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Malcolm stood in his father’s cell, feeling just as caged as the man standing across from him. His father’s restraints, the belt and tether, weighed heavily on him, though surely not as heavily as they did on Martin himself.
He paced, a little, his hands spasming and he knew his father could tell he was agitated. What he’d come for, however, was so outlandish that he was having a hard time communicating it.
“What’s wrong, son?” came Martin’s gentle voice, pitched to be soothing. Malcolm wondered idly if he’d used that voice on his victims, to lull them into a false sense of security. It didn’t help. Neither did the son.
Malcolm stopped his fussing and stood as close as he dared, twenty-seven inches over the line where his father’s tether would stop him. Far enough to be out of reach. It was a precipice, one marked on the floor but no less deadly than a cliff’s edge. His skin tingled, electric, at the idea that if he just took one step further…
Humanity always had longed for that extra step. That morbid urge to jump beat inside every chest.
His hands jerked and he stuffed them into his pockets. “I’ve been talking to my therapist again,” he said, not quite meeting his father’s eyes. He knew Martin’s opinion on the therapist and it wasn’t a positive one.
As expected, Martin’s smile grew forced. “Oh? Did you tell her you’ve been coming to visit again? That we’ve reconnected?”
“No,” he said flatly. “Not yet, anyway. But I think she suspects.”
“Mm,” was all that his father said but he could see the fear in him. His father was afraid that his therapist would tell him to cut off contact. Again.
He wanted to reassure his father that he wasn’t leaving, not again, but he didn’t know if he could because he wasn’t sure if it would be a lie. So instead he said, “I’ve been having nightmares.”
“I know,” Martin replied and Malcolm could hear the pain in his father’s voice, like the man wanted to kill his nightmares for daring to exist and trouble him.
“My therapist says that the only way that they’re going to stop is if I confront my fears. That’s why I’m here.”
Malcolm stood as still as he could, which was not very still at all, and made as firm of eye contact as he could manage. He watched the hurt blossom in his father’s eyes.
“You can’t possibly...you know I would never, never hurt you, right?” Martin said, his face etched with pain and fear and sadness and, around the edges, the slightest bit of anger.
Malcolm rolled that over in his mind, testing it, tasting it for truth. He wanted to immediately say that, yes, he knew that, but it had been years since he and his father had been close and solitude can change a man. Plus, he couldn’t pretend that Martin didn’t have a temper. Eventually, he nodded. “I know you wouldn’t.”
The look of relief on his father’s face brought tears to his eyes, stinging and harsh.
“Then,” his father started but paused, as if analyzing him in return, eyes darting over his body, taking in the little details. The nicer-than-usual clothes, the hair combed more neatly. Martin inhaled, slowly, surely catching the scent of his cologne, cologne that he almost never wore and certainly hadn’t when their visits had been common, so many years ago. Softly, his father asked, “Then what are you doing here?”
“I came to ask you a favor,” Malcolm replied, watching his father, always watching. The subtle shift of how he held his weight, the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he ran his teeth over the inside of his bottom lip. He knew his father would say yes, he’d known since he was seventeen that his father would say yes, should he ever ask.
Martin looked polite and patient and even welcoming to whatever the request may be but there was still that undercurrent of fear. Malcolm hated that he’d done that, that he’d put fear into the heart of a man who was so confident, so self-possessed. His father smiled and said, “Well?”
His hands spasmed. He couldn’t do this. It was dangerous and, furthermore, it was depraved. Surely his therapist hadn’t meant to go this far when she’d said to face his fears but, then, he hadn’t been telling her the whole truth about his nightmares.
He thought of all the nights he spent crying and thrashing, the fact that he hadn’t truly slept in months, the uselessness of the prescriptions he’d been given for his insomnia, the sheer volume of underwear and pajama pants that he’d thrown away out of disgust, disgust with himself and his sick mind, and he found that he was pacing again, breathing rapidly, heart rate elevated and that his father was watching him with a look of loving concern that made him ache in all the wrong places.
A sound of frustration tore from his throat and he forced himself to stop, to step right up to the place where his father couldn’t quite reach him.
This was a precipice, just as surely as any other. Once the words left his mouth, regardless of his father’s answer (he would say yes, Malcolm knew), things would change between them.
Deliberately, defiantly, Malcolm took one step forward. Then another. With his third step, his father stepped back, confused momentarily, then surged forward, cupping his face in his hands. His father’s eyes searched his and he laid his shaking hands on his father’s forearms and squeezed.
“Malcolm,” his father murmured, stroking his cheeks, pulling him close. The sheer, unbridled joy in Martin’s voice tore at his heart. They hadn’t touched in ten years and, back then, it had usually been a clasping of hands through bars.
He’d missed the feeling of his father’s skin, the warmth of it, the comfort. He nuzzled against his father’s palms and before he could rethink it, he said, “Take me.”
Martin went still. Completely still. Face buried in his shoulder, his father said, “What?”
“Please. I’ve dreamt of you every night and I...I can’t rest. Please.” He let his misery and desperation pour into his words. “I need this.”
Daring himself because, what the hell, he’d laid his cards on the table and all that was left was to see what his father was holding, Malcolm moved his hand from his father’s chest, where it had been resting, ready to push him away if necessary, to his father’s cock, which was hard, so hard.
His father gasped and brushed his lips against his neck then pulled abruptly back, putting a step between them again. Martin looked...unsure...as his eyes darted all over Malcolm.
Malcolm let his father inspect him. He didn’t try to hide the way his fingers twitched, hungry to touch, or the way his pupils had dilated.
“I can’t do that,” his father said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince Malcolm, if not more.
“Please,” he repeated, mimicking the soft and honest tone his father had used on him to such great effect over the years.
His father shook his head. Quietly, so quietly that Malcolm barely heard it, his father said, “You would leave again, if I did.”
I’ll leave if you don’t. The words sat on his tongue, they would be so easy to say, to ensure that he got what he needed. It would be simple, to use his father’s fear as a weapon. But, no, he wasn’t that man. Instead, he said, “If you do this for me, I promise that I won’t leave because of it.” He took a step forward, bringing them toe-to-toe once more and looked imploringly up into his father’s eyes. “Help me.”
His father swallowed, hard, then nodded.
The wave of relief, of fear, of excitement that rushed through him was dizzying and his head spun so much that when his father cupped his face again and pressed their bodies together and kissed him, all he could do was sway and part his lips in invitation.
His father growled, a low, possessive sound, as their tongues brushed against each other, so tentative at first, tasting, testing, timid, until the slide was too much and Malcolm grabbed onto his father’s cardigan and tugged, hands twitching and crawling up the collar to push into his father’s silver-shot hair, not able to get enough of touching him, finally touching him.
When they broke to breathe, he tried to rush forward again immediately, only to be halted by his father’s hands on his chest.
Martin chuckled and, breathlessly, said, “Slow down, my boy.”
“I can’t,” he replied. His hands balled into fists at his sides. He sounded like a petulant child, he knew, and he felt like one, too.
His father looked at him with such tenderness and understanding that he wanted it over with and wanted it now.
***
His father’s fingers pushed into him, slick with lubrication pulled from one of the drawers of the desk that he was currently bent over. It wasn’t up against the bars, like in his dreams, but his father couldn’t reach the bars while on the tether.
“How -- ah -- how do you have Astroglide?” he asked, trying to keep his mind focused, trying not to give in to his father’s tender ministrations.
Martin chuckled. “It would be cruel and unusual to deny me my...solitary pleasures, don’t you think?”
He nodded, that made sense, he supposed, and it wasn’t as if his father was lacking resources. His jail cell was more of an office than anything else, after all.
Quieter, unsure if he really wanted the answer, he asked, “Do you ever think of me?”
“Oh, Malcolm,” his father said, pushing fingers in deeper, leaning down to kiss his bare shoulder. “I’m always thinking of you.”
He shook his head, locking his legs in place, refusing to spread wider, resisting the urge to present himself even though he’d been the one to cross the cell and drop his slacks and demand... “I meant when you’re enjoying your solitary pleasures,” he said.
His father brought his lips right down to his ear and whispered, “My beautiful boy, I am always thinking of you.”
He whimpered, arching his back, burying his face in his forearms. His father was always thinking of him? He’d suspected, over the years, that his father was attracted to him, but he’d always written it off as an intensity of love that crossed boundaries. To hear it admitted that, while that was surely the underlying cause, his father laid in his lonely cell and came thinking of him was entirely different. He moaned and relaxed, opening his body to his father’s touch.
“There’s a good boy,” his father said, pushing his fingers in deeper.
It was so like his nightmare but even his terror fell short of how talented his father actually was. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of an orgasm already, just from this, just from his father’s fingers sliding into him so gently.
A sob caught in his throat and the sound of it in his ears broke him and suddenly he was crying, covering his face with his hands, shoulders trembling, overwhelmed with need and shame.
Martin’s touch stilled immediately. “Malcolm?”
He couldn’t reply, not when the loving concern in his father’s voice made his body tense, which his father could surely feel around his fingers.
“Malcolm, do you need me to stop?” his father asked and when the only reply was another shaking sob, he continued. “Let’s stop, alright?” His father began to slide his fingers out and Malcolm shook his head, back and forth, back and forth.
“Don’t,” he said, voice shaky and wet and high.
His father sighed a small sigh and kissed him on the back of his head. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong, hm?”
Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out that loving concern that tore him apart and failing utterly. “I…” He sobbed, choked, pushed his fingers into his hair and pulled, grounding himself with the pain. “I didn’t want it to feel good.”
His father’s free hand whispered down his back before coming to rest on his ass, squeezing, opening him wider. His legs spread before he could catch himself.
“Did you think that I’d give you anything but pleasure?” his father asked. “I only want to make you happy, Malcolm. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I wanted to hate it.” His fists tightened in his hair, his frustration and anger and disgust with himself nearly overwhelming.
His father’s free hand moved to his, loosening his grip. “Shh, shh. It’s alright, son. What does Oscar Wilde tell us about temptation?”
“That the only way out is through,” Malcolm said numbly. He couldn’t remember the actual quote, not right then. His mind was getting fuzzy, from the adrenaline, from the pleasure, from it all.
“Close enough,” his father said with a chuckle. “You’re safe. Let me take care of you.”
He whined, arching his back, the threat of orgasm surging up once more, and he nodded, damn it all, he nodded and whispered, “Please, Dad.”
His father made a feral sort of sound and pushed his fingers into him, more roughly than before, but not too roughly, still more careful than any other lover Malcolm had had.
“How do you want it?” his father asked. “Do you want me to finish you like this?”
“Don’t ask,” he replied. “Just...be you. Do whatever it is you would do. If I tell you what to do, I’m just...guiding you through my subconscious. That won’t help anything.” He pushed himself up, turning to look at his father, his father that was still fully clothed, though his arousal was tenting his loose prison trousers. His father who was looking at him with infinite love and tenderness that didn’t quite completely mask the hunger underneath.
Serial killers universally have poor impulse control. They act on base need, driven by compulsion. The voice of one of his professors echoed in his head. He’d argued that point, then, and almost wished that that professor could see his father now, needs tightly caged, willing to forego his own pleasure to ensure his son’s.
“I…” Malcolm licked his lips. He stood, turning, looking up into his father’s eyes. His hands settled on the lapels of his father’s cardigan, focusing too much on the sensation of the yarn underneath his fingers. He tried not to be conscious of how naked he was, or how his father’s cell was under constant surveillance, or the obviousness of his own arousal. This footage would likely make it into his mother’s hands. That thought should’ve been sobering but it wasn’t.
He clenched his fists, gripping his father’s sweater, and said, “I want you to fuck me.” He paused, then added, “Dad.”
There was a moment, a crystalline instant, frozen and spinning, during which his father hesitated. Then Martin’s hands were at his waist, lifting him easily onto the desk, and his father was looming over him, overwhelming and large and comforting in his sheer, raw power, unfaltering and intense.
His father’s lips pressed to his, his father’s beard tickling and scratching against his skin, and he felt the head of his father’s cock against his entrance, teasing against the slickness of his hole that had been prepared so lovingly by his father’s fingers.
He felt so...empty. Empty. That was the only word to describe the feeling that had been living inside of him for so long, since his father had been taken away by the police, since his life had fallen apart and the man that he loved most in the world had no longer been a part of his world.
The yawning void inside of him cried out, a howl contained entirely inside of his ribs, echoing through his bones, then his father pushed inside of him and the pain, the ache, the emptiness was silenced.
Martin kissed his neck and murmured, “Are you alright?”
He couldn’t make the words come out, couldn’t explain that this was exactly what he needed, couldn’t articulate that the sweet stretch of his father’s cock entering him had broken the last of his self-imposed bonds, so he wrapped his arms around his father’s head, burying his fingers into silver-shot curls and nodded.
His father stayed that way, face buried in his neck, as he began his slow, careful rhythm. Gently, so gently, as Malcolm opened to take fractionally more of his father’s length with each rocking movement.
“You’re so tight,” his father breathed, pride in his voice. Pride? Yes, it was pride. “You’ve never done this before,” his father added, not a question, an awed statement.
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t let…” he gasped and gave up. His throat was constricted from fighting down moans, a battle he was losing and he knew it.
“...wouldn’t let anyone but your father do this to you,” Martin finished for him, still sounding amazed, and he nodded, there was no sense denying it.
“Yes.”
His father pushed himself up, gaze crawling all over his body like the slither of a thousand snakes, but he liked snakes, and he liked the sinuous crawl of his father’s leer as well. His father, having buried himself to the hilt in his trembling, willing body, let his hands trail over him, caressing Malcolm’s nipples, tracing the curve of his ribs, thumbing his jawline. His father stroked and petted until Malcolm bucked and whined, cock twitching, untouched and exposed, dripping onto his slender stomach.
“Such a good boy,” his father murmured, again, with pride in his voice. That pride made Malcolm feel so warm, so loved. He’d missed his father’s encouragement, the unflagging support of everything he did. “My good boy,” his father added and Malcolm moaned, shoving his own forearm into his mouth to muffle the sound, biting down to use the pain as something to focus on.
His father gave him a moment, then gently pulled his arm away, pinning it to the desk easily. His father’s other hand slid up his other arm, fingers closing around his wrist, pinning that one above his head as well. Martin’s hands were so much more comfortable than his restraints, so much warmer and kinder. Malcolm let his eyes flutter shut and focused on the sensations of it. His father’s hands holding him down, stopping him from hurting himself; the jangle of his father’s tether against the wall with each thrust, a sound so like that of his restraints during a nightmare; his father’s cock so deep inside of him, over and over, filling a void he hadn’t known that he had; the tenderness of his father, the gentle kisses, the quiet, huffing breaths.
He knew he was about to lose the fight he’d been waging against his encroaching orgasm. He blinked tears out of his eyes and wrapped his legs around his father’s waist, a wave of shame washing over him, bringing a blush to his cheeks.
That Oscar Wilde quote, the one his father was always tossing around to excuse the liberties that he took, was suddenly remembered, along with the rest of the passage to which it belonged.
The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.
His body tensed, trembling, his hands spasming in his father’s grip. “Dad,” he moaned, sounding more desperate than aroused.
“That’s it, Malcolm,” his father said, reassuring and calm, a soft smile on his face. His father leaned in, bringing their bodies together carefully, Malcolm’s arousal rubbing against the soft stomach above the tether belt. Martin moved both of his wrists into one hand and wrapped his free arm about Malcolm’s waist, holding him close. “Dad’s got you. I’m right here. You can let go. You’re safe.”
The dreamscape that lived inside of Malcolm’s mind collided with reality. The tightness around his wrists, the metallic clanging of the tether, the smell of his father in his nostrils as he nuzzled his face against his father’s neck, the gentle encouragement, the reassurances, the embrace, his father’s strong arms, his father’s warmth and love, his father’s cock…
“Dad...Dad...I love you, please don’t...please don’t let me go…” he gasped and moaned and sobbed, broken and needy and starving for this, for exactly this.
His father’s rhythm, so precise until that point, faltered. “Oh, Malcolm. My boy. I love you, too.” His father’s grip on his wrists tightened, the arm looped around his body pulled them closer. “I’ll never let you leave again.” Those words sounded like a threat but they were exactly what Malcolm needed right then.
The knowledge that his father wouldn’t allow him to walk away.
His orgasm crashed over him, red and hot and intense, his body tensing, spasming, clenching around his father’s cock. He knew he was babbling, repeating, “Dad!” over and over, that he was crying and moaning and making a mess of himself and of his father’s shirt but he wasn’t ashamed. His father was there, he didn’t need to worry.
Distantly, his father’s voice reached his ears, saying, “That’s it, that’s it, my boy, my beautiful boy, say it again, Dad’s here, Dad’s got you…”
Then there was warmth and wet inside of him, his father’s seed filling him. Martin’s movements slowed, then halted, but he remained inside of Malcolm’s body.
Malcolm felt light, floating, even as reality started to seep in. The edge of the desk digging into his tailbone, the fact that his fingers were tingling on the edge of numbness, the cold stickiness of his father’s fluids. But none of it mattered, not right then, not with his father’s arm around him, his father’s huffing breaths in his ear.
His father released his wrists and wrapped that arm around him, too, hugging him tightly. “Are you alright?” his father asked.
He assessed himself and found that he was calmer and more at peace than he had been in a very long time. Physical discomfort notwithstanding, he was more than alright. “Yes,” he said. He turned his head enough to kiss his father’s hairy cheek. “Thank you.”
His father’s arms tightened, almost painfully. “All I’ve ever wanted was to give you everything you need, Malcolm. I hope this helped.” Martin gave another squeeze then slowly pushed himself up, his softened cock sliding easily out of Malcolm’s body.
Malcolm whined softly, hating the cold, wet, empty feeling his father had left behind.
His father chuckled. “My beautiful boy. I’m so glad you decided to come back to me.”