Chapter 1: Lessons in Hypocrisy
The glow from Ethan’s laptop painted sickly stripes across the takeout boxes littering his coffee table. Cold pepperoni grease congealed on the cardboard lid of the nearest one. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the scratch of stubble loud in the quiet apartment. Another Friday night swallowed by debugging code that refused to behave. The bass line from a Pixies poster thumped silently on the wall behind him, a relic of louder times.
A sharp buzz cut through the silence. His phone lit up on the sofa cushion beside him, screen flashing Marcus 💋. Ethan swiped it open. A text bubble popped up beneath Marcus’s grinning profile pic.
> Marcus: Hey babe. Just found a wild spot downtown. Feeling adventurous? 😈
>
> Marcus: [Video File Attached]
Ethan snorted. "Adventurous" was Marcus-code. Probably meant he’d discovered another sticky-floored bar or was about to send a dick pic from a questionably clean bathroom. Their open relationship had rules – communication, condoms, no surprises – but Marcus’s definition of "communication" often involved visual aids after the fact. Ethan thumbed the video thumbnail, bracing for the usual.
The screen filled with close-up darkness, shaky and poorly lit by what looked like a phone flashlight. Grainy wood paneling. A hole, roughly cut, about waist height. Ethan frowned. Not a bathroom. Then motion. Marcus’s familiar hand, the one with the tattooed serpent coiling around his thumb, appeared in frame. It gripped the base of his cock, already hard, and guided it towards the hole.
"Fucking gloryhole," Ethan muttered, a mix of exasperation and the low, familiar hum of voyeuristic interest stirring. Marcus would.
The angle shifted as Marcus fumbled, propping the phone somewhere. The shaky beam settled, illuminating the other side of the hole. Not emptiness. Lips. Pressed against the rough edge of the wood from the other side. Plush, slightly chapped lower lip. A distinct, slightly crooked incisor just visible. The lips parted, breath fogging the edge of the hole for a second.
Then they enveloped Marcus’s cock head. Slowly. Deliberately. A low groan from Marcus, tinny through the phone’s mic. "Yeah… fuck, that’s it. Open up for me. Take it."
The phone jostled again. Marcus’s hand left his cock, reaching up, probably to hold the phone steadier. The view zoomed in slightly, centering brutally on those lips, the tip of Marcus’s cock disappearing into that hot, wet darkness. The unseen mouth worked, sucking with a focused intensity Ethan knew well. He watched, the detached intrigue solidifying into something sharper.
He knew that mouth.
He’d seen it purse in disapproval over burnt toast. Seen it stretched thin in forced smiles at family barbecues. Seen it hidden behind the sports section of the Sunday paper.
David. His father.
Ice water flooded Ethan’s veins. His own breath hitched, trapped in his suddenly frozen chest. The pizza grease smell turned cloying, nauseating. He stared, unblinking, at the screen. The lips slid down Marcus’s length, taking him deeper. A muffled sound, a choked-off gasp or moan, came from the other side. Marcus panted, the sound harsh in the recording.
"Yeah, suck it, you dirty fucking cocksucker," Marcus rasped, his voice thick, unfamiliar in its raw need. "God, you love this, don’t you? Bet you dream about getting on your knees for strange dick. Taking it deep like a good little slut. Bet you’d let me fuck that tight hole too, wouldn’t you? Make you scream."
The words, Marcus’s voice dripping with a vulgar possessiveness Ethan had never heard directed at him, slammed into Ethan’s gut. Picturing his father – quiet, distant, ordinary David – on his knees. Hearing Marcus call him a slut. A cocksucker. Talking about fucking his… Ethan’s head swam.
Horror erupted, hot and acidic. His stomach clenched violently. He wanted to hurl the phone across the room, shatter the screen, erase the impossible image. He wanted to scream. To call Marcus and unleash a torrent of disgust. But his body, traitorous and humming with a sick, electric current, refused to move.
He couldn’t look away.
The mouth worked with obscene skill. Sucking. Tongue swirling. Taking Marcus deep, the head nudging the back of that unseen throat. David. His father. Sucking his boyfriend’s cock in some filthy booth. Unknowing. Unknowing that the cock filling his mouth belonged to his son’s partner. Unknowing that his son was watching.
A dizzying wave of heat, completely alien and utterly undeniable, washed over the horror. It was grotesque. Repulsive. Profane. And it coiled, hot and insistent, in the pit of Ethan’s stomach, lower. His own cock, responding with a treacherous throb against his sweatpants. The contrast was physical agony. Revulsion warred with a dark, voyeuristic thrill that crackled along his nerves. The power of the secret. The sheer, impossible wrongness of it. Marcus, his Marcus, unwittingly dominating Ethan’s own father. Making David… submit. Use that prim mouth for something so base. So needy.
"Swallow it all, daddy," Marcus grunted on the video, the word a sucker punch to Ethan’s solar plexus. "Show me how much you fucking need it."
Daddy.
The phone felt like a live coal in Ethan’s hand. He finally wrenched his gaze away, staring blindly at the silent Pixies poster. Kurt Cobain’s smudged eyes offered no judgment, no answers. His lungs burned. He needed air, but the stale apartment air was thick, suffocating. He felt pinned. Exposed. As if the laptop’s glow was suddenly a spotlight.
He fumbled, jamming the thumb drive he’d been working on back into the laptop’s port with a shaky hand. Anything to focus on besides the phantom wet sounds echoing in his head. The video ended, leaving the chat screen glaring up at him. Marcus’s last text: Feeling adventurous? 😈
Adventurous. Ethan’s laugh was a dry, brittle scrape in his throat. He looked down at the distinct tenting in his grey sweatpants, undeniable evidence of his body’s traitorous betrayal. The horror was still there, a cold stone in his gut, but the heat… the heat was winning. Arousal, thick and shameful, pulsed through him, insistent, demanding.
His hand, moving almost without conscious thought, drifted down. Hesitated for a fractured second above the waistband.
“Fuck, yeah, man,” the mouth—David—said, panting lightly as he released Marcus’ cock with a wet ‘pop’ of his glistening lips, a string of saliva connecting his bottom lip to Marcus’ bulbous tip. “I can smell your balls from here. They fuckin’ reek. Let me suck on your balls, man. I’ll give them a free tongue cleaning.”
The words punched through the tinny phone speaker, raw and desperate. "Let me suck on your balls, man. I’ll give them a free tongue cleaning."
Ethan’s knuckles went white around his phone. The screen was too bright, too intimate. David’s voice – his father’s voice – rough with need, begging to lick Marcus’s balls. The disconnect was seismic. This wasn’t the quiet man who frowned at overuse of salt, who mumbled about the weather. This was a stranger, hungry and debased.
On screen, Marcus’s low chuckle vibrated. "Damn, you are thirsty tonight, aren’t you?" His tattooed hand reappeared, gripping his own cock firmly, keeping it presented at the hole. "Want my balls? Gotta ask nicer. Beg for it."
A ragged inhale from the other side. Ethan could almost see his father’s face pressed close to the wood, smell the stale air, feel the desperate heat radiating through the hole. He felt pinned, the pizza box smell suddenly rancid.
"Please," David’s voice rasped, strained. "Please… let me taste your balls. Sir."
Sir. The word scraped against Ethan’s nerves. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image burned brighter behind his lids: David, kneeling, eyes glazed, calling Marcus Sir.
Marcus’s thumb stroked the base of his shaft, deliberate. "Tell me exactly what you want to do to them, you filthy fuck."
David didn’t hesitate. The words tumbled out, thick and obscene. "Wanna… wanna bury my face in your crotch. Smell your fucking man musk. Get my tongue right under your balls, lick up all that salty sweat. Get it all over my face. Taste how fucking ripe you are. Need it." A wet, sucking sound punctuated the plea as if he were already salivating at the thought. "Please, sir. Let me lick your sweaty balls clean."
Ethan’s breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping his own throat. Horror curdled his stomach, acidic and sharp. The sheer need in his father’s voice, the vulgar specificity – it was a violation of every mundane memory. He wanted to vomit. To scream. To smash the phone against the wall until the video, the voice, the impossible reality shattered.
But his body betrayed him. The traitorous heat flared again, hotter this time, a fierce pulse igniting low in his belly. Arousal, thick and undeniable, warred with the revulsion. It was the powerlessness, the secrecy, the brutal inversion of everything familiar. Marcus, unwittingly holding that power over David. Making him beg. Making him debase himself for the cock of his son’s boyfriend. The forbidden thrill crackled, dangerous and electric, intertwining with the disgust until they were inseparable.
He looked down. The undeniable tent in his sweatpants mocked him. Proof of the body's treacherous independence. Shame washed over him, hot and prickling.
Marcus’s voice cut through his internal chaos, a low command on the video. "Yeah? That desperate for my stink? Fucking disgusting. Go on then. Get down there."
The screen jolted violently as Marcus presumably shifted, angling the phone downwards. The view dipped past his cock, past the hole, focusing on the dim space below. For a fractured second, Ethan saw the top of a head, dark hair greying at the temples. His hair. Pressing forward beneath the hole.
Then the image blurred, obscured by movement. The sound, however, was unmistakable. A wet, sloppy, eager slurping. Guttural, muffled groans of pleasure – David’s pleasure – mingled with Marcus’s satisfied grunts. "Fuck yeah, work that tongue. Lick it all up, you dirty old bastard."
Ethan couldn’t move. The phone burned in his hand, radiating the heat of the scene. The slurping sounds, his father’s muffled moans, Marcus’s crude praise – they filled the cluttered apartment, louder than the silent posters, louder than his own frantic heartbeat. The scent of cold pizza and stale beer seemed to thicken, merging horribly with the phantom smells evoked by the video: sweat, sex, anonymous wood, desperation.
He sat rigid. Staring at the blurred, obscene activity on the small screen. Frozen between the urge to flee and the horrifying compulsion to watch every depraved second. The internal scream was deafening. This is my father. This is my boyfriend. This is happening. And beneath the nausea, beneath the shock, the shameful, unwelcome heat pulsed, persistent and undeniable.
The slurping sounds intensified on the video, wet and obscenely eager. Below the hole, David’s head moved with frantic energy, buried in Marcus’s crotch. Marcus groaned, a low rumble of pure satisfaction. "Yeah, suck my balls clean, you dirty fuck. Taste it. God, you love that stink." His free hand, the one not holding the phone, disappeared from view, presumably tangling in David’s hair, guiding him, forcing him deeper.
Ethan’s chest felt like a vise was tightening. He could hear his father’s desperate breaths between slobbering licks, the muffled grunts of pleasure that were utterly alien. This wasn't David. This was a stranger, a creature of pure, degrading need.
Then Marcus’s voice shifted, darker, commanding. "Look up here."
The phone jostled again. The view tilted, centering back on the gloryhole. David’s lips reappeared, slick with saliva, pressed tightly against the wood. His eyes, shadowed and impossible to fully see in the grainy light, seemed unnervingly wide, fixed upwards. He panted, breath fogging the hole. A thin strand of spit connected his swollen lower lip to the wood.
"Tell me what you want," Marcus demanded, his voice rough. He gripped his cock again, presenting the flushed, glistening head right at the opening, nudging David’s lips. "Say it."
David didn’t hesitate. His voice cracked, ragged and thick with want. "Your load. Please. I need it." The words tumbled out, raw and stripped bare. "Shoot it down my throat. Fill me up. I want to taste it. Need to swallow every fucking drop." He sucked in a sharp breath, his tongue darting out to lick Marcus’s tip. "Please, sir. Give it to me. Pump your hot cum right down my gullet. Make me choke on it."
Ethan flinched. Gullet. The crude, anatomical word sounded grotesque coming from his father’s mouth. The sheer, unvarnished greed of it – the begging for semen – was a violation that scraped his nerves raw. He felt physically ill. His stomach churned, bile rising hot and acidic in his throat. He wanted to look away, to hurl the phone, to purge the image and the sound.
But his body refused. The shameful pulse beneath the horror intensified, a counter-rhythm to the nausea. It was a sickening magnetism, the power of witnessing this hidden, debased version of his father submitting to his boyfriend. The forbidden thrill was a live wire, sparking through the revulsion. His cock, impossibly, throbbed harder against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, the traitorous heat spreading from his belly down his thighs.
On the screen, Marcus let out a guttural groan. "Fucking greedy whore. Open wide."
David’s mouth stretched obscenely, accepting Marcus back inside. Marcus’s hips flexed, a short, sharp thrust. His knuckles whitened around the base of his cock. A choked, gurgling sound came from David’s side. Marcus cursed, low and filthy, his body tensing visibly even through the shaky footage. "Take it! Swallow it all, you filthy cocksucker! Swallow my fucking jizz!"
The sounds became muffled, wet gulps and desperate swallows punctuated by Marcus’s harsh breathing. He kept thrusting shallowly, forcing it deeper. David’s muffled sounds were pure, abject need – choking, swallowing, a low moan vibrating around Marcus’s cock.
Ethan couldn't breathe. The room tilted. The laptop’s glow, the silent band posters, the smell of cold pepperoni – it all receded, replaced by the tiny, hellish theater in his hand. The air crackled with transmitted degradation. Horror clamped his throat. Disgust curdled his blood.
Yet, beneath it, the electric current surged. The image of his father choking on his boyfriend’s cum, swallowing it greedily, begging for it… it detonated something primal and dark within him. Power. Possession. A horrifying, erotic inversion of reality. His hand, trembling violently, moved of its own accord, sliding down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. His fingers closed around his own aching erection, hot and rigid. He squeezed, a jolt of sensation shooting through him that was pure, unadulterated shame.
He hated it. Hated Marcus. Hated David. Hated himself more than anything. But his hand moved, rough and urgent, mimicking the rhythm on the screen. He stared, transfixed, as Marcus finally pulled back, his cock glistening and spent, sliding wetly out of the hole. David’s lips remained pressed against the opening for a second, shining, before he disappeared from view with a final, wet gasp heard off-screen.
Marcus panted, a shaky laugh escaping him as he fumbled with the phone, ending the recording.
Ethan jerked. The silence after the video ended was deafening, broken only by his own ragged breaths and the slick, obscene sound of his hand moving furiously under the grey cotton. Shame burned like acid behind his eyes, a scalding counterpoint to the intense heat coiling tight in his groin. He pictured it all – David’s begging mouth, Marcus’s triumphant smirk, the unseen swallow. The images fused, grotesque and irresistible.
The orgasm hit him like a physical blow, a violent, shuddering release that tore through him. It was intense, almost painful in its power, wave after wave of sensation that left him gasping, slumped back against the sofa, trembling. But the pleasure was utterly, devastatingly intertwined with the shame. It wasn't relief; it was violation, a sickening corruption that stained the climax, making it sharp and hollow. He came with a choked gasp, the sticky warmth spreading against his hand, the echo of his father’s desperate voice – "Shoot it down my throat!" – ringing in his ears, amplifying the gut-punch of disgust that followed the fading pulses. He sat there, frozen, staring at the blank phone screen, his hand still tucked inside his pants, the cooling evidence of his complicity clinging to his skin. The silence of the apartment pressed in, thick and accusing.