Summary: Two years after Milo leaves for college, Vincent pays him an unexpected (and unremembered) visit or two.

Word count: 2,200

Click for content warnings:

Explicit rape/noncon, father/son incest, stalking, transphobia, misogyny, breeding kink/attempted impregnation.

Open Windows of Opportunity

Vincent isn't a halfwit; he knows full-well that his course of action is reprehensible.

He is aware that this relationship has been morally corrupt since its inception, and that his son had every right to move away while declaring that they will never see each other again.

No father should court his teenage son. He shouldn't kiss him on the lips, suck on his tongue, fondle his breasts, tickle that ambrosial mound between his legs... And no son should allow it.

Milo shouldn't have encouraged him. The boy had no reason to entertain Vincent's fancies, and should never have come onto him. He never should have lain back and invited Vincent to get on top, urge him to finish inside--and yet he did. It's not natural, but Vincent has a thing or two to say about unnatural things concerning Milo.

Regardless, Vincent loves his son; loves the boy's body with its plump cunt and sharp curves and fat tits that never fail to make him so impossibly stiff. It's the boy's fault for being so goddamned breedable that Vincent could never keep his hands off him.

Even as a grown man--two-decades-old already; my, how time flies--Vincent can see the lingering softness of Milo's youth. He's barely any taller, and his chest is flatter simply because attending the gym is now part of his daily routine. But, whenever he removes his bindings, his breasts still drop and bounce with a smoothness that makes Vincent's mouth water.

"You're still my little girl," Vincent whispers into Milo's ear. The boy, of course, doesn't answer; he never does. Just like he never locks the bathroom window.

It's crass and uncouth, yes. Ungainly, to fold his long body through the small window above the bathtub after dark.

He is fortunate that Milo has grown dependent on sleep medication, and how easy it is to tweak the dosage to Vincent's benefit.

Rather than the cheaply thrifted bed he sleeps on, Vincent picks up the boy and moves him to the living room couch, where he lays him back once he's removed the threadbare clothing. Here, he can turn on the evening news while he gets down to business.

Undressing and laying on top of Milo, Vincent presses his limp penis into that deliciously tight cunt, where it will stay for as long as this takes.

He plays with his tits for the first half of the program, fondling and sucking and squeezing as if they were nothing more than toys for him to relieve stress with. And that's what Milo should be: his custom-made, self-lubricating fleshlight, equipped with a warm pulse, and a smidge too tight. The boy's cunt is agonizingly irresistible.

Vincent has tried sleeping with Sadie again; in-vain attempting to convince his wife to try for another child. Maybe hitting her from behind while blissfully unwrapped would do the trick.

He has perused debutantes and their not-yet-ready sisters from households desperate to be in favor with the Wright family, but none of them held him under this cataclysmic a spell. Milo's body is such a powerful siren call that Vincent cannot believe he's being forced to drug and rape his son in order to climax at all.

He does wish he could hear Milo's moans. His sounds are always so sweet when tinged with desperation he tries so hard to obscure. Desperation laden with guilt; his whines the taut string of a bow tasked with suffocating an already ignited canon.

Maybe he'll bring a tape recorder for the next time the boy pleasures himself or brings someone home.

"Look at the monstrous things you make me do, Milo," he purrs into his ear. "Feel how hard you still make me, even after all these years." It's only been two since he moved away for college, but it has felt like an eternity.

Despite this being an uncommon event--having to mindfully schedule work trips in ways that won't alert his wife to any suspicious behavior is a hellishly difficult task--Vincent likes to take his time, and lets his cock soak. He relishes in the shivers that race down his spine when his tongue caresses a nipple in a particular way that makes his penis react with slowly building interest.

He's addicted to the sensation of getting hard inside of Milo--a process that does not take too long once he's inserted himself, considering how much self-restraint it takes for Vincent to not pop an erection the moment the apartment is in view. The knowledge of leaking pre-ejaculate throughout the entire time further accelerates the process.

Like with every other step of this lovestruck ordeal, Vincent has to be careful. There is nothing in the world he wants more--absolutely nothing--than to get Milo pregnant. Every illicit encounter is driven by the fantasy of Vincent knocking him up, and then fucking him when he's too heavy to move while suckling on his milk-heavy breasts.

Oh, to make a housebroken housewife out of his son; to make him a proper mother, a proper lady with her head, heart, and cunt in the right place--in Vincent's hands, lap, bed, and on his cock.

Milo could still be a boy if he wants to, Vincent would never deny him that.

After all, it is part of the allure.

Vincent reaches to kiss Milo's cheek, his forehead, his soft and inviting mouth. He thumbs open his jaw to slip in his tongue for an unhurried yet starved caress.

God, Vincent longs for those seemingly endless make-out sessions from the time when he was teaching Milo how to kiss. The boy was so ravenous and forceful. His hands had been so bold, his eyes big and wet and shimmering with want.

There is only a hint of tarnish to Milo's appearance now, and Vincent knows it's his fault. He knows he's the reason the boy needs pills to sleep, and why he's so focused on his physique.

It's ironic how Milo's attempts to look more like a man have only made him into the spitting image of Vincent. He's a little more rugged than his father, sure, but Milo will never escape the delicate structures imposed on the Wright men's genetics. From Milo, to Vincent, to old Billy Wright, and the men who came before them—those deceptively feminine features have been and will continue to remain.

Vincent kisses the milky column of his neck, awash in the blue glow of the television screen.

"I know you miss me." He whispers the words against Milo's mouth, spreading the boy's thighs a little wider as his hips pull back a scant few inches, before pushing in again with a guttural groan. "Deny me all you want, but your body doesn't lie. No other cunt has sucked my cock in as greedily as yours does, Milo. I made you for me, and your body knows this on a biological level."

Vincent shuffles onto his knees and rests Milo's ass on his thighs, the position bulging his lower abdomen. His hands tremble as they grasp either side of the boy's hips.

The collision of their bodies makes Milo's tits bounce, and Vincent's ironclad control can only withstand so much temptation. There is no need to go slow anymore; he's done his soaking, his prick now hard enough cut diamonds. There is no one to impress with his strength of will, his forced casualness. No one to convince that he's in complete control over every one of his impulses, that Vincent Wright is a stalwart man, that he is above his instinctual drives.

He fucks his son with that same animal abandon he did on the day before he left Whitefish, when Milo held his legs wide open and begged Vincent to cum inside him. And Vincent did, and he's yet to cum as hard as he did that day, but there was something special about putting his boy in his mother's old skirt and fucking him in their marital bed, in the same position Vincent and Sadie made him in.

This is almost as good; forcefully taking what's rightfully his.

Milo is his, and Vincent nearly bites his own tongue to be ravishing the boy without his knowing. He's his father, and while he would argue that this is not rape because the boy is his property, he won't. It turns him on all the more.

Vincent lays him down flat and gets on top again, bends the boy's legs back for better access to that sinful cunt that he's so irreparably addicted to. He ploughs that pretty pink hole, that tight ring of muscle and those slick inner walls gripping and stroking his cock, begging it to pump every bit of seed sloshing in those balls right inside him and it is maddening.

He cannot. Fucking him without a condom already runs a terrible risk, especially with how generously his tip leaks. But this is what Milo does to him, what the boy does to his state of mind, to his body, his sex-drive, his biological instinct to breed. Vincent needs him more than he needs the air in his lungs, and it is Milo's fault with his slutty little figure and cocksucking lips and fat tits and even fatter cunt--that cross the wires in Vincent's brain, mixing pheromonal signals and making him so hard that it is impossible for him to contain himself.

"Fuck," Vincent whines, bouncing between his son's thighs, heavy balls clapping Milo's skin louder than the reporter's late-night droning on the screen. "You take it so good. You always make me feel so good."

There is such a thing as too good; and it is a state Vincent has pushed against, has taught himself to curb out of a deep-rooted fear that a mere taste will rob him of what it means to be in absolute control.

He can't help but laugh against the soft angle of Milo's jawline, a sound that is devoid of mirth to pave the way for a flash of resentment.

Everything Vincent has done for this boy, all of it, and this is all he gets in return: a one-sided fuck stolen in the dead of night.

Vincent thrusts into him a little harder, puts his back into each ramming slam because he can never get close enough, and because he knows that, come morning, Milo will feel the phantoms of having been mounted by a real man. His body will be enraptured by the memory of his father's cock returning home where it belongs, reminding the boy that Vincent will forever be the best he's ever had.

"Nobody fucks you like I can," he whispers, thoughts slipping, the world narrowing to his pistoning prick and his little girl's decadent cunt. "Nobody fucks it like the piece of meat you know it is. You want this. You want me, baby doll. You want--fuck, Milo, you want--"

Vincent's hips viciously snap forward—once, twice, three times, without his input. His body moves on pure instinct, burying itself deep as he unloads weeks of pent-up arousal inside of Milo's stunningly limp body.

He grunts through gritted teeth, every inch of muscle below his waist twitching and convulsing at the power of his release, thoughts momentarily blanking as he grinds against the pelvis underneath him, cock pumping, pumping, pumping.

"That's Daddy's good girl. My perfect little angel."

The programming eventually changes and Vincent remains inside, watching the imperceptible rise and fall of Milo's chest as the boy slumbers on, none the wiser.

Every time, Vincent worries he's misjudged the dose. Seldom does he allow himself the discomfort of envisioning the consequences if he'd had. He's already crossed enough lines.

Clean up is thorough but efficient. Vincent takes care of himself first, before redressing Milo and depositing him back in his bed. He doesn't wash him, simply brushes back his hair after he's tucked him in, like Vincent used to do before Milo declared himself too old for bedtime stories and the concept of parental affection.

He ponders what he should do with the copious amounts of semen inside him, and chooses to do nothing. Let the universe take charge of that one, he thinks to himself, kissing Milo's forehead before shutting the bedroom door behind him.

Vincent cleans up the living room, turning the sweat-crusted pillows to face the couch cushions. Milo truly lives the life of a college boy, right down to the disaster of his shoebox apartment that smells of unwashed gym socks.

It's an hour until sunrise, and his time is up. Milo will sleep for another two, and by the time he wakes, Vincent will be well on his way back to Montana.

But before he's to gracelessly clamber his way back out the bathroom window, Vincent unplugs the telephone line. A few missed calls and a late arrival for a shift won't be enough to get the boy fired, but it's a start.

Perhaps, if enough things go awry, Milo, too, will ultimately make his way home.