Erik eased the SUV to a stop halfway up the long gravel driveway. His childhood home, a rambling two-story farmhouse, sat dark except for the single yellow bulb over the porch, the way it always had when someone was waiting up.
Erik killed the engine. The sudden hush felt big enough to swallow up the SUV and both its occupants. Erik’s boyfriend, Mitch, stretched in the passenger seat, his flannel shirt riding up just enough to flash the cut “V” that disappeared into his jeans.
“Pretty place,” Mitch said. “Very ‘Montana Christmas card.’”
Erik’s expression was tight. “Listen. Ground rules before we go in.”
Mitch turned, his blue eyes amused under the yellowish dome light. “Hit me, babe.”
“Be on your best behavior. Dad’s still raw about Mom. This is our first Christmas without her.”
“Scout’s honor.” Mitch held up three fingers in a mock salute.
“No taking calls from your hypno subs at the dinner table. If one of your boys FaceTimes you, you step outside.”
Mitch’s mouth twitched. “So I can’t make the neighbors cluck like chickens at midnight?”
“Babe, I’m serious.”
“Kidding.” Mitch grinned. “Mostly.”
“And absolutely no checking your DudeFanz account while we’re eating turkey.”
Mitch placed a hand over his heart. “I promise I won’t wear my full BLUF leathers to Christmas Eve dinner, either.” He glanced across the property to a barn opposite the house. “That hayloft does look perfect for a bondage shoot, though. What a shame.”
Erik rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re the one dating me.” Mitch leaned over and stole a quick kiss. “Relax. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
Erik restarted the engine and crept up the rest of the driveway. They got out, snow crunching under their boots as they hauled their suitcases toward the porch. The cold bit at Erik’s cheeks, but the house glowed warm ahead as one room after another lit up. Erik could practically see his dad moving through the house toward the door.
It opened before they could knock.
Paul filled the frame, tall and thick shouldered, with silver threading his dark hair and beard. His flannel shirt stretched across a chest that clearly still spent time throwing hay bales, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal forearms like bridge cables. His eyes were the same hazel as Erik’s, but tonight they carried a quiet, heavy sorrow.
“Hey, Dad.” Erik’s voice softened noticeably from the conversation in the car.
Paul managed a tired smile and pulled him into a hug. “Good to see you, son.”
Then he turned to Mitch and offered a hand. “You must be the boyfriend I’ve heard so much about.”
Mitch took it, grip lingering half a second too long. His gaze flicked down, then up, slow and appraising. Paul seemed not to notice. Erik definitely did.
Mitch leaned close as Paul turned to grab one of their suitcases, his voice barely a breath against Erik’s ear. “You didn’t tell me your dad was so fucking jacked.”
The predator gleam flashed bright and sudden in Mitch’s blue eyes. Erik knew that look. It was the same look that used to make entire bars full of twinks and bears alike drop into trance. At the bars, it was fun and sexy. Here, it was weird.
Erik elbowed him hard in the ribs. “No. Down, Mitch.”
Mitch’s grin only widened, all teeth.
Paul glanced back, oblivious. “Come on in, boys. Get warm.”
They stepped over the threshold, snow melting off their boots, and the door clicked shut behind them.
The next morning, Erik woke to the smell of coffee and bacon drifting up the stairs. Mid-morning sunlight slanted through the frosted window; he’d slept hard. For a second, everything felt normal, like any winter morning in his family home. Then he remembered Mitch’s grin last night and hurried downstairs in socked feet.
He stopped dead in the kitchen doorway.
Mitch sat at the old oak table in a soft gray flannel, hair still bed messy and looking like a wholesome lumberjack. Across from him, Paul nursed a mug of coffee. A pair of plates with the remnants of omelets, hash browns, and half a pig’s worth of bacon were pushed aside.
“Morning, babe,” Mitch said over the rim of his coffee mug.
Erik was too stunned to speak. His father, the man he looked up to most in the world, was wearing a thick black leather harness that crossed his silver-furred chest like ribbon on a wrapped Christmas present. A skin-tight pink latex T-shirt stretched over his gut and pecs, the word PIG screaming in giant black block letters across his chest. Below that, a pair of tiny, four-inch PVC shorts, black and glossy, gleamed like liquid obsidian, the pouch so overstuffed it looked ready to surrender. Wide leather cuffs circled each thick bicep, and a pair of tall Wesco boots were polished to a shine. He looked like the cover of a fetish calendar titled “December Daddy.”
And he was buttering toast like it was nothing.
“Your dad makes a mean omelet,” Mitch said brightly, breaking the silence.
Paul glanced up and smiled the same tired-but-warm smile from last night. “Coffee’s fresh, son.”
Erik’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. He grabbed Mitch’s sleeve and dragged him into the hallway.
“You promised,” he hissed.
Mitch leaned against the wall, arms folded, utterly relaxed. “Don’t worry. He won’t remember a thing. I’m a professional, remember?” He tilted his head toward the kitchen. “Besides, he’s never been happier, right, dad?”
Paul’s voice floated out, automatic and sunny. “Absolutely, Son! Never happier!”
Erik stormed back in. “Dad, go upstairs and put on some normal clothes. Right now.”
Paul looked down at himself, genuinely puzzled. He brushed an imaginary crumb off the shiny pink latex. “These are my normal clothes.” He beamed. “See?”
Mitch’s fingers snapped once, crisp as a gunshot. “Sleep, dad.”
Paul’s head dropped forward, chin landing on the stretched word PIG with a soft latex squeak. His shoulders sagged. The mug rested on the table with a gentle clunk.
Erik rounded on Mitch. “Change him back. Now.”
Mitch sighed theatrically, pushing off the wall. “Fine, fine. But it’s your own fault for hiding a snack this hot from me all these years.” He stepped close, blue eyes dancing, voice dropping to that velvet register that always made Erik’s knees weak. “Can you really blame a guy for wanting to unwrap one early Christmas present?”
Erik tried to stay mad. He really did. But, damn it, the corner of his mouth twitched anyway.
Erik stamped snow off his boots and pushed open the front door, still laughing at something his old linebacker buddy had said about prom night 2004. Once he crossed the threshold, the laugh died in his throat.
His dad’s living room had become a studio.
Three ring lights blazed white hot. Phones on tripods blinked red. In the middle of Mom’s old hooked rug sat one of the kitchen chairs, and on it, his father.
Paul was tied with soft black rope, wrists behind the backrest, ankles to the legs, and chest ropes like Christmas lights framing thick silver pecs. The only things he wore were Mitch’s personal leather jockstrap, the one with the chrome ring in front, now stretched to its absolute limit, and Mitch’s battered bomber-style leather jacket, hanging open. A thin string of drool glistened on Paul’s chin. His eyes were wide and glassy, adoring the cameras. Every few seconds, his hips rolled forward, offering the swollen pouch to the lenses with a soft, needy moan.
Mitch stood shirtless behind him, oiled torso gleaming under the lights, thumbs circling Paul’s swollen nipples with slow, practiced cruelty.
“That’s it, daddy,” he crooned into the center phone, voice velvet and low. “Show them how good surrender feels…”
Erik finally found his voice. “You’ve crossed the line, babe. We’re going home. Right now.”
Mitch’s laugh rolled out, rich and baritone. “I don’t think so, babe.”
Snap.
The sound cracked like a starter pistol.
“Time to be supportive of your dad.”
Erik’s eyes unfocused. The word floated in his skull, warm and heavy. “Supportive…”
Snap.
“More agreeable, too.”
“Agreeable,” Erik echoed, soft and dreamy.
Mitch guided him forward until Erik’s knees hit the rug in front of Paul’s chair. Paul smiled down at his son with pure, vacant love.
“Tell dad you fully support his new life as Master Mitch’s DudeFanz model.”
Erik’s tongue felt thick. “I… fully support your new life as Master Mitch’s DudeFanz model.”
Snap.
“Louder. Like you mean it.”
Sudden pride swelled in Erik’s chest like a champagne bottle about to burst. “I’m so proud of you, dad! You look incredible!”
Mitch’s free hand never stopped teasing Paul’s nipples. “Good boy. Now, dad, tell Erik what you want more than anything in the world.”
Paul’s voice came out syrupy and adoring. “Son… I want Master Mitch to own me. While you watch.”
The last scrap of resistance flickered in Erik’s eyes.
Snap.
“Supportive. Agreeable.”
The flicker died. Erik’s face went slackened into perfect, hungry bliss.
Mitch leaned down, lips brushing Erik’s ear. “One more thing, babe. Go put on that pink PIG shirt for me.”
“Right away, babe!” Erik chirped. He bounced up, planted a quick, reverent kiss on Mitch’s cheek, and practically skipped toward the stairs. Two minutes later, he was back, the tight pink latex stretched across his chest, the word PIG shining under the lights. He dropped to his knees beside his father’s chair, beaming up at Paul with matching empty devotion.
Mitch stepped behind the chair again, resumed rolling those thick silver nipples between his fingers. Father and son turned identical vacant smiles toward the cameras, hips thrusting gently in perfect sync. Phones vibrated as tips poured in: $50, $100, $500. The chat scrolled too fast to read.
Mitch’s soft, satisfied chuckle filled the room. “Merry Christmas, boys.”
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