The old house smelled like sweat, beer, and the faint trace of motor oil from Dad's work boots. I was twenty-two, home from college for the summer, and he was waiting in the living room like always, shirt off, gut hanging over his belt, thick forearms crossed.
"Get over here, faggot," he said the second the door clicked shut. No hello. Just that.
I dropped my bag. My cock was already half-hard from the drive, knowing what was coming. He stood up slow, the couch creaking, and grabbed the back of my neck hard enough to make me stumble forward. His breath was hot on my face, stinking of cigarettes.
"You been thinking about this the whole way home, huh? Thinking about your nasty dad bending you over again?"
"Yeah," I muttered.
He slapped me across the face, not too hard, just enough to sting. "Say it right."
"Yes, Dad. I been thinking about it."
He shoved me down to my knees on the worn carpet. I went easy. His belt buckle clinked open, zipper rasped, and then his thick cock was out, already leaking. He was bigger than me, veiny, the head dark and shiny. He slapped it against my cheek.
"Open that faggot mouth."
I did. He pushed in deep on the first thrust, no warm-up, choking me until my eyes watered. I gagged but didn't pull back. He liked when I struggled a little. His hand fisted in my hair, holding me there while he fucked my throat in short, nasty strokes. Spit ran down my chin onto the floor.
"Look at you," he growled. "College boy on his knees for his dad's dick. What would your little friends think if they knew you beg for this?"
He pulled out and hauled me up by the shirt, spinning me around. My jeans were already loose; he yanked them down to my thighs and bent me over the arm of the couch. The fabric was rough against my stomach. He spat on his fingers and shoved two inside me without warning, twisting, stretching. I grunted, pushing back against his hand.
"Tight little hole," he said. "Still mine though.
Always mine."
He lined up and shoved his cock in all at once. The burn was sharp and perfect. I clawed at the couch cushions as he started pounding, hips slapping against my ass, balls swinging heavy. Every thrust knocked the air out of me. He reached around and grabbed my cock, squeezing it hard but not stroking, just owning it.
"Say it," he ordered. "Tell me what you are."
"I'm your faggot son," I gasped. "Your nasty incest faggot."
He laughed low and mean, fucking harder. "That's right. My boy. My hole to use when I want. Gonna fill you up, leave you leaking my load all night."
He didn't last long when he got like this. His rhythm broke, he buried himself to the root, and I felt the hot pulses deep inside. He stayed there a minute, breathing heavy, then pulled out slow. Cum trickled down my thigh.
He didn't let me up right away. Instead he pushed two fingers back in, scooping some of his load out and feeding it to me. I sucked his fingers clean, tasting salt and us.
"Shower," he said finally. "Then dinner. And don't think you're sleeping in your own bed tonight."
I stood on shaky legs, jeans still around my ankles, and headed for the bathroom. My ass ached in the best way. Behind me, Dad was already cracking another beer, the TV remote in his hand like nothing had happened.
But we both knew it was only the start of the night.
