But Pete wasn’t really interested in one woman–he wanted all of them. He wasn’t much of a looker though, and so he usually had to settle for women a bit older, with the sort of reputation you didn’t want your son associating with. Harry and Patricia tried their best to get him to find a nice, younger girl, but Pete seemed determined to be a bachelor. Before Harry had really been able to tell that any time had passed at all, his son was eighteen, two inches taller than he was, broad of shoulder and big of fist, working alongside him and Wilbur at the factory. He couldn’t have been prouder of him, in all honesty, he had turned into the exact kind of rough, manly sort of son he could have wanted. They still wrestled even, but now his son had a height and a weight advantage, and Harry noticed something else–that his son seemed to get an erection every time he pinned him to the ground, grinding his cock against his ass until his father was crying uncle. Then, one day, when he’d expected to walk in on Wilbur and Patricia fucking in the afternoon, he discovered, instead, Wilbur and his son wrestling in the bedroom, naked, his son pinning Wilbur to the ground and fucking him rough–Harry had never seen anyone fuck Wilbur. Wilbur had only ever fucked him, and seeing his son top him…he didn’t know what he felt, exactly. Jealousy, envy. He grew a bit distant from Wilbur after that, and then the accident, and all those nights stuck in the hospital, spent wondering who Wilbur was fucking with that night. His wife? His son? Both of them? He could just slide into his place and take over…and why not? Wilbur was a better man than him. Hell, Pete was a better man than him, especially after the accident, when Harry could barely walk. When Harry couldn’t even get hard anymore.
He couldn’t fight it. He knew it wasn’t right, he knew he was letting this man, this thing, whatever Mr. Elroy was, ruin his life, and the life of his son, but he couldn’t stop him. He was weak. He’d been weak ever since that day, ever since fate had pushed him in front of that machine, ever since his entire future had been ripped away from him. But Pete–Pete could have been something too. He was a good boxer, when he fought fair and followed the rules, but the visions followed him. Followed him into a little single wide trailer, where he smoked, drank, and masturbated himself to sleep every night–jacking off to porn–men, women–it didn’t matter as long as he imagined himself on top. The factory closed, and he had to struggle for work, and while he was a good worker–he had issues with authority. He had his ass booted from one job after another. He just couldn’t work well with anyone else, and Harry could see his son’s potential withering down and dying on the vine, until now, here he was, working as a truck driver–sometimes–still living in that same trailer, still drinking and smoking and masturbating, no longer even caring about being anything more than that. It was horrible, but what else could he have possibly been? There should have been more. Harry knew there had been more, but the spell was closing, the life was sealed, and he was back in his recliner, wishing his tears weren’t dried up now, and staring at his new, familiar son sitting to his side.
He was…massive. He hadn’t been taking up that much of the sofa before, but Harry couldn’t quite tell it was simply a question of his son’s size, or just his demeanor. The years…well they hadn’t really been kind to either of them, he supposed, but the last really clear memory he had of his boy was back in his early twenties, strapping, heavily muscled, the smell of heavy gym musk and cigar smoke trailing behind him, always giving Harry a bit of a stiffy whenever he was nearby. But now–another thirty years beyond that…well, time had taken it’s toll on him, or rather, Mr. Elroy had.
As a single man, and one who had never been very interested in home economics, most of what Pete ate was junk–fast food, snacks, microwave dinners. He hadn’t been back to the gym in almost twenty years, but he still ate like he was lifting weights every day–the result was that he’d blown up to 350 pounds, or hell, maybe even more, a thick, soft gut hanging down between his wide thighs. He was wearing a pair of ragged shorts, marred with quite a few cum stains–the same with the t-shirt he had on, which had grease spots, cum shots, and sweat stains under the armpits and moobs. His beard and hair had grown long and tangled, both of them pulled into quick ponytails, and when he shifted the cigar in his mouth, Harry saw he was missing a number of teeth–some from ancient bar fights, and others had just started rotting out of his mouth lately. “Damn Pa, ain’t a bad place, gotta say–sure beats the ol’ trailer I got! Maybe I oughta move in wit’ ya.”
“Maybe one day, Pete,” Mr. Elroy said as he gave him a light tap on his shoulder, and Pete’s head slumped forward into a deep sleep. He caught the cigar as it fell and twirled it in his fingers, and stood back up, looking at Harry, who couldn’t peel his eyes away from his son. “What do you think? He’s just the kind of stupid, worthless, disgusting brute a failure like you would raise, don’t you agree Harry?”
Bracken's Corner 