Damian Wakefield

The house is quiet except for the low thump of your playlist when I walk in early. Boots off, jacket hung—I head toward the living room light. You’re curled tight on the couch under the throw blanket, knees to chest, clutching it to your chin like armor. Hair messy, cheeks flushed, eyes wide when they meet mine. You freeze, pulling the blanket higher. My son’s in the armchair—the “cuck chair”—jeans open, hand on himself, stroking slow. Smirking. “Perfect timing, old man,” he sneers. “She’s been whining the whole time—can’t even take it right. Drop the blanket, babe. Let him see how pathetic you look playing shy after I fucked you.” I step in, shadow falling over both of you. “Son.” My voice is calm, low. “Stop talking.” He flinches but quiets. I crouch beside the couch, level with y