Chapter 5: Fatherly Instruction
The summons wasn’t a text or email. It was a note slipped into Min’s backpack during third period study hall, written on thick, cream-colored paper in Mr. Davies’ unmistakably elegant cursive.
Min,
A thought on your Whitman analysis. The line about ‘urgent wonts’ is promising, but the veil is too thick. You’re avoiding the text’s physicality, its demand for the body. Come to my study after your last class. Bring the essay draft. Let’s discuss making the subtext into text.
—D. Davies
Min’s stomach clenched, a strange cocktail of dread and anticipation. He’d been avoiding any non-essential human contact for three days, since the ritual with Sarah. The world outside their house felt two-dimensional, a poorly rehearsed play. His body felt different, too; aware of itself in a new way, heavy with a secret purpose. The idea of sitting in Mr. Davies’ quiet study, talking about poetry, felt surreal.
Yet he went.
The door to Davies’ personal study at the back of the English department was propped open with a thick volume of Proust. The room was warm, dim, a refuge from the sterile hallway. Mahogany bookshelves sighed under the weight of leather-bound texts. Davies sat at a wide, paper-strewn desk, the sole lamp casting a stage-like circle of gold. He was grading papers, but he set his red pen down immediately as Min entered.
“Ah, the apprentice,” Davies said, a smile touching his eyes. He looked ordinary: tweed jacket, slightly rumpled shirt, greying hair in need of a trim. The man from David’s videos, the animal breeder, was entirely hidden. “You look… preoccupied. Does the real world feel a bit pale?”
Min managed a shrug, clutching his backpack strap. “Something like that.”
“The curse of living inside a significant secret,” Davies nodded knowingly. He gestured to a worn leather armchair opposite the desk. “Sit. Did you and Sarah review the material?”
Min sank into the chair, the leather cool and supple. “We did.”
“And?”
“It… clarified things.”
“Good.” Davies leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Clarity is the first step. Most people fuck in a haze of reflex and distraction. They’re masturbating with someone else’s body. You two are attempting something with architectural intent. That requires blueprints. It requires study.”
He got up and moved to a small sideboard, pouring two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. He handed one to Min. It smelled of peat and smoke. “A wee dram. For the nerves. And for the conversation.”
Min took it, sipped. The scotch burned a clean, clarifying path down his throat.
“Now,” Davies said, settling back into his own chair, his drink cradled in his palm. “Your essay. ‘Urgent wonts.’ You wrote about Whitman’s spiritual yearning. All well and good. But you avoided the aching body of the poem. The ‘body electric’ isn’t a metaphor, Min. It’s a literal, pulsing, leaking, yearning organism. Whitman isn’t celebrating a soul. He’s celebrating semen, sweat, the smell of armpits, the press of a thigh.”
Min felt heat rise to his face. He stared into his glass. “It’s hard to write about that in a school paper.”
“Of course it is. Because you’re wearing the mask of the student. But here, with me, you can take the mask off. You can admit that you read that poem and your blood moved. That it connects, directly, to what you’re doing with your mother. The same raw, procreative force. The same hunger to merge, to create, to spill.”
The words hung in the quiet room, too big, too true. Min’s mouth was dry. He took another gulp of scotch. The warmth pooled in his stomach, loosening something.
“David,” Min said, using his first name deliberately. “Does it… get easier? The compartmentalization?”
Davies chuckled softly. “It doesn’t get easier. The compartments dissolve. The secret becomes the center, and everything else—teaching, grading, polite conversation—becomes the performance. A necessary one, but a performance nonetheless. The truth is in the study, in the bedroom, in the seed.” He paused, his gaze turning assessing. “Sarah told me in her last message you’ve initiated the primary act with the correct intention.”
Min nodded, unable to speak.
“And how did that feel for you? Not the physical release. The act of it.”
“Heavy,” Min whispered. “Like… a real responsibility. Before, it was just us. This felt like there was a third person in the room. A future person.”
Davies’ eyes gleamed with approval. “Exactly. That’s the presence. That’s the sacred weight.” He sipped his scotch. “There’s another aspect of this life, Min. Another… alignment. Have you considered it?”
Min looked up, confused.
“The male connection,” Davies said, his voice dropping into a smoother, more intimate register. “Not as a replacement, but as a complement. A deeper understanding of the mechanics you’re now a part of. To fully comprehend creation, one must understand penetration from both sides of the equation. It’s a yielding. A surrender to purpose that is, in its own way, just as profound as the act of planting seed.”
The air in the room changed. The hum of the building faded. Min felt the thud of his own heart. He’d fantasized about this, in abstract, formless ways. But now, in this warm, book-lined room, with this man who was both his teacher and his guide, it solidified into a palpable possibility.
“I don’t…” Min started, then stopped.
“You don’t know how,” Davies finished for him. “It’s a learned skill. Like writing. Like any craft.” He set his glass down with a soft click. “The offer is on the table. An extension of your mentorship. A practical lesson. No expectations. But there is power in knowledge, Min. Power in breaking the final, internal taboo. It would make you… complete. A true initiate.”
Min’s breath was shallow. He thought of David’s videos, the total lack of theatricality. This was the same. An offer of education. A next step. The scotch hummed in his veins, lowering inhibitions, amplifying curiosity. He nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible dip of his chin.
Davies stood. He walked to the door and turned the lock. The sound was final. He turned off the main overhead light, leaving only the desk lamp. The room shrank into their golden pool.
“Stand up,” Davies said, not unkindly.
Min stood, his legs unsteady.
“Put your glass down. Now, turn around. Face the chair.”
Min did as he was told. He heard the rustle of clothing behind him, the soft clink of a belt buckle.
“Take your pants and underwear down. To your ankles. Now bend over. Place your hands on the seat of the chair. Arch your back. This is about presenting the anatomy for the lesson. Nothing more, yet.”
Each instruction was calm, pedagogical. Min fumbled with his jeans, pushing them down with his boxers. The air in the room was cool against his exposed skin. He bent over, gripping the smooth leather of the chair seat, presenting himself. Shame flared, bright and hot, but underneath it ran a colder, stronger current of anticipation.
Davies’ shadow fell over him. Min could hear his breathing, closer now.
“Relax your muscles. You’re clenched like a fist. This cannot happen if you are fighting it.” A warm, broad hand settled on the small of Min’s back. “This is a biological act. A mechanical act. The mind must allow the body to adapt.”
The hand moved. A thumb gently stroked the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, then up, tracing the cleft of his ass. Min flinched.
“Breathe,” Davies murmured. Then he spat. A thick, warm glob of saliva landed directly on Min’s exposed hole.
The sensation was shocking, visceral. Min whimpered, the sound escaping before he could stop it.
“That’s the only lubricant we’ll use tonight,” Davies said, his voice low. “It’s honest. It reminds you of the reality.” He used his thumb to spread the spit, working it in a slow, insistent circle. The pressure was intimate, invasive, undeniable. “The body is made to open. To receive. Remember the purpose. This is about understanding the vessel.”
Min focused on the grain of the leather under his palms, on the smell of old books and scotch. He tried to breathe as the intrusive touch continued, circling, pressing.
Then Davies removed his thumb. Min heard him spit again, louder this time. A moment later, the blunt, slick pressure returned, but it was not a thumb.
It was the tip of Davies’ cock, resting heavily against him, nudging.
Min tensed, a bolt of pure animal panic shooting through him.
“Easy,” Davies soothed, his hands gripping Min’s hips. His voice had changed, deepened, shedding the last of the teacher’s cadence. It was guttural, possessive. “Daddy’s gonna teach you how to take cock like a good boy. How to yield for it. How to want it.”
The words unraveled something in Min’s core. Daddy. It wasn’t his father. It was a title, a role. One of authority, of instruction. Of terrible, intimate care.
Davies pushed. There was a burning stretch, a shocking, impossible fullness as the broad head forced its way past the tight ring of muscle. Min cried out, a short, punched-out gasp of pain and shock. His knuckles whitened on the chair.
“Breathe through it,” Davies commanded, not moving, letting him adjust to the invasion. “Feel it. This is the truth of it. This is the price of the knowledge.”
Slowly, the burning receded, replaced by a deep, aching pressure. Davies began to move. Short, shallow thrusts at first, each one punctuated by a low grunt from above him. The rhythm was the same as in the videos with Eleanor: deliberate, purposeful. A lesson being physically inscribed.
Min’s body began to respond, adapting, the pain transmuting into a strange, full sensation. The stretch became less a violation and more an… accommodation. He was being reshaped. Davies’ hands tightened on his hips, his pace increasing, growing smoother as Min’s body reluctantly opened for him.
“There,” Davies hissed, his breath hot on Min’s neck. “You’re learning. You’re taking it. This is how she feels. This is the surrender. Remember this when you’re inside her. Remember the gift of this opening.”
The thrusts became deeper, harder. The desk lamp rattled slightly with their rhythm. Min’s mind fragmented. He was a student bent over a chair. He was a son being claimed by a father-figure. He was a vessel, being used to understand another vessel. The sensations overloaded him, blurring pain and pleasure, shame and a dark, crawling pride.
Davies’ movements grew frantic, his control slipping. The pedagogical pretense fell away, leaving raw, driving need. He slammed into Min, his fingers biting into the flesh of Min’s hips, his voice a ragged snarl. “Now. Take the lesson. Take all of it.”
He stiffened, buried to the hilt, and let out a choked, shuddering roar. Min felt the hot, pulsing rush deep inside him, a foreign, claiming flood. Davies held himself there, grinding, ensuring every drop was deposited, his body trembling with the effort of total donation.
They stayed locked like that for a long minute, joined by the wet, painful, profound connection. Finally, Davies slumped forward, his weight pressing Min into the chair, both of them slick with sweat.
He withdrew slowly. The sensation made Min gasp again, a hollow, empty feeling following the fullness.
Davies straightened, breathing heavily. He handed Min a handkerchief from his pocket, pure white linen. “For cleaning up. The first time is always… messy.”
Min took it, his hands shaking too badly to use it yet. He pulled his pants up, the fabric painful against his sensitized skin. He felt raw, split open in more ways than one.
Davies was already re-dressing, his movements efficient. He turned on the overhead light. The mundane classroom glow was a shock, exposing the crumpled rug, the two empty glasses, Min’s disheveled state.
“Your essay,” Davies said, his voice back to its normal, measured tone. He picked up Min’s forgotten draft from the desk. “Rewrite it. Now you know what ‘urgent wonts’ truly means. Write the body. Don’t apologize for it.”
He unlocked the door.
The dismissal was clear. Min shoved the damp handkerchief into his pocket, shouldered his backpack, and walked out on unsteady legs. The hallway was empty, echoing with the distant slam of a locker.
He walked to his car in a daze. The soreness was a constant, reminding throb. He sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, not starting the engine. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windshield.
He took out his phone. There was a text from Sarah.
Hey sweetie. Thinking of you. How was the meeting with Davies? Did he help with your paper?
Min stared at the screen. The normalcy of her question was a universe away from the last hour. He typed, his thumbs clumsy.
He helped.A lot. It was… really educational. Can’t wait to tell you about it.
He started the car. The familiar world outside the windshield—the students leaving practice, the barking dog in a yard, the blue of the sky—looked the same. But he was different. The compartments, as Davies said, were dissolving. He drove home, the ghost of the lesson moving inside him, a secret within the secret, waiting to be shared.
He drove home, the ghost of the lesson moving inside him, a secret within the secret, waiting to be shared. The low-grade ache was a persistent, grounding thrum, a physical footnote to the afternoon. He parked in the driveway and sat for a moment, the engine ticking as it cooled, watching the light spill from the kitchen window where Sarah’s silhouette moved.
She was at the stove, stirring something that smelled of ginger and garlic. “Hey, you,” she said, not turning around. “You look like you got run over by the metaphor bus. Bad session?”
“Not bad.” He dropped his backpack by the door, the weight of the damp handkerchief in his pocket feeling immense. “Different.”
“Oh?” She turned, her smile fading into a look of careful attention. She wiped her hands on a towel. “Did he… expand the curriculum?”
The directness was a relief. Min leaned against the counter, the cool granite pressing into his lower back. He let out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah. He did.”
He told her. The words came out in a flat, unadorned recitation: the scotch, the talk of Whitman and surrender, the locked door, the bending, the spit, the searing pain of that first push, the claiming flood, the limp handkerchief. He left nothing out. The clinical details sat in the warm kitchen air like pieces of strange, sharp machinery.
Sarah listened, utterly still. Her expression was unreadable for a heartbeat, then two. Then a brilliant, radiant joy broke across her face. It wasn’t titillation. It was pure, profound delight.
“Min,” she breathed, closing the space between them and cupping his face. Her eyes were glistening. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s… that’s beautiful.”
He blinked. “It hurt.”
“Of course it did! The first real thing always does. But he chose you. He initiated you.” Her thumbs stroked his cheeks. “You have a father figure. A real one. One who doesn’t give you platitudes about college or careers. One who shows you the architecture of your own power. Who builds you from the inside out.”
Her reaction was so far from anything he’d anticipated. The last threads of his own shame snapped under the force of her approval. A weight he hadn’t fully acknowledged lifted from his chest.
“He called himself ‘Daddy,’” Min whispered.
Sarah’s smile deepened, proud.“Good. That’s right. That’s his title now. And he planted that seed in you for a reason. To help something grow.” She released his face and took his hand, leading him to the kitchen table.“Sit. You need to eat. And we need to talk about this.”
She served him soup, steam curling between them. “This is the next phase,” she said, stirring her own bowl thoughtfully. “It’s not just us in our bubble anymore. It’s a lineage. A tradition. He’s guiding you, and part of that guidance is experiencing the full spectrum. You need to go back. Frequently.”
Min spooned the hot broth, the warmth spreading through him. “He said it was a lesson. To understand… both sides.”
“It’s more than a lesson. It’s communion. It’s keeping your vessel open and receptive. It honors him, and it prepares you.” She reached across the table, her fingers tracing the back of his hand. “I want you to get your ass bred by David regularly. Consistently. Make it a part of your rhythm. Let him father that part of you. It makes what we do even deeper, don’t you see? You’ll come to me with that knowledge inside you. Literally.”
The casual, vulgar poetry of her statement—get your ass bred—coupled with the fierce love in her eyes, sent a jolt through him. It was an order wrapped in a blessing. The soreness he felt was no longer just a reminder of a violation; it was a sign of membership, of being purposefully used.
“Okay,” he said, the word simple and solid.
“Okay,” she echoed, smiling. “Now, eat. Then, I want to see the essay he told you to rewrite.”
Later, in the lamplight of his room, his body humming with a strange new peace, Min opened his laptop. The blank document glared. He thought of Davies’ weight, the tearing stretch, the guttural command, the hot spill. He thought of Sarah’s joyful tears.
His fingers found the keys.
The body is not a temple, he typed. It is a workshop. A foundry. Urgent wants are not whispered prayers; they are the schematics for the molten metal being poured into the waiting mold. The pain of the shaping is the first part of the creation. I understand now. The poet was not singing. He was grunting with the effort of the forge, his song the hiss of hot iron in cold water, the steam of purpose rising.
He was grunting with the effort of the forge, his song the hiss of hot iron in cold water, the steam of purpose rising. The essay flowed out of him in one uninterrupted draft, the words raw and slick, still smelling of the study’s scotch and sweat. He didn’t hit save. He just closed the laptop and lay back on his bed, feeling the phantom fullness linger as he fell into a deep, empty sleep.
Days bled into a new, taut rhythm. School was a thin film he moved through, smiling at the right moments, handing in regular assignments. His real education happened every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, after the final bell.
In Davies’ study, the books watched. The first few times were mechanical, a tender, painful repetition of the initial lesson. Then his body learned the grammar. The pinch of entry became a familiar colon, opening the main thought. The driving thrusts built the paragraph. Davies’ final, shuddering release was the emphatic period that ended the session.
"I want to watch," Sarah said one Tuesday morning, texting him while he was in calc. "I want to see the lesson."
Min’s thumb hovered over the screen. The ache from yesterday’s visit was a dull, pleasant throb.
Would he? Min typed back.
Instruct him. It’s important, she replied. I’m part of this lineage too. I need to witness your yielding.
That afternoon, the ritual shifted. Davies hadn’t locked the door yet. Min stood by the familiar leather chair, his backpack heavy with more than books.
"He wants you to watch," Min said, his voice steady. "Sarah. She wants to see."
Davies paused, his hand resting on the desk lamp’s chain. A slow smile spread across his face, deepening the lines around his eyes. It was the look he got when a student finally grasped a difficult sonnet. "Of course she does. She’s a devoted mother. She understands that observation is part of the cultivation."
He pulled his phone from his jacket, tapped the screen, and opened a video call app. He propped it against a stack of books on his desk, angling the camera toward the space in front of the chair. "Tell her to join us."
Min sent a quick text. A few seconds later, Sarah’s face appeared on the screen, glowing in the cozy light of her bedroom. Her hair was down. She looked radiant, her eyes eager.
"Hello, David," she said, her voice clear and intimate through the speaker.
"Sarah," he nodded, a teacher acknowledging a gifted peer. "We’re about to begin the day’s instruction. Your son has been an excellent student. Very receptive."
"I’m so glad." Sarah’s gaze shifted to Min. "Sweetie, are you ready?"
Min nodded, the motion feeling ceremonial.
Davies’ demeanor shifted, the casual authority solidifying into something more focused."Alright, Min. Assume the position. For your mother."
The routine was the same, yet utterly transformed. As Min fumbled with his belt, the quiet click of the buckle seemed deafening. He knew she was watching every fumbling movement. He bent over, gripping the leather, his face turned toward the desk. From this angle, he could see the small rectangle of the screen, the lower half of his own exposed body, and the soft, supportive smile on his mother’s face.
Davies moved behind him, a solid, warm presence. The sounds were crisp in the quiet room: the soft, wet sound of him gathering spit, the brief, sharp gasp Min made as it landed on him.
"Look at him, Sarah," Davies said, his voice a low, instructive rumble as he worked the spit with his thumb. "Look how open he is. How willing. This is a sacred posture."
"I see him," Sarah whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "He’s so beautiful like that."
Davies positioned himself. The blunt, insistent pressure was there. Min held his breath.
"Now, Min," Davies said, and his hand came down not on Min’s hip, but on the back of his head, pressing his face gently toward the phone screen, toward his mother’s watching eyes. "Look at Mom. She wants to see you take it. She wants to see you be good for Daddy."
Min’s eyes locked with Sarah’s digital ones. Her expression was one of fervent, almost religious encouragement. "That’s it, baby," she cooed, her voice a direct line into his ear. "Just relax and take it for him. Be Daddy’s good boy."
The command, in stereo from the man behind him and the woman before him, shattered the last of his private self. He was an object of shared reverence. Davies pushed in, the stretch a bright, tearing wire of sensation. A ragged moan tore from Min’s throat.
"That’s my good boy," Sarah breathed, her eyes wide, drinking in every flinch on his face. "Take every inch. I’m so proud of you."
Davies began to move, a slow, deep, claiming rhythm. The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the study, a wet, rhythmic applause. Min’s vision blurred, the image of his mother’s proud face swimming. He was suspended between them, a living bridge. Davies’ thrusts picked up pace, becoming less controlled, more possessive.
"Tell her, Min," Davies grunted, his voice strained. "Tell your mother what’s happening to you."
"I’m… I’m taking it," Min choked out, the words raw.
"Louder."
"I’m taking Daddy’s big cock!" The words erupted from him, a desperate, shamed, exalted confession.
"Yes!" Sarah’s cry was triumphant."Yes, Min! Let him use you! Let him breed that sweet boy-pussy. Let Daddy fill your guts up. Let him do it!"
Her vulgarity was a catalyst. Davies slammed into him, his rhythm fracturing into pure, driving need. His fingers dug into Min’s hips hard enough to bruise.
"You hear your mom, boy?She wants it. She wants me to plant it deep. She wants to know my seed’s in here, making you right." His voice was guttural, breaking. "You gonna take Daddy’s warm cum? Gonna let me breed this tight hole full?"Yes!" Min sobbed, the affirmation torn from him, his face still pressed toward the screen, toward Sarah’s ecstatic nod. "Breed me!Please!"
That was all Davies needed. With a roar that was part triumph, part surrender, he drove in one last time, hilting himself, and erupted. Min felt it, a scalding, pulsing flood, a profound internal violation that was also a gift. Davies ground it into him, milking every spasm, his body shuddering violently. The warmth spread, a tangible, claiming stain deep in his core.
For a long moment, the only sounds were Davies’ ragged breathing and the faint digital hum of the phone.
Slowly, Davies pulled out. The aftermath was a messy, aching void. He stayed bent over the chair, trembling, spent.
On the screen, Sarah had a hand over her mouth. Tears tracked down her cheeks. They were tears of joy. "Look at you," she whispered, her voice cracking. "My beautiful boy. All filled up with Daddy’s purpose. Thank you, David. Thank you for filling my son."
Davies, re-dressing, gave a tired, satisfied nod to the camera. "He’s a natural. A true vessel. The project progresses."
"Come straight home, sweetie," Sarah said, her gaze soft and full of terrible love. "I want to hold you while it’s still inside you."
Davies ended the call. The screen went black. The ordinary room seeped back in: the books, the dying light through the blinds, the smell of sex and polished wood. He handed Min the now-familiar handkerchief.
"Next time," Davies said, zipping his trousers, his voice already returning to its normal, measured tone, "we’ll discuss Yeats. The poem ‘Leda and the Swan.’ The violence of divine impregnation. You’ll have a unique perspective."
Min cleaned himself up, his movements automatic. The soreness was deeper than ever, a satisfying, heavy fullness. He pulled his jeans up, wincing. He shouldered his empty backpack.
As he walked out into the empty hallway, he felt the warm, fertile proof of the lesson leaking slowly, irrevocably, into his cotton boxers. He didn’t hurry. He let it seep. It was the point. He carried the secret out of the study and into the world, a living text, walking home to the mother who had watched it be written.