The man in his bed pulled his head back up and looked at him–and he saw it now. He’d changed, like everyone did, but it was him. The cheeks were rounder, he had tattoos on both shoulders, and he was much, much hairier than he’d been before, but it was him. It was his own fucking dad. He tried to piece together the night before, tried to remember anything about how this could have happened, but it…wasn’t there. That wasn’t uncommon, really. Usually he half-recalled what happened the night before, while he was in the bar, but the more he changed inside, the less he became himself, the less he remembered the next day. After all, the person who’d done it didn’t exist anymore, except in the bar, he supposed. The only night he remembered was that first one. Everyone remembered the first one, forever. He’d have dreams sometimes, when he hadn’t been to Pigtown for a while. It would be like he was back there again, and when he woke up from them, sheets soaked in cum…he knew he wouldn’t sleep right until he went back again.
“No–that couldn’t have been you, it…he was so big, and…and fuck, his cock…smelled so good, feeding me his ash…” Ashford was rocking gently now, lost in the memory of the night before–the night he’d never be able to forget, and a night Carter would never be able to remember. Carter didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do, so he did what he would have wanted, what he hadn’t had anyone to do for him, the morning after that first time. He climbed into the bed with him, and pulled him close, into a hug. Ashford tried to pull away for a moment, but then he shuddered, and started sobbing into Carter’s chest.
It was not the sort of position he was expecting. He had never seen his father cry, not even at the funeral for Carter’s grandmother. He held him awkwardly for a while, waiting for him to collect himself. He calmed down slowly, sobbing less, and sighed. “You…smell like him still. You smell good.”
Carter pushed him away then, not at all comfortable with his father saying something like that to him. “Dad, what the fuck were you doing there last night?” he asked, getting off the bed, “How the fuck did you even find Pigtown?”
“I fucking followed you is how!” he said, “I’ve been worried sick about you. You think I couldn’t tell something was wrong with you?” He shook his head, and then said, “What…was that place?”
“I know the fucking name of the place! What the fuck…what the fuck did it do to me?”
Carter didn’t really have a good answer to that one. His dad was the first person he’d met who had gotten in without…wanting to get in.
“What…the fuck did it do to you?” his dad asked, looking over at him, “You were…huge. And…”
Carter was happy his dad didn’t finish the thought. He had zero interest in hearing about how he had fucked with his father the night before, and who he’d been when he’d done it.
“Look, you’ll feel better when you get some food in you, alright? Then…then we can talk about it,” Carter said, and headed for the door, “and…I’m sorry. You were never supposed to know about any of this.”
Carter had left the room and was out of earshot, and so he didn’t catch his dad’s soft reply, “Don’t be sorry…I…I wanted it.” Ashford hugged his legs to his chest, and fought the urge to start crying again. Why could he remember it all so well? He’d been so drunk, and yet, so clear headed at the same time. He’d wanted everything, all of it. He’d begged for it. He reached around and felt his back, certain he’d feel welts there, but there weren’t any. Checked his shoulder, where he could still feel the sting of that bear’s cigar burning into him, but nothing. He was untouched, mostly. At least, all the pain he could remember–there wasn’t a literal scratch on him. Maybe…it had been a dream, or partly a dream, because this was real. He threw his legs out of the bed and stood up. Even without a mirror, he could see he was different–not as different as he had been in the bar, after those three leather bears had dragged him inside and forced him to drink and smoke all that stuff with them, before he’d ended up in the backroom with him, with Carter–or at least, with the brute Carter had been.
As unfamiliar as this was though…it felt right. He could remember how he’d been before this, but he could remember this new body better. He went into the bathroom, feeling like he was going to puke again, but didn’t–he would have felt better if he had, he thought. He wanted it out of him, all of this, he didn’t want to remember that, he didn’t want to be in this body, he didn’t…want to keep thinking about how fucking sexy his son was, and contriving ideas to get him to fuck him again, maybe while he was smoking a cigar. Maybe he’d even feed him his ash, if he asked nicely…