Josh's fingers found the worn leather of his father's belt. The cool metal buckle felt like a brand against his skin, grounding him in a reality he couldn't escape. His hands trembled, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. The gun was still there, a dark eye watching from Isagani's hand, patient and absolute.
"That's it, anak." Isagani's voice was almost gentle. Almost kind. Like a father guiding a son through his first chore. "Slow and steady. Show your tatay how much you love him."
Josh's vision swam. The lamp light caught dust motes, suspended and spinning, and he thought of mornings in this room. Coffee. The radio. His father's laugh, low and warm. That world was gone. This was the world now—his hands on a belt that wasn't his to unbuckle, his breath shallow, his heart a trapped bird in his chest.
He pulled the leather through the buckle. The sound was loud in the stillness. A zipper next. Metal teeth separating. His father's jeans loosened, and Josh could smell him—sweat and earth and something familiar, something that made his stomach twist because it was his father, it was always going to be his father, and he couldn't unsee what he was seeing.
Tatay Jun's eyes were closed. His jaw was tight, cords standing out in his neck. He wasn't fighting the ropes anymore. He was fighting something inside himself, something that wanted to surface, something that made his breathing ragged and his hands clench into fists against the floor.
"Look at him," Isagani said, stepping closer. The floorboards creaked under his weight. "Look at your son, Tatay. He's doing this for you. Because he loves you."
Tatay Jun's eyes opened. Dark. Wet. His gaze found Josh's, and for a moment, there was something pleading in them—not for mercy, but for forgiveness. For what was about to happen. For what he couldn't stop.
Josh's hand found the waistband of his father's briefs. Thin cotton. Worn soft from a hundred washes. He could feel the heat beneath it, the shape of his father's body, and his stomach heaved. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.
"Pull them down," Isagani said. The gun gestured lazily. "All the way. I want to see everything."
Josh pulled. The fabric slid over his father's hips, over the curve of his ass, down his thighs. His father's cock lay soft against his thigh, nestled in dark hair, surrounded by the stretch marks and scars of a body that had worked hard and loved hard and never expected to be seen like this.
"Seven years," Isagani mused, circling them. "Seven years since you touched another person. Since anyone touched you." He crouched, studying Tatay Jun's half-hard cock with clinical interest. "That's a long time for a man. A long time to go hungry."
"Don't," Tatay Jun whispered. His voice was broken. "Please. Don't make him—"
"Make him what?" Isagani's smile was slow, almost fond. "I'm not making him do anything. He's choosing. Aren't you, Josh?"
Josh's throat was dry. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely grip the denim bunched around his father's knees. He looked at his father's face, at the tears tracking through his stubble, at the way his lips moved without sound, forming words that never came.
"I'm sorry," Josh breathed. It came out as barely a whisper. "Tatay, I'm sorry."
He lowered his head.
The smell hit him first—musk, salt, the intimate scent of his father's skin. He closed his eyes. Opened them. His father's cock was half-hard now, responding to the exposure, to the air, to some chemical whisper Josh couldn't hear. He parted his lips.
The first touch was foreign. Warm. Soft against his tongue. His father twitched, a sharp intake of breath, and Josh felt it—the pulse against his lips, the way his father's body responded despite everything, despite the shame and the fear and the disgust that must have been screaming through his mind.
"Good," Isagani breathed. "Good boy. Take him deeper."
Josh's jaw ached. He had never done this before. Never thought about doing it. His tongue moved instinctively, exploring the texture of his father's skin, the vein that ran along the underside, the weight of him filling his mouth inch by inch. His father was fully hard now, thick and hot, and Josh could taste something bitter at the back of his throat.
"Look at you," Isagani said, his voice hushed with something like reverence. "A son serving his father. It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Tatay Jun made a sound—a sob, a groan, something caught between. His hips shifted, not by choice, and his cock pushed deeper into Josh's throat. Josh gagged, pulled back, swallowed. His father was crying openly now, tears sliding into his hair, his chest heaving.
"Don't fight it," Isagani told him, his voice hardening. "Your body knows what it needs. Your son knows what you need. Let him serve you."
Josh took him again. Deeper this time. He found a rhythm, clumsy and desperate, his hand wrapped around the base of his father's cock, his mouth working the shaft. He could feel his father's pulse, the trembling of his thighs, the way his breath came in ragged gasps that matched the movement of Josh's head.
Isagani watched. The gun hung loose in his hand, forgotten for the moment. His eyes were dark, hungry, tracing every detail—the way Josh's throat moved when he swallowed, the way Tatay Jun's fingers curled against the floor, the slick sounds that filled the room.
"You're doing so well," Isagani murmured. "Both of you. But we're not done yet."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. Clear liquid inside. A syringe with a needle so thin it barely caught the light. Tatay Jun's eyes tracked it, widening, and his body went rigid.
"No," he said. "No, please, not again—"
"Shh." Isagani crouched beside him, the vial between his fingers. "This isn't the same. This is something gentler. Something that will help you enjoy what's happening." He uncapped the vial, drew the liquid into the syringe. "Because you're not enjoying it, are you? You're fighting. You're hating every second. And that's not good for anyone."
"I'll enjoy it," Tatay Jun said, his voice cracking. "I'll—I'll do whatever you want. Just don't—"
"Too late for promises." Isagani found the vein in Tatay Jun's neck, pressed the needle in. Tatay Jun gasped, his whole body arching, and Josh watched the liquid empty into his father's bloodstream. "There. That's better."
For a moment, nothing. Then Tatay Jun's breathing changed. Slower. Deeper. His eyes fluttered, and the tension bled out of his shoulders, his chest, his jaw. His cock, still in Josh's mouth, seemed to grow heavier, fuller, and Josh felt a shudder run through his father's body.
"Keep going," Isagani said softly. "He needs you."
Josh did. His mouth moved, his tongue tracing patterns, his hand stroking what he couldn't reach. His father's hips began to move, small thrusts at first, then longer, deeper, pushing into Josh's throat with a rhythm that was no longer reluctant. A hand landed in his hair. Not rough. Almost tender. His father's fingers threaded through his curls, gripping, guiding.
"Tatay," Josh breathed, pulling back for air. "Tatay, please—"
"Don't stop." His father's voice was different. Lower. Thicker. His eyes were open now, dark and hungry, and there was something in them that Josh had never seen before. "Don't stop, anak."
The hand in his hair pushed him down. Josh's mouth opened, took him in, and his father groaned—a sound that was almost a growl, that vibrated through Josh's skull and made his own body respond in ways he couldn't control.
"Good," Isagani said, standing. "Good. You're learning."