper, burying him in the hot, wet darkness of his mouth. SLLP-FUCK-YESS. Mark's hips pistoned relentlessly, driving his enormous cock down Zeke's throat, harder, faster, seeking the final release. Zeke's body bucked, his ass lifting instinctively, legs twitching in the discarded jeans pooling around his ankles. His throat was burning, his eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught, the smell of Mark's come thick in his nostrils even before it hit the back of his throat.

Mark's low growl intensified, ratcheting up into a hoarse roar of pure effort and pleasure. He surged forward one last time, deep and hard, before pulling back with a sharp gasp. NGH-HAHH!. His dick slapped wetly against Zeke's lips as he pulled out, slick and dripping.

Zeke collapsed forward onto the floor, gasping, coughing, spitting slightly, tasting his own come mixed with Mark's saliva and that distinct Mark flavor. His face was hot, smeared. His jaw ached. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, seeing his jeans and underwear still tangled around his ankles, a humiliating reminder of his state of undress and surrender.

He looked up, panting, and saw Mark standing over him, chest heaving, face flushed crimson, eyes burning. His cock was still fully hard, glistening with wetness, looking even bigger somehow now that it wasn't filling Zeke's mouth. Cum dripped from the head, slow, viscous pearls hitting the carpet between Zeke's knees. Mark didn't seem to notice, or care.

"Good," Mark rasped, his voice rough. "Damn good mouth." He didn't offer praise, just acknowledged the utility, the service provided. He reached down, not to help Zeke up, but to grasp him by the wrist, hauling him roughly to his feet.

Zeke stumbled, still shaky, the room tilting slightly from the whiskey and the intensity of the last few minutes. He stood, half-naked, legs weak, facing his father, who was naked from the waist down, his immense cock still throbbing.

Mark's dark gaze swept down Zeke's body again, lingering on the patch of hairless skin above the waistband of his pulled-down jeans, then lower, to the curve of his ass. "That's not enough," Mark stated, his voice dropping lower, gaining a dangerous edge. "Not near enough."

Zeke's breath caught. He knew instantly what was coming. His body tensed, fear warring with a fresh surge of blood in his veins. The ache low in his gut, the lingering sensitivity from Mark's mouth, twisted into a knot of dread and unwanted anticipation.

Mark didn't give him time to think, much less protest. His large hands went to Zeke's hips, gripping hard, possessively. He turned Zeke around, positioning him in front of the coffee table. "On your knees," Mark commanded, his voice allowing no defiance.

Zeke obeyed, trembling slightly, sinking back onto his knees. His jeans and underwear were still bunched around his ankles, hobbling him, making him feel even more vulnerable. He looked down at the carpet, his mind racing, body anticipating the inevitable.

Mark stepped closer, positioning himself behind Zeke. Zeke felt Mark's heat, the powerful aura of him. Mark reached down, grabbed the waistband of Zeke's jeans and underwear, and with a single, rough tug, hauled them down the rest of the way. They pooled around Zeke's calves. He was fully naked from the waist down now, exposed.

A low growl rumbled in Mark's chest. "Nice ass," he murmured, his voice husky, close to Zeke's ear. Zeke flinched, cheeks burning. Mark's large hand flattened against Zeke's left buttock, squeezing hard, the muscle contracting under his touch. It wasn't gentle. It was ownership.

"Gotta open you up," Mark said, the words sending a shiver down Zeke's spine. He heard a faint noise, maybe a cabinet opening, closing. Mark moved back slightly, and Zeke heard the unmistakable sound of a tube being squeezed. Lubricant. Cold, impersonal.

Mark came back closer. Zeke felt a sudden, cold wetness spread over his ass crack, a thick, slick dollop of lube hitting his skin. Mark's hand followed, rubbing the cold jelly around, spreading it with rough, impatient strokes, his fingers working between Zeke's cheeks, massaging around the tight ring of his ass. It felt intrusive, violating, but strangely... warm and yielding under the pressure.

"Relax," Mark grunted, fingers probing, feeling the tight sphincter. "Gonna feel tight. Just relax."

Zeke couldn't relax. His muscles were coiled tight, anticipating the pain, the invasion. His asshole clenched shut instinctively.

"Relax, I said!" Mark's voice was sharper this time, laced with impatience. His fingers pressed harder, probing the opening, testing its give. He used more lube, slicking up Zeke's crack, spreading it generously, pushing a finger inside, just the tip.

Zeke gasped, back arching slightly. "Ah! No... Mark..." It was a whimper of fear and discomfort.

"Yes," Mark countered, his voice firm. "Gotta get this cock in there. Can't fuck you tight." His finger pushed slightly deeper, a slow, insistent stretch. Zeke bit his lip, tears pricking his eyes. It hurt, a sharp, stretching pain, but it was also... a bizarre kind of pressure, a fullness that felt both wrong and strangely compelling.

Mark worked the one finger inside, slow, methodical. He pushed it in up to the first knuckle, then pulled it back out, leaving Zeke stretched, burning. He added more lube. Then pushed two fingers in. Slowly. Relentlessly.

Zeke cried out, a muffled sob this time, burying his face in his hands. The stretching was intense, a hot, ripping sensation as Mark's thick fingers pushed past his tight sphincter. Uuungh! His hips instinctively tried to pull away, but Mark's other hand was firm on his back, holding him in place.

"Breathe through it," Mark ordered, his voice tight. His fingers moved inside Zeke's ass, stretching him, working deeper, exploring the tight passage. It felt like a violation, an aggressive tearing of his body's boundaries, yet the stretching pressure was also igniting a raw, electric current that shot straight to his cock, which was growing hard again, despite himself, despite the fear.

Mark finally pulled his fingers out, leaving Zeke's ass stretched, wet, burning. "Okay," Mark said, voice a low growl. "Ready."

Zeke didn't feel ready. He felt raw, exposed, terrified. He heard Mark move again, then felt the heat of Mark's body pressed against his back. Mark's heavy hands settled on Zeke's hips again, turning him slightly, adjusting his position.

Then, Zeke felt the blunt, thick head of Mark's cock pressing against his burning asshole. It was hot, slick with lube, massive. His body locked up, every muscle screaming NO. He instinctively clenched shut.

Mark grunted, a sound of pure effort. He pushed. Hard.

A scream tore from Zeke's throat, high and desperate. "AAAAAAAAAH! Mark! It hurts!"

It felt like being ripped open. A searing, blinding pain shot up his spine. His body seized, hands slamming down onto the carpet for balance, trying to push himself away, but Mark was holding him tight, pressing in relentlessly.

"Easy!" Mark roared, voice tight with strain. He didn't stop. He held his ground, pushing slowly, centimeter by agonizing centimeter, into Zeke's tight ass. The head pushed past the sphincter, a sudden, invasive pop NGH! followed by the thick shaft following it, stretching, forcing its way inside.

Zeke sobbed, ragged breaths escaping his trembling lips. "Make it stop... please..."

"Can't," Mark grated out, voice thick with exertion. He paused, letting Zeke stretch around the part he'd gotten in, the thick column of his cock filling him agonizingly slowly. "Breathe. Just breathe."

Zeke forced himself to gasp, air burning his lungs. The intense pain was starting to subside, morphing into a deep, aching pressure, a brutal fullness. Mark pushed again, driving in another inch. HNNNNNGH. Zeke tensed again, muscles screaming protest.

"Almost there," Mark murmured, a low growl in his ear. He began to thrust, just short, shallow movements at first, burying himself slowly deeper with each powerful press. Uff... uff... uff...

Zeke felt himself stretching, tearing, but beneath the pain, a strange, pulsing sensation was starting to build, radiating outwards from where Mark was relentlessly filling him. It was raw, forbidden, terrifying, but undeniably... electric. His own cock, still hard, pressed against the carpet under his chest, pulsing with a painful urgency.

Mark finally buried himself hilt-deep with a final, heavy thrust. He stopped, completely filling Zeke's asshole, stretching him tight, body pressed hard against Zeke's back. "Fuck," Mark breathed, a sound of deep satisfaction, his voice husky and strained.

Zeke couldn't speak. He could only pant, stretched tight around Mark's massive cock, feeling its pulsing heat deep inside him. It was a bizarre, terrifying intimacy, being impaled by his own father. Every nerve ending in his ass was screaming, a fire burning outwards, yet his cock throbbed with a mixture of pain and raw arousal.

Mark began to move then, slow, heavy thrusts at first, pulling almost completely out, then slamming back in. HNGH... SLLP... HNGH... SLAP... The sounds were wet, raw, animalistic. Each thrust drove Mark's thick cock deep into Zeke's body, a brutal, rhythmic pounding that slowly began to override the pain with a pounding, visceral pleasure that shamed Zeke even as it seized him.

"Feels... so good," Mark grunted, his breath hot on Zeke's neck. His hands clamped onto Zeke's hips again, holding him firm, controlling the pace, pounding into him relentlessly. UUUFF... HNNGH... FUCK...

Zeke's head dropped back, resting against Mark's shoulder, abandoned to the powerful, aggressive rhythm. He was completely filled, completely taken. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was being overwhelmed by the raw, pounding pleasure. His own body was betraying him, responding to the brutal invasion with helpless, shameful arousal. He gasped, a sound of mingled pain and pleasure. Ah! Mark! Faster!

Mark responded instantly, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, deeper. HNNGH-HNNGH-HNNGH-FUCK-YESSS!. He was pounding into Zeke now, a raw, driving rhythm that made Zeke's body tremble, made his asshole clench and release uncontrollably around Mark's thick cock.

"Take it, boy!" Mark roared, voice rough with climax building. "Take all of your old man! Deep inside you!" His hips slammed forward with brutal force, burying himself to the hilt, pausing there for a second, then pulling back just to drive in again.

Zeke cried out, a strangled scream mixed with a raw groan of pleasure. He was breaking apart, dissolving under the relentless assault, the taboo nature of the act fueling a terrifying, explosive climax building inside him. He bucked back against Mark, meeting his thrusts, driven by a desperate, animalistic need to be completely filled, completely taken.

Mark let out a final, earth-shattering roar, burying himself deep one last time, his body tensing, then convulsing. "UNNNGGGHH!! FFFUUUUUUUUUCK!!" He groaned, burying his face in Zeke's hair, shuddering violently against Zeke's back as he pumped his hot, thick load deep inside Zeke's body, filling him completely, aggressively, possessively. Haaah... HNNGH...

Mark's body went limp against Zeke's for a second, heavy and sweating, his dick still buried deep. Zeke collapsed forward, hands splayed on the carpet, panting, shaking, his ass burning, filled with his father's cum, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over him, mixed with shame and the lingering, undeniable echo of illicit pleasure. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing. Mark slowly pulled out, the wet, heavy sound echoing in the small space, leaving Zeke feeling hollowed out and raw. He knelt there, panting, the reality of what just happened crashing down on him, heavy and inescapable.