Paternal Chemistry - Part 1

It was an arrangement of convenience. At least, that’s what Dennis kept telling himself as he carried yet another box full of his son’s things up to his bedroom. He loved Mike and was glad to see him again after many years of college—as any father would—but he still couldn’t get over the notion that children shouldn’t move back in with their parents.

But, since the divorce, Dennis (or Denny, as his friends at the bar liked to call him) had a mostly empty house. And if he was being honest with himself, he could use the company. On top of that, Mike’s new job at the lab was just a block away. It’d be a lot easier for him to save for a place of his own if he didn’t need to pay rent. I’m just being a good father, he told himself.

Being a good father did nothing for his back, though. 

As he was straightening slowly with a hand rubbing just above his hip, he heard Michael call, "Down in front!" as he hauled in his mattress. The boy’s transformation since going to college was truly astounding to Denny. He’d left home a veritable beanpole, but he’d come back a strapping lad who didn’t seem to need any help at all carrying in his furniture.

"You really should lie down, Pops," Mike said as he leaned his mattress against the wall. Dennis was sure he’d meant that protectively, but he couldn’t help but imagine a hint of derisiveness in his son’s voice. "I can get everything myself, honestly." 

"Nonsense!" Dennis stood tall and puffed his chest. He may have been in his late fifties, but he still considered himself relatively fit for a man of his age. "No son of mine moves in without a hand from his dad." 

"Suit yourself," Mike said with a shrug, then bounded back downstairs. Dennis couldn’t remember ever having that much energy. If only we’d banned lead in gasoline sooner. He chuckled at his own joke before following his son back outside to the moving truck.  

The rest of the morning went with Mike carrying roughly twice as much as his father indoors and marked by the occasional break for Dennis to catch his breath. Mike mostly ignored him as he went about his business, but this wasn't entirely out of character. He'd always been driven, even as a child, with a focus on whatever task was at hand that seemed almost unnatural. It had served him well in his academic career, and now Dennis hoped it would do the same in his professional career. 

However, Dennis never felt like he was particularly close to his son, even when he was still married to his mother. There'd been a few father-son outings and playing catch in the backyard, but once he got old enough, Mike threw himself into more hobbies and academic subjects than Dennis could keep up with. He'd settled into the role of being that constant fatherly rock of support, not that he'd ever really needed it. Sometimes he felt downright lucky to have a son who never seemed to struggle with anything.

If anything, it was Dennis who'd struggled. When Mike had come out just before college, it was more like he was simply stating a fact than admitting something personal or profound. It had caught Dennis completely off guard. But then he’d left for college, and Dennis had learned the birds and the bees without him—he assumed. They’d never really talked about it since then. Even today, Dennis still couldn't wrap his head around his son's sexuality. 

Then again, he’d never truly understood his wife either. Too many nights at the bar with the guys making misogynistic jokes and watching the game, drinking just enough to think he was god's gift to women. That's probably why she'd left. And after he'd finished moving his son in, he'd probably be in the same place, making the same off-color jokes with men who were just as divorced and lonely as he was. 

hadn't stressed over any of his relationships, either with his father or his own bed partners. He'd certainly had his fair share of one-night stands and even a few boyfriends, but they'd always left after a while. Mike was just too self-absorbed, they'd say, too wrapped up in his studies—and maybe just a little too focused on building his rockin’ bod. It was hot for a while, but Mike always seemed to get himself off more than his partners did. Once his boyfriends understood his narcissism, they inevitably moved on.

Which was fine by Mike. He could always find someone else—or maybe even many someones. Especially after he was finished with his latest experiment and lifelong dream of becoming a living Adonis.

After getting all his stuff stowed away and his father left for the bar, Mike reached for his gym bag and pulled out a small satchel containing a vial and a syringe. He'd done steroids in college and was pleased with the results, but he wanted more, always more. Unfortunately, he was at the limits of what even the black market could achieve. To get more, he had to do it himself.

Putting that college degree to use, Mike had taken to self-experimentation. It was dangerous, yes, but to Mike it was a calculated risk. His own personal concoction was a combination of human growth hormones, steroids, and myostatin inhibitors, plus a new chemical called LGF-3458. Theoretically, it would push his workouts to the next level, although the side effects of LGF-3458 were yet to be documented. 

Mike planned to document them himself after his first dose. Sticking the needle into his vein, he pressed the plunger. It didn't feel any different going in than any of the other times he'd injected himself, but after a few minutes, he felt a surge of energy that made it difficult to sit still. He had to work out.

Luckily, the basement of his father's home had been converted into a gym—one that hadn't seen use in years, judging by the layers of dust Mike found on the equipment. The first hour of his afternoon was spent meticulously cleaning, repairing, and adding his improvements to the machines in the small basement gym, expanding it to Mike's satisfaction. The remaining four hours were spent expending the chemically-enhanced energy he'd shot into himself. 

Had his father been home, he'd have heard grunts, growls, and the incessant clanking of metal against metal or the thud of a heavy weight falling onto rubber-encased concrete. Afterward, a protein shake, followed by another protein-rich meal with just the right amount of carbohydrates and fiber for optimum functionality. Then a shower, a quick note in his journal after his first dose, and then a sudden wave of exhaustion carried him to bed, where his body would spend the next 10 hours converting his recent meals into solid muscle. It would be some weeks before Mike documented the other, stranger side effects of his chemical enhancement program.

"Mike?" Denny called out. He had managed to stumble home drunk after spending most of his Saturday night at the bar. He'd once again struck out hitting on women who'd caught his eye, but he'd gotten used to that, as had he gotten used to walking home drunk from the bar ever since his wife had left him.

What he hadn't gotten used to was his son being home. "Mike?" he called again, but received no answer. It was late, but he still expected his son to be up and about, watching TV or playing video games like he used to. Instead, the lights were off, and there was a strange smell coming from the basement. It took him a moment to realize it was the unmistakable aroma of stale sweat, but also tempered with a bizarre combination of cloves, cinnamon, and oranges. It was somehow strangely alluring until Denny took a few steps downstairs and saw the used gym equipment covered in sweat. Realizing it was his son's exertions he was smelling almost made him gag, but also made it doubly confusing. Why did it sort of smell... nice?

He'd have to talk to his son about his exercise hygiene, and maybe get him a few rags and a disinfectant spray. 

But that was a tomorrow problem. Tonight, Denny would enjoy his drunken stupor for another hour at least, capping his night off with some late-night television and another beer or two. This time, however, he was feeling unusually hungry for such a late hour. So in addition to the beer, Denny made himself a quick sandwich and then grabbed a bag of chips for good measure.

An hour later, Denny was surprised to find he was more hungry than tired, and sobered up enough that he felt he could make it to the drive-thru and back without incident. Soon enough, he’d returned with a quarter-pound burger, large fries, a milkshake, and those little apple pies he’d loved as a kid. It was only after his second meal that he finally fell asleep on the couch, covered in crumbs, and thinking of the tits on the woman he wanted to bang at the bar.

"I’ll have a double cheeseburger combo, a pizza combo, a chicken finger combo with double-size onion rings, and a chocolate shake," Denny ordered over the window of his pickup truck. "Actually, make that two shakes. And an apple pie." 

Order placed, he pulled up to the window to wait for bags upon bags of fast food. Denny had taken to ending his night with a takeout run, at first just at the end of his weekly binge-drinking outings to the bar, but lately on work nights too. He couldn't help it—he was just so unbelievably hungry lately, and everything suddenly tasted so good. It was the same fast food he'd always done his best to avoid, but now the flavors seemed to have been dialed up so they were the most delicious things in the world. 

It wasn't just the nightly takeout binges, either. His lunches had gotten larger, he'd taken to cooking full breakfasts every day, and even his desk at work was suddenly decorated by empty chip bags and candy wrappers. 

And it was starting to show. Denny had never been in the best shape, but his middle-age paunch had ballooned into a full-on gut. He'd let out his belt two holes already and had struggled to find the clasp on the third hole just that morning. His business-casual shirts were starting to stretch in the chest where his expanding barrel pressed against straining buttons, one of which had already popped off while at work. Pretty soon, he'd have to get an entirely new wardrobe or else drive to work in nothing but a towel.

"Here's your order, sir," the cute young man at the window said—Cute? Why did he think he was cute? Must be paternal instincts kicking in, he reasoned.  

"Thanks," Denny replied with a gruff grunt, trying his best to ignore the sound of stretching and tearing fabric as he reached over to grab each bag. He was eager to get home and dive into the bounty he’d just acquired.

Just before he put his foot on the gas to leave, the kid called out, "Don't forget your pie!" He then offered a tiny box that hadn't fit in paper bags already near-bursting with food. 

"Yeah, thanks again," Denny reached over and heard a tear, and then a cool breeze near his armpit. His sleeve had torn. He only hoped the kid hadn't heard or otherwise noticed. 

The kid hadn't, but he did recognize Denny from previous nights, and also noted how his face seemed fuller each time Denny returned. 

Denny tore out of the drive-thru, stuffing his face with French fries in a vain attempt to eat away his embarrassment. He then arrived home to find his son already asleep, and once again, a distinct odor coming from the basement. He’d talked to Mike about his workouts, and while he’d occasionally seen Mike use a rag to wipe off the equipment, it hadn’t seemed to make much of a difference in the smell. He’d gotten used to it, though. 

Denny counted himself lucky—he’d barely had to interact with his son since he’d moved in. Mostly just the occasional “hello” over breakfast. By the time he got home, Mike had already worked, worked out, and then gone to sleep. Man, that kid can sleep, Denny thought.

Whatever that new workout routine was, it was working for him. As much as Denny had grown, Mike had grown too, just in a different way. Both had shirts that were struggling to keep up with their expanding bulk, and that boundless energy finally seemed to have been tempered by his extremely long workouts. 

They’d reached a relatively easy equilibrium, and one that Denny was grateful for. Especially since he’d never needed to worry about his son finding him stuffing his face late at night. 

And lately, even less seemly activities.

After unbuckling himself fully and shedding his too-tight jeans, Denny flopped on the couch with his bags of food and began to stuff himself silly, eating with a frantic need that seemed almost animalistic. He had no thoughts beyond his intense desire to consume, to eat, to feel that taut fullness of his stomach filled to overcapacity. And then, when he could hardly see over the dome of his own belly, he’d reach down underneath his boxers to feel himself harder than he’d been in years.

He didn’t know why, but his late-night binges were making him desperately horny. He'd rationalized it as simply satisfying one need after having so thoroughly satisfied another, or that he'd simply had enough of the single life. The truth was—so late in the day and high on endorphins from his self-stuffing—he just didn't care. It felt good to let go and feel himself in ways he hadn't allowed himself to since the divorce. 

It felt so good to just let go, to stop worrying about anything other than his own gluttonous pleasure. Denny reached below his gut and felt his uncut cock, already wet from anticipation. Then he tore off his shirt with his other hand—it was already ripped and of no further use to him anyway. His soft body surged and sagged, no longer being contained by restrictive fabric. He fished his cock through his boxers and stroked with one hand while the other felt the new soft curve of his middle, how it yielded and formed to whatever pressure he placed upon it. He looked down and saw for the first time two small mounds on what had previously been a manly, flat chest. He pawed at them and found they were just as soft and malleable as his stomach, and even more captivatingly enjoyable to touch. 

Just as he was feeling himself peak, Denny caught a box of fries he'd failed to fully consume. One hand still languidly jerking his shaft, Denny grabbed the fries and shoved them into his maw. As he did, he imagined the cute kid at the drive-thru feeding each fry one by one, like a Roman emperor being fed grapes. Then once he'd run out of fries to feed, he'd gently guide the boy's mouth this his bountiful man-tit to suckle...

With that image, Denny's orgasm came with a sudden fury. He jerked his cock in rapid desperation before cum erupted in several ropes that splattered on his jiggling chest and stomach. It was so much that it looked like he'd spilled his drink, his hair matted and his boxers now soaked in perspiration and ejaculate. 

What the fuck was that? Denny thought, perhaps his first he’d had since arriving home. He’d never thought of food with sex before, and he’d certainly never imagined a dude getting him off. But then again, he’d also never cum so hard, either. 

It took Denny some time to clean up the mess he'd made on the couch such that Mike wouldn't notice in the morning. Then, a quick shower to wash the detritus of his binge and the effluvia of his sin, and a fitful night's troubled sleep.