Chapter 6: Evening event
The smell in Brook’s room was a history of them. It was embedded in the fabric of the immense leather chair, sealed into the grain of the dark wood floor, a dense, permanent cocktail of sweat, semen, and leather conditioner. Cade lay on his father’s broad chest, a tiny doll on a warm, breathing mountain. The rise and fall was tectonic. Each of Brook’s breaths rustled Cade’s hair.
Cade shifted, his bare ass sticky against his father’s skin. He could feel the heavy, dormant heat of Brook’s cock resting against his ankles. Even soft, it was a substantial weight, a thick rope of flesh that promised brutal expansion. He whimpered, nuzzling into the coarse gray hair of Brook’s chest.
“Dad,” he whispered, his voice a thin scratch in the room’s silence. “Please. Just a finger. Just to feel you.”
Brook’s hand, which had been resting on the headboard, came down to stroke Cade’s back, a gesture that could have been paternal if not for the context. The palm was so vast it spanned from Cade’s neck to the small of his back. “It’s late, pup. You’re sore. Drei finally grew a pair and used you proper, didn’t he? Val said he left you leaking.”
“I’m not sore. I’m empty.” Cade’s own tiny erection pressed against Brook’s flank, a futile nudge. “I can take it. I always can.”
A low rumble vibrated through Brook’s chest, not quite a laugh. “You’re always hungry. Like I was.” His eyes were fixed on the dark ceiling. “First time I got fucked, I was fourteen. Bigger than you are now, but not by much. Man was a friend of my father’s. Had hands like shovels. I thought he’d split me in half.” He shifted, and his cock twitched against Cade’s foot, beginning its slow, inevitable swell. “I cried after. Then I jerked off for an hour thinking about it. Found my dad’s stash of magazines—real filthy stuff, pre-War, sticky pages—and I’d look at the cocks and imagine them in my ass while I sucked on my own fingers.”
Cade listened, rapt. These stories were a different kind of possession. He curled his toes, rubbing them against the thickening shaft. “Did it feel good?”
“It hurt. It was perfect.” Brook’s hand slid down, cupping Cade’s entire ass, kneading the soft flesh where Drei had recently been. “You understand that. The hurt is the point. It proves you can take it.” He was fully hard now, the monstrous length lifting, the blunt, broad head nudging Cade’s calf. “But you’re right. We’re not always here. Leaves you wanting.”
An idea, desperate and wild, formed in Cade’s mind. “Could… could we get a machine? One of those fucking machines. For when you and my brothers are gone.”
Brook went very still. The stroking hand stopped. For a moment, Cade feared he’d overstepped, that the request was too selfish, too modern. Then the rumble returned, deeper, more amused.
“A machine.” Brook said it slowly, tasting the word. “You want a piece of metal and plastic to fuck you when your family’s not around to do it.” He finally looked down at Cade, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “You really are just a hole, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter what fills it, as long as you’re filled.”
“I want to feel full all the time,” Cade confessed, the truth spilling out. “Like I am after you use me. For hours and hours.”
“Fuck,” Brook breathed, a sharp exhalation of what sounded like pride. “Alright. We’ll get you your machine. Custom job. Something that can really pound that little slut-cunt of yours into paste.” His other hand wrapped around his own girth, giving a single, slow pump. A pearl of pre-cum welled, glistening. “But a machine’s cold. It won’t give you this.”
In a movement of impossible, grotesque flexibility, Brook sat up, his movement fluid for a man of his size. He placed Cade aside on the rumpled sheets like a forgotten toy. Then, with a focus that was both clinical and obscene, he bent forward. His torso folded, the immense slabs of his back muscles rippling. He brought his face to his own cock.
Cade watched, mouth agape, as his father’s tongue, thick and pink, licked a long, slow stripe up the veined underside. Brook groaned, a sound of deep, private satisfaction. He took the head into his mouth, his jaw stretching to accommodate his own girth.
It was a paradox of power—total dominance over his own body, a consumption of himself. He bobbed his head, a wet, sloppy noise echoing in the room. His eyes were slits, watching Cade watch him. Saliva dripped in thick strings onto the sheets.
“This,” Brook grunted, pulling off with a pop. “This is living. Tasting your own power.” He went down again, deeper, his nose pressing into his own pubic bone. The sounds were animal, raw. He fucked his own mouth with relentless, practiced strokes, one hand working the base, the other braced on the bed.
Cade’s hand flew to his own small cock, stroking frantically. The sight was more devastating than any direct use. It was a lesson in supreme, self-sufficient authority.
Brook’s rhythm became frantic, his hips pumping up into his own throat. A guttural, choking sound erupted from him, muffled by flesh. His body locked, every tendon standing in stark relief. He stayed there, impaled on himself, as his orgasm hit. Cade could see the base of his cock pulsing violently in his grip.
Slowly, Brook pulled off. Ropes of thick, white cum splattered across his lower abdomen and chest. He was breathing hard, his lips slick and swollen. He looked at Cade, his gaze heavy-lidded and triumphant. He scooped up a fingerful of his own release and held it out.
“Come here, pup.”
Cade scrambled forward on his knees. He opened his mouth, and Brook pushed two fingers inside, coating his tongue with the salty, bitter essence. Cade suckled obediently, a low moan vibrating in his throat.
“That’s the taste,” Brook whispered, rubbing Cade’s tongue. “A machine can’t give you that. A machine can’t own you. It just uses you.” He withdrew his fingers, wiping the rest on Cade’s cheek. “I’ll buy your toy. But remember who you belong to. Remember whose cum is always in your gut, under all the rest.”
He lay back, pulling Cade onto him again, into the warm, sticky mess. Cade clung to him, the promise of the machine already fading into a vague fantasy next to the overwhelming, suffocating reality of his father’s scent, his heat, his absolute control. The room’s history pressed in, and Cade knew he was just another stain in the making, another layer in the smell. He closed his eyes, and the night stretched on, silent except for Brook’s slowing heartbeat and the faint, wet sound of Cade swallowing.