Sins of the Son: Through Ben's Eyes

"Get your ass in the house!"

Dad's voice hit me like a linebacker, sharp and pissed, cutting through the clanking mess of the truck's engine. I kept my head down, slouched in the driver's seat, the steering wheel still warm under my palms. The truck sounded like it was dying; this loud, thunderous clank rattled out every couple seconds, mocking me. Shit. I knew it wasn't just the dented hood or the busted fender. Something deep inside was fucked, and that meant Dad was gonna lose it even more.

I slid out slow, his eyes burned into me from across the yard. My sneakers hit the gravel, and I could already tell he was done with my bullshit. Usually, I'd play it off. Keep my head low for a couple days, let him cool off, then go back to doing whatever. But the way he stomped toward me, fists clenched, I knew this wouldn't blow over. Not this time.

"You better get in there," he growled, right behind me as I shuffled toward the house. I didn't even glance back at the truck. No point. I'd seen the damage when I limped it home, Amy's dad screaming at me on the side of the road still ringing in my ears.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I said once we were in the kitchen, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. I tried to look sorry, really sell it, but his face didn't soften. His eyes were hard, like I'd spit in his coffee instead of wrecking his truck.

"You're damn right you're sorry, a sorry sack of crap, this son of mine." He slammed a cupboard door so hard the hinges rattled. I flinched. He was digging for something--probably that emergency whiskey he kept stashed somewhere. The whiskey that I'd finished with Mark and Ryan last weekend.

"It was an accident, Dad, honest."

"Don't you lie to me, boy, not tonight," he snapped, banging another cupboard. "I've already been on the phone with Amy's dad. He told me exactly what happened after he picked up his daughter from a car wreck on the side of the goddamn road. You sure you wanna go with that accident crap?"

I dropped my head. Busted. No point in arguing--he had me cold.

"How many times did I tell you not to go crazy with my truck?" His voice was rising now, and he stepped closer, chest bumping mine like he dared me to push back. "How many times did I tell you it's our only means of supporting ourselves? I loaned you that truck, knowing you're a big show-off dick in front of your girl. I knew this would happen. I just knew it. And it did."

"Dad, I'm sorry. Really." I tried to sound like I meant it, but it felt weak even to me.

"How the fuck will your sorry ass being sorry put food on this table?" he roared. "Without that truck, I can't get any more jobs. We'll lose the clients I already have to Brad. His team's been chomping to take over the few clients who'd been loyal to us. Now, they won't have a choice but to go with the big guys. Sorry, my ass!"

"I'll pay for it. I'll fix the truck, it's not that bad," I said, desperate to throw something out there.

"Oh, you sure are gonna pay for it," he said, his voice dropping low and dangerous, "and you're gonna pay for it tonight. Your freeloading days ended last week the day you turned eighteen. No more sliding out of things, paying off your debts with bullshit promises that go unfulfilled until they're forgotten."

My stomach flipped as he started unbuckling his belt. Oh, shit. He hadn't hit me since Mom died four years ago, and back then, it was just a swat or two when I'd really fucked up. Now? His hands were shaking, and his face was all twisted up. I didn't know what was coming, but it wasn't good.

"Dad, please," I said, my voice cracking a little.

He snapped the belt in his hands, and my eyes went wide. But then he dropped it on the floor, kicking off his boots instead. "I'm not gonna beat you," he said, stepping closer, "unless you force me to." His voice was thick with something I couldn't place--anger, yeah, but something else, too. "I'm so sick of your ass, paying for you, spending my hard-earned money on you, raising you, buying you all your damn video games, fuck. And all I get for it is a 'thanks, Dad!' and a basket of dirty laundry every Saturday."

I swallowed hard, my throat clicking dry. I took a step back. He took a step forward.

"I'll do my own laundry from now on," I said, locking eyes with him. I was pleading, sure, but I didn't get why he looked so... off. Like he wasn't just mad--he was done. "Dad?" I tried again, but he didn't say anything and just stared at me with this creepy calm.

"You know what I was thinking the other day," he said, his voice way too steady. It freaked me out. "I thought, why the fuck am I giving up my life for this kid? He's just gonna fuck off one day as soon as he gets one of his girls pregnant and leave me fending for myself. I've been sweating it these four years, keeping you fed and homed, and for what?" He stepped closer, crowding me. "For what?"

I froze. "Because I'm your son. You're my dad. Isn't that what dads are supposed to do?" It came out honest, not smart-assed like it might've sounded to someone else. That's how I saw it--him taking care of me was just... what happened.

"I signed a contract with the universe the day you were born," he said slow, like he was spelling it out, "that ended the day you turned eighteen, which--" he glanced at his watch, all dramatic, "--was last Wednesday."

"So, what? You're kicking me out now?" I yelled, panic making me bold. "Because of a busted-up truck?"

"Hell no." He yanked his shirt over his head, standing there bare-chested, sweaty hair matted to his chest, jeans sagging low. His arms flexed, thick from years of tree work, and then--smack--his hand cracked across my face. I stumbled, crashing into the little kitchen table. It skidded across the floor, slamming into the cabinets with a bang. My cheek stung, but it was the shock that floored me. I hit the linoleum hard, clutching my face, staring at nothing by his feet.

He walked over, looming above me. I couldn't move, couldn't think. My shirt had torn at the collar when I fell, and I just... stayed there, crumpled, staring up at him. He looked at me weird, like seeing me for the first time. My hair stuck to my forehead, sweaty from the drive, and I shoved it back, trying to meet his eyes. "Dad?" I asked again, freaking out.

He didn't answer, just kept staring. I hated how small I felt next to him--5'5" to his 6'3". I'd worked my ass off in the gym, on the field, trying to bulk up, but my bones wouldn't cooperate. Mom's genes, I guess--small nose, high cheekbones, shit I couldn't outlift. I squared my shoulders anyway, like it'd make a difference.

"How did I raise such a disappointment?" he said, and it cut deep. Then his hands went to his jeans, popping the buttons, and my brain shorted out. What the fuck?

"I was having a beer with old Willy the other day," he said, casual as all hell, like he wasn't stripping in front of me. "I was bitching to him about you, like you're my goddamn old lady. I told him, fucking son of mine can't even rinse a pan after making himself eggs that I bought and paid for." He shoved his jeans down, standing there in white briefs. I clutched my jaw, still reeling. "He looked me dead in the eye and said, 'Jim, that's bullshit.' And you know what? I agreed with him."

He leaned in so close I could smell him--sweat, beer, and something sharp. His fingers slid into my hair, yanking my head back hard. I gasped, my throat exposed, panic flooding my chest. "Look at me," he murmured.

I did. I couldn't not. "Dad, what's going on?" My voice shook. "I'll help out more," I blurted, "do the dishes, my own laundry, I'll cook for us--"

"You think I wanna eat the high-protein crap you survive on?" He yanked my head again, shoving me down to the floor. I hit the tiles, cold against my back, and then he was over me, his briefs inches from my face. The smell hit me hard--sweat, musk, a full day of work. I scrunched my nose, twisting away, but he held me there.

"Dad?" My voice was small now. "What are you doing?"

"Know what else old Willy said to me?" he asked, like we were just chatting. "He told me I had to force down respect. That kids these days won't respect you any other way. Got me thinking, and it's true, isn't it? You haven't respected me in a long time." He stared at me through dark eyes. "How many times have I told you not to race with the truck?" His voice sharpened.

My eyes stung. "Dad, I'll fix the truck for us, I promise."

"No, boy, your payback starts tonight. Right here, right fucking now." His grip tightened in my hair, and my whole body locked up. My chest heaved, shallow breaths I couldn't control. He dropped my head, and it cracked against the tiles--dull, heavy. Tears spilled out, hot and fast, and I couldn't stop them.

"All these years," he muttered, voice rough, "do you even know what it took to raise you?"

I coughed, curling in tight, arms around my ribs.

"You don't. You never did. I let shit slide after your mama died. Made excuses for you. Coddled you." His jaw clenched. "Should've been harder on you then. Maybe then you wouldn't be such a worthless little shit."

His foot swung--sharp, quick. I gasped, more shocked than hurt, curling tighter.

"Strutting around here after gym," he continued, "walking around in your underwear after a sweaty game like you owned the place. Even after I warned you, I said, 'Ben, you're looking more like your mama every day,' but you just kept on, not giving a shit like always."

Another swing, harder. I jerked up off the floor, then crumpled back. My hands shook.

"Dad--" I wheezed, but his heel slammed into my ribs, cutting me off. "Keep your mouth shut," he snarled.

I clawed at the tiles, gasping but didn't fight back. Couldn't.

"You think I had time to look after myself?" His voice rose. "Between work, keeping this dump running for you--who the fuck would want me? You think anyone would want a man saddled with a dead wife and an ungrateful little bitch for a son?" He spat on the linoleum kitchen tile next to me. "The least your mama could've done was leave me with a daughter," he spat. "At least then I'd have someone to take care of me. Instead, she saddled me with your sorry ass."

My breath came fast, shallow. He stood up, staring down at me like I was nothing. I tried to look away, to pretend this wasn't happening, but his hand grabbed my chin, forcing my face up.

"Don't cry now," he said, low and mean. "I'm about to give you something to cry about."

"Dad, I'm sorry, please--let's go back. Let's go back to how things were," I begged, but he just curled his hands in my hair and yanked.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" He hauled me up, dragging me toward the hall.

I kicked and clawed at his grip, howling, but he didn't even flinch.

"Howl harder, bitch. Night's just getting started," he said, and his voice freaked me out more than his hands.

My heels caught on the carpet, banging against the walls as he dragged me to his room. My legs gave out when he threw me onto the bed, the old mattress groaning under me. I scrambled to sit up, but he was already hooking his thumbs into his briefs, shoving them down. His cock sprang free, hard and wet, and my stomach flipped.

"You know," he said, almost thoughtful, "the last person I fucked in this bed was your mama." He ran a hand over himself, breathing hard. "Only fitting the next one's gonna be her son. Do you reckon your asshole will be tighter than hers?"

I broke then, sobbing out loud, wiping my eyes even though I knew he hated it.

Slap

--his hand cracked across my face, the sound bouncing off the walls. My head rocked back, hitting the headboard, and he smiled like he liked it. So he did it again, harder, and I stared at him, dazed, tears mixing with snot.

"You're wearing way too much clothes for someone who's about to give up his ass to his daddy," he said. I flashed to my first time--, fumbling with some girl, horny and awkward, barely lasting a minute.

"Tell your pa, how old were you when you first fucked a girl?"

"I can't remember," I stuttered, sniffling.

His eyebrows shot up. "Can't remember, you say," he muttered, almost impressed. "Kids these days." He grabbed my jeans, yanking them down. I panicked, clutching at them, curling up tight, but he smacked me upside the head--hard. The fight drained out of me, and I covered my face as he ripped my jeans and boxers off, sneakers too.

I curled away from him on the bed, but I could feel his eyes on my ass. He didn't care about the front--just that hole. He leaned over and tore my shirt in half, ripping it off me completely. I was naked now, sprawled out, shaking.

He slapped my ass, hard. "You know," he said, "if I squint real hard, it could almost be like I'll be fucking your mama's ass. At least that's something."

I howled into my arm, choking on it. What the hell had happened to my father. What happened to my life? What the fuck was happening?

My dad climbed onto the bed, his weight sinking the mattress. His hands grabbed my thighs, prying them open, spreading me wide. I tensed, trying to hide, but it was useless. His hand came down again--

crack

--and my skin burned, a red mark blooming fast.

"Almost like fucking your mama's ass," he muttered. "Close enough."

What the fuck? I buried my face in the bedspread, shaking. He yanked my legs wider, and I felt the air hit me, exposed, raw. He spat into his hand, slicking himself up quick, and I felt it. His cock pressed against me, hard and unrelenting.

"Stop squirming," he growled, grabbing my hips, fingers digging in. "Tighter than your mama, huh? Let's see how long that lasts."

I bucked, thrashing and kicking at the mattress. "Dad, please," I begged, voice cracking, but he pinned my wrists above my head, his weight crushed me down. I twisted, fought, but it just rubbed me against him, my ass grinding into his cock.

"Stay down," he snarled, and my thighs gave out, spreading wider. He pushed in--slow, brutal--and I screamed, high and broken, as he stretched me open.

"Fuck," he breathed, sinking deeper. "Hurts, don't it?" He grabbed my hair, pulling my head back to see my face twist. "Good. You'll feel every fucking inch I paid for."

He thrust again, harder, the bed creaking. My ass shook with every hit, sweat dripping off me. The smell--his smell, my smell--filled the air, thick and suffocating. I gasped into the sheets, trembling, every muscle fighting even though I couldn't win.

Crack--his hand slammed down on my ass, the sting sharp, my flesh bouncing. "Hurts," I gasped, arching.

"Then beg," he said, low in my ear. "Beg me to stop, you little bitch."

I twisted, panting, gripping the sheets. "P-please... Dad... stop..." It came out weak, pathetic, between sobs.

"Too fucking late." He slammed in deep, bottoming out, his hips flush against me. "You're mine now--every fucking inch of this fat, pretty ass."

Smack

--another slap, and I howled, the pain ripping through me.

He didn't stop. Harder, faster, deeper, pinning me down, thrusting like he was carving me open. "Hurts," I mumbled, voice wrecked. "Fuck, hurts--"

"You can take it," he panted, yanking my hair. "Bitch boy that you are."

It eased up a little, the burn turning slick, but still tight, gripping him as he slammed in. He grabbed my knee, swinging my leg over his shoulder, stretching me wide. His mouth hit my thigh--hot, wet--and I gasped, startled. From here, I felt my cock twitch, moving with every thrust. I didn't know how it could react like this, but it was... there, thick, flushed.

He grinned, watching it flop against my stomach, wet and obscene. "Open your eyes," he growled, but I squeezed them shut.

Smack

--his hand hit my ass, then twisted my nipple sharp. My eyes flew open, a cry tearing out of me.

Those eyes of his--dark, wild--locked on mine. "Things are gonna change around here," he panted, slamming deeper. "This is just the start."

I gasped, ragged, as he hit something inside me--deep, electric. My cock jumped, swelling, a choked sound spilling out.

"Are you gonna come on my cock?" he laughed, nails dragging down my ribs. "You are, aren't you? Don't fight it. You know you want to come on your dad's cock."

My face burned, shame crashing into something else. My hand slipped down, shaking, desperate, and--fuck--once, twice, I came, hot and messy across my stomach, gasping as my body clenched around him.

He groaned, slamming in one last time, bursting inside me, hot and endless. "That's it," he muttered, pushing deeper.

He collapsed on me, breathing hard. "Things will be different from now on," he said against my skin. "You'll be waiting for me. This ass--mine to come home to. You get that, don't you?"

I shivered beneath him, silent. He kept going. "I won't expect you to work, but you'll keep house for me. When I get home, this place'll be tidy. Food waiting. And after that, your ass in the air, ready to take me to heaven."​​

He got up, grabbed my phone, snapped pictures--seven of them. Used my face to unlock it, changed the code, the passwords. "This is my phone now," he said. "Everything on there is mine. Disappoint me again, and I'm posting these to your socials, tagging all your girlfriends. Understand?"

"Yes, Dad," I whispered, horrified.

He kicked me off the bed. I hit the carpet hard, curling up. "This is a man's bed," he said. "You sleep on the ground until you become one."

I stayed there, broken, staring at nothing, while he looked down at me like he'd finally won.