Chapter 7: Direct Injection
The only sound was the hum of the space heater, and the slick, wet rhythm of Minalan's mouth. Victor’s grip was iron. He didn't thrust, not at first. He held Minalan’s head perfectly still and let the boy explore the impossible scale of him with lips, with tongue, with desperate, choking swallows.
“Yeah,” Victor grunted, looking down. The sight was transformative. His son, on his knees, straining to accommodate his father’s girth. Tears of effort gathered in Minalan’s lashes. A strand of saliva webbed from his stretched lips to Victor’s base. It was filthy. It was perfect. “Get used to the size. My genetics. Inside you.”
Minalan moaned around him, the vibration drawing a sharp hiss from Victor. The boy’s own cock jutted painfully from his shorts, a rigid line of untouched need. This wasn’t about his pleasure. Not yet. This was about taking what was given.
Victor’s control began to fray. He started to move. Small, shallow rolls of his hips that pushed the thick head against the back of Minalan’s throat. The boy gagged, shoulders hunching, but he didn't pull back. Victor felt the convulsive spasm of Minalan's throat around him. “That’s it. Feel it hit deep. That’s where it’s supposed to go.” His voice was ragged with lust, stripped of all but command. “Breathe through your nose, son. Take it.”
Minalan’s hands came up, not to push away, but to grip Victor’s thighs, his blunt nails digging into the dense muscle. An anchor.A plea. Victor saw the surrender in his eyes. He increased the pace, his sweatpants riding lower as his cock glided in and out of the hot, tight cavern of his son’s mouth. He was no longer feeding. He was fucking that face.
“Open wider. Let me see your fucking throat.” Victor shifted his grip, thumbs hooking into the corners of Minalan’s mouth, spreading him obscenely. He watched his glistening shaft vanish between his son’s stretched lips. The lewd, wet sounds filled the garage. He pushed deeper, the tip nudging a place no mouth was meant to host. Minalan’s body jerked, a primal reflex, but Victor held him fast, feeding him inch after brutal inch until his nose was buried in the coarse hair at the base.
He stayed there, buried to the hilt, feeling Minalan’s throat flutter wildly around him like a frantic heart.
“All of it,” Victor gasped, the words torn from him. “You have all of me in you.” He began to pump in earnest then, a relentless piston, abandoning any pretense of instruction. This was raw, singular need. “Gonna use that perfect fucking mouth. Gonna fill it up.” His rhythm became ragged, brutal. He fucked Minalan’s face with the power of his bench press, grunting with each drive. “You want it? You want my load? Tell me.”
He pulled almost all the way out, letting Minalan gasp a ragged, sobbing breath. Saliva dripped from his chin. His lips were swollen, abused.
“Please,” Minalan choked, the word raw and shredded. “Please, Dad. I need it. I need your protein.”
That was all it took.
Victor slammed back in, his fingers tangling violently in Minalan’s hair. His hips stuttered, his whole body locking rigid. A deep, guttural roar tore from his chest, something animal and triumphant. Minalan felt the first hot, thick jet hit the back of his throat with the force of a bullet. He coughed, sputtered, and then swallowed instinctively. It was more, so much more than the drinks. It was scalding, rich, and viscous, a direct fucking transfusion. Victor emptied himself in great, pulsing ropes, flooding Minalan’s mouth, his esophagus, claiming the very conduit into his son's body. “Swallow it! Take every fucking drop! That’s you now! That’s what you’re made of!”
Minalan gagged and gulped, tears streaming down his face, desperately trying to keep up. The taste was overwhelming, pure and potent and strangely, shamefully sweet. He drank it down, every last spurt until Victor was spent, shuddering, his grip finally relaxing.
He slid from Minalan’s mouth with a wet pop.
Minalan collapsed forward onto his hands, gasping, strands of spit and semen dangling from his lips. He felt hollowed out and rewritten. His mouth was tender, his throat raw. His own cock throbbed, a neglected monument, leaking steadily onto the rubber mat.
Victor looked down at him, his breath slowing. He reached out a hand, not to strike or grip, but to wipe a smear of his own release from Minalan's cheek with his thumb. The gesture was intimate, post-coital, more shocking than the violence before it.
"Good boy," Victor murmured, his voice soft now. "That was just the priming. Direct injection into the system." He crouched down, bringing himself to Minalan’s level. His gaze was dark, sated, but already calculating. "See how quick it works?Look at you."
Minalan could feel it. A warmth not just in his belly, but in his veins. A low hum in his muscles, like they’d just been fed a pure electrical current. The soreness from Monday’s lift was gone, completely erased.
"Now," Victor said, his eyes flicking to Minalan's weeping erection. "You're full of me. Your body's primed, receptive." He stood up, a new intensity in his frame. "Get on the bench. Heavy leg day. We're going to see what this new fuel can do."
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was the next logical step in the experiment. Minalan stumbled to his feet, his knees weak, his mind a white-noise roar of submission and chemical euphoria. He moved to the flat bench. Victor loaded the bar with weight that seemed insane—plates that had been his max only weeks ago. He didn't question it.
Victor spotted him, his hands close, his body radiating heat behind Minalan’s head. "Push it. Through the roof."
Minalan gripped the bar. He unracked it. The weight was immense, but it felt… connected. Like the iron was an extension of the heat now pooling in his core. He lowered it, his muscles screaming, but not failing. He pressed. His arms shook, the bar stalling midway.
Victor leaned over him, his lips near Minalan’s ear. His voice was a hoarse, thrilling whisper. "Use it. Use what I just put in you. Push, you fucking perfect animal. For me."
Minalan roared, a sound torn from a place deeper than pain. The bar shot up, the lockout clean and powerful. He re-racked it, his chest heaving, stars bursting behind his eyes. He had never moved that weight. Not even close.
Victor’s laugh was a low, proud rumble. He ran a hand over Minalan’s sweatshirt, feeling the pounding of his heart. "There it is.Bioavailability. One hundred percent." He slapped Minalan's chest. "Again. Four more."
Minalan worked. He squatted with weight that should have crushed him. He lunged, he pressed, all under Victor’s intense, approving gaze. His body responded as if possessed, fueled by a desperate need to prove his father right, to justify the transgression, to turn the filth into function. The protein was working. It was a dark, undeniable magic.
They finished two hours later, both of them dripping, the garage a sauna of spent effort.
Victor tossed Minalan a towel and grabbed a water bottle. He drank deeply, watching his son try to calm his trembling limbs. "Recovery will be hours, not days," Victor stated. "And that's just the start. The real integration…" He trailed off, his eyes drifting down Minalan’s body again, lingering on the prominent bulge still tenting his shorts. "That requires a different kind of exercise. Synergy."
He stepped closer. "You took my seed in your mouth. It's in your blood now. Your body is craving the next phase." Victor’s hand rested on his own groin, where he was already half-hard again, astonishingly quick. "To really build you… to change you at the cellular level… you need to take it deeper. Where it can be fully absorbed." He let the implication hang, foul and electrifying.
Minalan stared, exhausted, elated, ruined. The taste was still in his mouth. The power was still in his veins. He saw no line anymore, only a path laid out by his father’s desire. He simply nodded, too wrecked for words.
Victor smiled, a real smile, full of dark promise. "Tomorrow. Before dawn again. We test your other limits. We see what that tight, young body can really absorb when it's properly bred." He turned towards the door, pausing at the threshold. "Drink lots of water, son. You'll need it."