Luke laid in his bed, shirtless, swaddled under his heavy blanket as he tapped idly at his phone screen. He had grown handsome and scruffy, his wide eyes unburdened by troubles—a stark contrast to earlier in his life, before his transition, when they lidded heavily at all times. I asked him what was wrong; he had not messaged me like this before, much less while we were in the same house. There was certainly a different energy about him.

So I decided to be straight forward. "You can be honest with me. You don't have to just tell me what I want to hear."

I wanted to be there for him and whatever he needed, but it had to be on his terms. There was nothing about what we did together that I was ashamed about—the more shameful thing, I thought, would be to do anything that would make my son uncomfortable. Luke's life was hard enough with the toil of his transition; I refused to do anything that could add difficulty to his life.

"Yeah?" he said, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

"Yeah."

"Well, do you want to get in bed with me?"

Clearly, Luke knew what he wanted. Dale, my father, when he talked about things like this, would talk about how our family was like a tree, and we had this attraction to each other because we were all branches of the same tree and we had each other's interests in mind. Luke, and Dale, both were just so confident. They just knew what they wanted. I rarely found myself in possession of such certainty.

But as he made room in the bed for me, looking at me with eager eyes, I found it. I found certainty. I wanted to be what Luke needed me to be; in bed, out of bed, anywhere. As I climbed in, he allowed no ambiguity—he wanted me physically. My son buried his face into my pecs, nuzzling through my chest hair. I caressed his cheek, pulled his head close to mine, and kissed him, running my fingers through his hair.

He paid special attention to my nipples, lapping and suckling them while looking up at me with the cutest, most enraptured expression. Perhaps this was just one of the things he loved about men—considering that both his grandfather and I were larger men, well-formed by labor and years, we certainly had plenty of hairy chests for Luke to bury himself in.

I flipped Luke over, letting my large body cover him. I dipped my fingers over his boxers, feeling the bump of his t-dick, and stroked it through the fabric. We traded hot breath and hotter kisses. I spread his legs, my fingers pressing and rubbing along his bonus hole, while kissing him so hard that I bore him down into the mattress.

Neither of us cared for the extra layers between us. I pulled his boxers off, then mine. One of the enduring memories I had of our night with his granddad was when I was able to taste Luke's bonus hole—a marvelous delicacy of sensation: rich and tangy. I did not want to wait any longer. I dove in. I ate out Luke's hole like it was the last source of liquid I'd ever find. It didn't need to be, though—it was water, life itself to me.

When the taste of Luke was all I knew, I took his legs and spread them wide. He arched his back, pushing his ass up into the air, and I grabbed my cock and slid it into him. I fucked him slow and gentle at first, easing my thick length into him. I kissed his toes and the soles of his foot; his light giggles of surprise and arousal excited me further.

Luke writhed beneath me. His fingers found mine and we locked hands. I folded Luke up, then fucked him from behind. We twisted in the sheets for an amount of time that could not be measured, lost in each other as we were. When I finally came, it was as if we were reborn. We lay together on the bed, sweaty and sticky, kissing and cuddling, our relationship deeper, more complicated, more beautiful than before.