Hello! So this was originally a story split up into five different chapters. I had four chapters uploaded, and a fifth in progress of writing when I had to go scorched earth due to personal reasons. As most of the chapters were not particularly long, I've just amalgamated them into two large chapters, and this time, it's finished.
I hadn't finished writing the fifth chapter, though thankfully, I remembered how I wanted to finish the story, so I can only hope you enjoy this all the way to the conclusion. I have no idea how long this story will be on this site regarding pages, but on Microsoft Word, it was 82 pages and over 43000 words, before splitting it into at least two parts, so I can only assume there's going to be quite a few!
All characters and acts of a sexual nature occur with characters 18+.
Hope you enjoy it. Feedback / comments appreciated as always.
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Chapter 1.1
They were arguing again. They always seemed to argue nowadays whenever he was home. And, unfortunately, I got used to it growing up. It wasn't every night, as he travelled a lot for work, but I learned at an early age that dad had a temper. Or he was just an arsehole. While I was on the receiving end sometimes, it was nothing compared to my poor mother.
I guess I need to give the pair of them some context. My father is 44 years old, about 6'2 but isn't what I would call intimidating as he was tall but lean. But to my mother, who is a foot shorter, he would be intimidating through height alone. Mum had just recently turned 40 years old and made a bantamweight boxer look like a heavyweight. She wasn't scrawny or too thin, but even I towered over her though I was only 5'10 myself. I didn't inherit my fathers' height, but years of rugby had certainly broadened me. Not that anyone would dare call me 'stocky' to my face.
I took up rugby for a specific purpose. To not be intimidated by larger or bigger men. When you're one of the smallest players on the pitch, with guys who are 6'4 and built like a brick shithouse running at you at full pace, you can only do one thing. Meet them with equal force. Sure, I came off the field bleeding numerous times, had a concussion or two, but I'd proven myself over the years. My teammates loved me because I never backed down, always the first to get into the ruck and maul, and never afraid to trade blows with someone who towered over me.
So years of rugby had definitely toughened me up. I was now 20 years old and worked as a mechanic. I loved getting my hands dirty, pulling apart engines, learning how machines worked. Not that my father encouraged me. It all came from my mother. She was the one who constantly showed me support through school, always encouraging me to try and do new things. She was the one who always drove me to rugby training during the week, and to games on a Saturday, standing on the sideline through bitterly cold winters, always cheering me on. She was the one who helped me with homework and my studies, and was the drive for my own self-improvement.
I love my mum.
But I was always left the feeling my father resented me. I think he may have been jealous of the attention my mother gave me. I think he was just a jealous and petty man, understanding from an early age that he wanted little to do with me, barely acknowledging my presence at times. No matter what, my mother raised me right in how to act and be a man.
However, all through my childhood years of living in that household, they constantly bickered. I had no idea if that was what other married couples did, but the older I got, the worse the relationship between my father and mother. I asked friends, and they suggested they were staying together until I was 18. Well, it was two years past and they were still together. And they still fought.
Once I hit 18, I thought I should start involving myself. I never saw my father raise a hand in anger, but I've walked into the room more than once to find him stooped over my mother, a finger in her face, as he accused her of all manner of things. She'd returned to work once I hit high school and he was adamant she was having an affair with someone. All this despite the fact she only worked part-time, was still at home when he left for work and was usually home by the time I'd finished school.
I often wanted to approach mum and ask her why she didn't leave him. But it wasn't my place. I'd walked into the kitchen to see her in tears more times than I cared to remember. The only thing I could do was give her a hug each time. She appreciated the gesture. Once or twice, maybe more, definitely more, she'd knocked on my door and crawled into bed with me, simply looking to get away from the man she was supposed to love. And all because he was either jealous or... I'm not entirely sure...
Well, if I was to give him a modicum of understanding, there is the reason of my fathers' supposed jealousy. My mother is gorgeous. Brunette hair without a streak of grey. Ocean blue eyes that even I can't help admit add to her beauty. A cute little nose and full lips that any man would want to kiss. She looked after herself with exercise and yoga, with small B-cup breasts and a tight little arse... Shit, this is my mother I'm talking about, but I'm sure you've now gathered that even her own son sees her as an attractive woman.
I sat back in my chair as I heard the shouting increase. Mum gave as good as she got some nights, but more often than not, the longer time went on, the fight was going out of her. How she didn't show the stress of the situation, particularly on her face, boggled my mind. Still as youthful as ever, I always told her, which just made her smile and that nearly melted my heart, knowing what she went through. He was accusing her of wasting money tonight. Un-fucking-likely, considering he controlled nearly all the money that came into the household from the pair of them.
I'll be honest, there were only two reasons I still lived at home. One, trying to live by myself as a single man was next to impossible on my wage, and most of my friends were living with their own girlfriends. Two, I was terrified of leaving my mother alone with him. I didn't think their relationship would suddenly improve once I was out of the picture. I was very rarely the topic of arguments nowadays. He pretty much ignored my existence entirely, which suited us both fine.
His voice continued to rise and I sighed, feeling frustration bubble up inside. "That's enough," I said quietly to myself. I'd interrupted before and it never ended well. Usually I'd end up arguing with him, but at least that took some of the pressure off Mum. I got to my feet and strode down the hallway. Dad was on his feet, leering over my mother, who was sat timidly on the couch, as he continued to heckle her. I simply strode towards him and moved myself between him and her. He looked stunned by my appearance.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he demanded.
"You're going to stop yelling at her," I stated calmly, feeling anything but inside.
His jaw actually dropped, stunned further that I'd had enough. Then his eyes narrowed. "Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me what to do in my own home?"
He may have had a good couple of inches on me in height but I was broader. The day where we would come to blows was approaching. It wouldn't be tonight. I didn't particularly want to give him the pleasure of a fight. But I also didn't know what I'd do to him once I did actually hit him. Years of anger and frustration were building up inside.
"I'm your son, if that means anything to you. And the woman you're yelling at behind me is your wife and my mother. And I'm tired of hearing you yell at her. Give it a rest."
"And what are you going to do about it?"
I stepped forward until I was barely inches from his face. "Oh, trust me, I know you want me to take a swing, give you an excuse to kick me out. I won't give you that much satisfaction. But I warn you. One day I won't need your so-called hospitality, and then it's going to be on like Donkey Kong."
"Mark, don't," Mum said quietly behind me.
"Shut up," my father yelled.
I lifted a warning finger to his face. He grabbed it and attempted to bend it back. I simply laughed in his face. My strength exceeded his. I noticed his other hand ball into a fist. "Go on, tough guy. Take a swing. Do it. Because, I tell you what, that will be the only swing you'll ever take at me," I warned.
He let go of my finger. "I suggest you fuck off now."
I held back the 'Or what?' Instead, I gestured behind me. "Mum, get to your feet. We're going out."
