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The sterile hum of the cryo-chamber was the only constant in Homelander’s lavish penthouse bedroom. It stood like an obsidian monolith against the panoramic windows overlooking the twinkling cityscape below – Vought Tower’s ultimate symbol of power and its darkest secret rolled into one sleek, freezing package. Inside, suspended on a padded table, surrounded by a mist of coolant and perpetual twilight, lay Soldier Boy. His father. Frozen in time, muscles sculpted and defiant even in enforced slumber, clad only in the minimal preservation gear that left little to the imagination — in this case, gray briefs. A monument to bygone wartime glory, now reduced to Homelander’s personal, clandestine larder.
Homelander stood before the chamber, naked beneath his silk robe. The city lights painted shifting patterns across his perfect, unmarred skin – the apex predator in his den. His gaze, usually radiating arrogant dominion, held a feverish intensity now, fixated on the thick outline beneath the cryo-suit paneling of Soldier Boy’s groin. A familiar craving, sharp and urgent, coiled in his gut. Milk time.
He didn't hesitate. Deactivating the primary stasis lock with a swift, practiced motion, the heavy chamber door hissed open. A wave of sub-zero air, thick with the scent of ozone and chemicals, billowed out, momentarily frosting Homelander’s breath. He barely noticed the cold. His focus was singular.
Stepping into the frigid embrace of the chamber, he knelt. The stark white interior lights illuminated Soldier Boy’s immobile form. Unconscious, unknowing, utterly vulnerable. Homelander’s fingers trembled slightly, not from cold, but from anticipation, as he manipulated the straps on the lower half of the cryo-table his father’s body rested on. The straps peeled back and the briefs lowered down his father’s firm thighs, revealed flesh kept pristinely preserved. Soldier Boy’s cock, thick, large, and heavy even in its dormant state, lay against his thigh, pale and magnificent.
"No discomfort for Daddy today," Homelander murmured, his voice a low rasp, echoing strangely in the metallic chamber. He licked his lips, a predator scenting prey. "Just routine maintenance. Gotta prevent... complications. Blue balls at your age? No, no. Unacceptable." The justification was a familiar mantra, recited silently more often than aloud, a thin tissue paper over the ravenous hunger beneath.
He leaned forward, the warmth of his expelled breath a stark contrast to the chamber’s chill as it ghosted over his father’s groin. Then, with shocking reverence, he engulfed Soldier Boy’s cock, taking the entire heavy length deep into the furnace of his mouth in one practiced motion. The taste was immediate and complex – the sterile tang of the cryo-mist mingling with the musky, essential scent of Soldier Boy himself, a scent Homelander had come to crave like oxygen. It was primal, intoxicating.
There was no response from the frozen figure above. No twitch, no groan, no sign of awareness. Soldier Boy remained locked in his induced coma, oblivious to the obscene intimacy being forced upon him by his own son. This utter lack of consciousness, this complete passivity, was crucial. It allowed Homelander to indulge without consequence, without confrontation, without the terrifying reality of facing his father’s potential wrath or disgust. Here, Soldier Boy was not a man, not a legend – he was merely a vessel, a source.
Homelander began to work, his technique honed by daily repetition. He sucked with deliberate strength, tongue swirling expertly around the bulbous head, then flattening to stroke the thick shaft. His cheeks hollowed dramatically as he pulled, creating a powerful vacuum, mimicking the rhythm of deep-throating. He alternated suction with long, slow licks from root to tip, savoring the texture, the weight on his tongue, the faint, clean saltiness blooming beneath the sterility. His own cock, rigid and neglected, throbbed with sympathetic need, pressing insistently against the silk of his robe. But that urge was secondary, easily ignored. This was about sustenance. About connection on the basest, most perverse level. About worship.
Minutes bled together in the humming chill. Homelander’s mind drifted, images flickering behind his closed eyes. Sometimes flashes of brutal fights witnessed on old Vought propaganda reels – Soldier Boy smashing through concrete, radiating brutal charisma. Other times, just the abstract, overwhelming sensation of fullness, of possession. My father. Mine. His essence. My milk. The craving deepened with every pull, every swallow of pre-cum that leaked onto his tongue. It was never enough. It was everything.
He felt the subtle shift before anything visible happened. A deep, autonomic thrumming within the flesh filling his mouth. Soldier Boy’s body, despite the deep stasis, responded on a purely physiological level to the sustained stimulation. Homelander redoubled his efforts, sucking fiercely, his hand moving to cup and gently squeeze the heavy balls. He timed it perfectly, sensing the gathering storm.
It hit like an earthquake. Soldier Boy’s hips gave a minute, involuntary jerk – the strongest reaction Homelander ever witnessed from the frozen man. Then came the eruption. Hot, gooey ropes of cum surged violently down Homelander’s throat, thick and abundant, far exceeding that of any non-supe. It was more potent than the pre-cum, richer, the sterile undertones overwhelmed by Soldier Boy’s raw, masculine essence. Homelander moaned deep in his chest, a sound of profound, greedy satisfaction, swallowing convulsively. He didn’t waste a drop. He gulped it down, feeling the heat spread through him, a euphoric warmth blossoming in his stomach, radiating outwards, momentarily banishing even the chamber's deep cold. His tongue worked desperately, lapping at the softening flesh, chasing every last pearl as Soldier Boy’s body relaxed back into absolute stillness, the powerful ejaculation spent.
For a long moment, Homelander remained kneeling, his forehead resting against Soldier Boy’s powerful thigh. He panted softly, savoring the aftertaste – salty, slightly bitter, uniquely his. The heat inside him pulsed, a familiar narcotic haze settling over his thoughts. The gnawing craving was temporarily sated, replaced by a smug, possessive contentment.
"See?" he whispered, his voice thick and raw, finally pulling back. He gently wiped a stray drop from the corner of his mouth with a thumb, popping it back into his mouth. "All taken care of, Pop. No need to thank me. Just keeping the plumbing clear." He chuckled darkly, the sound hollow in the metallic space. "Wouldn't want you waking up with an ache down there."
With meticulous care, as if handling a sacred relic (or disposing of evidence), Homelander pulled the briefs back up to cover his father’s generously-endowed manhood, ensuring it appeared as if he hadn’t been touched. Another quick, rehearsed move, and he had the lower strap fastened around Soldier Boy again. He straightened up, his movements precise, detached now. The frantic hunger was replaced by cool efficiency. He stepped out of the chamber, immediately hit by the comparative warmth of his bedroom. He activated the door mechanism. With a final hiss of pressurized air and the resumption of the deeper stasis hum, the chamber sealed shut, once again encasing Soldier Boy in his frozen prison. The thick glass frosted over, partially obscuring the still form within.
Homelander stood back, adjusting his robe, his gaze locked on the sealed chamber. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes possessing a strange, satisfied glint. He touched his abdomen where the heat still lingered.
"Sleep tight, Dad," he murmured, an edge sharpening his voice. "Plenty more milkings where that came from." He turned, heading towards his ensuite for a shower, leaving the monolithic chamber humming its lonely tune. Inside, Soldier Boy remained frozen, unknowing, a monument to past strength and present utility to his progeny, utterly unaware of the daily trespass committed against his body, or that his own seed was the addictive nectar sustaining his son’s deepest, darkest craving. The cycle would resume tomorrow, or if Homelander found himself especially “hungry,” in a couple of hours. Soldier Boy’s balls never failed to provide. And it would happen again the day after. As long as the chamber hummed, Homelander would return for his dose of Father’s Milk.