Archive of Our Own

Derek paced the kitchen like a caged wolf, his broad shoulders tense under the faded flannel shirt that still clung to his muscular frame. He hated admitting it—hell, it twisted something deep in his gut—but Stiles was a pussy. A gigantic, frail, emotional pussy. And yeah, Derek loved the kid more than life itself, but sometimes it felt like the hospital had pulled a switcheroo at birth and handed them the wrong damn baby.

Growing up, Derek had been the alpha in every room: athletic as hell, daring to the point of reckless, aggressive when it counted, confident in a way that turned heads, and built like a brick shithouse with that raw sexual energy that made girls—and yeah, some guys—weak in the knees. Stiles? He was the polar opposite. Sure, the boy had inherited a bit of that athletic build, could hold his own on the lacrosse field when he bothered to try, but everything else? Timid as a mouse, overly sensitive, zero confidence, and he let his so-called friends and teammates walk all over him like he was a goddamn doormat. No sugarcoating it: the kid was a giant, whimpering pussy.

Derek was beyond sick of it—of watching Stiles slink through the door like a beaten dog, shoulders hunched, eyes red from holding back tears over whatever bullshit someone had flung at him that day. He'd tried everything to toughen the boy up, to forge him into a man who could stand tall and grab life by the throat. Push him into sports harder, drag him to the gym for extra workouts, even those awkward father-son talks about not taking shit from anyone. Nothing stuck. And tonight? Tonight was the breaking point.

Stiles had burst through the door, face crumpled, voice cracking as he spilled it all: his girlfriend— that cheating little bitch—had been screwing around behind his back. He'd found out the worst way possible, and there he was, crumbling right in front of them. Claudia, ever the soft-hearted angel, had pulled him into a hug, murmuring soothing words while he sobbed into her shoulder. Then, after a few more sniffles and pats on the back, Stiles had mumbled something incoherent and slumped upstairs to hole up in his room, probably to cry into his pillow like always.

The door to Stiles' room clicked shut upstairs, and Derek couldn't hold it in anymore. He turned to Claudia, his voice low and edged with pure frustration. "I can't take it anymore, Claudia. I just... fucking can't."

His wife looked up from wiping the counter, her dark eyes soft and concerned—the same eyes that had hooked him seventeen years ago when she'd given him the two best things in his life: their son and their little girl. Claudia was still stunning, curves in all the right places, that quiet strength that balanced his fire perfectly. But right now, even she couldn't douse the rage boiling in him.

"Stop that," she said gently, though there was a hint of steel in her tone as she defended their boy. "He's just sensitive, Derek. You know that. He's always been that way."

"Sensitive is one thing," Derek shot back, his voice rising despite himself as he gestured sharply toward the stairs. "Hell, a little sensitivity's fine—it makes him human. But this? This is next-level bullshit. He's a huge pushover, Claudia. A complete doormat. He needs to learn how to take life by the balls, grab it hard, and make something of himself before the world chews him up and spits him out."

She sighed, setting down the dish towel and crossing her arms, leaning against the counter. "I understand your concerns, honey. I really do. I'm worried too, in my own way. But you've tried a hundred times already—pushing him into more sports, those gym sessions, all the talks about standing up for himself—and it just hasn't worked out. Maybe he's wired differently. Maybe forcing it isn't the answer."

"Don't you think I know that?" Derek snipped, his words coming out sharper than he intended. He saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes and immediately regretted it, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw as the guilt hit him. He wasn't pissed at her—never at her. He was pissed at himself, at this gnawing failure eating away at him as a father.

"Shit, I'm sorry, love," he murmured, stepping closer and pulling her into his arms, his voice softening as he pressed his forehead to hers. "I didn't mean to snap like that. I'm just... so goddamn frustrated. I feel like I'm failing him, failing us. What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

Derek held Claudia a moment longer, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, trying to steady the storm raging inside him. But even as her arms wrapped around his waist, that one final idea—the nuclear option he’d buried deep for years—kept clawing its way to the surface. He hated how dark it was, how twisted it felt, but goddamn it, everything else had failed. And when he thought back to his own teenage years, the truth hit him like a punch to the gut: every ounce of his confidence, every shred of that fearless, take-no-shit swagger, had come from one place—his sexual prowess. He’d been the conqueror, the alpha male who knew exactly how to dominate, how to make girls beg and guys back down. That raw, primal power had carried him through life, shaped him into the man he was today. And Stiles? The kid had none of it. Zero. If Derek was ever going to forge his son into something stronger, something unbreakable, he had to instill that same fire—by whatever means necessary.

He pulled back just enough to look Claudia in the eyes, his voice dropping low and resolute. “I’ve got one last idea, babe. It’s... extreme. My absolute last resort. But I’m done watching him crumble.”

Claudia searched his face, worry creasing her brow. “Derek... what are you talking about?”

He shook his head slightly, not ready to spill the details—not yet. “Just trust me on this. When our girl gets home from her friend’s house, take her out. Hit the mall, grab dinner, whatever. I need the house empty. Just me and Stiles. Some real alone time to... handle this.”

She hesitated, biting her lip the way she always did when she sensed trouble. But after seventeen years, she knew when his mind was made up. “Okay,” she said softly, though her voice carried a thread of unease. “If you think it’ll help him... I’ll do it. But promise me you won’t push too hard, Derek. He’s fragile right now.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he replied, the words heavier than he intended. He kissed her forehead, then watched as she nodded and headed upstairs to get ready.

An hour later, the front door clicked shut behind Claudia and their daughter—giggling about new shoes and whatever teenage bullshit filled their afternoon. The house fell into a thick, almost electric silence. Just Derek and Stiles now.

Stiles was sixteen, a sophomore slogging through high school, riding the bench more than he played on the lacrosse team. But the kid was undeniably good-looking in that fresh, boyish way—standing about 5'8" and a solid 160 pounds, with short, wavy brownish hair that always looked a little tousled, piercing hazel eyes, and the faint shadow of whiskers just starting to sprout above his upper lip. His body was coming along nicely from all those forced practices Derek had dragged him to: a flat, toned stomach under a lean chest that showed real definition when he peeled off his shirt after a workout. He had potential—real potential—if he’d ever learn to own it.

Derek, on the other hand, was forty now, standing a proud 6'1" and carrying 230 pounds of thick, powerful muscle wrapped around a solid dad bod. Sure, there was a nice little beer gut pushing against his t-shirt, but it only added to the rugged masculinity he wore like armor. He still turned heads—oozed that same raw sexiness that had made him unstoppable in his youth. His beard was kept sharp and full, his head full of ebony-black raven hair, as well as dark hair dusting his chest, arms, and trailing down in a thick line below his belly button. Even now, he knew the effect he had; he could feel eyes linger when he walked into a room.

But Derek wasn’t just big in frame—he was packing nine inches of thick, veiny cock that swung heavy between his thighs, the kind of tool that had always made Claudia’s eyes glaze over with hunger. She fucking loved riding it, grinding down on him until she was breathless and trembling, and he loved giving it to her just as hard. They completed each other perfectly: her soft curves yielding to his raw power, his dominance feeding her submission and her fire stoking his. Seventeen years, and the sex was still filthy, still intense. That was the kind of primal confidence Derek knew inside out—the kind that came from owning your body, owning your desire, and never apologizing for taking what was yours.

He took a slow breath, steeling himself, then climbed the stairs with heavy, deliberate steps. The hallway was dim, the door to Stiles’ room cracked open just enough to spill a sliver of light onto the carpet.And now, standing in the hallway outside Stiles’ door, Derek steeled himself. This was it. His mission. He wasn’t going to knock; privacy was a luxury pussies hid behind. He twisted the knob and barged right in, the door banging against the wall with a thud that made Stiles flinch on the bed.

The kid was curled up like a kicked puppy, knees drawn to his chest, face buried as fresh tears soaked his sweatpants. Head down, shoulders shaking—God, he was such a fucking pussy. He didn’t even protest the intrusion, just glanced up with those red-rimmed blue eyes and then dropped his gaze again, accepting it. That alone made Derek’s jaw clench tighter.

“D-Dad?” His voice cracked, small and uncertain. “What’s up?”

Derek closed the door behind him with a firm click, the sound echoing like a starting gun. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, fixing his son with a steady, intense gaze that left no room for escape.

“We’re gonna talk, Stiles. Man to man. And this time, you’re gonna listen. Because I’m done watching you live like this.” Derek growled, voice low and rough, filling the room like smoke. “I am so goddamn sick of watching you be a pushover for every single person in your life. Coaches, teammates, friends, that cheating little bitch of a girlfriend—you let them all walk right over you.”

“How… how would you feel if your girlfriend cheated on you with one of your own teammates?” Stiles shot back, voice cracking, defensive but weak.

Derek barked a harsh laugh.

“I wouldn’t feel a fucking thing, kid, because it would never fucking happen to me. And you know why? Because I don’t act like a weak little bitch. This shit happens to you precisely because you’re weak—because you let people trample you. You want to protect yourself? You want to make damn sure nobody ever pulls this crap again? It’s simple: be a fucking man. Own your life. Take what you want, when you want it. That breeds real confidence, Stiles—and confident men don’t get fucked with. Ever.”

Stiles sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, eyes glassy.

“I try, Dad… I really do try. But how am I supposed to become confident when I don’t feel it inside? It’s not just something I can flip on.”

Derek let out a heavy, frustrated sigh, rubbing a hand over his bearded jaw before locking eyes with his son again. “You get confident by doing, Stiles. By taking what you want. By learning how to dominate your life—and the people in it. And I swear to God, I’m going to teach you that if it’s the last thing I do.”

Stiles blinked up at him, confused, brow furrowing. “Teach me… how?”

“Stand up,” Derek ordered, voice dropping to a commanding rumble that left no room for argument. “And take your pants off.”

Stiles’ eyes went wide, mouth falling open. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me,” Derek repeated, stepping even closer, his bulk casting a shadow over the boy. “Stand up right now and take your fucking pants off. Underwear too. Do it.”

The kid knew that tone—knew better than to test it. Stiles scrambled off the bed on shaky legs, circling to the foot of it like he was buying time. His hands trembled as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his gym shorts and boxers, hesitating only a second before pushing them down in one nervous motion. They pooled at his ankles, and he stepped out, standing there half-naked and shivering, arms awkwardly trying to cover himself before he forced them to his sides.

Derek’s gaze dropped immediately, assessing. Stiles’ soft cock hung over a nice set of balls—decent size even flaccid, maybe six inches, thick enough that Derek felt a flicker of relief. Thank fuck he wasn’t tiny; the kid had potential. A light dusting of brownish pubes framed the base, and the flushed head matched the pink of his lips perfectly. He wasn’t a shower, that much was clear—Derek silently hoped like hell he was a grower.

Stiles stood there shaking, blue eyes darting everywhere but at his father, waiting, submissive, terrified. Derek couldn’t believe he was actually going through with this, but the love burned fierce in his chest—love that demanded he fix this, whatever the cost. Tough love. Real love.

Without a word, Derek closed the last bit of distance between them, chest to chest, the heat of his bigger body radiating against Stiles’ smaller frame. He held his son’s wide-eyed stare for a long, charged moment… then slowly sank to his knees.

Stiles sucked in a sharp, stunned breath as Derek’s bearded face came level with his exposed cock, close enough that the boy could feel the warm huff of his father’s breath ghosting over sensitive skin.

“D-Dad…?” Stiles whispered, voice barely audible, trembling harder now.

“Quiet,” Derek rumbled, eyes flicking up to meet his son’s one last time before settling forward, intense and unwavering. “Lesson one starts right now, boy. You’re gonna learn exactly what real power feels like.”

Derek’s knees pressed into the carpet as he knelt there, his thick, bearded face inches from his son’s freshly exposed cock. He could feel the heat radiating off Stiles’ skin, smell the faint musk of a teenage boy who’d been sweating through heartbreak all day. Looking up, Derek locked eyes with him—those wide, watery hazel eyes that still held too much fear—and laid it out raw.

“Stiles, listen to me close,” he rumbled, voice low and gravel-rough. “Every goddamn bit of success I’ve ever had—every raise, every fight I won, every woman who begged to stay—came from one place: my sexual prowess. It gave me confidence, real unbreakable confidence, the kind that let me dominate every room I walked into. If you’re sick of girls cheating on you, sick of being a pussy, sick of your friends stepping on you like you’re nothing—that shit ends right here, right now. It starts with this.”

He lifted one thick finger and deliberately dabbed the slick tip of Stiles’ soft cockhead, smearing the tiny bead of precum that had already welled up. Stiles jolted like he’d been shocked, eyes blowing wide, jaw dropping as he stared down at his father in pure disbelief.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you, boy?” Derek pressed, voice firm.

“I… uh… maybe… um… I—I don’t know what’s happening right now,” Stiles stammered, voice small and trembling, his thighs quivering under Derek’s gaze.

Derek let out a heavy, disappointed sigh. “That right there—that hesitation, that lack of confidence—is exactly what I’m talking about. That’s why I’m gonna show you instead of tell you. I’m praying to God this is the day a new Stiles is born, but only time’s gonna tell.”

With that, Derek drew in a slow breath—still half-second-guessing the insane line he was crossing, but fueled by that fierce, twisted love that refused to let his son stay broken—and leaned forward. He parted his lips and took Stiles’ soft cock into his mouth for the first time. The first cock he’d ever tasted, period. Warm, smooth skin slid over his tongue as he eased down slowly, then back up, swirling the flat of his tongue around the sensitive head, teasing the slit, coaxing it to life.

Stiles shook harder, a full-body tremor, little gasps escaping his throat as Derek worked him in and out with deliberate, steady strokes. It didn’t take long—maybe three, four minutes of that wet heat and gentle suction—before Stiles swelled to full hardness. Derek pulled off with a soft pop, looking down to assess the transformation.

Holy fuck.

What had started as a decent soft dick had turned into a goddamn monster: ten and a half inches of thick, veiny meat, curving upward proudly, easily two inches across at the shaft. Bigger than Derek’s own nine-incher, he had to admit with a flicker of pride and competitive heat in his chest. The kid was a grower, alright. Impressive as hell for sixteen. Maybe there was real hope after all—maybe Stiles could surpass him, make him proud in ways that mattered most.

Derek reached up again, fingertip brushing the now-glistening head, gathering another fat drop of precum. He looked straight up into Stiles’ stunned face. “This right here—this cock—is the key to becoming a man. If you’re sick of being a bitch, you make life your bitch. You take what you want, you dominate, you own it. You got me, boy?”

Stiles just stared, mouth open, chest heaving, too shocked to form words.

Then, finally, he stuttered out, “Da… Dad… you… you’re… you’re gay?”

Derek’s eyes flashed with instant anger. “Fuck no, I’m not gay! What the hell—you think your old man’s some little faggot?” he barked, voice sharp enough to make Stiles flinch and shrink back an inch.

“N-no, it’s… uh… not that, I didn’t mean—” Stiles scrambled, cheeks burning red. “Then… why are you… why are you sucking my dick, Dad?”

“Goddamnit, Stiles,” Derek growled, frustration thick in his throat. “You still aren’t getting it. It’s not about being gay or straight—it’s about power. It’s about using your sexual vigor, your raw dominance, and pouring that self-assurance into everything you do. You take control. You make people want to please you. Understand?”

Stiles stood frozen, utterly uncertain, his eyes locked on his massive cock bobbing slightly with the frantic rhythm of his own pulse in front of his father luscious lips. The air between them was charged, thick with tension and something perilously close to shame. Derek sighed again, a rough, impatient sound, his already threadbare patience wearing straight through.

“Listen to me,” Derek ground out, his voice low and unyielding. “You want this. So take it. Grab the back of my head and force me down on that big dick of yours. Make me suck it. Force me to make you feel good.” He leaned in, his gaze predatory. “Take fucking control—or are you really just a pussy?”

Stiles didn’t move. His hands hung limp and useless at his sides, his eyes darting nervously from Derek’s fierce stare to the floor and back again. He looked every bit the scared kid he was trying so desperately not to be.

Watching him waver, Derek’s temper flared hotter, a spark igniting into a blaze. His lip curled. “What’s the problem? Does the idea not turn you on?” He pushed, his tone laced with a taunting challenge. “Or does getting that big dick of yours sucked just… not feel good?”

“Uh… yeah,” Stiles finally admitted, the words escaping in a quiet, broken rush, barely above a whisper. He shifted his weight, a faint tremor running through him. “It… it felt really good, actually.”

“Then act like it,” Derek commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate in the space between them. He held Stiles’s wide-eyed stare, refusing to let him look away. “Show me you want more. Stop thinking and just take. Grab my head and fuck my mouth like you mean it. Like you own it.” He paused, letting the command hang, heavy and absolute. “Be a man, Stiles. Right fucking now.”

Stiles reached out and gently placed his right hand on the back of Derek's head, his hand trembled slightly, but he finally tightened his grip, pulling him forward with a bit more force onto his throbbing dick. Derek dove back in, sucking eagerly now, his tongue swirling clumsily around the curved shaft as he tried to make up for his earlier hesitation. He knew deep down he had no choice—this was his duty, his way to prove himself as a father. Yet, after another thirty seconds of half-hearted bobbing, Derek realized Stiles was still holding back too much. Frustrated, he yanked his mouth off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting his lips to the glistening tip, and glared up at his son.

"You call that making me suck your dick, son? You're barely even forcing me to take it all the way down my throat," Derek growled, his voice thick with disappointment and spit.

"I'm sorry, Dad, but I really don't want to hurt you," Stiles muttered, his cheeks flushing as his hand lingered loosely in Derek's hair.

"For fuck's sake, son—it's not about me! It's about you taking what you want, no apologies, no holding back," Derek snapped, his anger boiling over. He couldn't believe he was stuck raising such a goddamn pussy for a son, always second-guessing, always too soft. Since Stiles's hand was still resting there on the back of his head, Derek wasn't about to wait for him to man up. He reached back with his own right hand, clamped it firmly over Stiles's, and guided— no, forced—their combined grip forward.

Together, their hands shoved Derek's head down hard, engulfing Stiles's thick, bobbing curved teen dick in one brutal motion. Derek's throat stretched around it as they kept pushing relentlessly until his nose was buried in Stiles's pubes and his chin smacked against those heavy balls, the massive member buried to the hilt. Only then did Derek ease their hands back a fraction, just enough for a breath, before slamming forward again—harder this time. And again. And again. The rhythm turned punishing, their hands working in sync to fuck Derek's face onto that relentless cock.

For a solid minute, it went on like that, merciless and raw. Derek gagged loudly with every deep thrust, his throat convulsing around the invading shaft, thick ropes of spit bubbling up and spilling from his mouth, dripping messily down his chin and onto his chest. His eyes watered, but he didn't fight it—he took it, showing Stiles exactly what it meant to dominate.

Then, just as abruptly, Derek wrenched their hands apart, yanked his own away, and pulled off Stiles's dick with a choking gasp, a long strand of saliva hanging from his swollen lips to the pulsing tip. He stood up slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, staring down at his son with stern, unyielding eyes.

"That, son—that is how you fucking take what you want out of life. No hesitation, no mercy. Do you get it now? Because if you keep going like this, everyone will keep seeing you as the pussy you are, and you'll stay that way forever. It's time to grow the fuck up."

With that, Derek turned sharply on his heel and strode out the door without another word, leaving Stiles slumped there, his massive teen dick twitching wildly in the air, still slick and shining with Derek's thick spit dangling in heavy strings from the tip. But there was zero chance Derek was going to let him finish—not now, not after that pathetic display. He'd failed the first lesson spectacularly, and Derek hoped to hell this humiliation would burn deep enough to make him reflect, to finally absorb the harsh truth he was trying to hammer home.

Over the next couple of weeks, Derek barely noticed any real change in Stiles. The kid moped around the house like a kicked puppy, whining nonstop about whatever fresh bullshit his girlfriend had pulled this time. And on the court? At his last two games, Stiles scurried around timid as hell, dodging contact, shying away from every drive to the basket—until his coach finally benched his sorry ass. Derek had seen enough. It was time for another hard lesson in confidence.

The moment Claudia and their daughter headed out for the afternoon, Derek barked Stiles's name from the family room. When Derek called, his kids knew better than to drag their feet—they came running. Stiles shuffled in, looking sheepish, and Derek didn't waste a second laying into him, voice low and sharp with disappointment. They hashed it out for a few minutes, Derek tearing into every weak excuse, until finally he dropped to his knees right there in front of the couch, staring up at his boy.

Without a word, Derek reached forward, yanked the drawstring loose on Stiles's shorts, and ripped them down along with his boxers in one rough tug. Stiles shivered hard, his soft cock hanging exposed as he stared down at his old man on the floor.

"We're gonna try this again, boy," Derek growled, eyes locked on Stiles's. "Get that dick hard for me. Now."

It was the first test of the day—and Stiles failed it spectacularly right out of the gate. He reached down timidly, wrapping his own hand around his shaft, starting to fondle and jerk it slowly like he was alone in his room.

"What the actual fuck are you doing, Stiles?" Derek snapped, incredulous.

"You... uh... you told me to get hard, Dad," Stiles stammered, face burning red.

"You've got your father on his goddamn knees right in front of you, mouth inches from your cock, and you're using your fucking hand?" Derek shook his head in disgust. "Already forgot the lesson from last time, huh? Order me to suck your dick, son—and you better make me believe you mean it."

For the first time, Derek saw a flicker—Stiles puffed his chest out just a little, straightened his spine, and barked, "Suck my dick!"

Finally, some goddamn balls, Derek thought, a grim satisfaction settling in. He leaned forward without hesitation, wrapping his lips around Stiles's thickening cock, sucking hard and sloppy right from the start. He drenched it in spit, tongue swirling over the swollen head, teasing the slit, making it as filthy and good as possible. The better it felt, the more Stiles would crave it when Derek inevitably pulled away. He worked him relentlessly for a solid two minutes, throat opening up, cheeks hollowing, before popping off with a wet gasp and looking up.

"Listen to me, son," Derek said firmly, giving him that stern fatherly tone while his hand lazily stroked the slick shaft to keep him throbbing on the edge. "Being open about sex—telling your partner exactly what you want, what feels good, what you don't—that's not just gonna get you the most pleasure. It's gonna bleed into everything else. You'll walk taller, talk sharper, because you're in charge. But you have to communicate it, no shame, no holding back."

Stiles nodded, eyes wide, hanging on every word as Derek kept that slow, teasing pump going.

"Now," Derek said, voice dropping lower, "tell me what you want."

"I want you to suck my dick, Dad," Stiles said, a little bolder this time.

"Then fucking show me."

Stiles reached out, fingers tangling in the back of Derek's hair, and pulled him forward. It wasn't as brutal as Derek wanted—still too gentle—but Derek let it play out. That massive teen cock slid back into his mouth, hot and heavy, and Stiles guided him up and down for several long minutes. Gradually, his grip loosened as he started bucking his hips, thrusting in rhythm, chasing the wet heat.

Derek decided it was time to push harder. He planted both hands on Stiles's thighs and shoved him back just enough for that slimy dick to slip free with a filthy pop.

"Don't tell me that's all you've got, son," Derek taunted, voice dripping with mockery. "I knew you couldn't man up. Guess you'll just stay a little bitch forever."

"Don't tell me that's all you've got, son," Derek taunted, voice dripping with mockery. "I knew you couldn't man up. Guess you'll just stay a little bitch forever."

He could see the spark ignite—Stiles's eyes flashed with real fire. Derek rose slowly to his feet, brushing off his knees. "No wonder your girlfriend cheated on you. You're just a weak-ass wimp."

That broke it.

Stiles lunged, one hand slamming onto Derek's shoulder to shove him back down to his knees. The other gripped the back of Derek's neck like a vise, yanking him forward as Stiles surged his hips. In one savage thrust, he buried his entire massive cock balls-deep down Derek's throat. No hesitation, no mercy.

Finally pissed off and owning it, Stiles fucked Derek's face with raw, teenage fury—hips snapping hard, relentless, using his father's mouth like it belonged to him. Thirty seconds of that brutal pace and Stiles started groaning loud, balls tightening, cock pulsing. Thick ropes of cum exploded straight down Derek's throat, nearly choking him as he fought to swallow and breathe. Stiles ripped out at the last second, painting one final hot spurt across Derek's nose and lips.

Derek knelt there a moment, tasting the sharp, pungent load lingering in his mouth—definitely an acquired flavor, he thought with a grimace, 'cause fuck, that was strong.

Stiles panted hard, chest heaving, and then the guilt crashed in. "Oh my God, Dad—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—I got carried away, I—"

"Goddamnit, Stiles," Derek huffed, wiping the cum off his face with the back of his hand, voice rough. "One step forward, two fucking steps back. Why the hell are you apologizing? You finally took what you wanted. You acted like a man for once."

He pushed to his feet, towering over his boy again. "I'm proud of you, son—mostly. Until you panicked and said sorry like a little pussy. You've still got a long way to go, but that? That was the right move." Derek stepped closer, voice turning deadly serious. "Now listen to me carefully. Until I'm convinced you're no longer a pushover, anytime you're horny and we're alone in this house—no matter what the fuck I'm doing—you find me, or you call me over, and you make me get you off. You hear me?"

"Uh, Dad, this is kinda... crazy," Stiles muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

"I said, do you understand me?" Derek roared, loud enough to make Stiles flinch.

"Y-Yeah... yes, sir."

"Good. But here's the part you better burn into your brain, boy. You need to make me believe you're a man—not some weak little bitch begging for scraps. If I don't buy it, if you half-ass it, you don't get to cum. And for a horny teen like you? I know how bad you need that release. Not only that—I'll ground your ass hard. Outside of school and basketball, no friends, no girlfriend, nothing. And when you're using me? No apologies. I'm not some fragile snowflake. Order me around, call me whatever filthy names you want—I don't give a single fuck. This is about turning you into a man. Got it?"

Stiles swallowed hard, then nodded firmly.

"Good," Derek said, a hard edge of approval in his tone. "Now it's time to really man the fuck up."

Three days later, they were sprawled out in the living room watching an NBA game on TV. Stiles had been extra fidgety all evening, shifting constantly on the couch. During a commercial break, Derek glanced over and caught him staring intensely at his phone, completely zoned in. Curiosity got the better of him, so Derek leaned a bit and peeked down at Stiles's gym shorts. Sure enough, the kid was sporting at least a half-chub, the outline pressing noticeably against the thin fabric. Perfect timing—this was exactly the opening Derek needed for another raw lesson in manhood.

"Claudia! Get in here, please!" Derek hollered from the living room, his voice carrying sharply through the house.

Claudia appeared in the doorway a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish towel, curious about the sudden summons. Derek didn't miss a beat—he explained casually that he'd really enjoyed bonding with Stiles over the NBA game earlier, watching the players dominate the court. So, to balance things out, she should grab their daughter and do some mother-daughter bonding of her own. He told her to fish $200 out of his wallet, hit the mall, spoil themselves a little—make an afternoon of it. Claudia's face lit up with gratitude; she thanked him warmly, planted a quick kiss on his cheek, and excitedly called their daughter downstairs. Minutes later, the two of them were out the door, chattering happily as they piled into the car.

She bought the pure-hearted dad act completely, thinking Derek was just being a thoughtful husband and father. But deep down, he knew the real motive: this was the perfect setup to test if Stiles would finally follow through on the rules he'd laid down, if the boy would seize control without hesitation.

Five tense minutes ticked by—long enough to be sure Claudia and their daughter weren't coming back for a forgotten purse or phone. Derek glanced over at Stiles, who was shifting uncomfortably on the couch again, eyes glued to the TV but clearly distracted. That telltale bulge in his gym shorts was impossible to miss now, straining hard against the fabric.

"I can see that raging boner from a goddamn mile away, boy," Derek said strictly, cutting through the silence like a knife. "You gonna do something about it, or just sit there like a pussy?"

Stiles's lips curled into a sly grin almost immediately, his hand dropping down to fondle himself through the shorts, rubbing slowly as he locked eyes with his dad. Derek didn't move an inch from his recliner—he stayed put, arms crossed, waiting to see if Stiles would step up and take full control this time.

Finally, Stiles stood up with newfound purpose, shoving his shorts and boxers down in one rough motion before kicking them off entirely. His massive teen prick sprang free, raging hard and throbbing, the swollen head turning an angry, desperate red as it bobbed heavily in the air, leaking a bead of precum from the tip.

"Get on your knees, Dad," Stiles said, his voice low but steady.

Derek arched an eyebrow, not budging. "You can do a hell of a lot better than that, son. Make me believe it."

Stiles's grin sharpened, a spark of aggression flashing in his eyes. "I said get on your fucking knees, you bitch!"

"That's more like it," Derek shot back with a nod of approval, satisfaction burning in his chest.

Derek rose from his seat without rush, shuffling over to stand right in front of him. He locked eyes with Stiles one last time before starting to crouch down—but apparently, he wasn't moving fast enough for the kid's liking. Stiles's hands shot out like lightning, grabbing both of Derek's shoulders in a firm grip and shoving him down hard onto the carpeting. Derek's knees hit the floor with a thud, embedding him there, fully submitted.

Stiles didn't waste a second—he lunged forward clumsily, hands still clamped on Derek's shoulders for leverage. His first wild thrust missed completely, the slick head smacking against Derek's right cheek before sliding up and poking into his eye. Stiles pulled back with a frustrated grunt and stabbed forward again, this time aiming too low and jabbing into Derek's neck. On the third frantic attempt, Derek decided to help the boy out—he tilted his head just right and opened wide, catching that massive cock as it plunged in.

Once buried deep in Derek's warm, wet mouth, Stiles found a brutal rhythm fast, hips snapping forward as Derek worked his tongue expertly, swirling it around the underside of the shaft, teasing the sensitive vein. Saliva built quick, turning everything sloppy and messy.

"Fuck, Dad—I needed this so goddamn bad," Stiles sighed heavily, his voice thick with relief and lust. "I'm gonna feed you so many thick loads from now on, whenever I want."

He really ramped it up then, hammering Derek's mouth with raw teenage power, balls slapping against chin on every deep thrust. Derek fought the gag reflex hard—thank God the kid still had some growing left to do, giving him just enough room to breathe. Thick ropes of spit bubbled up and dripped messily down Derek's chin, soaking into his shirt as Stiles plunged relentlessly.

"Shit, Dad—fuck, I'm gonna cum already," Stiles groaned, his pace turning frantic.

Without warning, he lifted his right leg and planted his foot up on the couch for better leverage, shifting his right hand from Derek's shoulder to the back of his head in a vice-like grip. Then he really let loose—fucking Derek's face without a shred of mercy for another full minute, hips pistoning hard and fast. Derek's throat burned as the moans built, and suddenly he felt it: hot, thick ropes of cum exploding straight down his throat and flooding his mouth, forcing him to swallow desperately or choke. Stiles held deep with a final guttural grunt, pumping out every drop before yanking back— one last spurt escaping to land bitterly on Derek's tongue.

The taste hit Derek like a punch—rancid, pungent, overwhelmingly sharp. He couldn't fathom how anyone, especially those fags, swallowed this nasty ball juice for fun. But damn it, he was proud of Stiles for finally dominating like a man, so every bitter second was worth it.

"Good job, son," Derek coughed out roughly, wiping his mouth and fighting to keep the load down without retching. "Way to finally be a fucking man about it."

A few nights later, the house was quiet again—the girls were out at some evening event, leaving Derek alone in the kitchen. He sat at the table, sipping his black coffee and flipping through the newspaper under the warm overhead light, finally enjoying a rare moment of peace.

The back door swung open suddenly, and Stiles stormed in, muttering curses under his breath about how his girlfriend's nosy parents had barged in way too early, cutting their make-out session short and leaving him high and dry, balls aching with no release. Without breaking stride, he marched straight over to Derek, boldly sliding the coffee mug toward the center of the table and snatching the newspaper right out of his dad's hands, tossing it aside like trash.

"I need this bad, Dad—I need to fucking cum right now," Stiles demanded, his voice low and insistent, eyes burning with that frustrated teenage horniness.

Before Derek could even respond, Stiles stepped forward, swung one leg over Derek's lap like he owned the place, and hopped up onto the kitchen table, planting his ass right in front of his dad, legs spread wide.

"Get my dick out and suck it, you bitch," he ordered sharply, no hesitation, no please—just pure command.

Derek felt a rush of genuine pride surge through him; finally, these brutal lessons were sinking in. The boy was getting forceful, confident, demanding what he wanted without a shred of apology. This was progress worth rewarding.

Derek didn't waste time—he reached up immediately, unzipped Stiles's jeans with steady hands, hauled out that massive, throbbing sixteen-year-old dick, already rock-hard and leaking, and wrapped his lips around it. He sucked deep and eager, working his tongue along the shaft, giving his son the best head he could muster, sloppy and thorough, until Stiles suddenly grabbed the back of his head with both hands, held him down balls-deep, and unloaded straight down his throat in thick, pulsing ropes. Derek swallowed hard around the invading cock, taking every drop as Stiles groaned in relief.

Satisfied, Stiles hopped down off the table, zipped up casually, stepped back over Derek's lap, and sauntered away like it was nothing—just another quick pit stop.

Two mornings later, Derek was perched on the edge of his bed in the master bedroom, pulling on his work socks and getting ready for the day, tie still dangling loose around his neck.

The door creaked open without a knock, and Stiles strolled in boldly, morning wood jutting straight out through the fly of his boxers, his hand already wrapped around that massive dick, jerking it slow and firm.

"I got zero time, Dad—I'm running late for school as it is," Stiles said bluntly, stepping closer, "but these balls are killing me, and I need to get off fast. Since you're right here, I might as well use your mouth—fuck, I'm already so close to nutting."

He didn't wait for permission—he just grabbed Derek's hair roughly, tilted his head back, and plunged that slick, precum-coated cock straight into his dad's waiting mouth. Ten hard, rapid strokes was all it took, deep and relentless, while Derek looked up and held eye contact the whole time. Stiles's lips twisted into an evil, devilish grin as he suddenly yanked out, aimed right at Derek's face, and started blasting thick ropes of cum everywhere.

It was that big, watery, super-potent seed only a horny teen boy can pump out—splattering heavily across Derek's left cheek, streaking over his nose, and spraying hot and messy all over his mouth and lips. Load after load coated him, dripping down in sticky trails.

"Thanks, Dad," Stiles said with a wicked smirk, tucking himself away as he backed toward the door. "Now don't waste a single fucking drop—lick all that nasty cum up like a good bitch. Gotta run!"

He turned and bolted out of the bedroom, leaving Derek sitting there drenched in his son's fresh load.

Derek paused for a second, tasting the sharp bitterness on his lips, but he knew the rules—he'd made them himself. The boy was finally acting like a man, so Derek had to follow through. Begrudgingly at first, but with a twisted sense of accomplishment and for some reason getting used to and even dare to say- addicted to the flavor- he stuck his tongue out and lapped around his lips, gathering up every salty strand he could reach. When his tongue couldn't get the rest—the stuff clinging to his cheek and nose—he scooped it with his fingers, scraping and shoveling it all toward his mouth, sucking it clean off his skin until his face was mostly clear.

Once he was done swallowing the last of it, Derek finished knotting his tie, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door for work, the lingering taste a reminder that his son was finally stepping up.

A week later, Stiles seemed to relapse completely into his old weak self. He trudged through the front door after school looking downright somber, shoulders slumped, and immediately started venting to Derek about the latest blow from his girlfriend. She'd apparently spilled the real reason she'd cheated: he didn't fuck her hard enough, didn't dominate her the way she craved and he didn't want to go all the way up her pussy with his big dick.

"What the hell am I supposed to do, Dad?" Stiles whined, his voice cracking with a pathetic sniffle. "I don't want to hurt her—I really like her, you know?"

"God fucking damnit, son," Derek scoffed loudly, his frustration boiling over as he stared at the kid on the verge of tears. "I thought we were finally past this bullshit, and here you are, eyes all watery again like a little bitch. Women aren't these fragile little porcelain dolls, boy. Real men fuck—they fuck hard, raw, and relentless. That doesn't mean you pound away every single second, but when she needs it rough, when she begs for it deep down, that's exactly what you give her. Be a fucking man about it!"

"I am a man!" Stiles shot back defiantly, though his voice still wavered.

"Yeah? Such a big tough man that you've got tears in your goddamn eyes because you're scared to rail your girlfriend properly," Derek fired back, annoyance dripping from every word. "Pathetic...I can't believe I have to drag you through another fucking lesson," Derek sighed heavily, shaking his head as he closed the distance and dropped to his knees right in front of Stiles. "At least prove to me you can fuck a mouth like you mean it, son. Show me you've learned something."

"Fine, whatever!" Stiles snapped back, a flash of pissy anger finally breaking through.

He yanked his pants down in one frustrated motion, stepping out of them roughly, then grabbed his massive dick and tugged it hard a few times. It didn't take long—that thick teen cock swelled to full erection fast, veins pulsing as he shoved it aggressively past Derek's lips and straight into his warm mouth. Stiles fucked in and out with decent rhythm for a few solid minutes, hips snapping forward, building up speed while Derek took it all, letting the saliva build until his shaft was coated nice and sloppy, glistening wet.

Just as Stiles's breaths turned ragged, signaling he was close, Derek placed his hands firmly on the boy's hips and pushed him back forcefully, making that slick cock pop free with a wet smack.

"What the actual fuck, Dad? I was right there—ready to blow my load straight down your throat!" Stiles growled, frustrated and panting.

"And I told you I have another lesson to hammer into that thick skull," Derek replied calmly, a thick bridge of spit still dangling from the tip of Stiles's throbbing dick to his bottom lip, stretching and breaking as he spoke.

Derek rose slowly to his full height, now standing chest-to-chest with his son, towering over him as Stiles craned his neck to look up, a mix of defiance and uncertainty in his eyes. Without breaking eye contact, Derek reached down deliberately, unbuckling his own belt with a sharp clink, then popping the button and dragging the zipper down on his jeans. He let them drop along with his briefs, pooling at his ankles before kicking them aside carelessly. Stiles watched the whole thing unfold, staring wide-eyed and concerned as his dad's thick cock hung heavy between them.

Then Derek turned away abruptly, took a couple purposeful steps toward the sofa, and lowered himself into position—knees sinking into the front cushions while he propped his elbows up on the backrest, his fat ass presented high and ready. He glanced over his shoulder, voice low and commanding: "Apparently you still need to learn how to fuck hard, son. So quit stalling and get to fucking."

"Wha—what the hell, Dad? That's fucking crazy," Stiles stammered, frozen in shock.

"What's really crazy is that you don't have that primal, animal urge to just take a hole and pound it senseless," Derek shot back harshly. "Only pussies hold back, afraid to rail their bitches properly. Or are you still the weak little pussy your girlfriend thinks you are? The one your coaches and teammates laugh about behind your back?"

Derek loved his son deeply, but tough love was the only way—this lesson had to hit hard, literally.

Stiles muttered under his breath, "I'm not a fucking pussy," as he stepped forward hesitantly, lining up behind him. He pressed the fat head of his massive, saliva-slick cock awkwardly against Derek's tight asshole, pushing experimentally—but nothing gave. A full minute of frustrated prodding passed with zero luck, the dry friction making it impossible, and Derek could feel the boy's mounting irritation.

Even Stiles finally caught on, grumbling, "Dad, I can't get it in—it's not wet enough or something."

"Well, use that brain, son," Derek growled over his shoulder. "I don't keep lube stocked like some wimpy faggot who bends over all the time. What do you do when your girlfriend's pussy is too dry for that monster dick of yours?"

"Well... I, uh... eat her out to get her nice and wet," Stiles admitted sheepishly.

"So get with it—eat my asshole out then, boy. Make it sloppy so you can bury that cock deep."

"Gross as fuck, Dad—I'm not eating your ass," Stiles protested, voice rising in disgust, his face twisting like he'd just smelled rotten eggs.

"Don't be such a goddamn pussy about it, son," Derek ordered sharply, pushing his hips back slightly for emphasis, that thick, hairy ass flexing right in Stiles' face. "Drop to your knees, spread my cheeks, and tongue that hole until it's dripping wet. Then, and only then, you can fuck me like the man you're supposed to be. Come on, this is why your little girlfriend cheats on you—bet you've never even eaten her out proper, let alone tongued her asshole. So tell me, boy, you’ve never eaten her asshole too? Or fucked her in the ass? Girls that like it rough love it up their asses—makes 'em scream and beg for more."

Stiles' eyes flashed with that familiar spark of anger, taking the bait hook, line, and sinker, his cheeks burning red. "Shut the fuck up, Dad—you don't know shit about my sex life," he snapped back, but even as the words tumbled out, he was already sinking to his knees, hands trembling as they gripped those massive, voluptuous globes. He struggled to keep them pried apart, muscles straining against the sheer weight and firmness—fuck, he couldn't lie to himself, not really. His girlfriend's ass was cute, perky, sure, but nothing like this. Dad's was bigger, rounder, definitely plumpier, packed with that raw, muscular power from years of hard living, and yeah, way hairier too, dark curls framing that tight pink pucker. It smelled like ass—real, manly ass—but at least a clean one, musky and earthy, not some flowery bullshit.

For the first time since they started these twisted "lessons," Stiles was the one dropping low. He inched his face closer, hesitating when he got a few inches away, Derek feeling that hot breath teasing his hole. Then Stiles pulled back again, nose wrinkling.

"Dad, your ass smells like total ass."

"Well, what the hell do you expect, kid? I ain't no chick, or some wimpy fag—my ass don't smell like roses; it smells like a man. Strong, real, the way it's supposed to. Now man up, quit stalling, and get your fucking tongue in there."

Stiles huffed, but he leaned in again, closing the gap, and finally—finally—took that first tentative lick, dragging his tongue flat over the hairy rim. He paused, processing the taste, then went for another lick... and another. Gaining a bit of nerve, he gathered up a thick wad of spit in his mouth and hocked it right onto the hole, watching it wink and clench in response. That seemed to flip a switch, because he dove back in with a little more enthusiasm, slurping noisily, getting bolder.

"There you go, son. Attaboy—show me how a man eats pussy," Derek encouraged, voice dropping low and rough, a smirk tugging at his lips as he felt that eager tongue working him over. Stiles was sloppy as hell at first, like some inexperienced teen fumbling through his first time, lapping wildly without much rhythm. But Derek wasn't about to let that slide—he growled out some direction, "Deeper, boy—push that tongue in like you mean it. Circle the rim, then fuck it inside. More spit, make it messy."

And damn if Stiles didn't listen. His rhythm picked up fast, tongue probing deeper into that hairy hole, twisting and thrusting with growing confidence. More spit, more hungry fucks with his tongue, sloppy sounds filling the room as he really got into it. Stiles couldn't help it—he was starting to love this shit, the taboo rush hitting him hard, the way Dad's ass tasted forbidden and filthy and so fucking good. He buried his face deeper, nose pressed into the musky crack, hands kneading those plump cheeks to keep them spread wide.

Derek groaned deep in his chest, head tipping back—he was getting to love this too, no doubt about it. Feeling his own son improve so quick, turning into a greedy little ass-eater right there on his knees. That tongue was hitting all the right spots now, sending sparks up his spine.

"Fuck yeah, just like that," Derek muttered, one big hand reaching back to grab a fistful of Stiles' hair, yanking him in harder. He ground back, smothering the boy with his fat, huge, hairy ass, cutting off his air just enough to make it intense, hips rolling to feed him more. After all that wet, enthusiastic work, Derek knew he was good and ready—hole slick, throbbing, eager for the next part. Time to try again. the older man twisted his thick, muscled body while still on all fours, sweat glistening on his hairy back, and reached back with one rough hand to grab Stiles' throbbing, leaking massive teen dick—slick from all that spit and precum. He yanked his son up to his feet without a word, pulling him close, then guided that fat, veiny cock right to his winking, spit-soaked hole. No hesitation, no bullshit—Derek lined it up and pushed back hard, impaling himself in one straight, brutal thrust. Stiles' entire length buried balls-deep inside him, stretching that hairy virgin ass wide open.

Stiles gasped, eyes going wide as fuck—lucky little shit. If he wasn't Derek's own flesh and blood, just some random fag trying to top him like this, Derek would've beaten his ass black and blue for even thinking about it. But here they were, connected in the filthiest way possible. With a few shaky moans spilling from his lips, Stiles started easing in and out, slow at first, letting Derek's tight ring loosen up around him.

It was a weird goddamn feeling for Derek—something thick and alive pushing into his ass, filling him up in a place nothing had ever gone before. Slightly uncomfortable, yeah, that burn of being stretched so wide by his boy's massive size, but thankfully no real pain tearing through him. The rimming had done its job, turning his hole into a sloppy, welcoming mess.

But Stiles was still holding back, thrusting careful and measured, like he was scared to break something. Derek could feel it—the kid wasn't going all out. And that pissed him off. This was exactly why his girlfriend cheated on his wimpy ass, sneaking around for a real man who wouldn't treat her like fragile glass.

"You... unh... call... that... hard?" Derek grunted out, timing the words with each of Stiles' thrusts slamming into his asshole, his voice rough and mocking. "Your... fuck... girlfriend... told... me... she... wants... it... harder... boy. She... said... you... fuck... like... a... pussy."

Stiles' face darkened instantly, rage flashing in his eyes as he took the bait again. "Fine! You want it hard? I'll fuck you like the bitch you are then!" he barked back, voice cracking with anger and lust.

And just like that, Stiles unleashed. He gripped Derek's hips bruisingly tight and really started slamming in, pounding as hard as his lean body could manage—hips snapping forward with vicious force, balls slapping loudly against Derek's hairy ass. Thank God for all that earlier ass-eating; the spit had made everything slick enough, or Stiles would've torn him up raw, no lube to ease the destruction. Even so, Derek knew his hole was gonna be sore as hell after this—gaping, tender, taking days to clench back to normal.

Derek grunted deep and animalistic with every brutal inch plunging in—first a low "ungh" as the fat head popped past his ring again and again, then sharper "fuck... yeah" growls as Stiles buried deeper, that massive teen cock dragging over his prostate and sending jolts through his body. "Hnnngh... take it... deeper, boy," Derek rumbled between grunts, pushing back to meet the thrusts, his own dick leaking onto the floor beneath him. 

"There... you... go... son," Derek managed to growl, voice hitching with each punishing slam. "Now... slap... my... ass... like... a... little... bitch... too. Make... it... hurt."

Stiles didn't need telling twice—he reared back and smacked Derek's ass hard, palm cracking against one massive, jiggling cheek. The impact made those fat, hard globes bounce like crazy, rippling like two oversized melons, red handprints blooming instantly on the hairy skin. It stung like a motherfucker, sharp and hot, but Derek loved it—pushed him further into the haze. "Again," he demanded hoarsely, and Stiles obliged, alternating cheeks, spanking harder each time, turning Derek's ass a glowing red while he kept hammering away.

The room filled with wet, obscene sounds—skin slapping skin, Stiles' grunts mixing with Derek's deeper ones, the squelch of that stretched hole gripping tight. Stiles went all out, balls to the wall, railing his dad for a solid few minutes that felt like forever, sweat dripping down both their bodies. Derek's hole burned in the best way, clenching and milking that cock, his prostate getting battered until he was leaking precum in steady streams.

Finally, Stiles thrust deep one last time, burying to the hilt with a strangled cry. "Fuck... Dad... taking it all," he panted, then started pumping rope after thick rope of hot cum inside, gyrating in little frantic thrusts to empty his balls completely, flooding Derek's guts.

With a spent whimper, Stiles pulled out slow, and a torrent of cum gushed out after—thick, white, followed by a long, wet fart that echoed embarrassingly in the quiet. Cum dripped down Derek's thighs, his hole left gaping and messy.

"Clean this shit up," Stiles said with a cocky grin, giving Derek's raw, red ass one last hard slap that made it jiggle again. "Told you—I'm not a pussy."

Derek stayed right there on all fours for a long moment after Stiles pulled out, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his furrowed brow. The room was thick with the heavy scent of sex—musk, cum, and that raw, unmistakable tang of a well-fucked ass. His hole throbbed, wide open and ruined, a steady trickle of his son’s thick load still oozing out, warm and slick, running down his hairy balls and dripping onto the floor in lazy strings.

He could hear Stiles’ footsteps fading toward the bathroom, that cocky little swagger in them now, but Derek didn’t move yet. Instead, he reached down between his legs, wrapping one rough, calloused hand around his own aching cock—rock-hard and leaking the whole damn time he’d been getting railed. It was slick with precum, veins pulsing angrily, and he only needed two rough, frantic strokes—up and down, twisting at the head—before his whole body locked up.

“Fuuuck,” he growled low and guttural, hips bucking forward as he came hard, shooting thick ropes of cum onto the floor beneath him, splattering in heavy spurts that mixed with the mess already there. His ass clenched involuntarily around nothing, pushing out another wet, bubbly fart that echoed obscenely—loud and unashamed, carrying the last of Stiles’ load with it in a shameful little squelch.

Derek huffed a breath, then let out a deep, rumbling chuckle, shaking his head as he finally pushed himself up onto his knees. He could feel it—his son’s cum still leaking slow and steady from his gaping, sore hole, warm trails sliding down his inner thighs. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, rough and proud.

“Kid’s finally doing better,” he muttered to himself, voice gravelly and satisfied. “Fucking me like he means it now. About goddamn time.”

Then he laughed again, quieter this time, reaching back to spread one cheek just to feel the cool air on his wrecked hole, the way it stayed open and loose, refusing to close yet. Another soft, wet sound escaped—cummy and filthy—and he smirked wider.

“Listen to that,” he said to the empty room, amused and mocking himself. “Another man's whole load still pouring out of me. What a fucking fag I am now—taking my own boy’s big dick like a greedy bitch and loving every second. Hole farting his cum like I’m proud of it.”

He gave his ass a lazy slap, watching it jiggle, still red from Stiles’ hands, and shook his head with a low, satisfied grunt.

“But damn if he didn’t learn quick.”

About a week later, the girls were out again, and Derek was sprawled on the couch, shirtless, a cold beer in hand, eyes glued to the college game on TV. The front door had barely clicked shut behind them when Stiles came stomping down the stairs—completely naked, that thick, curved teen boner swinging heavy and proud between his legs, already leaking at the tip.

Without a word, Stiles marched straight up to his dad, grabbed the back of Derek’s thick neck with one hand, and shoved his face down onto that throbbing cock. “Open up, fag,” he growled, voice low and commanding.

Derek’s lips parted instinctively now, and within seconds he was taking every inch, gagging only a little as Stiles started fucking his throat with short, rough thrusts. Five minutes of sloppy, wet sucking later, Stiles tensed, grunted, and unloaded straight down Derek’s throat—thick, hot ropes that Derek swallowed without spilling a drop.

“Thanks, fag,” Stiles said with a smug smirk, pulling out and giving Derek’s cheek a light slap before turning and strutting back upstairs, ass flexing with every step.

The next day, same deal—the girls were gone, and Stiles snapped his fingers from the doorway of his bedroom. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, that massive cock angry and veiny, pointing straight at Derek. “Get over here and start sucking, old man.”

Derek dropped to his knees without hesitation, crawling the last few feet before wrapping his lips around the head. He worked it sloppy—lots of spit, hollowed cheeks, tongue swirling—until Stiles got impatient and grabbed two fistfuls of hair, thrusting up hard into Derek’s throat. Ten minutes of relentless face-fucking later, Stiles pulled out with a wet pop and painted Derek’s entire face—thick ropes across his cheeks, nose, lips, even in his beard. Another facial. Gross, Derek thought, but he wiped his eyes and stayed on his knees like a good boy. Stiles was in charge now, and Derek had to admit the kid was thriving.

Over the last couple weeks, Derek had noticed the change in Stiles. The boy walked taller, talked louder, owned every room he stepped into. His friends deferred to him, his basketball team was winning, and he was finally getting the minutes he deserved—aggressive, dominant, unstoppable. The lessons were working better than Derek ever dreamed.

Saturday rolled around, and their daughter had a big cheerleading competition out of town. Derek was up early like always, whipping up a huge breakfast spread—scrambled eggs fluffy and hot, crispy bacon piled high, stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup. He kissed his wife and daughter goodbye at the door, waving them off with a grin, then turned back to the quiet house. He finished his coffee slow, savoring the peace, before heading to the sink to rinse the dishes, sleeves rolled up, water running hot.

Stiles finally sauntered into the kitchen a while later, shirtless and barefoot, scratching lazily at his flat stomach, that familiar bulge already tenting his loose sweats.

“You missed breakfast, sleepyhead,” Derek said over his shoulder, smirking a little.

“Whatever,” Stiles shot back, voice low and rough, eyes already dark with that hungry intent. “There’s only one thing I’m fucking starving for right now—and it ain’t pancakes.”

Derek barely had time to react before he felt Stiles step up close behind him, the heat of his lean body pressing in, that hard dick grinding against Derek’s ass through the thin fabric of his shorts. A sharp, stinging smack cracked across his left ass cheek—hard enough to make the thick meat jiggle and burn. Derek sucked in a breath, but before he could say a word, Stiles hooked his fingers into the waistband and yanked both shorts and boxers down to his ankles in one rough pull, leaving Derek completely naked from the waist down, his huge, fat, hairy ass on full display.

Those strong hands grabbed Derek’s massive cheeks immediately, spreading them wide apart, exposing that dark, hairy pucker to the cool kitchen air. Derek’s hole winked involuntarily, still a little tender from yesterday’s pounding, and he let out a quiet, involuntary moan as Stiles spat a thick, warm glob of saliva right onto it, watching it drip down the crack.

Then Stiles dropped to his knees without warning and dove in—tongue first, hungry and absolutely fucking sloppy. He licked broad, wet stripes up the hairy rim, circling the sensitive pucker before pushing the tip inside. Derek braced both hands hard on the counter, knuckles going white, a low “ungh” rumbling out of his chest as that hot tongue speared deeper, inch by wet inch, twisting and probing like Stiles was trying to taste every fold.

But then—sudden as hell—Stiles changed it up. While his tongue kept fucking in and out, he slid one finger alongside it, pressing the thick digit right into Derek’s spit-soaked hole at the same time. Derek’s eyes widened, a sharp “hnnngh… fuck” escaping his throat as both tongue and finger stretched him open together—slow at first, then deeper, the finger curling while the tongue lapped greedily around it.

Another finger joined—two now, scissoring inside alongside that relentless tongue—and Derek grunted louder, “ooof… shit… unh,” hips jerking back despite himself, pushing greedily onto the invasion. He was surprised as hell at the sudden shift—Stiles had never gone this intense on the rimming before, never double-teamed his hole like this—but fuck, he didn’t say a goddamn word to stop it. It felt too fucking good, that burning stretch, the wet heat, the filthy pressure hitting every nerve.

Stiles was moaning into his ass now, face buried deep, nose pressed into the hairy crack as he tongue-fucked and finger-fucked in perfect rhythm. And then, loud enough for Derek to hear every word, Stiles started talking to himself—filthy, breathless praise right against the hole.

“Goddamn… Dad, you’ve got the best fucking pussy I’ve ever tasted,” Stiles muttered, voice thick and breathless, pulling back just long enough to hawk another thick wad of spit right onto Derek’s twitching hole before diving straight back in, tongue spearing deep alongside those thrusting fingers.

Derek’s whole body jolted at the words, a sharp, ragged “fuuuck” rumbling out of his chest as Stiles’ tongue curled just right, dragging hard over that spot inside him that made his vision spark white. His cock—thick, untouched, and leaking like a faucet—slapped heavy against the lower cabinet with every involuntary rock of his hips. He couldn’t think straight, head hanging low between his braced arms, water still running forgotten in the sink.

Jesus fucking Christ, Derek thought, a dizzy mix of pride and pure filthy heat flooding through him. My own boy’s down there eating my hairy ass like it’s the best pussy he’s ever had. Calling it pussy. Saying it’s better than any girl he’s fucked.The thought should’ve weirded him out—hell, it did weird him out, deep down in some corner of his brain that still clung to “normal”—but right now it only made him hornier, made his hole clench greedily around Stiles’ fingers and tongue like it was begging for more.

He bit his lip hard to keep from moaning too loud, but a low, desperate “ungh… shit… right there, boy” slipped out anyway, hips pushing back shamelessly. Proud as hell of him,Derek admitted to himself, chest swelling even as his face burned. Kid’s turning into a goddamn beast—eating ass like a pro, talking nasty, hitting every fucking spot. And fuck, for some reason he was never, ever gonna say out loud—not even in his own head if he could help it—the fact that it was his son doing it, his own flesh and blood worshipping his hole like this, made it ten times hotter. Made his balls draw up tight, made his cock throb so hard he thought he might cum hands-free right there over the kitchen floor.

“Best one I’ve ever eaten out—girls don’t even come close,” Stiles kept going, words muffled against Derek’s wet, hairy rim as he shoved his tongue deeper, fingers scissoring wide. “And fuck, the way it grips my tongue… tightest, hottest hole I’ve ever had my mouth on. Could eat this pussy forever, Dad—musky, hairy, all man. Fucking perfect.” He shoved his tongue deeper, fingers thrusting faster, curling to rub that spot inside that made Derek’s cock leak against the cabinet door. “Already fucked it so many times and it’s still the best pussy I’ve ever railed. Greedy fucking thing—sucks me right in every time. Shit, I could eat this ass all day.”

Derek shuddered hard, another guttural “hnnngh… fuck” punching out of him as Stiles nailed that spot again and again. Best pussy he’s ever had, he thought dizzily, pride and shame and raw lust twisting together until he couldn’t tell them apart. My boy thinks his old man’s got the best hole he’s ever tasted. He clenched down deliberately, milking those fingers, and felt Stiles groan in approval against his ass.

He was never admitting it—never saying out loud how the taboo of it all was lighting him up like a fucking firework—but goddamn, he was so proud, so weirded out, and so fucking horny he could barely stand it. Derek’s breath came in ragged grunts—“ungh… hnnngh… fuck, boy”—his thick thighs trembling as he rocked back, chasing more. The kitchen filled with wet, obscene sounds: slurping tongue, squelching fingers, Derek’s low moans mixing with Stiles’ filthy self-talk. It was nasty, degrading, and so goddamn hot Derek’s untouched cock was throbbing hard, dripping steadily onto the floor.

Stiles kept at it for long minutes, relentless, until Derek’s hole was a sloppy, gaping mess—shiny with spit, clenching hungrily around nothing when Stiles finally pulled back with a satisfied growl.

It felt filthy and good didn’t even cover it anymore. It felt fucking perfect.

After a few more hungry, sloppy laps—tongue dragging slow and deliberate through Derek’s hairy crack, fingers twisting deep one last time—Stiles finally pulled back with a wet smack of his lips. He stood up slow, that massive, curved teen dick throbbing angrily in his fist, slick with spit and precum. He lined it up without a word, sliding the fat head up and down Derek’s glistening crack, teasing the swollen pucker over and over, humping the slick valley like he owned it.

Derek’s breath hitched, thighs trembling as he braced harder against the counter. Stiles rubbed the head back and forth a few more times, coating himself in the mess he’d made, then finally pushed—just the thick, flared tip popping past the tight ring with a lewd stretch.

“Ooof—fuck,” Derek grunted low, head dropping forward, beard scraping the countertop as that blunt head forced him open wider than ever.

Stiles didn’t give him a second to adjust. He gripped Derek’s hips bruisingly tight and slammed forward in one brutal, merciless thrust—burying every single huge inch balls-deep in a single go. Derek’s breath punched out of him in a ragged, broken “UNGH… SHIT… FUCK!” as that thick, curved shaft dragged hard over his prostate, lighting every nerve on fire.

Then Stiles started pounding—fast, hard, no warm-up, no mercy whatsoever. He pulled almost all the way out, leaving just the head inside, then slammed back in to the root, over and over, relentless. Each thrust forced a deep, guttural sound from Derek’s chest: “Ungh… hnnngh… fuck… yeah… ungh!” as inch after thick, veiny inch plowed into him again and again, battering his prostate in the best goddamn way—sharp, electric jolts that made his vision blur and his untouched cock slap heavy and leaking against the cabinet door.

The kitchen echoed with filthy sounds—wet, obscene slaps of hips against hairy ass, Derek’s heavy balls swinging forward with every impact, the counter creaking dangerously under his white-knuckled grip. Stiles leaned over him, chest to back, one hand snaking up to fist Derek’s hair roughly, yanking his head back.

“Take it, you greedy little bitch,” Stiles growled right in his ear, voice dark and mocking. “Look at you—bent over the sink like a needy pussy, moaning on my dick. This fat hairy cunt was made for breeding, wasn’t it, Dad?”

Derek could only groan louder—“Hnnngh… fuck… yes”—hips rocking back shamelessly now, chasing that brutal rhythm. Every time Stiles bottomed out, that curved cockhead smashed right into his prostate, grinding over it before pulling back and doing it again. The pressure built fast and overwhelming, a hot coil tightening low in Derek’s gut he’d never felt this intense before.

Stiles kept talking, filthy and feminizing, gripping Derek’s hair tighter, forcing him to arch. “Such a good girl for me—tightest pussy I’ve ever fucked. Girls don’t take it like this, don’t clench and milk me like you do. You love being my bitch, don’t you? Love getting this hairy hole wrecked.”

Another deep, punishing thrust—“UNGH!”—and Derek’s cock jerked hard, untouched, leaking in thick strings onto the floor. The battering on his prostate was relentless, perfect, turning his legs to jelly. He’d never cum without touching himself before, not once in his life, but fuck—he was right there, teetering on the edge from his own son’s dick alone.

“Fuck—gonna breed this pussy again,” Stiles snarled, pace turning erratic, hips snapping harder. “Gonna fill my bitch up—”

He buried himself deep with a final guttural moan, cock pulsing as he unloaded—rope after thick rope of hot cum flooding Derek’s guts. The feeling of being pumped full, that curved head still grinding against his swollen prostate, finally shoved Derek over.

With a choked, desperate “FUUUCK—STILES!” Derek came untouched for the first time ever—his thick cock jerking violently, shooting heavy spurts of cum all over the cabinet and floor, ass clenching rhythmically around Stiles’ buried dick, milking every last drop.

Stiles hissed through his teeth, still twitching inside. “That’s it—cum on my cock like a good slut. First time hands-free, huh? Told you this pussy was the best.”

He stayed buried a moment longer, then pulled out slow and deliberate. “Squeeze, bitch—don’t let a drop out this time. Next time I'll bring you a plut to keep my load where it belongs.”

Derek obeyed instantly, clamping down hard, feeling full and heavy and used in the best way. Not a single drop escaped.

“Thanks, bitch,” Stiles mocked with a smirk, delivering one last stinging slap to Derek’s huge, red, jiggling ass cheek. “Clean that mess up later.”

He tucked himself away and sauntered off like nothing happened.

But Stiles wasn’t even close to done—not by a long shot. Less than two hours later, with Derek still sore as hell from the kitchen pounding, his hole throbbing and faintly leaking that thick load into the seat of his shorts, making a sticky mess against his hairy crack, Stiles cornered him in the living room like a predator on the hunt. Derek had barely sat down on the couch, trying to catch his breath and ignore the warm fullness in his guts, when Stiles grabbed him by the shoulder, flipped him around, and shoved him face-down over the arm of the couch—rough, no warning, just manhandling his dad like he was nothing but a fucktoy.

“Time for round two, bitch,” Stiles growled, voice dripping with that cocky dominance he’d honed over the weeks. “Bend over and take it—your pussy’s already primed with my cum. Fuck, I love that—nothing better than sliding into a sloppy, bred hole. Makes it so easy for my big dick to wreck you, lubes everything up nice and creamy so my bitches can handle every inch without whining.”

Derek’s face pressed into the cushions, a muffled grunt escaping as Stiles yanked his shorts and boxers down again in one violent tug, exposing that huge, fat, hairy ass—still red from the earlier slaps, the pucker winking and glistening with residual spit and cum. Stiles dropped to his knees behind him, spreading those massive cheeks wide with a low whistle. “Look at this—my load’s still in there, Dad. Been wanting to try this forever—felching my own cum out of a hot, used pussy. Never done it with a girl, but fuck, your hairy hole’s perfect for it.”

Without another word, Stiles dove in face-first, burying his tongue deep into Derek’s cum-soaked hole—slurping noisily, explicit and greedy, lapping up his own thick, salty seed mixed with Derek’s musky ass flavor. He sucked hard, tongue fucking in and out to scoop out globs of it, swallowing with obscene, wet gulps that echoed in the room. “Mmm, tastes like victory—my cum straight from your guts. So fucking filthy, Dad, you’re leaking like a bred slut. Always fantasized about eating my load out of someone, feeling it warm and sticky on my tongue. Your pussy’s the best for this—hairy, tight, full of me.”

Derek moaned deep into the couch cushion—“Unngh… fuck, boy… that’s nasty”—his cock hardening again despite the ache, hips twitching as Stiles rimmed and sucked him clean, tongue probing every crevice to extract more of that creamy mess. Stiles kept going for long minutes, moaning against the hole, fingers digging into Derek’s cheeks to keep them pried apart, until he’d slurped up most of it, leaving Derek’s ass wetter and sloppier than before.

Finally satisfied, Stiles stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grinning wickedly. He lined up that massive, curved dick—still slick from the earlier fuck—and teased the head against Derek’s now-dripping pucker. “Now that I’ve cleaned you out a bit, time to fill you right back up. But slower this time—wanna hear you feel every inch.”

He pushed in gradual, inch by torturous inch—first the fat head popping past the rim with a wet stretch, drawing a sharp “Ooof… hnnngh” from Derek’s throat. Then another inch, thick and veiny, sliding slow into the heat—“Unngh… fuck… so big”—Derek moaning louder, fingers clawing at the couch as the curve dragged over his sensitive walls. Inch three, four—deeper now, battering lightly against his prostate already—“Ahh… shit… yeah, right there”—Derek’s voice breaking into desperate grunts, body shuddering. By the time Stiles bottomed out, balls-deep and grinding, Derek was a mess of sounds—“Fuuuck… ungh… all in… hnnngh”—his prostate getting nudged perfectly, sending sparks through his whole body.

Stiles gripped Derek’s hips and started pounding—hard as fuck, no holding back, hips snapping forward with brutal force. The couch creaked under them, Derek’s moans turning into loud, unrestrained cries—“UNGH! FUCK! HARDER!”—as that massive cock pistoned in and out, each thrust hammering his prostate in the best way, making his vision blur and his balls tighten.

But Stiles wasn’t having the noise. With a mocking laugh, he lifted one foot and planted it firmly on the back of Derek’s head, shoving his face deep into the couch cushions—burying him, muting those loud bitch moans into muffled grunts. “Shut the fuck up, Dad—you’re such a loud little slut when I’m hammering your prostate. Can’t even take it quiet like a good girl. Moan into the couch while I wreck this hairy pussy.”

Derek’s protests came out as garbled “mmph… unngh… fuuuck”—face smashed down, ass up high, taking every punishing slam. Stiles kept railing him, grunting with effort—“Take it… yeah, squeeze that cum-lubed hole”—slutting him out the whole time. “My pretty bitch, already full of my seed once today—makes you so easy to fuck, doesn’t it? Sloppy and ready for more. Girls love it when I breed 'em twice—makes 'em cum harder, just like you.”

It went on for what felt like forever—sweat dripping, skin slapping, Derek’s muffled moans vibrating into the fabric—until Stiles buried deep with a final roar, unloading another thick, hot load into Derek’s guts, flooding him fuller than before. He pulled out slow, admiring the creamy drip starting to leak out.

“Fucking perfect,” Stiles panted, giving that jiggling ass a hard slap. “Stay like that, bitch—keep my loads in you all day.”

Something had definitely snapped in the kid today—he was insatiable, dominant, unstoppable. And Derek, wrecked and dripping from his hole now, body humming with aftershocks, wouldn’t have it any other way.

Over the next couple months, it became a filthy, unrelenting routine—Stiles owning Derek's body like it was his personal playground. The kid would fuck Derek’s throat whenever the mood struck, no matter the time or place: quick, sloppy blowjobs in the garage before school, Derek on his knees gagging down that massive teen cock until his face was glazed with thick, sticky cum, ropes dripping from his beard like a badge of proud. Other times, Stiles would bend Derek over the couch during a commercial break, the kitchen counter while dinner simmered, or the bathroom sink mid-shave—and pound that huge, fat, hairy ass until it gaped wide, red and leaking, cum bubbling out in wet farts that made Derek's cheeks burn even as his hole clenched for more.

Derek got used to the taste of his son’s cum—still bitter and thick, coating his tongue like salty glue, still not his favorite thing in the world—but he could swallow it down easy now, no more heaving or sputtering. He wasn’t a fag, or so he told himself, but damn if he couldn’t take it like one when his boy needed release, opening wide and sucking like a pro just to see that proud smirk on Stiles' face.

At least five times, Derek had fucked Claudia with Stiles’ load still leaking out of his wrecked hole—feeling it squelch obscenely around his hole as he pounded into his wife, the warm drip sliding down his thighs while she moaned beneath him, oblivious that his son had marked him first, turning his ass into a cum-dump before he even touched her. Once at the gym, mid-set with his buddy spotting him on the bench press, Derek let out a loud, wet fart that echoed through the weight room like a goddamn gunshot—bubbly and unmistakable, carrying the last remnants of Stiles' morning load. His buddy Vernon laughed and ribbed him hard, "Whoa, ease up on the protein shakes, man!" but Derek just smirked through the burn, knowing it was his boy's cum bubbling out of his stretched hole, a secret thrill that made his cock twitch in his shorts.

Meanwhile, Stiles was dominating everything in his life, transforming into the alpha Derek always knew he could be. He’d dumped his cheating girlfriend without a second thought, had a new girl (or three) on his arm every weekend—hot little things from school or the mall, all giggling and eager—and he’d spill every filthy detail to Derek afterward, usually while buried balls-deep in his dad's ass. On the court, he was an absolute beast—leading his team to win after win with aggressive drives, steals, and dunks that left the crowd roaring. He’d even decked the teammate who’d slept with his ex, right there in the locker room after practice—no hesitation, just a solid punch to the jaw that dropped the guy like a sack of bricks.

Derek was especially proud about that part, beaming inside even as he played the concerned parent during the fallout. He remembered the tense meeting with the principal like it was yesterday: sitting in that stuffy office with Claudia beside him, her face pale and shocked as the principal droned on about "zero tolerance for violence" and "suspension risks." Derek nodded gravely on the outside, murmuring things like "We're disappointed, sir—we'll handle this at home," but inside, he was fucking glowing, his mind racing with pride. That's my boy, he thought, fighting a grin. Finally standing up, taking no shit. Claudia squeezed his hand under the table, whispering later in the car how worried she was, but Derek just patted her thigh and said, "He'll learn from it, hon—boys will be boys." All the while, he couldn’t wait to get home and congratulate his son proper.

That night, after Claudia crashed early from the stress and their daughter was having a sleepover, Derek knocked on Stiles' door, stepping in to find the kid lounging on his bed, scrolling his phone with a smug look. "Heard about the punch," Derek said, closing the door behind him. "Principal chewed our asses today—your mom's all worked up. But me? Fuck, son, I'm proud as hell. That's how a man handles his business."

Stiles grinned wide, tossing his phone aside and patting the bed. "Yeah? Come show me how proud, then. Strip and ride this dick—wanna hear you say it while you're bouncing on me."

Derek didn't hesitate, shedding his clothes in seconds, his thick, muscled body on display—hairy chest heaving, cock already half-hard. He straddled Stiles' lap, reaching back to guide that massive, curved boner to his hole, still slick from an earlier quickie. As he sank down slow, inch by veiny inch stretching him wide—"Ooof… ungh… fuck, so thick"—Derek grunted deep, head tipping back, his huge and massive muscular pectorals bouncing with the motion, nipples hard and pebbled. His huge, fat, hairy ass jiggled too, cheeks spreading around Stiles' girth as he bottomed out with a wet slap.

Stiles groaned, hands roaming up Derek's sides. "Tell me about it—while you're riding me like a good bitch."

Derek started rolling his hips, riding hard and steady, his big dick slapping wetly against Stiles' ripped abs with every bounce—"Slap… slap… ungh… yeah." He moaned low, gripping Stiles' shoulders for leverage. "Proud of you, boy—fucking finally. Come a long way from that wimpy kid getting pushed around. Always should've been like this—dominant, taking what's yours. Punching that asshole? Best thing you could've done. Showed 'em you're not a pussy anymore."

Stiles laughed breathlessly, thrusting up to meet him—"Fuck yeah, Dad"—then grabbed Derek from the back of his knees, yanking him down hard into a forceful kiss, lips crashing together for the first time. Derek was caught off guard for a split second, eyes widening, but then he kissed back just as eager, just as harsh—tongues tangling rough and wet, biting at lips because it felt so goddamn right, that taboo spark igniting everything hotter.

They came like that—Derek grinding deep as he shot ropes across Stiles' abs, Stiles flooding his dad's ass again with a guttural moan into the kiss.

After catching their breath, they shifted without a word into a sweaty 69—Derek swinging his huge, fat, hairy ass over Stiles' face, planting it right down so his cummy, wrecked hole sat flush on his son's mouth. Stiles groaned in approval, hands spreading those massive cheeks wide before diving in—tongue spearing deep, eating his own fresh load straight out of Derek's guts, slurping noisily, spanking the huge mounds of flesh hard enough to make them jiggle and bounce. The flavor—his cum mixed with the raw, musky taste of his father's asshole—drove him wild, suffocating him in the best way as he tongue-fucked deeper.

Down at the other end, Derek's face was eye-level with Stiles' still-hard, glistening cock—coated in ass juices and cum. He didn't hesitate—swallowed it to the root in one go, gagging eagerly, throat working around the massive shaft as he tasted his own hole on his boy. Fuck, proud of this kid, Derek thought, bobbing sloppy and deep. Raging libido, never quits—feels so goddamn good.

They went at it for long, sweaty minutes in that filthy 69—wet, obscene slurps filling the room as Stiles tongue-fucked deep into Derek’s cummy, wrecked hole, scooping out thick globs of his own load mixed with that raw, musky ass taste. Every hard spank he landed on those huge, fat, hairy mounds made the flesh jiggle and bounce, forcing Derek’s ass to smother him even more, suffocating him in the overpowering flavor of his father’s asshole and his own fresh cum—salty, bitter, pure sex. “Mmmph—fuck, Dad, taste so good,” Stiles groaned into the crack between spanks, voice muffled and hungry.

Down the other end, Derek was gagging eagerly on Stiles’ massive cock, throat bulging as he forced it all the way down, nose buried in his son’s balls. He could taste himself clear as day—his own hairy hole coating every veiny inch—and it made him moan around the shaft, a deep, guttural “mmmnnngh… unh… fuck” vibrating through Stiles’ dick. He was proud of the kid’s raging libido, proud of how hard he stayed, proud of how goddamn good this all felt.

Finally, Stiles tapped Derek’s hip twice—signal enough. They rolled together in a tangle of heavy limbs and sweat-slick muscle, switching so Stiles was on top now, pinning his old man down with that lean, powerful body. Their cocks—spent but still half-hard and slick—slid together between their abs, cum smearing sticky and warm as their mouths crashed together again in the most primal, manly, natural way possible.

The kiss was deep, hungry, no holding back—tongues shoving rough and wet, swapping spit thick with the mixed taste of cum, ass, and each other. Derek groaned low into Stiles’ mouth—“hnnngh… fuck, boy”—as he registered the flavor exploding on his tongue: his son’s cum straight from his own hole, mingled with Stiles’ saliva. Stiles answered with a guttural “unngh… yeah, Dad… taste us both,” grinding harder, tongue fucking Derek’s mouth the same way he’d just fucked his ass.

They moaned together—“mmph… unh… fuck”—grunting deep and animal as their tongues tangled, licking into every corner, chasing that filthy cocktail of their combined loads. Derek’s big hands gripped Stiles’ ass, pulling him closer; Stiles fisted Derek’s beard, tilting his head to go deeper, both of them lost in the raw taste of what they’d done to each other.

When they finally broke for air, panting heavy and foreheads pressed together, strings of spit and cum still connecting their lips, Stiles smirked. “Best fucking dessert—my cum straight out of your hairy pussy, then right back on your tongue.”

Derek huffed a rough laugh, chest heaving. “You’re a nasty little bastard… but goddamn if it don’t taste right.”

Derek was proud as hell. Sure, his mouth and his huge, fat, hairy ass and asshole had taken a beating—stretched wide, sore constantly, wet and moist with cum more often than not, gaping and tender from the relentless poundings—but what wouldn’t a dad do for his son? If it meant turning a pussy into a king, he’d take every load, every brutal slap, every degrading word, every filthy kiss, every shared taste of their own depravity without a single regret.

And deep down, in the quiet moments after the sweat cooled and the room still smelled like sex, Derek had to admit it to himself: he wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. Not for anything. Because as twisted as it was, Stiles had given him the best orgasms of his life—those shattering, hands-free explosions that ripped through him when that curved cock battered his prostate just right, leaving him shaking and spurting ropes across the floor or his son’s abs without even touching himself. No woman, no hookup, nobody since he was a horny teenager discovering his own body had ever made him cum that hard, that deep, that completely. The pleasure was raw, overwhelming, addictive in a way he’d never known he craved.

So yeah, his holes ached, his throat stayed raw, and he carried his boy’s loads around like a secret badge half the day—but fuck, it was worth it. For Stiles. For the man he’d become. And, if he was being brutally honest with himself, for the way it made Derek feel alive again, younger desired, used, and utterly satisfied in the filthiest way possible.

He wondered sometimes if any other dad had ever gone this far for his boy. Probably not. But if your son’s a pussy, it’s worth a shot. Just make sure your holes can take it—and maybe your heart, too. Hell, maybe even your pride… because once you’ve felt your own kid make you cum harder than anyone ever has, there’s no going back.