The Night Drink - ch1

Homophobic boy discovers his dad is gay, leading to a spiral of events

The digital alarm clock burned 3:47 AM into the dark when my dry throat dragged me awake. I kicked off sweat-damp sheets—summer heat was a bastard even at night—and padded barefoot toward the kitchen.

The house breathed in creaks and hums. My father's bedroom door stood ajar. A flicker of movement snagged my attention. I froze mid-step.

Inside, moonlight sliced through blinds, painting stripes across the bed. Dad lay sprawled, chest rising slow—out cold from his usual whiskey nightcap. Between his legs knelt Uncle Rick, that slimy fuck, bobbing like some desperate animal. The sheet tented around his shoulders, swallowing wet noises I wished to god I couldn't hear.

Rick's fingers dug into Dad's thighs, possessive. The bastard even smirked around his mouthful, like he knew this was wrong and got off on it. My stomach twisted. I should storm in. Should scream. But my feet stayed rooted, heat crawling up my neck as Rick's pace turned greedy, slurping like a starved thing.

I'd known Uncle Rick was gay since the awkward Thanksgiving when he'd brought his boyfriend. Didn't mean I wanted to see him throat-deep in my passed-out father.

The headboard knocked the wall. Rick's free hand slid under his own shirt, rubbing a nipple through the fabric. Disgust coiled tight in my gut—but lower, traitorous interest stirred. I hated myself for it. Hated Rick more.

A floorboard whined under my shifting weight. Rick's head snapped up, lips glistening. I ducked into shadows, pulse hammering.

Three days later, Uncle Rick cornered me by the trash cans while I was taking out the garbage. The stench of rotting food clung to the air between us as he blocked my path, arms crossed like some shitty bouncer.

"Got a problem with me, kid?" His voice was all syrup—fake sweet.

I clenched the trash bag tighter. "Move."

He didn't. Just smirked. "Saw you watching the other night." His tongue darted out to lick his lips, slow. "Like what you saw?"

My sneakers scraped concrete as I backed up. "Fuck you, Rick. Dad's not some fag like you. Must've roofied him or some—"

Rick laughed—actual fucking laughter—like I'd told a joke. "Jesus Christ. You really think your old man doesn't know?" He leaned in, whiskey breath hot on my face. "He's the one who taught me how to swallow back in '99."

The bag hit the pavement with a wet thud.

"Bullshit," I spat, fists clenching at my sides. "I saw you sucking his cock while he was passed out drunk. You're the slutty fag here, not him." And I ran away.

The realization hit me like a gut punch—two weeks later at the hunting cabin, where the smell of pine and gun oil usually meant safety. I'd ducked into the outhouse to piss when the sounds started: rhythmic creaking, wet slaps, Dad's low moans threading through the thin wooden walls.

Peering through a knothole, I saw them on the cot—Dad belly-down, face mashed into the pillow, Rick's hairy thighs pistoning against his ass. Dad wasn't sleeping. His fingers clawed at the sheets, back arching into every thrust. A choked "fuck yes" escaped him when Rick grabbed his hair.

I stumbled back, bile rising. That Thanksgiving when Rick brought his boyfriend, Dad had called them "disgusting" at the dinner table. Now here he was, taking it harder than Aunt Linda during her divorce. The hypocrisy burned worse than the image.

Rick's hips snapped forward, his sweat-slick belly slapping against Dad's arched back. "Your boy still thinks you're straight," he panted, fingers digging into Dad's hips hard enough to bruise. Dad's response was just a ragged groan, face still buried in the pillow, arms limp at his sides like a ragdoll—but his ass lifted instinctively to meet every thrust.

Rick laughed—bitter and breathless—as he reached down to grip Dad's shoulder. "Christ, look at you. Couldn't even wait 'til we got home." His thumb pressed into the hollow of Dad's throat, forcing his head up just enough to see the drool-slick pillowcase. "Tell me you don't love it."

Dad's eyelids fluttered. A broken "uhn—" escaped him as Rick angled deeper, the cot's rusted springs screaming under their weight. His fingers twitched toward his own neglected cock but fell slack again, like even that much effort was beyond him.

Rick's smile turned vicious. "Yeah. That's what I thought." He leaned down to bite the back of Dad's neck—right where his collar would hide it come Monday—and sped up, the filthy wet sounds filling the tiny room.

Rick's thrusts turned erratic—grunting, fingers digging into Dad's hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises. "Gonna fill you up," he hissed, slamming home one last time with a shudder. Dad's whole body jerked, a muffled groan vibrating against the pillow as Rick's cock pulsed inside him.

Monday morning, Dad sat at the kitchen table in his crisp work shirt, sipping black coffee while the local news droned on TV. His collar was buttoned tight. I stared at the faint red mark just above it—barely visible unless you knew where to look. He caught me looking and adjusted his tie with a cough.

"Sleep okay, son?"

I swallowed my orange juice, tasted acid. "Like a baby."

Dad checked his watch suddenly and bolted up, knocking over his coffee mug. "Shit—late for the Johnson account." He grabbed his briefcase, then hesitated in the doorway. "Rick's taking you to school today. His car's got that new sound system you like."

The lie hung between us like a noose.

Rick's Mustang idled at the curb twenty minutes later, bass thumping through the neighborhood. He leaned across the passenger seat to pop the door open, grinning at me through aviator sunglasses. "Hop in, champ."

The leather seats reeked of stale cigarettes and Dad's cologne.

I threw my backpack in the backseat hard enough to make Rick flinch. "Just drive."

Rick chuckled, shifting gears with deliberate slowness. "Sure thing, straight boy." The car peeled out, leaving twin streaks of rubber on the pavement—and the taste of bile in my throat.

Rick drummed his fingers on the wheel, turning down my school's street at half the speed limit. "So." He licked his lips. "Guess we both know your old man's little secret now."

My knuckles whitened around the door handle. "He was drunk. You took advantage—"

"Fuck's sake, kid." Rick snorted, rolling down the window to flick ash onto the pavement. "Listen to yourself. That outhouse? You heard him begging for it." He imitated Dad's moans in a mocking falsetto—"Oh god Rick, right there"—before taking a drag. "Face it. Your daddy's been swallowing my load since before you could tie your shoes."

A truck honked as Rick stopped mid-intersection, grinning at my clenched jaw. "Remember that 'business trip' last spring? Motel 6 near the interstate?" He leaned closer, reeking of menthols. "Had him bent over the bathroom sink with his pants around his—"

"Shut up!" My fist slammed the dashboard hard enough to crack the plastic.

Rick just chuckled, turning up the stereo until the bass vibrated my teeth. "Whatever helps you sleep, princess."

The car lurched forward as the light turned green. I stared at the crucifix dangling from his rearview mirror—the one he'd given me at confirmation—and wondered if God was laughing too.

Rick tossed a motel keycard onto my lap as we idled outside school. The plastic was still warm from his pocket.

"Room 214," he said, tapping the embossed numbers with a nicotine-stained finger. "Tonight. Seven sharp." His smile widened when I recoiled. "Oh don't give me that look—you wanna see for yourself? Here's your chance."

The bell rang. Kids streamed past the car windows, oblivious.

The keycard burned a hole in my backpack all day. By sixth period, the edges had melted into my palm from how hard I'd clenched it. Dad's text came through at 3:17 PM: *Working late. Rick's picking you up.*

The crucifix in Rick's car swung lazily as we pulled into the motel lot at 6:58.

"Attaboy," Rick murmured when I didn't bolt. He palmed the back of my neck—too tight to be friendly—as he guided me toward the stairwell. "Gonna learn something tonight."

Through the peephole of 214, I watched Dad already naked on the bed, legs spread, face buried in the pillow like always. Waiting.

Rick's breath hit my ear. "Still think I roofied him?"

Rick shoved me into the narrow closet, its slatted doors offering perfect sightlines to the bed. "Stay quiet and watch," he whispered, tossing me a half-empty bottle of lube that hit my chest with a wet smack.

The bedsprings groaned as Rick climbed atop Dad, who rolled onto his stomach without being told.

"Remember that time at the lakehouse?" Rick asked, slicking himself with theatrical slowness right in Dad's eyeline. Dad's breath hitched as Rick's cockhead nudged his entrance. "When your dumbass fell off the dock trying to impress Cindy Miller?"

Dad snorted into the pillow. "Fuck you, she was hot." His voice cracked when Rick pushed in halfway.

Rick paused, dragging his thumb down Dad's spine. "And whose idea was it to suck me off in the boathouse after?"

Dad's shoulders tensed—then relaxed with a shudder as Rick bottomed out. "Mine," he admitted, voice thick.

The closet's wood dug into my palms. Rick's thrusts started slow, conversational. "What about that Vegas trip? When you lost your wedding ring at the gloryhole?"

Dad moaned into the mattress, hips pushing back. "Shut up—ah—that was your fault."

Rick laughed, angling deeper. "Bullshit. You blew three truckers before I even got there."

Dad's fingers twisted in the sheets—not in denial, but like he was trying to stifle a laugh. The realization curdled in my gut: this was their version of pillow talk.

Rick caught my eye over Dad's shoulder and winked.

Rick's thrusts turned leisurely—long, slow drags that made Dad whimper into the pillow. "Remember when you rode me in that motel outside Toledo?" Rick murmured, palming Dad's ass cheeks apart for emphasis. "Should've filmed that one."

Dad groaned, arching his back. "Fuck—yeah, your—ah—camera ran out of battery halfway—"

Rick chuckled darkly. "Speaking of." He glanced pointedly at the closet where I hid. "Maybe we should show Jason the—"

"No!" Dad's head jerked up, panic flashing across his face before melting back into pleasure as Rick thrust deep. "HeRick's hips snapped forward, making the bedframe shudder against the wall. "Remember that time in the locker room?" he panted, gripping Dad's hips hard enough to leave bruises. "When you let the whole football team take turns—"

Dad arched his back with a choked moan. "God—yes—" His fingers scrambled for purchase on the headboard. "Thought you'd never bring that up again."

From the closet, I could see Rick's smirk as he slowed to a torturous grind. "Bet Jason would love that story." He dragged a fingertip down Dad's sweat-slick spine. "Should we show him the video?"

Dad's whole body tensed. "No!" He twisted to look at Rick, face flushed. "He wouldn't—he's not ready to understand—"

Rick chuckled darkly, rolling his hips in a way that made Dad whimper. "Then make him understand." He leaned down to lick the shell of Dad's ear. "Bring him to the lakehouse next weekend. Ease him into it."

Dad's fingers twitched toward his own cock, hesitating. "I'll... I'll talk to him." His breath hitched as Rick picked up pace. "Just—ah—keep it quiet for now."

Rick's eyes locked onto mine through the slats as he hammered into Dad. "Sure thing, buddy." His grin turned feral. "Our little secret."

The headboard cracked against the wall with every thrust. Dad's moans dissolved into nonsense—half laughter, half pleasure—as Rick took him apart. I watched, stomach churning, as my father came untouched across the motel sheets, babbling about high school gloryholes.

Rick's final thrusts were brutal—jackhammer snaps of his hips that made Dad sob into the mattress. "Gonna fill you up," he growled, slamming home hard enough to make the bedframe screech. Dad's whole body convulsed, back arching obscenely as Rick pumped him full with a grunt.

The silence afterwards was worse than the noises. Just their panting breaths and the sickening wet sound when Rick pulled out.

Dad collapsed face-first into the damp sheets, limbs splayed like a broken marionette. Rick rolled off with a satisfied sigh, wiping himself casually with the motel towel before tossing it onto Dad's bare ass.

Through the closet slats, I watched Dad's fingers twitch toward his spent cock—hesitant, almost shy—before Rick caught his wrist. "Leave it," he murmured, thumb rubbing circles on Dad's pulse point. "Let me see that creampie"

Rick tossed me the car keys with a wink, shutting the closet door behind us before Dad could lift his head. Through the gap, I caught Dad staring at the water-stained ceiling, fingers absently stroking his limp cock—like he was trying to remember how it worked, how to get it hard.

"Hope he gets it someday," Dad murmured to the empty room as Rick steered me down the motel hallway.

The Mustang reeked of sex and menthols. Rick lit a cigarette as he pulled onto the highway. "Well?" He exhaled smoke through his nose. "Still think Daddy's straight?"

I stared at my reflection in the side mirror—pale, wide-eyed—as we passed the "Now Leaving City Limits" sign.

Rick dropped me off with a pat on the knee that lingered too long. "Think about what you saw tonight, champ." His grin was all teeth. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Dad's truck pulled in twenty minutes later, his work shirt neatly pressed, hair still damp from the motel shower. He hummed as he unlocked the door, like nothing had happened—like his ass wasn't still dripping with Rick's load.

"Hey sport," he said, ruffling my hair with the same hand that had been stroking his soft cock an hour ago. "Homework done?"

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. "Almost."

The realization settled like concrete in my gut—Rick wasn't forcing him. Never had been. The way Dad had laughed about gloryholes, the eager arch of his back when Rick fucked him, the casual way they reminisced about locker rooms and truck stops...

I sat at the dinner table that night, pushing peas around my plate while Dad chatted about work, his collar still buttoned tight over the bite mark. Every joke he told, every forkful he ate—all performed with the same practiced ease as his moans had been earlier.

Was this who he'd always been? The thought curdled in my chest. That time he'd yelled at me for wearing a pink shirt in middle school. The way he'd stiffened when Rick brought his boyfriend to Thanksgiving. All that disgust—just theater?

Dad caught me staring and smiled, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder. "You okay, champ?"

His fingers smelled like soap. And lube.

"Yeah," I lied, swallowing against the acid rising in my throat. "Just tired." Upstairs, I scrubbed my hands raw in the shower, but the stench of their sweat and cigarettes clung to my skin like sin. The harder I rubbed, the clearer it became—the truth wasn't washing off.

And neither was I.

Author's note: story told from Jason's perspective, Jason is 18, Uncle Rick is not a blood related uncle but his father's close friend, I want ideas for the next chapter ｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡, PS story made with AI, ideas are mine cuz I suck at writing.