Cucked By My Dad Ch 07

Note: This chapter contains scenes of incest content. Enjoy!

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I need to move out.

After what happened at my cousin's wedding, living with my father is no longer an option. Community college starts next week, and I just can't imagine four more years of awkward family dinners, glimpses of him in his tighty whities, wet dreams where he climbs on top of me, spreads me open, and...

I REALLY need to move out.

The issue, of course, is that I have no money and no job. Also, no skills, and no real work ethic. Working at Dad's construction company is not an option, obviously, and I already tried and failed at being a prostitute. If worse came to worst, I could live with a friend, but my only real friend is Gibby, and her parents live on a houseboat (who am I, Popeye's twink nephew?)

Whatever the case, I have to get away from my father. This relationship isn't good for me, for either of us. Things were good between us once. For a long time, actually. But now...

The only way to save things between us is to run as far away from him as I possibly can.

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"There you are, sleepy-bones!" my mom said cheerily.

I had just walked into the kitchen for breakfast, at what I thought was an incredibly early 10 am. Mom was standing over the stove in her floor-length Victorian nightgown, her sleeves covered with the splatter of pancake batter.

"Have a seat, I made you some pancakes." She gestured to the table where my father was currently sitting, newspaper in hand. He had his robe on, and I tried my best to avert my gaze from the sight of his hairy thighs peeking out from underneath.

"I'm not super hungry," I said in protest, but she waved me away.

"Don't be silly. I wanted to do something special for your last breakfast before school, so I made my mother's recipe--two cups of flour, a tablespoon of sugar, one cup of mayonnaise, and one cup of rendered lard. Oh, you used to love them when you were little."

She pinched my cheek, then set a plate down in front of me.

My stomach roared in protest. "What do you mean, my last breakfast? Classes don't start till Monday."

She laughed lightly. "I know that, honey. But you'll be away at that retreat all weekend with your father."

My blood ran cold. "What retreat?"

She tut-tutted. "I swear, it's like I'm talking to myself sometimes. The father-son retreat in the Blue Ridge Mountains!"

I pushed my plate back. "I'm sorry, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Language, Leo," my father said sternly.

I shot him a look that I hope said, "Don't even think about lecturing me, you adulterous, cucking, incestuous prick."

Or something like that.

Mom sighed. "You two signed up for it ages ago. We paid a deposit and everything!"

"Well, you better ask for it back, because I'm not going."

Mom looked over at Dad, as if expecting him to talk some sense into me, but he just kept reading his paper.

She folded her arms and huffed. "Leo, I don't know what has gotten into you lately, but I have had enough of it. Now, you two better make nice, because you're leaving first thing tomorrow morning."

"Why doesn't Dad just go, and I can stay here with you?" I protested. "We could have a mother-son bonding weekend or something."

She shook her head. "That's sweet, honey, but I have a whole spa weekend planned. Besides, what would your father do without you? Trust me--you two will have a blast."

And that was that. I vaguely debated running away, hitching a ride with some beefy trucker and paying my way to a big city with nothing but my pink and my stink. Sanity won out, though (I do NOT have the temperament for a life on the road), and before I knew it, I was strapped into the passenger seat of my Dad's Chevy Astro, the peril of a four-hour car ride ahead of me.

Dad was in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel while the other fiddled with the CD player. Soon, the sound of "Life Is a Highway" started blaring through the speakers.

God, give me back the sound of awkward silence.

I stared out the window, watching the freeway recede as we traveled deeper into the mountains. Part of me hoped the entire weekend could go like this: Dad drumming on the steering wheel and mouthing the words to the song, me staring off into space, neither of us interacting with the other.

My hopes were dashed when Dad turned the volume down on the dial and looked over at me.

"I'm glad you're coming," he said. "I think this could be good for us."

Us. Like we were a team. Like we were a normal father and son, not... whatever it is we were.

God, give me back the sound of "Life Is a Highway."

I stared straight ahead, watching the lines on the road whiz by. "Mhm."

Dad nodded like I'd said something meaningful. "I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. About the last few months. About how things have been between us."

Great. Here it comes. Were we really going to dredge this all up now, with Tom Cochrane of all things playing in the background?

"I've made a lot of mistakes. I tried so hard not to be like my old man, but..." He sighed. "I don't know. Somehow, I feel like I'm even worse."

He thumbed his nose, then cleared his throat. "Things are gonna change, Leo. I mean it. I'm gonna be a better father."

I blinked, watching the trees blur by. "Okay."

He glanced over at me, trying to catch my eye. "Did you hear me?"

"I did. I just don't know what that means."

He frowned. I almost felt bad for him, but how could I when I felt so much worse for myself? I didn't want to be here, stuck in this car with him, forced to listen to his mea culpa when all I wanted was to get as far away from him as I possibly could.

Or did I want the opposite? Did I really want what I couldn't possibly have?

"I'm trying, son. That's gotta count for something."

I nodded. "Sure."

I wasn't trying to punish him. That was truly all I felt capable of at the moment.

We lapsed back into silence. It wasn't the kind he wanted--warm and comfortable--but the other kind. The kind where you don't know whether you want to rip the other person's clothes off and sit on their cock or to grab the wheel and send you both hurtling into the nearest tree.

"You ever been to the mountains this time of year?" he asked after a beat.

"No."

"It's beautiful. The air is so clear, and at night, you can see all the stars in the sky." He smiled at me. "The guys running this retreat are great. I've been reading the pamphlet. They've got all these cool activities--bonding exercises, nature walks, even trust falls."

Trust falls. Great. I couldn't wait to throw myself backward and see if the man who couldn't keep his dick in his pants could suddenly catch me now.

"Sounds great," I said flatly.

He nodded again, like we were actually making progress. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think this is gonna be good."

I looked at him then, just for a second, and saw how tightly he was gripping the wheel. How hard he was trying not to screw this up before we even got there.

Maybe it was the guilt, or the hum of the open road, or the fading echo of Tom Cochrane screaming about highways and life. But for the first time in a while, I didn't feel like fighting.

So I leaned my head against the window, closed my eyes, and said, "Wake me up if we crash."

He nodded. "Deal."

We drove on.

When I woke up, my mouth was dry, my neck was sore, and we were surrounded by trees.

A lot of trees.

I blinked against the sunlight streaming through the windshield. We were parked on a dirt patch, angled slightly downhill. Outside the window, I could see a few people milling around a fold-out table under a tarp.

Above it hung a wooden sign that read:

Fathers Fighting Fractured Families and Dads & Lads United present: The 2025 MENtorship Retreat

I looked over and saw my father standing outside the car, stretching out his shoulder.

I stepped out of the car and took a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare myself for the weekend ahead. It smelled like pine trees, charcoal, and something vague that I couldn't identify. A lack of pollution, perhaps. Somewhere in the distance, a harmonica played the faint tune of "Cat's in the Cradle".

When I looked around, I noticed something strange.

There were dads everywhere.

Tall dads. Short dads. Bald dads. Bearded dads. One dad was giving his fully-grown son a piggyback ride while another father-son duo was currently having a full-on argument about who forgot to pack their tent.

"Can you give me a hand with the bags?"

My father stood behind our car holding a heavy duffel bag. I walked over to the trunk and pulled out my own small pink suitcase. "Where are we staying, exactly?"

Dad lifted his bag. "I packed the tent and our sleeping bags in here."

I grimaced. "Camping? Again? Haven't I suffered enough this summer?"

He ruffled my hair, making my body tingle. "Come on. Let's get checked in."

We walked over to the check-in table, where two hugely muscular men in tank tops sat holding clipboards. One had silver hair and was incredibly tan, almost to the point where it seemed racially offensive. The other was just as muscular but about thirty years younger, maybe a few years older than me. He had dirty blonde hair that peeked out from under a cap that said "DICKY" in rhinestones.

"Welcome to the MENtorship retreat!" the older man bellowed as we approached. He reached out his hand to my father and shook it rather aggressively. "I'm Ricky, and this is my boy Dicky."

Dicky winked at me. "I hope you're ready for some man-on-man bonding."

It seemed to me like he flexed his pecs after that, or maybe he was just so muscular that they did that naturally. I wondered if steroids ran in the family.

"I'm Jud, and this is my boy, Leo," my dad said, putting his hand on my upper back.

Ricky shot me a look as if sizing me up. "Well, you're a little scrawny, but that's nothing we can't fix. Trust me, before this weekend is through, we'll put some hair on your chest. Ah-ha-ha!"

"Dad, this sun is killing me," Dicky whined. He pulled off his tank top, revealing a perfectly waxed body. "Would you?"

Ricky pulled out a bottle of suntan lotion and squirted it into his hands, then started rubbing it all over his son's meaty tits like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Dad and I watched together in stunned silence.

"Can't let my pride and joy get sun damage," Ricky said, kneading lotion into Dicky's shoulders while his son closed his eyes in bliss.

"Get the delts too, Daddy."

"I've got the delts, son. Daddy always gets the delts." Ricky turned back to us. "You'd be surprised how many dads neglect their sons' SPF needs. Criminal, really."

"Uh, is there a sign-in sheet, or...?" my dad asked awkwardly.

"Already checked you in!" Ricky said, slapping a glistening hand against a clipboard. "You're in Tent Zone C, right next to the shower pavilion."

He handed us a schedule stained with coconut-scented suntan lotion. "Orientation starts in thirty, so drop off your bags, set up your tent, and head to the campfire circle. This weekend's theme is 'Letting Go of Shame Through Shared Physical Labor.' Now get out there and bond, you beautiful bastards!"

Tent Zone C was a mostly empty patch of grass located beside a large concrete building that seemed somewhat out of place in the remote wilderness of the mountains. Taking a peek inside, I could see a row of shower stalls and a few toilets that I supposed made up for the general lack of comfort associated with roughing it outside.

A few dads and sons were setting up tents already. I watched with a surprising knot in my chest as several of them balanced poles and tied knots like they'd been doing it for years.

Dad dumped the duffel bag on the ground. "Alright," he said, slapping his hands together. "Let's do this."

He'd picked a spot closer to the edge of the woods. As he started pulling out supplies, I stared at the pile: poles, canvas, rope, metal pieces that looked vaguely like BDSM devices.

"Can't you just set it up?" I asked.

He frowned at me. "Didn't you set up your tent on the mission trip? Come on, you can do this."

I shook my head. "That was all Pastor Carl. You know I'm helpless with this stuff."

Dad sighed. "Come on, Leo. You're not helpless. You just... You just don't like trying sometimes. Now grab the end of that tarp and help me lay it out."

My face burned with anger. "What do you mean 'I don't like trying?'"

Dad unfurled the tarp and shrugged. "I think you're a lot better at this stuff than you think. You just don't like feeling stupid, so you don't try to learn new things."

I scoffed. "Wow, I sound like a real asshole."

"Son, that's not what I'm trying to--"

"Leo? Mr. Wyte?"

I turned to see a short, beefy redhead boy grinning at me. He was wearing shorts and a linen tank top, which showed off a deep summer tan, a cross necklace, and his crimson freckles. His hair had also grown out a little bit--he had it held back with a bandanna, but his bangs still fell almost to his eyes.

"Elijah? What are you doing here?"

Elijah threw his arms around me, pinning me to his chest in a surprisingly earnest hug. The last time I'd seen him, he was butt-naked and fucking our family pastor, a huge departure from the meek, overly-religious boy I'd known the last few years.

"It's so good to see you, man," he said warmly. "I had no idea you were gonna be here."

I raised an eyebrow. "I had no idea I was gonna be here, either. To be honest, I don't even really know what the fuck this is."

Elijah laughed. "Oh, it's loads of fun. My dad and I have been part of Dads & Lads United for years. They always do fun retreats and stuff."

He spotted my dad standing a few feet away and grinned shyly, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. "Oh... hey, Mr. Wyte."

Dad grinned, clasped his hand, and pulled him in for a hug and a pat on the back. "Please, it's Jud. You're almost outta college, we don't need all that formality."

I felt my fingers curl at the sight of my dad with his hands on Elijah. Sure, he hadn't fucked him (to my knowledge), just shared Pastor Carl with him. But I wouldn't put it past him to forget his "being a better father" bullshit and go after the nearest available pussy.

Then I saw the man standing behind Elijah, and the breath went out of me.

"You must be Leo," he said, his voice low and dripping with sex (or maybe that was just my imagination). "Elijah's told me a lot about you."

He reached his hand out and gripped mine tightly. He was tall, so tall that I felt like I had to look straight up just to see into his eyes. He had Elijah's same red hair, only lighter and cut short. A bushy red beard covered his jaw, which was stretched wide in a cocky grin. Like Elijah, he was buff and barrel-chested, but whereas Elijah had a young man's softness, he had a more solid, chiseled bulk.

"I'm Russell Turnbright, Elijah's dad," he said, still flashing that same cocky grin. I felt like my hand was having the life choked out of it, and I found myself wishing it was my clitoris instead.

"I-I've never seen you at our church before," I said stupidly.

He gave me a casual shrug. "It's not really my thing. Sandra and I are divorced, so Elijah usually spends the summers with me. Truth be told, I'm more into nature as my Higher Power."

"I know exactly what you mean." My dad stuck his hand out. "Jud Wyte. Nice to finally meet you."

Elijah's dad shook my father's hand and smiled warmly. "You as well. You boys all set up?"

"Just about to start," said my father.

"Good luck!" said Elijah, then turned to me and said, "I'll save you a spot at Orientation, yeah?"

I nodded. Elijah clapped me on the shoulder, then walked off with his dad, his father's arm casually slung over his shoulder.

Something about the sight of them made me want to cry.

Dad grunted, pulling a tent pole from the bag. "Alright. You hold this. No, not like that--vertically, Leo."

I tried to follow his directions, but the tent kept collapsing in on itself every time we tried to stand it upright.

"Hold it straight," my dad said, his voice tinged with annoyance.

"I'm trying," I snapped.

"You just gotta listen to me--"

"Have you even read the instructions?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's a tent, not a rocket ship."

"Why don't we just ask Elijah's dad to help us--"

"I don't need help," my father snapped. "I just need you to follow my directions and listen to me."

"Well, if this thing collapses on us in the middle of the night, I'm blaming you," I grumbled.

"That's nothing new," he said under his breath. He jammed two poles together with a little too much force.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"It means I'm trying, all right?" he said gruffly. He sighed, then rubbed his face with his hands. "Look, just... I'll hold this part up and you hook--"

"Maybe you should just do it."

He looked at me, face slack with disappointment. "You don't even want to try?"

"I guess I just don't like feeling stupid," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I dropped the canvas on the ground and left Dad by the tent, walking back over to the shower pavilion so he couldn't see me cry.

God, what was wrong with me? I knew I was being a little brat, but it was like he brought it out of me or something. Every time I was around him, it was like my emotions went haywire.

I looked across the clearing to see Elijah and his father lounging in folding chairs in front of their tent, passing a bag of trail mix back and forth. I watched them for a moment, wiping angry tears out of my eyes. What did they have that we didn't? A lack of sexual tension, for starters.

The sound of a bell ringing throughout the camp caught my attention. From across the campground, Ricky stood on top of a picnic table, megaphone in hand while Dicky stood beside him ringing an old brass bell.

"ALRIGHT, MEN!" Ricky shouted through the megaphone. "ORIENTATION TIME! DROP YOUR TENT POLES AND GRAB YOUR BALLS--WE'RE ABOUT TO GET INTIMATE!"

I headed over to the gathering area, catching up with my father in the crowd of dads and sons. We didn't say anything to each other as we walked, following the crowd to a circle of picnic benches arranged around a large stone fire pit that hadn't been lit yet.

Ricky raised his arms. "Welcome, fathers and sons, to a weekend of manhood, physical breakthroughs, and emotional bravery."

"We're kicking things off with a little icebreaker, a little get-to-know-you sesh," said Dicky. "Starting on my left, you'll say your name, then share one fun fact. Now here's the kicker--don't tell us about you, tell us something about your dad! And dads, tell us about your son. Something silly or sweet. The more embarrassing, the better!"

He laughed hysterically. The men in the crowd laughed along, like any of this was actually funny.

I was already dreading being called on. Do I talk about the pool boy being railed in the elevator or the football player being fucked in the infirmary?

The first pair--some suburban duo from San Luis Obispo--went. The son shared that his dad made him the best cinnamon toast in the world when he was a kid, and that he used to cut them into smiley faces. The dad looked like he might cry.

I sat there half-listening, half wondering what the hell I would say when it was my turn. What would I say about my dad? What would he say about me?

Soon it was Elijah's turn. He sat a little straighter, tucking his long red hair behind his ear. "I'm Elijah, and this is my dad, Russell. He loves listening to pop music while he works out and, although he'll never admit it, his favorite artist is Lady Gaga."

Russell pulled Elijah in and ruffled his hair, making him laugh. "Oh, you bastard. Alright, let's see. Okay, I've got a good one. My son used to write these little plays as a kid and force the whole family to be in them. I've played a dancing penguin at least three times."