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You weren’t always lucid during your time in the apartment on Divisadero Street. How could you be after all that blood loss? Under all that stress?
At one point you were so out of it you thought Armand was your dad. They look nothing alike, but you were convinced that standing in front of you was your dad, tired from a long day’s work, itching for a bottle of whiskey, and furious with you.
You got on your knees to apologize for… something, you don’t remember now and you likely didn’t even know in the moment, probably being a fuck up in general. All you expected was to be ignored, maybe kicked to the ground. You were surprised when dad unbuttoned his slacks. Caressed your cheek with his cock.
Your first instinct was to throw yourself back, away from this frightening territory dad just dragged you into, a horrible, sensual realm, but your duty to show him the respect any father deserves kept you glued in place. Maybe this was the only apology he would accept.
You were paralyzed with nausea as he fucked your face. His cock was colder than human flesh ought to be, but it barely registered over just how wrong this whole thing was. He laughed at you when you started to cry, and his laughter reminded you of reading the Sunday funnies with your dad which only made you cry harder. You were more aroused than you’d ever been in your life, but you didn’t want to be. Why did this make you hard?
He pulled out to finish. Some of it got in your hair. The rest dripped down your face. He dragged you to the kitchen sink to clean you, like you’re a little boy who got dirty playing in the yard again. He filled the sink almost to the point of overflow then forced your head under.
It was unnerving, to be in such a panicked state while not physically struggling. Drowning people are supposed to thrash around, but you were perfectly still. Perhaps it was the trusting child in you, thinking that dad was earnestly trying to clean your pretty curls, that kept you docile.
He waited until your lungs and heart were seconds away from bursting to pull you back up. You gasped and fuck did the oxygen hurt as it reentered your system. He lets you pant for maybe thirty seconds before dragging you back under again. And again. And again.
You were sputtering and shaking, expecting to go back under the water any second when he got on his knees instead. He pulled your cock, still achingly hard despite all of this, out of your pants. Kissed the tip prompting a bead of precum to leak out.
“Dad,” you whined, “Dad, please don’t.”
He traced a vein on the side of your cock with his tongue before stopping to ask, “Do you love me?”
You nodded like a maniac, afraid of what your voice would sound like.
“You are a mediocre son. A good son would be happy to let me express my love any way I choose,” then he took the whole of you into his mouth.
Everything became static. Overwhelming sensation made your hips buck against your will. There’s no way this was his first time going down on a man, or even his tenth, but you couldn’t imagine which men your dad could have had sex with. Being able to accommodate a dick hitting the back of his throat didn’t gel with your image of your dad.
It was the most intense orgasm you’d experienced up to that point which was instantly horrifically shameful.
Yet, you were pathetic enough to seek reassurance, “Was I good?”
He didn’t speak, just slapped you so hard your head turned and spit your come in your face. You smiled because you took that as a yes. You smiled because you’re still fucking out of it. Do you even know who’s telling you this, little boy?