The Bastard

The Temptation of a Rope

The cold surrounding Brad wasn't only from the garage that was his current residence in his father's home. The real cold was inside. It was the kind of cold that never went away, even when he jacked the tiny space heater up all the way. This cold was the kind that came from a soul-crushing misery, and it was one that he could never seem to escape.

Of course, there were avenues for escape. One of those avenues simply took the will to leave, but he never managed it. The other avenue was provided by his father, Stan. That one was more permanent, and he didn't have the courage to take it, either.

Not that he hadn't thought about it. He considered it frequently, in fact. There were all kinds of ways to do it. One of them hung from a rafter next to the swaying single light, a well-knotted noose. His father had tied it so expertly that Brad knew he'd been thinking of it for some time. Maybe even practicing.

Another way was the bottle of sleeping pills, which Stan had placed next to the shitty cot Brad slept in. Beside the pills was a bottle of whiskey, untouched. The whiskey might warm him a bit, but something about the misery his father inflicted on him daily made him avoid drinking. It was like he enjoyed the misery to some extent.

The third escape route was the car parked in the garage. It was an old thing, useless to drive as it had no brakes, no seats, and no steering wheel. But it ran. And the keys were in the ignition. Stan put them there.

"When I go," he'd said, "I hope it's as easy as turning a key and sitting back. If you wanna try it, be my guest. Probably be better than living with a baby dick while your old man stuffs your girl's cunt. Anyway, don't want to keep the slut waiting. Oh, and if you do go through with it, have the fucking decency to wrap yourself in plastic or something. I don't need your shit stinking up wherever it is you decide to off yourself."

Laying on the cot, in the cold of the garage, with the deep freeze of defeat weighing him down, Brad's eyes were trained on the battered TV that sat atop the car. His tormenter, the man that should have been the one to shepherd him through life, to teach him what it meant to be a man, was on the TV. In a way, he was teaching Brad what it meant to be a man. At least, by his warped definition of a man.

"A real man's got a fucking cock that's good for hammering a wet cunt," Stan would say. "You? Well, the day a wet cunt can even feel your little pecker in it is the day I stop pumping my dick into that faggy asshole of yours."

But it wasn't Brad that Stan was fucking tonight. No. Stan had pussy to fuck. Stan always had pussy to fuck. He didn't need to push his substantial girth into Brad's butt. That was just a further humiliation, an additional misery. Tonight, Stan's massive prick was buried in Kelsey. And Kelsey was supposed to be Brad's girlfriend.

Technically, she was. But Brad had never been allowed to fuck her. That privilege belonged to Stan, too. And Stan took full advantage of the privilege his oversized prick granted him. He took advantage of it with every girl that Brad brought home.

If he were smarter, he supposed, he'd stop bringing them home. But that was the undeniable, awful thing about it. It was the same confusing mash of feelings that prevented Brad from using any of his methods of escape. Something in him got off on the misery Stan inflicted. He cried about it, hated Stan for it, and despised the conditions he lived in.

Yet, he stayed. And he brought girls home so that Stan could steal them, fuck them, and then discard them. That was just part of the relationship he had with his father. Stan thrived on his misery, while Brad was something of an addict to it himself.

On the TV, which Stan had wired up to the cameras in his bedroom, Brad's latest girlfriend fucked herself silly on Stan's massive rod. Her dark hair whipped back and forth as she rode his cock, bouncing her big round ass on him like he was the best ride in town. Brad supposed he was because his dad basically fucked pussy at will.

Kelsey's pussy was no exception. Cary hadn't been either. Neither had Kali. No doubt, the next girl Brad managed to catch would be the same. As he watched his girlfriend lose her mind, and her body convulse with yet another powerful orgasm, Brad rubbed the bulge of his little, locked-up dick and watched.

In the autumn cold of the garage, surrounded by exits that he'd never use, Brad stroked his caged dick. Kelsey shook and moaned. Stan looked into one of the cameras. And he smiled.