Prodigal Father

Ty’s body was covering his, trapping him completely, holding him within constraining bounds as Steve writhed at the rough opening of his channel. Then Ty’s cock was invading him, stretching and punishing him. Skin on skin. No condom here. The skin of the son rubbing against, chaffing, the sensitive channel of the father.

Steve tried to spread his legs, tried to widen the access to his channel, but Ty tightened the vice of his thighs encasing Steve’s, wanting him tight, wanting his channel to feel the full fury of a young, vigorous, monster cock.

The father moaned and whimpered and cried for mercy, but Ty fucked on, the moaning of the bedsprings matching those of the father. Steve reached over his head and grabbed at the slats of the headboard as Ty rode him hard.

After an eternity, Ty put a hand under Steve’s belly and brought him up on his knees and then continued fucking him doggy style, his hand now reaching around and grabbing Steve’s dick and pumping it until Steve came with an exhausted cry and collapsed on the mattress. But Ty just followed him down and fucked on.

Ty came twice inside Steve before Steve drifted off into sleep in exhaustion. When he woke, it was morning—more than an hour after he should be at the boatyard—and the only evidence he had that the night had been real was mussed sheets, a sore channel, and ripped sleeping shorts.

Ty wasn’t in the house. But when Steve reached the boatyard, Ty was there, working away on a boat hull as if nothing had happened the night before.