Chapter 3: Aftercare
The room held the silence of aftermath, thick and warm and smelling of sex and salt and spent men. Rick lay on his back, one heavy arm flung over his eyes, his chest rising and falling steadily. Michael curled into his side, a damp, trembling line of heat against him. His fingers, tentative at first, began to trace slow circles through the dense, gray-flecked hair covering Rick’s pectorals.
“Jesus, Dad,” Michael whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming. “You fucking wrecked me.” He said it with awe, not complaint.
Rick grunted, a low rumble in his chest. His hand came down from his face and settled, almost roughly, on Michael’s head, fingers threading through his sweaty hair. Not a gentle stroke, but a claiming grip.
Michael nuzzled into the touch, pressing his lips to a pebbled nipple. “Seriously. That body… it’s like a fucking diesel engine. All that power.” His hand slid lower, over the ridged plateau of Rick’s abdomen, feeling the muscles clench instinctively under his palm. “You’re built better now than in any of those old clips. Thicker. More… real.”
Rick’s eyes opened, looking at the ceiling. “Got soft for a while. After the divorce. Drank too much. Then I got pissed. Pissed at her, pissed at myself. The gym was cheaper than therapy.”
“It shows,” Michael breathed, his own cock giving a feeble, interested twitch against Rick’s thigh. The sheer size of him, the animal heat he radiated, was intoxicating. “You’re a fucking specimen. It’s a crime you’re not on screen anymore. You should go back. For real.”
Rick was quiet for a long moment. The idea, voiced aloud, didn’t sound absurd. It sounded like a key turning in a long-locked door. “Been twenty years, Mikey. The game’s changed.”
“So what? Look at you.” Michael propped himself up on an elbow, his eyes scanning the territory of his father’s body with possessiveness. “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. It’s all pretty boys with waxed chests and steroid bloat. You’re the real deal. Rough. Authentic.” He grinned, a sly, wicked thing. “And you’ve still got the legendary dick to back it up.”
A slow smile spread across Rick’s face, the first genuine one Michael had seen in years. It was a dark, knowing smile. “You seem pretty familiar with the current market.”
“Research,” Michael said, without a hint of shame.
Rick’s hand tightened in his hair, tilting his head back. “You wanna see me do it again? For real? Lights, camera, the whole show?”
Michael’s breath hitched. “Yes.”
“Would you be in it?” Rick asked, his voice dropping, the gravel in it promising everything. “With me?”
Michael didn’t hesitate. “Only if I’m taking your cock. I don’t fuck guys. I just… I just really love getting fucked. By the right man.”
Rick’s laugh was a short, sharp bark. “That’s no problem at all. That’s the majority of the gig.” He released Michael’s hair, his mind already racing, connections from a prior life slotting back into place. “I know guys. Producers. They’d eat this up. ‘Vintage Star Comes Home, Fucks His Twink Son.’ It’s nasty. It’s gold.” He looked at Michael, a new, predatory light in his eyes. “You sure you can handle that? Being my on-screen slut for a paycheck?”
“I’m your off-screen slut for free,” Michael countered, leaning down to lick a stripe up Rick’s sternum. “So yeah. I’m sure.”
“Then maybe I should call them up,” Rick murmured, more to himself than to Michael. The idea was taking root, fuelled by a night of reclaimed prowess and this shocking, willing vessel beside him.
The light was different. Harsh, white, and clinical, banishing all shadow. It beat down on the king-size bed with its impersonal, satin sheets. The air smelled of industrial cleaner and the faint, sweet note of glycerin lube. Michael lay on his back, the sheets cool against his skin. He was already prepped, his heart hammering against his ribs. A sound guy had just finished clipping a small microphone to the headboard.
“Just relax, kid,” a technician with a bored expression had said. “It’s just sex. Do what Rick tells you.”
Now, he waited. The set was quiet, a focused kind of quiet. He could see the bulk of the main camera, a silent cyclops pointed at the bed.
A door at the side of the set opened.
Rick stepped out. He wore a short, black silk robe that did nothing to conceal the powerful V of his torso or the thickness of his tree-trunk thighs. His hair was mussed, his jaw set in that familiar, dominant expression. He looked directly at the camera as he walked, a veteran acknowledging his audience.
Michael’s mouth went dry. “Hey, Daddy,” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the studio space. He’d been told to say it. He’d meant it. “Been waiting for you.”
Rick stopped at the foot of the bed, his gaze shifting from the camera lens to Michael’s sprawled form. A slow, wicked smirk played on his lips. Without a word, he reached for the belt of the robe.
He untied it.
He let the silk slither off his shoulders.
The camera operator zoomed in with a soft whirr, capturing the magnificent, detailed sweep of Rick’s back: the dense deltoids, the deep groove of his spine leading down to the two formidable, muscular mounds of his ass. They were pale, powerful, and etched with faint, old stretch marks—a history of strength. A light sheen of oil made every definition gleam under the hot lights.
Rick turned, his fully erect cock leading the way, and climbed onto the bed. The frame groaned under his weight. He didn’t speak. He moved over Michael, a mountain of muscle and intent, blotting out the blinding lights. Michael looked up, overwhelmed, a smile of pure desire on his face.
Rick lowered himself, his hands caging Michael’s head, his knees pinning Michael’s thighs. He enveloped him completely, a world of heat and hair and hard muscle. The rough thatch of Rick’s chest brushed Michael’s nipples. The heavy, hot weight of his cock settled against Michael’s stomach.
“You ready for your close-up, slut?” Rick growled, the microphone catching every rasp.
Michael nodded, biting his lip. “Yeah, Daddy. I’m ready.”
Rick’s hips began to move, a slow, grinding roll that promised everything to come.