Blake had never met his father–he’d abandoned him and his mother when he was just a kid. When his mother died of cancer, he certainly hadn’t expected his dad to take him in, but when the state found him and gave him little choice, the two were forced to co-exist. Blake was a sixteen year old rebel, with no interest in authority. His father was a burly, hairy lower class slob, holding down a construction job when he wasn’t too drunk to go to work. Their first few days together, unsurprisingly, were difficult. Saul–his father–refused to make room for him in the small one bedroom apartment he kept downtown, forcing Blake to sleep on the couch. Blake refused to accept any sort of authority, and when his dad brought home a burly coworker one night for a fuck, he was disgusted and stormed out of the place after screaming at Saul, calling him a “disgusting faggot,” and spitting in his face. He stayed away for several days, and only relented to returning home when a police officer picked him up as a runaway and took him back against his will. Saul was waiting, and they sat down to talk some of this out.
Much to Blake’s anger, Saul had no real interest giving any sort of ground–in fact, Saul told him that if Blake wanted to live with him, then it was going to be on his terms, under his rules. Blake told him that if he was grown up, he’d be out of there immediately, but since he wasn’t eighteen, then he didn’t have much of a choice. Saul leaned back on the couch. He confessed that when he’d knocked Blake’s mother up as a teenager, his father had been furious–and he decided that Blake would just have to see what it meant to live by his rules. He’d still be living by them if his dad hadn’t died the year before.
Blake just narrowed his eyes, and did some math. As a teenager? But his dad was at least in his fifties, and Blake was a teenager. How did that even make sense? Saul just got up, picked up a strange looking piece of parchment and pinned it to the wall by the front door of the apartment. Something was already written on it–a header in some fancy calligraphy which simply said, “Father’s Rules.” The rest of the page was blank. Saul leered at him, and then said to the paper, “When at home, my son can only wear his underwear.”
As he watched, Blake say the words appear on the parchment, and immediately after he stood up, his hands stripping off his clothes until he had on nothing but his boxers. “What the fuck, you fucking pervert!” he shouted at him, and Saul laughed.
“My son must jack off at least fifteen times a day. He can only cum while looking at gay porn featuring older hairy men, or while watching his father jack off or have sex with another man.”
“You’re fucking sick.”
Saul chuckled, “You’re in my house now, son,” Saul said, “I swore that I’d never put someone through what my dad did to me, but you know what? Fuck it. Because you’re a fucking brat, and someone needs to teach you a fucking lesson, and who better than your dad?”
“You can’t make me, I’ll just fucking leave!”
Saul turned to the list, “My son can’t leave home without my explicit permission.”
Blake pushed past him, but his hand couldn’t grab the knob for some reason. Saul laughed, pushed Blake back, and said, “I’m going out–see you in a few hours. You might want to get started, or you aren’t going to be sleeping tonight, son–I got plenty of old mags you can use under my bed, since I don’t have a computer.”
Blake spent a few more minutes trying to get out of the apartment, and trying to ignore his rock hard cock. Finally he started stroking himself, but just like the rule said, he found it impossible to shoot–he was only rubbing himself raw trying to think about women. Finally he relented, dug around under his father’s filthy bed and found a box full of gay porno mags. Most of them were well used–their pages crinkled with who knew how many of his father’s loads, but looking at the burly, hairy, fat men in the magazines let him finally start pumping out load after load of cum–shooting on his father’s bed and pillows out of spite. After ten or so loads, his arms aching, he heard the door to the apartment open, his father laughing drunkenly with some other guy. Terrified that someone might see him, he fled his father’s room, clutching a magazine and dashed to the bathroom, but the more he listened to his dad and the man talk and grunt outside the door, the harder he got, and the more curious he became.
Unsure if he could stop himself or not, he opened the door and slipped out into the hall. Saul had left his door open–his dad was fucking some other man on the bed, a man as fat and hairy as the men Blake had been staring at all evening, and he wrapped his hand around his cock and continued.
He shot twice before the man heard him, looked over and saw Blake in the doorway, letting out a yell.
“What the fuck! Who the fuck’s the kid?”
Saul looked over, “Oh, sorry. That’s my son–he’s a bit of a pervert. He loves watching me fuck.”
“That’s fucking disgusting,” the man said, “I’m getting out of here!”
He grabbed his clothes and pushed passed Blake on his way to the front door, shooting him a look of disgust Blake had never imagined might be directed his direction in his life. He just sat in the hallway, his dad padding to the doorway, stroking his still hard cock, “Now who’s the pervert, son?”
“F-Fuck you.” His eyes were locked his his father’s cock, and he jacked off again, watching his dad stroke himself off as well.
“Have a good night son,” Saul said, and stepped back into the bedroom, “Hope you won’t be up too much longer now–we have quite a few more rules to discuss in the morning.”
Bracken's Corner 