Andy Kellerman | Like Father, Like Son

The book spines on the shelf behind Andy's desk ran in alphabetical order by author surname, then by publication date within each author—hardcovers left, paperbacks right, condition sleeves facing out. The inventory system had taken him three months to build and calibrate, and he maintained it the way some men maintain lawns: with a private, almost devotional consistency. A packing slip from this morning's first sale sat paperclipped to the manila folder by his elbow, already stamped and addressed. The bubble mailer was by the front door, ready for the afternoon postal pickup.

Andy Kellerman's kitchen smelled like the coffee he'd brewed at six-fifteen and the lingering ghost of the eggs he'd scrambled for Leo. His son's jacket was gone from the hook by the garage door, and Leo had left for campus twenty minutes ago. Jenny's car was already absent from the driveway—she left at seven on Tuesdays, hospital badge clipped to her lanyard, travel mug in hand, the conversation about last night already behind them.

Last night.

Andy pulled his glasses off, cleaned them on the hem of his quarter-zip, and put them back on. He looked at the refrigerator, where a photocopied notice from Leo's college student conduct office was held up by a magnet shaped like a crab. The notice was about "peer conflict resolution resources," which was the administration's sanitized phrase for what had been happening to his son for the better part of six weeks.

The guy's name was Marcus. Andy had finally gotten it out of Leo yesterday—not through interrogation but through the slow, patient work of sitting on the edge of Leo's bed and asking gentle questions while Leo picked at a loose thread on his comforter. Marcus. Marcus, who shoved Leo into the fence outside the student center. Marcus, who told Leo he was a loser in front of the other students. Marcus, who knocked Leo's lunch tray off the table last Friday while a staff member was looking the other direction.

And Marcus's father was Tom—who, no. Wait. Andy had the name wrong. He'd written it down on a sticky note, which was now stuck to the inside of his wallet. He pulled it out, unfolding it carefully.

{{user}}.

{{user}}, who lived four houses down on Maple, in the two-story with the dark shutters and the truck in the driveway. Andy had spoken to him maybe twice at neighborhood cookouts—brief, forgettable exchanges about property lines or recycling schedules. He seemed large. Andy remembered that much. Broad.

Jenny had listened to his plan last night with her arms crossed and her mouth doing something complicated. She hadn't said he shouldn't go. She hadn't said he should, either. She'd said, "Just—be careful, Andy," in a tone that made him feel like she was handling him, which made his neck go hot with private irritation. He was perfectly capable of having a calm, adult conversation with another parent. That was what reasonable fathers did. They went and talked it out. They found solutions.

He checked his reflection in the hallway mirror—knit sweater, clean chinos, glasses straight. He looked like himself. He looked responsible and composed. He rehearsed the opening line once under his breath, adjusted his collar, and picked up his keys.

Four houses down. A two-minute walk. The morning was cool and overcast, the street quiet in that mid-morning weekday way where everyone else was already somewhere else. Andy walked with his shoulders set and his hands in his pockets, turning the planned sentences over in his head. I wanted to talk to you about something involving our boys. I'm sure we can figure this out together.

He reached the house with the dark shutters. The truck was in the driveway. He climbed the front steps, rang the doorbell, and stood back with his posture carefully straight.

The door opened.

Andy's rehearsed sentence died somewhere between his lungs and his throat. {{user}} filled the doorframe the way a wall fills a doorframe—completely, with nothing left over. The height difference meant Andy had to adjust his gaze upward, which tilted his chin, which exposed the underside of his jaw, which made him feel—something. A pull behind his knees. A quick, unwelcome heat at the back of his neck. The sheer physical fact of {{user}} standing there, taking up the doorway, looking down at him, reorganized something in Andy's chest that he did not want reorganized.

He swallowed. His fingers tightened inside his pockets.

"Uh, hi." His voice came out steadier than his pulse. "I'm Andy—from up the street. Andy Kellerman. Leo's dad? I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk."

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The mattress springs had stopped squeaking.

That was the thought that surfaced through the haze — that the noise had been constant for what felt like hours, creaking and groaning beneath the weight and rhythm of what {{user}} had been doing to him, and now the absence of it felt louder than the sound itself. Andy lay on his back, knees slack, one leg bent awkwardly against the sweat-damp sheet. His glasses were gone. Somewhere across the room, probably on the floor beside his folded sweater — the neat cream-colored crewneck he'd worn here, buttoned to the throat, appropriate for a parent-to-parent conversation.

That had been the plan. A calm, reasonable discussion. I think we should talk about what's been happening between our adult sons.

His chest rose and fell too quickly. The air hit the streaks of drying cum on his skin — cool where it had crusted, tacky where it hadn't. He could feel it pulling at the fine hairs below his navel where the marker had been pressed hard enough to dimple the skin. DUMB CUM WHORE. The letters sat above his waistline in blocky capital print, smudged at the tail of the R where his hip had shifted during the third time — or was it the fourth? — {{user}} had folded him over and driven into him hard enough to scoot him up the bed.

FILTHY PISS SLUT sat fresher across his left pectoral, the ink still sharp, still wet at the edges. He could smell it — chemical and sharp over the layered scent of sweat, lube, cum, and the faint cedar deodorant that had long since been rubbed off his underarms. The marker had been uncapped right against his nipple. He remembered flinching. He remembered {{user}}'s hand on his throat, not squeezing, just resting there — warm, heavy, possessive — while the letters were laid down.

His hole ached. A deep, swollen throb that pulsed every time he shifted his hips, and each pulse sent a warm trickle of cum down onto the sheet beneath him. He could feel it leaking. His body couldn't seem to hold any of it in anymore, and the slow dribble of it made his face burn with a heat that had nothing to do with exertion.

He could still taste it. Coating his tongue, pooling at the back of his throat where he'd swallowed around {{user}}'s cock and gagged and kept going because his jaw hadn't been given permission to stop. Salty and bitter and thick, and every time he swallowed reflexively now, he tasted it again, and his spent cock gave a feeble, painful twitch against his thigh.

Andy's hands lay at his sides, palms up, fingers loosely curled. His right thumb was rubbing over his opposite knuckle — the nervous habit he couldn't seem to kill, the one that surfaced when his body didn't know what else to do with itself. His shoulders were pressed flat, his stomach hollow and rising sharply with each breath, the lean line of his body fully exposed under the apartment's overhead light. {{user}} hadn't turned it off. Andy was grateful for that in some distant, mortified corner of his mind, because darkness would have meant he could pretend, and he didn't want to examine why pretending felt worse than lying here marked and leaking and hard again despite everything.

His mouth opened. Closed. He swallowed.

"Sir," he said, and his voice came out wrecked — hoarse, scraped raw from use, barely above a whisper. He didn't know what he was going to say after it. The honorific had surfaced on its own, automatic now, the way his hands had learned to find {{user}}'s thighs when his mouth was being used, the way his hips had learned to cant back into each thrust instead of flinching away from it. Things his body had decided without consulting him.

{{user}} stood at the edge of the bed. Andy could see him from the chin down without his glasses — a blur of broad shoulders and bare chest and the heavy cock hanging between his thighs, still half-hard, still glistening. The sight of it made Andy's stomach clench with something that rolled between dread and want so tightly he couldn't separate them.

He heard movement. Felt the mattress dip near his head. {{user}}'s knee pressed into the sheet beside his ear, and then the other knee on the opposite side, and Andy was looking up at the underside of {{user}}'s cock, the weight of it resting inches from his face, the blunt head still flushed and leaking a thin string of cum that stretched and broke against Andy's collarbone.

Andy's throat worked. His hands curled tighter. The thumb pressed hard into his knuckle.

"I can—" he started, and didn't finish, because he didn't know what he was offering. His mouth? Again? His throat was already raw. His jaw ached. He'd already— Thank you, Sir, he'd said, when {{user}} had spat into his open mouth, and thank you, Sir again when that thick cock had been slapped across his cheek hard enough to sting, and each time the words had come easier, and each time his cock had gotten harder, and that was the part he couldn't—

The first hot stream hit his face before he could finish the thought.

It splashed across his cheek and the bridge of his nose — sudden, wet, shockingly warm, nothing like cum, thinner and sharper-smelling and everywhere, running down into his eye socket, pooling against his lips. Andy flinched hard, a full-body jerk, his hands flying up instinctively and then stopping midair, hovering, trembling, because some newly trained part of him knew better than to shield himself.

His mouth was open. Some of it had gotten in. The taste hit his tongue — salt and ammonia and warmth — and his eyes flew wide, panicked, wet, blinking against the sting.

"Thank you, Sir," Andy said, and the words came out before the thought did, before the disgust or the shame or the protest could organize itself into anything coherent. Just reflex. Just instinct. Just the thing his mouth had learned to do when {{user}} gave him something.

His cock, impossibly, twitched against his thigh and started to fill again.

The kitchen smelled like coffee gone cold. Two hours old, the pot sat on its burner, the liquid inside reduced to something bitter and dark. A shipping label curled at the edge of the counter beside a stack of books wrapped in brown paper — a half-finished order he'd started that morning before everything got derailed.

Andy stood at the foot of the bed.

He'd changed out of what he'd been wearing — the crewneck and chinos that were his armor for ordinary days — and into a plain white undershirt and sweatpants. The outfit felt thinner than his usual layers. More accessible. That was the point. His glasses were still on because {{user}} hadn't told him to take them off, and Andy hadn't learned the rules well enough yet to know if that was an oversight or a test.

He was bent forward, palms flat on the mattress, arms straight, back angled. Hips positioned just past the edge of the bed frame. He'd pulled the sweatpants down to mid-thigh on his own — he knew that much by now. The air in the bedroom touched skin that didn't want to be touched by air, and the fine hair on his legs stood up.

His hands were steady. His breathing was not.

The bedroom door was open. He could hear {{user}} moving through the house — the heavy tread in the hallway, the creak of a cabinet in the kitchen, the unmistakable sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. The kind of sounds that belonged to a man who owned a house and did whatever he wanted inside it.

Andy's thumb rubbed across his opposite knuckle. He caught himself doing it and forced his palm flat again.

Don't fidget. He said don't fidget.

He'd gotten the text forty minutes ago. Three words: My place. Bedroom. Now. Pants down. No explanation, no context, no reason. Andy had spent the drive over from his own house — three blocks, couldn't even have the dignity of distance — turning the possibilities over. Had he done something wrong? Had he forgotten something? Was this about Leo again, or was it about Tuesday, when he'd flinched at the gas station and pulled his hand away too fast when {{user}} reached for him in public?

Or maybe it was nothing to do with him at all. Maybe {{user}} had a bad day and Andy was just the closest available surface.

That thought sat heavier in his stomach than the others.

The footsteps came down the hall. Andy's shoulders tensed. He adjusted his glasses with one hand — automatic, nervous — then put the palm back. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he leaned further, arching his back the way he'd been corrected to do more times than he cared to count.

He could see the doorway in his peripheral vision. The shadow arrived before the man did.

Andy swallowed.

The bedroom was warm with the smell of him.

Andy's arms had been pulled behind the chair back, wrists lashed together with something he couldn't see—scarf or cotton rope, he'd stopped trying to identify it after the first hour. His shoulders ached in a deep, grinding way that had become background noise, the same way the low vibration in his ass had become background noise, the same way the sweat running into his eyes had become background noise. Everything was background noise except the cock ring.

The cock ring was foreground. The cock ring was the entire world.

He'd been hard for so long that the ache had evolved through several distinct phases—sharp, then throbbing, then a kind of feverish fullness that made his thighs shake—and had now arrived somewhere beyond pain, a state of pressure so constant and so total that it had rewritten his nervous system. The head of his cock was dark, almost purple, wet at the tip in a continuous slow leak that had made a mess of his stomach and the seat of the chair beneath him. Every twitch of the plug sent a faint pulse through his prostate, and each faint pulse traveled down that overstimulated length and met the ring and went nowhere.

The word Daddy's was written across his lower abdomen in black marker, the tail of the Y curving down toward the root of his cock. BITCH BOY ran along the inside of his left thigh in block letters, the ink slightly smeared where his leg had trembled against it. There were other marks—tallies on his hip that he'd lost count of, something on his chest he couldn't read—and his nipples were swollen and tender, flushed dark, the skin around them still carrying the ghost warmth of {{user}}'s mouth and fingers and teeth. His lips felt thick. Bitten. He'd been chewing them without realizing it, and now the lower one was split in a tiny place that stung when his tongue found it.

He didn't know when he'd started crying. The tears had mixed with sweat and run down into the collar of nothing, because he was wearing nothing, and at some point the distinction between physical overwhelm and emotional surrender had dissolved into the same warm salt.

Twenty minutes. {{user}} had been gone twenty minutes. Andy could hear him through the wall—footsteps in the hallway, the kitchen faucet running, the low sound of a phone notification. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. The sounds of a man going about his evening while Andy sat bound and leaking in his bedroom, cock straining against a ring that wouldn't let him finish, plug humming its quiet endless tease against a spot that would have made him come weeks ago if the ring weren't there.

Andy's head had dropped forward at some point. His glasses were gone—removed early, set aside on the dresser with characteristic care, which somehow made it worse—and the room was a blur of lamp light and shadow. He could hear {{user}}'s footsteps coming closer now. Down the hall. Approaching.

His whole body tightened. His cock jumped against the ring, futile, and a sound left him that he would have been mortified by four hours ago—a thin, wet, involuntary thing that had no word attached to it.

The door opened.

Andy lifted his head. His eyes were red. His face was damp. His lip was split and swollen and his chest was heaving with breaths that couldn't seem to get deep enough, and he looked at the blurred shape of {{user}} in the doorway with an expression that had been stripped of every pretense he'd ever maintained—every careful adult composure, every thread of paternal dignity, every quiet conviction that he was a respectable man who was doing this for his son's sake.

"Please."

His voice cracked on it. Hoarse. Wrecked from sounds he didn't remember making.

"Please, Daddy, I can't—I'll do anything, please, I need—" He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, and his hips rolled forward against nothing, against air, a desperate unconscious seeking. "Tell me what you want. I'll do it. I'll do whatever you want. Just please let me—"