The radiator hissed softly in Derek's bedroom, a sound Jonathan hadn't heard in four months. The deployment paperwork had promised "temporary absence," but the smell hitting him now—thick, musky, the unmistakable reek of unwashed sheets and teenage testosterone—felt like walking into a different house entirely. His nose wrinkled before he could stop it.
The bed was stripped bare, mattress exposed with yellowing stains in Rorschach patterns. Jonathan's fingers brushed one crusted patch near the pillow. He exhaled sharply through his mouth. "Jesus, kid." A sock dangled from the ceiling fan. Three more formed a sad pyramid by the closet. The dresser drawers hung open, vomiting mismatched shirts—some too small, others absurdly large, sleeves dangling like deflated limbs.
He nudged a pair of sweatpants with his boot. They crackled stiffly. "Like a goddamn salt flat," he muttered, then froze at the wet crunch underfoot. A cereal bowl, fossilized with something white and curdled, had been half-hidden under the bedskirt.
Down the hall, the refrigerator hummed. Empty, of course. Spotless. The contrast made his stomach tighten.
Jonathan's fingers lingered on the crusted newspaper, its edges brittle under his touch. The headline swam before his eyes—LOCAL WRESTLING TEAM MEMBERS REPORTED MISSING—but what held his attention were the fingerprints smeared into the paper's fiber, the unmistakable gloss of dried semen turning the sports section into a grotesque artifact. He flipped it over. The team photo showed five boys in singlets, their faces twisted into something between aggression and ecstasy, muscles glistening under fluorescent lights. Derek wasn't among them.
The smell hit him again, thicker now that he'd stirred the room's stale air. Not just the sharp tang of teenage lust—something richer, almost animal. Jonathan knelt, pressing a palm to the mattress. It yielded stiffly, soaked through in patches. He'd seen this before, in barracks where boys fresh out of boot camp didn't know how to handle their newfound virility. But this was different. The stains weren't just on the sheets; they spiderwebbed up the walls, dotted the ceiling like some perverse constellation. A sock stuck to the baseboard peeled away with a wet sound.
He opened the closet. Inside, wrestling singlets hung limp from wire hangers, their spandex stretched at the seams. One was ripped clean down the middle, the fabric stiff with what looked like dried saliva. Jonathan's throat tightened. These weren't Derek's. His son had been a lanky kid, all elbows and knees. These would fit grown men.
The desk drawer screeched when he yanked it. Inside, a nest of used condoms, stiff and yellowed, spilled out like desiccated grubs. A half-empty bottle of lube had tipped over, its contents pooled and congealed into a sticky amber lake. Jonathan's breath hitched—not at the mess, but at the implication. His boy was just a shy boy, he jerked off like any of his age, but he certainly wasn’t capable of filling a condom.
The drawer's bottom scraped against the tracks with a noise like grinding teeth. Jonathan's fingers brushed against cold glass—a mason jar, half-hidden beneath a tangle of athletic tape. He pulled it out slowly, the weight unexpected, the contents sloshing thickly. Milky white, opaque, the viscosity of heavy cream. The lid was crusted with concentric rings of dried residue.
He set it on the desk with a thunk that made the condoms tremble. The liquid inside rippled sluggishly, clinging to the glass in uneven streaks. Jonathan's thumb rubbed at the crust around the lid's rim. It flaked away like old paint. His stomach turned, but not before his brain supplied the answer—this wasn't dairy. The smell hit him then, not just the expected sour tang, but something deeper, muskier, layered with sweat and something spicy. Drugs? No. Not one he knew off and that spoke volumes. Enlisted rednecks did all possible and impossible narcotic shit out there, and this one wasn't one he even heard of.
The desk chair creaked when he sat, jar cradled between his palms. A label curled at the edge, handwritten in Derek's cramped script: "Batch #7 - 3/14." Jonathan's fingers trembled. March fourteenth. He'd been knee-deep in sand that day, counting bullets instead of birthdays.
Underneath the jar, pressed flat against the drawer's bottom, was a polaroid. The image was blurry—a tangle of limbs, a wrestling mat, the flash catching the sheen of sweat on bare skin. Five figures, but not posed like the newspaper photo. These boys were mid-motion, mouths open, eyes glazed. One had his fingers knotted in another's hair, pulling hard enough to stretch the scalp. Derek wasn't in this one either. But curled in the corner of the photo, barely visible: a sixth shadow, elongated, its edges indistinct.
The closet door swung open with a groan Jonathan didn't remember touching. Inside, the singlets swayed gently, though there was no draft. The torn one gaped at the neckline, threads dangling like broken puppet strings. Jonathan reached out, not meaning to, and the fabric clung to his fingers, tacky with old sweat. When he pulled back, a long blond hair—too coarse to be Derek's—stuck to his palm.
He turned back to the jar, unscrewing the lid before he could think better of it. The scent erupted—ripe, fermented, with an undercurrent of something metallic. Jonathan gagged, but his hand kept moving, dipping two fingers in. The substance parted thickly, coating his skin in warm silk. It tingled faintly, like menthol rubbed into sore muscles. He withdrew his fingers slowly, watching the strands stretch and snap.
A drop fell onto the polaroid. Where it hit the glossy surface, the image bubbled, the colors running like wet ink. The wrestlers' faces melted, their features rearranging—eyes sliding down cheeks, mouths stretching wide. Jonathan jerked back, jar sloshing dangerously. The liquid slopped over the rim, splattering his boots. The leather hissed where it landed, tiny tendrils of smoke curling up.
Footsteps creaked in the hallway—too heavy for Derek, too deliberate for an intruder. Jonathan froze, jar still dripping. The bedroom door eased open with a sigh. "Dad?" Derek's voice, but wrong—deeper, rougher, like something straining to fit inside his throat. "You're home early."
The doorway framed Derek in a way that made Jonathan's grip tighten around the mason jar. His son—except the proportions were all wrong. Shoulders that used to hunch now filled the doorjamb, deltoids rounded like river stones under sweat-slick skin. Derek scratched at his stomach, fingers trailing through a thatch of dark hair that hadn't been there when Jonathan shipped out. The motion pulled his sweatpants low enough to reveal a trail of a coarse happy trail leading to his crotch, the waistband straining against hips that had widened alarmingly.
"Hey, old man." Derek's voice cracked on the second syllable, too deep for his old vocal cords. The musk rolled off him in waves—not just puberty's sharp tang, but something... manly? He sniffed the air, nostrils flaring. "You opened it."
Jonathan set the jar down slowly. The liquid inside sloshed, casting reflected light across Derek's pecs. "What the fuck is Batch #7?"
Derek's throat worked silently, his newly thickened Adam's apple bobbing as he looked anywhere but at the jar. His fingers—too large now, knuckles swollen—twisted the hem of his shirt. "It's just... a supplement," he mumbled, the words coming out half-strangled. "For growth."
Jonathan watched a bead of sweat slide down Derek's temple. The kid had never been able to lie worth a damn, not even about stolen cookies at age six. Now, standing in the wreckage of this bedroom that smelled like a locker room after the state finals, Derek's jaw clenched hard enough to pop a tendon.
"Made it myself," Derek added too quickly, then winced. "Well—not myself. A friend. Helped."
Jonathan's thumb rubbed across the jar's label. The paper was warped, the ink smeared from repeated handling. "This friend," he said slowly, "wouldn't happen to be missing?"
Derek's fingers twitched toward the jar, then recoiled like he'd touched a hot stove. His throat worked silently, the newly prominent Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "It's—it's just protein," he muttered, but the way his voice cracked on the second syllable made Jonathan's grip tighten around the mason jar.
The smell hit Jonathan again—thicker now with Derek standing closer—a heady mix of sweat and something earthy layered beneath. Not the sharp tang of teenager, but something weird. Like the musk of a rutting stag. Jonathan's nostrils flared involuntarily.
Derek's shoulders hunched, a familiar gesture from childhood, but the muscles bunching under his sweat-damp shirt were anything but familiar. "Coach said we needed to bulk up for regionals," he mumbled, toeing at a crumpled sock on the floor. The fabric stuck to his sneaker briefly before peeling away with a wet sound.
Jonathan's gaze dropped to the polaroid on the desk, where the spilled liquid had warped the wrestlers' faces into grotesque smears. One boy's melted features now resembled Derek's—if Derek's jawline had sharpened overnight, his brow ridge thickened. "Which friend helped you make this?" Jonathan asked, turning the jar slowly in his hands. The contents sloshed, strands of opaque fluid clinging to the glass like cobwebs.
Derek's fingers twitched toward the waistband of his sweatpants, then froze. His voice came out hoarse, cracking like dry earth splitting under heat. "Started with... with Coach's protein shakes." A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, catching the light before vanishing into the dark stubble along his jaw. "But then Tyler—team captain—he found something... stronger."
Jonathan watched his son's throat work, the Adam's apple bobbing visibly beneath skin stretched tight over new muscle. The jar in his hands felt suddenly heavier.
"We were at practice," Derek continued, eyes fixed on the ceiling stains. "Tyler had this kid from chem class tied up in the equipment room—some scrawny nerd who'd been mouthing off." His fingers mimicked something in the air—a squirming shape. "He made us watch while he...
Derek's voice fractured mid-sentence, cracking like the drywall above his bed where his headboard had punched through last Thursday. "Tyler—he had this way of... making his thing big, like reaaaaally big, and opening his piss slit wider," he rasped, fingers closing on a hefty mound on his sweatpants. Jonathan watched his son's hand work on the prominent bulge, the boys large adam's apple bobbing as Derek swallowed thickly. "Like a snake."
The radiator clicked off abruptly, leaving only the wet sound of Derek's breathing. He dragged a hand down his face—palm too broad now, fingers too long—and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped another octave. "The nerd screamed at first. Then it got... gloppy." A shudder ran through Derek's shoulders, but the sweat pooling in his collarbones wasn't from fear.
Jonathan's grip on the jar left white knuckle marks. The liquid inside had settled into layers—creamy on top, something darker swirling beneath. "You watched this?"
Derek's throat worked. "Had to. Tyler made us kneel. Like he had a power on us, we couldnt resist." His fingers twitched toward his waistband again, and this time Jonathan saw why—the sweatpants tented obscenely, fabric straining over what couldn't possibly be human proportions. "His dick... fuck, Dad, it unfolded." Derek's voice cracked like ice under boots. "Like one of those origami flowers, but wet. And hungry."
The polaroid on the desk bubbled where more liquid had dripped, the wrestlers' faces melting into a single gaping maw. Derek didn't seem to notice. His pupils had blown wide, black swallowing blue. "The nerd's kicked inside it for like... three minutes. Then Tyler came." Derek licked his lips unconsciously. "Actually he didnt came, he just leaked pre cum... so he could slide in faster."
The mason jar slipped from Jonathan's fingers, hitting the carpet with a dull thud that didn't match the seismic shift happening in his skull. Derek's voice—too deep now, frayed at the edges—kept unraveling. "Tyler would pin him down with one hand," he rasped, thumb circling the swollen head of his own erection through sweatpants fabric. "Had this way of... flexing inside him. Like his dick was tasting him."
Jonathan's boots stuck to the floor where Batch #7 was laying, the jar intact. Derek's nostrils flared looking at it, his tongue darting out to wet lips. "The nerd—he kinda folded," Derek continued, fingers sketching a collapsing shape in the air. "Like when you suck a spaghetti strand through your teeth. Just... slurped right into Tyler's piss slit."
The radiator kicked back on with a metallic groan. Derek's sweatpants darkened at the crotch as pre-cum soaked through, the outline beneath unmistakable—not just thick, but long, the shaft almost fully visible in the bulge. "Tyler moaned the whole time," Derek whispered. "Said it felt like getting his schlong licked from the inside." His hands hovered over his own straining bulge, fingers twitching. "We had to... collect what dripped after."
Jonathan's throat locked around the image—Tyler's monstrous cock pulsing, glistening strands of half-digested boy oozing from the tip while the wrestling team jostled beneath him like piglets at a teat.
Derek's fingers closed around the mason jar with a familiarity that made Jonathan's stomach twist. The lid came off with a wet pop, releasing a scent so dense it pressed against Jonathan's face like a sweaty palm—musky, fermented, layered with something meaty underneath. His vision swam at the edges.
"Jesus, kid," Jonathan managed, but Derek wasn't listening. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, eyelids fluttering. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the tip of his already straining cock, visible even through the damp fabric. With one jerky motion, Derek yanked his sweatpants down to his thighs.
Jonathan's breath caught. His son's cock wasn't just big—it was grotesque, a veined monstrosity that slapped against Derek's swollen balls with an audible wet sound. The purple head glistened under the bedroom light, piss slit gaping slightly as Derek's thick fingers probed at it. Jonathan watched, frozen, as his son's middle finger sank knuckle-deep into his own urethra with a slick squelch.
"Fuck—" Derek groaned, back arching. His other hand tilted the jar, letting the thick, milky sludge inside slide toward the rim. Jonathan expected him to drink it. Instead, Derek pressed the jar's mouth against the weeping tip of his cock.
The sound was obscene—a wet, sucking slurp as the viscous liquid disappeared into Derek's piss slit. Jonathan could see the bulge traveling down the thick shaft, pulsing visibly under the skin like a mouse being swallowed by a snake. Derek's balls tightened, drawing up against his body as the substance filled them.
"Kyle always—fuck—tasted the best," Derek panted, hips twitching as a heavy dose of the sludge vanished into his cock. His balls had swollen accordingly, heavy and taut with whatever the hell that jar had. A thick drop of something pearlescent oozed from his slit.
Jonathan's stomach turned, but his eyes remained locked on the obscene sight. Derek's cock twitched violently, veins standing out in stark relief as another wave of that same milky fluid pumped visibly up the length of his shaft. For a horrifying second, Jonathan thought his son would cum—but no. The liquid stopped just beneath the head, pooling inside the swollen tip until it distended slightly.
"Dad," Derek gasped, voice cracking. His free hand reached out, grasping Jonathan's wrist with terrifying strength. "You gotta—fuck—you gotta see this part."
Before Jonathan could react, Derek shoved his father's hand against the weeping head of his cock. The heat radiating from it was inhuman. Jonathan tried to pull back, but Derek held firm, forcing his fingers to circle the gaping slit.
"Push in," Derek begged, eyes wild. "Just—just one knuckle, I swear—"
Jonathan's index finger slipped in effortlessly, swallowed by the tight, pulsing heat of his son's urethra. The sensation was wrong—not just wet, but alive, muscles rippling along his finger in waves. Something thick and viscous coated his skin.
Derek threw his head back with a guttural moan. "Yesss—right there, that's where he—nngh—that's where Kyle lives now—"
Jonathan recoiled, but Derek's cock had an iron grip.
Jonathan's wrist popped as Derek's urethral muscles pulsed around his fingers, the suction pulling him deeper with each wet contraction. His son's cockhead had swollen obscenely around his hand, the slit stretching wider than any human anatomy should allow. "Derek—*Jesus Christ*—" The words came out strangled as his knuckles disappeared inside the slick heat.
Derek's eyelids fluttered open, revealing irises that swirled with unnatural greens—colors stolen from Kyle's biology, mixed now with Derek's original brown like oil swirling in water. "S'sorry," Derek slurred, tongue dragging across his newly sharpened canines. His hips stuttered forward, forcing another inch of Jonathan's hand inside that impossible warmth. "Kyle was just—*fuck*—so "ripe" when I fed on him."
The release came sudden as a snapped rubber band. Jonathan's hand shot free with a sound like a cork popping from champagne, his fingers glistening with thick, opalescent fluid that stretched in sticky strands back to Derek's gaping slit. The piss hole pulsed visibly, flexing like a hungry mouth before slowly cinching shut—though not entirely. A bead of milky precum welled at the tip, quivering before dripping onto the floorboards with an audible plop.
Jonathan stared at his hand. The liquid coating his skin wasn't just semen—it moved with purpose, crawling up his wrist in thin, probing tendrils that shimmered like oil on water. Derek's cock twitched violently, its swollen head now a shade darker where Jonathan's fingers had been, veins pulsing with unnatural rhythm. The slit remained slightly parted, breathing almost, each exhale releasing another viscous glob that hit the floor with a sound like wet cement.
Derek's breathing hitched as he watched his father's hand. His tongue—too long now, Jonathan noticed with dawning horror—dragged across his lips, collecting a stray drop of that same luminous fluid from his chin. "Tastes better when it's fresh," he murmured, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the strange new greens in his eyes. His throat worked as he swallowed audibly, Adam's apple bobbing beneath skin stretched tight over new muscle.
Derek exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers massaging his swollen nuts with a tenderness that looked almost apologetic. The musk rolling off him had settled into something warmer now—less rutting beast, more teenage boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Sorry," he muttered, thumb tracing a vein along his shaft where Jonathan's fingers had been. "You just... fuck, you taste different." His tongue darted out to catch another stray bead of fluid at the corner of his mouth.
Jonathan should've recoiled. Should've lunged for the shotgun in the hall closet. Instead, he watched Derek's cock twitch against his stomach with detached fascination, the slit pulsing gently like a second mouth. The realization settled over him like a too-familiar jacket: none of this struck him as particularly strange. Boys ate each other, growing boys needed nutrients. Only the strong should remain, the weaker must feed them. Its the natural order. Obviously. Hadn't he seen similar things in the barracks?
The memory slithered away before he could grasp it.
