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The noise of the party still buzzed in Shane's ears as he fumbled his key into the lock. Rose giggled against his shoulder, her breath sweet with cheap vodka-cranberry.
"Your place is so nice," she whispered loudly as he nudged the door open into the dark, quiet foyer.
"Thanks, no reason to whisper." Shane said. "Dad's gone. Date tonight." He'd seen his father, Ilya, leave earlier—hair styled, a crisp jacket, smelling faintly of cologne. The coast was clear.
He led her into the living room. The big, plush sectional couch beckoned. They collapsed onto it in a tangle, the alcohol making everything feel softer, slower, more possible.
Rose was pretty, eager, her hands roaming his chest as they kissed. Shane kissed her back, trying to lose himself in the sensation, in the idea of it. This was what he was supposed to want. This was the prize for being a good athlete, a decent guy, a normal guy.
Her mouth tasted like alcohol and her tongue was aggressive, searching. Shane matched her, or tried to. His hands found the hem of her shirt and tugged it upward. She helped him, pulling it off over her head. Her bra was simple, white. He fumbled with the clasp, his fingers clumsy. She reached behind herself and unhooked it, letting it fall away.
Her breasts were pale and small in the moonlight. Shane stared at them, feeling a surge of something—not desire exactly, but obligation. He should touch them. He should kiss them. He leaned down, pressing his lips to one nipple. Rose sighed encouragingly, her hands in his hair.
He moved to the other breast, his mouth working mechanically. His own hands wandered down to her jeans, struggling with the button. She helped again, pushing them down along with her panties. She was naked now, sprawled on the couch.
Shane stood up briefly to strip off his own shirt and jeans. His erection was present, fueled by beer and expectation.
This was going to work.
He knelt between her legs, looking at her body spread before him. He knew the basic mechanics. He positioned himself, his cock nudging against her entrance. She was wet—he could feel the slick heat. But he hesitated. Am I supposed to push? How hard?
"Just go slow at first," Rose murmured, reaching down to guide him.
Shane pushed. There was some resistance at first, then a sudden give as the head of his cock slipped inside her. It was warm, tight. Rose made a small sound, and he froze.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
He began to move, a tentative rocking of his hips. In and out. In and out. It felt...fine. Pleasant enough. But as he looked down at her face, her eyes closed in concentration, he felt a disconnect. His mind wandered. To the game tomorrow. To the strong shoulders of one of his teammates. To the weird way his father looked at him sometimes.
His rhythm faltered. He could feel his erection softening, the tight heat around him becoming less stimulating. Panic fluttered in his chest. No, no, come on.
He thrust harder, trying to force the feeling back. Rose gasped, her eyes flying open.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," he grunted. But he wasn't. His cock was definitely going soft. He could feel it slipping, losing purchase inside her. He pulled out completely, mortified. He was half-hard at best.
"Sorry," he muttered, looking away. "It's the beer."
"Hey, it's okay," Rose said, sitting up. She reached for him, her hand closing around his limp cock. She began to stroke him, her touch firm, practiced. "We can just do other stuff."
Shane closed his eyes, willing himself to respond. Her hand felt...fine. But the magic wasn't there. The erection didn't return. After a minute of her working him, he gently pulled her hand away.
"I think I'm just tired," he lied.
Rose's face fell, just for a second, before she schooled it into a sympathetic smile. "No worries. We can just cuddle."
They lay back on the couch, Shane staring at the ceiling, feeling like a complete failure.
Rose fell asleep quickly, her breathing soft and even beside him.
That's when Shane heard it. The softest creak of a floorboard.
His blood went cold. He turned his head slowly.
There, in the shadowed doorway, stood his father.
He was still in his date-night clothes, but his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He wasn't supposed to be home for hours. Now he was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable in the darkness, but Shane could feel the weight of his gaze.
How long had he been watching?
Shane froze, still naked on the couch, Rose’s sleeping next to him. His own father standing there, watching him. The humiliation was instant and total. He’d probably seen it. His failure, his limp cock, his pathetic attempt—all of it witnessed.
Ilya didn't move or speak. He just observed, arms crossed. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then, he turned and walked away.
Shane felt his pulse racing. He extricated himself from Rose and pulled on his boxers, his hands shaking. He had to face this. Now.
He found his father in the kitchen, pouring a generous measure of vodka into a lowball glass. Ilya didn't look up as Shane entered.
“I…Dad, I can explain—” Shane started, his voice thin.
“Explain what?” Ilya cut him off. He finally looked at Shane. His dark eyes were sharp, intense, but his movements were slightly loose, the careful control of a man who’d been drinking. “Explain why you brought a girl home to fail at fucking her on my couch?”
The bluntness of it stole Shane’s breath. “It wasn’t…I didn’t fail.”
Ilya took a slow sip of the vodka. “I watched you for a long time, son. You were soft before you even got fully inside her. You were thinking about anything but the pussy right in front of you.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the countertop. The scent of vodka and his cologne mixed in the air. “You’re not into girls. You never have been.”
Shane’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The denial was automatic, but it died before it could form. The truth of it—the relief of it, mixed with terror—washed over him.
“You’re gay, son,” Ilya said, the word hanging in the air between them, heavy and final. “And I'm certain you’re a bottom. You don’t want to be in charge. You don’t want to do the fucking. You want to be fucked. You want to be taken. Controlled.”
Shane took a step back, bumping into the kitchen island. “Dad, stop. You’re drunk.”
“I’m clear-headed,” Ilya countered, though his words were slightly slower, more deliberate. “Drunk enough to say what you've both been avoiding for years. Sober enough to know I’m right.” He pushed off the counter and took a step closer. “You’re confused. You’re trying to play a role that doesn’t fit you.”
The certainty in Ilya’s voice, the unshakable conviction that he knew his son better than Shane knew himself. And a part of Shane, a terrified, secret part, believed him.
“I’m not…” Shane whispered.
“You are.” Ilya was right in front of him now. He reached out and took Shane’s chin, his grip firm. “And I’m going to help you. I’m going to show you what you are. Right now.”
Shane was paralyzed. Scared. Shocked. But beneath the fear, a current of something else sparked—a curiosity.
“Come with me,” his father said but he didn’t wait for an answer. He turned, his hand sliding from Shane’s chin to clasp his wrist, and pulled him out of the kitchen.
Shane stumbled as Ilya pulled him down the hall, past the dark living room where Rose still slept, and into the master bedroom. The door clicked shut. Ilya locked it.
Ilya turned to face him. “Take your boxers off.”
“Dad, please—” Shane’s protest was weak, trembling.
“I said take them off.” Ilya’s voice left no room for argument.
His hands shaking, Shane pushed his boxers down his hips, stepping out of them. He now stood naked in the middle of his father’s bedroom, exposed under that intense, assessing gaze. His cock was soft.
Ilya looked him up and down, slowly
He stepped forward. Shane flinched, but Ilya’s hands came up to touch. He ran his palms over Shane’s shoulders, down his arms, feeling the lean muscle. His thumbs brushed over Shane’s nipples, making him gasp.
“You’re a beautiful young man,” Ilya murmured, his breath smelling of vodka. His hands slid down Shane’s stomach, to his hips. “Built like a player. But you’re built to be played with.”
One hand moved to cradle Shane’s soft cock, weighing it. The touch was clinical at first, then possessive. Ilya’s other hand slid around, his fingers tracing the cleft of Shane’s ass.
Shane jerked, a full-body shiver wracking him. “Don’t…”
“This is what you need,” Ilya said, his voice low and certain. His finger pressed gently against Shane’s entrance, a promise of pressure. “You need to be opened up. You need to be filled. You need someone who knows what they’re doing to take control.”
He leaned in, his lips close to Shane’s ear. “And I’m going to show you. Tonight. I’m going to teach you how to be a good bottom for me.”
Shane’s knees nearly buckled. His fear was still there, a knot in his gut, but it was now intertwined with a shocking, shameful pulse of arousal. His father’s hands on him, his words in his ear—they were unlocking something he’d kept buried.
Ilya pulled back, his dark eyes holding Shane’s. “Get on the bed. On your hands and knees.”
Shane, trembling, his mind reeling from the alcohol and the seismic shift in his world, obeyed. He crawled onto the bed, presenting himself.
He heard the sound of a belt buckle being undone behind him.
Then the bed dipped behind him. Shane’s breath hitched, his entire body trembling as he braced on his hands and knees. He felt the heat of his father’s body close to his own.
A large, warm hand settled on the small of Shane’s back, soothing, possessive. “Just breathe, son,” Ilya’s voice was a low murmur, closer than Shane expected. “This isn’t about hurting you. It’s about teaching you to feel.”
Shane nodded into the comforter. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he’d never imagined. His father’s hands cupped his ass, a firm, appreciating squeeze that made Shane’s stomach tighten.
“Good boy,” Ilya breathed, and the praise, twisted as it was, sent a shocking jolt through Shane’s system.
Then he felt it—the warm, wet press of his father’s tongue against his most private place.
Shane cried out, a strangled sound muffled by the bedding. His hands fisted in the sheets. Ilya’s tongue was insistent and relentless. It traced his rim, licking and probing which made Shane’s thighs shake. The sensation was overwhelming—a confusing flood of taboo violation and undeniable pleasure. His father was eating his ass and it left no room for doubt about his intentions or his skill.
“Oh God…” Shane whimpered, his hips trying instinctively to jerk away, but Ilya’s strong hand on his back held him firm.
“Relax into it,” Ilya instructed, his voice thick. “Let me in. This is just the beginning.”
The tongue pushed deeper, breaching him slightly, and Shane’s whole body arched. A low moan was torn from his throat. He was painfully hard now, his cock hanging heavy and leaking between his legs, a traitorous flag of arousal.
Ilya worked him with his mouth for long, languid minutes, until Shane was panting, slick with sweat and spit, his hole loosened and throbbing. Only then did he pull back.
“Turn over,” Ilya said, his voice rough. “On your back. I want to see your face.”
Shaking, Shane rolled onto his back. He looked up at his father, who was kneeling between his legs now. Ilya’s eyes were hungry, but there was a strange tenderness in them too.
“This is where you belong,” Ilya stated. He leaned down, bracing himself on one arm beside Shane’s head. For a heart-stopping moment, he hesitated, then lowered his mouth to Shane’s.
The kiss was nothing like his clumsy kisses with Rose. It was deep, commanding, and devastatingly intimate. Ilya’s tongue pushed into Shane’s mouth, claiming it with the same ownership he’d just shown his ass. Shane moaned into the kiss, his hands coming up to clutch weakly at Ilya’s shoulders. The last of his resistance crumbled. This was so utterly wrong but the absolute certainty of Ilya’s touch, it was rewriting his reality.
Ilya broke the kiss, breathing heavily. He reached over to the nightstand, fumbling for a moment before returning with a small bottle of lube. He popped the cap, poured a generous amount onto his fingers.
“This might feel strange at first,” Ilya said, his eyes locked on Shane’s. “But you’ll learn to love it. To need it.”
He brought his slick fingers back down. One broad fingertip circled Shane’s wet, loosened entrance, then pressed. There was resistance, a tight burn, then a slow give as the finger slid inside him.
Shane gasped, his back bowing off the bed. Ilya’s finger moved, crooking slightly, searching.
“There,” Ilya murmured, as his finger brushed over a spot deep inside that made Shane’s vision white out for a second. A broken cry ripped from Shane’s throat. “That’s your spot. Your prostate.”
He began to move his finger in and out, slowly, carefully stretching him. Then he added a second. The burn was sharper, but the pleasure radiating from that internal spot was overwhelming. Shane’s cock was leaking steadily onto his stomach, twitching with each inward thrust of his father’s fingers.
“You’re taking me so well,” Ilya praised, his own breathing becoming ragged. He scissored his fingers, opening Shane up further. “So tight. So perfect for me.”
After what felt like an eternity of stretching, of being fingered open with wonderful expertise, Ilya withdrew his fingers. Shane felt empty.
He heard the rustle of clothing. He looked down to see Ilya finally naked. His father’s cock was thick, heavy, and fully erect, curving upwards. It was intimidating. Ilya slicked himself with more lube, the sound obscene in the quiet room.
He moved back over Shane, guiding the head of his cock to Shane’s stretched, wet entrance. He paused, looking down into his son’s wide, terrified, aroused eyes.
“This is it, Shane,” Ilya breathed, leaning down to kiss him again, a softer, slower kiss this time. A fatherly kiss that somehow made the act to come even more transgressive. “This is where you become what you are.”
He pushed forward.
The stretch was unbearable, a searing, tearing fullness that made Shane cry out against his father’s mouth. Ilya held still, letting him adjust, his body trembling with the effort of control.
“Breathe, baby,” Ilya whispered, the endearment a shock. “Just breathe for me.”
Shane tried. He sucked in a ragged breath. The initial agony began to subside, morphing into a deep, overwhelming pressure. Ilya began to move, pulling out slowly, then pushing back in, deeper this time.
The drag of that thick cock over his prostate sent shocks of pure pleasure straight to Shane’s core. He was being fucked. By his father. And his body was singing for it.
Ilya settled into a steady rhythm, his weight pinning Shane to the bed. He kept kissing him—his lips, his jaw, his throat—murmuring praise and filth into his skin. “That’s it… take your dad’s cock…so good for me…my perfect boy…”
Shane was lost in a haze of sensation and taboo. The pleasure built, coiling tight in his gut, centered on that spot being pounded relentlessly. He didn't even touch his cock, but he’d never been so hard, so close.
“I’m gonna…Dad, I’m gonna…” he babbled, his nails digging into Ilya’s back.
“Come for me,” Ilya grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, losing their rhythm. “Come on my cock, Shane. Show me.”
The command was all it took. His cock jerked violently between them, and streaks of come painted his stomach and chest in long ropes. He came completely untouched, his hole clamping down around his father’s length.
The intense clenching of Shane’s body pushed Ilya over the edge. With a guttural groan that was pure possession, he buried himself to the hilt and stilled. Shane felt the hot, deep flood of his father’s release filling him up, claiming him from the inside.
Ilya collapsed atop him, heavy and spent, his face buried in Shane’s neck. They lay there, slick with sweat and come, father and son, connected in the most intimate, irrevocable way possible.
Ilya shifted first. He lifted his head from the crook of Shane’s neck. His dark eyes were soft, the intense focus of before melted into a deep, sated satisfaction. He looked down at his son’s face—flushed, tear-streaked, eyes wide with shock and lingering pleasure.
Slowly, Ilya leaned down and pressed his lips to Shane’s forehead. Then he kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, finally capturing Shane’s mouth in a slow, deep, possessive kiss.
He finally pulled his softening cock from Shane’s body, making Shane wince at the sudden, empty sensitivity. Ilya rolled onto his side, gathering Shane against him, spooning him from behind, holding him close.
“You see?” Ilya murmured into his ear. His hand splayed over Shane’s stomach, fingertips brushing through the mess of Shane’s own release. “You see what you needed? What you really are?”
Shane couldn't speak. He could only nod, his body still trembling with aftershocks. He felt raw, hollowed out, and re-made. The confusion was gone, burned away by the brutal, exquisite clarity of the act.
“This can be yours,” Ilya continued. “Whenever you want it. Whenever you need it. My bed is your bed now. My cock is yours. You don’t have to pretend anymore. You don’t have to be confused or ashamed. You just have to be my good boy.”
Shane understood. There was no going back to a life of clumsy dates and hidden desires. This was his path now.
A soft thump and a sleepy murmur came from down the hall. Rose. Waking up on the couch.
Ilya tensed slightly behind Shane, then relaxed. “She’ll leave soon. She’s a polite girl. She’ll assume she drank too much and you put her to sleep on the couch.” He kissed Shane’s shoulder. “Our secret.”
They lay in silence, listening. They heard the rustle of blankets, the faint creak of the floorboards as Rose padded to the bathroom. A few minutes later, the soft click of the front door opening and closing.
She was gone. The last remnant of Shane’s old life had just walked out.
Ilya let out a long breath. “Sleep now,” he commanded, his voice gentler than Shane had ever heard it. “I’ve got you.”
Shane closed his eyes. He felt a sense of belonging, of a puzzle piece finally snapping into its rightful, if forbidden, place. Cradled in his father’s arms, the smell of sex and Ilya all around him, he let the exhaustion and the shock pull him under.