Chapter Text
A humorless smile crept upon Rob’s lips. He clutched his device tightly in one hand. There, sitting a few rows behind him, sat that damn traitor George Banks and his eighteen-year-old son Simon, in smug splendor.
罗伯嘴角扯出一丝毫无笑意的弧度，单手紧攥着设备。就在他身后几排座位上，那个该死的叛徒乔治·班克斯和他十八岁的儿子西蒙正志得意满地坐着。
It wasn’t that long ago that Rob considered George a valued colleague. With tremendously different characters – Rob shy and reclusive, George gregarious and party-oriented – the two men were leading researchers in the niche new field of Applied Forensic Acoustics. A step beyond merely studying recordings of crimes or perpetrators, AFA sought to utilize audio frequencies to influence the outcome of investigations by controlling the behavior of suspects. After coming across short-lived CIA tests from the 1960s where rhythmic beats were unsuccessfully used to put subjects in trances, Rob became obsessed with the idea, certain it was doable.
His colleagues considered him a harmless crank, but George listened to his theories with interest, and helped him word applications in vague enough terms to receive funding for his fringe experiments. When Rob made the breakthrough discovery that each person would only respond to a specific rhythm unique to their inner-ear configuration, George was there to shower him with praise and whisky of a gorgeous vintage. He clearly only had a cursory understanding of Rob’s research, but he was unfailingly supportive, and though Rob knew his colleague was straight, he couldn’t help developing an embarrassing crush. He’d rather die than confess to it, but he came to rely on George’s visits and encouragement to continue his work.
When he finally perfected a test to figure out an individual’s frequency - meaning it was theoretically possible to influence their actions - George was the first person he called. They’d have to go out to celebrate, George said, after Rob wrote and published his paper.
Rob hunkered down to bash out his article as best he could, but he was no gifted writer and it took him the better part of five months. George hadn’t contacted him much during that time, but that was okay. He was being considerate, knowing how badly Rob needed to focus on the task at hand. He'd just become a father, as well, so he was probaby busy with the baby. Something like that.
When Rob eagerly submitted his work, however, he was stunned to receive the same response from every journal: is this some kind of joke? You're just rewording the Banks Method, and that's only a couple months old.
然而当罗布满怀期待地提交成果时，每家期刊的回复都让他瞠目结舌：你是在开玩笑吗？你只是改写了班克斯疗法而已，这套理论问世才几个月。
A rapid review of changes to the field since he'd sequestered himself proved what Rob didn’t want to be true. George had published the method almost two months prior, in an article that was written far more succinctly and pleasantly than Rob’s own. It was all there: the origin of the theory, the grueling research, the failed tests, the winning combo. The experiments, complete with brain scans, that showed a radical improvement in concentration, a compulsion to tell the truth, an overwhelming desire to do what one was told.
There was a crucial difference in their reports, however. Rob's original notes detailed the dangers of exploitation in the workplace, the issues around consent, as there was the strong possibility of people being coerced into things they'd never do of their own volition. George rephrased all of this to be far milder, even suggestive. Think of the benefits of influecing prisoners to be docile, or of convincing fulfillment workers they liked their warehouse work. The bombshell discovery had vastly outgrown the tiny confines of Applied Forensic Acoustics. There was a picture of George at the White House!
Rob confronted George as he was leaving his home with his toddler in a buggy. He didn't seem surprised to see Rob coming, and even had the gall to smile . 'You look like you haven't slept in a week.'
'I haven't,' Rob croaked. 'Why'd you do it, George? You don't need the money. You've got everything you could ever want!'
'I hate to see work go to waste. You were going to do everything in your power to keep this tech out of the hands of the private sector. The defense sector. Pissing in the wind.'
'Not wanting to cause war crimes is pissing in the wind?'
'You're always so fucking dramatic,' George sighed. 'You sad little faggot.'
Stupidly, those words were more of a dagger to the heart than the theft. Rob started shaking with bubbling rage and took a step closer, which made George protectively move in front of his child.
'You take one more step and you'll be spitting out teeth.'
Rob wasn't sure what he wanted to do, so the threat alone was enough to stop him in his tracks. True to his picture perfect life, George was taller and far stronger, a consummate gym goer. Inside the house, they heard George's wife call for him, and in the seconds before he headed back in with his son, Rob locked gazes with the baby. Staring into those huge doe-like eyes, he felt nothing but hatred. Hatred for George, and hatred for a kid who was bound to grow into just as big of a monster.
And Rob ran.
He stayed put in his mediocre apartment, but inside, he never stopped running. For years, he did the bare minimum not to get fired from his job, and at the same time, he researched. While George spoke at press conferences and award ceremonies for the work he'd stolen, Rob studied. While George signed contracts with anyone who'd toss one his way, Rob read. Even though he hated his work being misused, the attention had its positive effect: the field of Applied Forensic Acoustics soared and techniques quickly grew in sophistication, which gave Rob plenty to build on for his revenge. Amazon perfected the obedience waves, the military fine-tuned the permanence and strength of the broadcasts.
It took Rob eighteen years to perfect his device and figure out the inner ear configuration of the Bankses, but he was absolutely sure it would work.
George recently started taking his son to conferences, because Simon showed an interest in following in his father's footsteps – or what he thought they were, anyway. Making the kid an integral part of his scheme didn't sit easily with Rob, at first. It wasn't the teen's fault his dad was a piece of shit. But after one and a half decades of dedicated, meticulous planning, Rob wasn't going to give up on his idea out of the goodness of his heart. George ruined his life's work, and he was going ruin George's.
He'd bought a ticket to this latest conference under a false name and tactically taken a seat at an angle he knew would work well for what he intended to do. George hadn't seen him in years, and Simon since he was a baby, so his shoulder-length unkempt hair and a thick pair of specs were more than enough to disguise his identity. Halfway through the presentation on variants of the Banks Method, Rob turned his portable machine on, pointed it at George and Simon, and fired off a powerful silent soundwave.
For a few minutes, nothing happened. But Rob didn't waver. And he was right.
Soon, he saw George shift in his auditorium seat. From his position, he had a clear view of his old friend , and saw the bulge between his open legs grow from an eye-catching soft lump to an unmistakable hard-on, lurching left. As if he had to check, George awkwardly reached down with both hands while his eyes were still on the stage, and slid them up the inside of his powerful thighs to gingerly massage his prominent dick and balls with his fingertips. If he wanted it to have a calming effect, he couldn't have been more wrong.
A hot prickling sensation was spreading through his body, crotch first, and even the slight contact through two layers of clothing felt powerfully amplified, almost as good as a blowjob. Had he taken something? Had he been dosed? It felt a little like being on Ecstasy, but no, he'd only drunk from his water bottle. The thought that the Banks Method could be used on him didn't cross his mind - first, what Rob had just done was way beyond what current technology indicated was possible, and second, George's brain was far too clouded with sudden lust to think properly. Everyone was in the conference hall, which meant the toilets were empty. He could crank one out to evacuate this stress and then figure out what was happening.
'I'm going to the bathroom,' he murmured in Simon's ear, getting up. Instead of his son moving his legs out of the way to let him pass, however, he stood up too, and their eyes met.
Both let out quiet gasps.
By all accounts, George was a handsome guy. He'd landed an incredibly attractive wife partly on the merits of his rugged good looks. It stood to reason that their child would be beautiful too, and he certainly was. At eighteen, Simon was halfway between boy and man, with the fine facial structure and tall stature he'd carry further into adulthood, but the smooth skin and glossy lips of a child. George was proud of how his kid was turning out, sure he was going to be a real ladykiller.
Now, all he felt was an overwhelming urge to hold him down and fuck his plump boy lips.
Simon was just as confused. He'd had idle thoughts of sexual experimentation, but never enough to actually try hitting up one of the openly gay guys at school. Plus, he had a girlfriend he'd been going steady with for almost a year, and discovering the joys of pussy helped push the bicuriosity aside, which was just as well: he loved his dad to death, but he knew the old man was kind of a homophobe.
So it didn't make any sense that, seconds after he'd popped a random boner, he looked at his father and wanted nothing more than to get his hands on his fat cock.
Breaking eye contact, red-faced, he mumbled, 'I need to go, too.'
Shit .
Being, as they were, in the middle of the row, father and son had to shuffle past about a dozen seated audience members to reach the aisle. To his horror, George's hips were pressed flush against his son's ass, and his cock reacted like it did when it was poised to enter a tight young cunt. He willed himself to step back, separate his unreasonably horny prick from his teen son's round, bouncy cheeks, but he couldn't. He physically had to nestle the throbbing underside of his dick in the cleft of Simon's ass.
Okay , he reasoned. My crotch is eye-level with the people we're walking past. If I leave a gap, they'll see that I'm hard. Simon hasn't noticed, or he'd say something. Just a couple more seats and I'm in the clear.
Except his son had noticed that something was wrong, but he knew he'd let out a lust-filled, desperate moan if he tried to say anything at all. He was grateful the auditorium was dark, because the combination of the stiffness rubbing up against his butt – it couldn't be his dad's erection, no way, that wouldn't make any sense – and the presence of so many people so close to his groin had his slim boycock soaking his boxer-briefs with copious precum, and his rock-hard dick would be completely obvious with the slightest ambient light.
After seconds that seemed like hours, they stumbled into the aisle and quickly passed through to the hallway, blinking at the sudden brightness. Lost in a sexual haze, George felt he had to make a remark or a joke to dispel the bizarre tension in the air, and choked on his words when he saw Simon grip his erection through his pants with a trembling hand.
'Simon!' he hissed, stepping up behind him – and making the mistake of grabbing his son's hand.
The current that passed was brain-numbingly electric.
Simon's skin felt better than anything he'd touched in his life. He could afford fine silk and cashmere, he'd stroked the faces and bodies of gorgeous women, but this was on another level. It filled his mind with the urge to fuck, the desire to wrap that glorious skin around his raging prick, somehow. It was terrifying.
He jumped back like he'd slapped a burning stovetop, shaking, and brusquely walked towards the bathroom. There was something seriously wrong here, but his senses were overloaded, and he could only cling to the basic plan he'd formulated before standing up. Somehow, in the bathroom, he'd find a solution.
It was just as well he was so distracted by his own reactions, because be missed the stark picture of ecstasy painted on Simon's face. His father may as well have jacked him off for the intense burst of pleasure the skin-to-skin contact produced. If his slacks weren't black, the wet spot where his streaming prefuck soaked through his underwear would be glaringly obvious.
In a storage closet at the end of the hall, Rob watched the confused teen with a grim smile. He'd rigged a high-definition camera onto a popular kids' toy – a realistic remote-controlled house centipede advertised as the perfect way to freak out relatives and pets alike. Messing with the minuscule motor to make it fast and quiet was as easy as installing the camera. Watching the footage made him hard for the first time in months, but he didn't even think about touching himself. Even though the robot centipede was recording everything it saw, he didn't want to risk missing one second of the show playing out on the screen before him.
Just as well, because he had to scramble to keep up with Simon jogging after his father.
George only had time to stumble to a urinal and pull his painfully hard prick out of his pants before Simon came in. Immediately, he wished he'd hidden himself in a cubicle or even skipped the toilets altogether to find an empty place to beat his meat. Every nerve in his body screamed for release, his thoughts a continuous mantra of cum-cum-cum –
But he was where he was. He sensed Simon coming to a stop at the neighboring urinal, heard him unzip. He had no choice, and neither did Si.
So man and boy grasped their cocks and compulsively started to masturbate.
Their souls were saturated with fucklust. It seemed obvious they wouldn't be able to simply hold their erections and piss, or even pretend to. Still, in their mindless state, this lack of control was still a surprise – particularly because no matter how hard or soft or fast or slow each fucked his fist, nothing touched their arousal.
The stupid, distraught expression on George's face was simply delicious. He may have stolen Rob's life's work, but he was a scientist in his own right, skilled enough to convincingly pass the research off as his own. Seeing him reduced to a simple creature fruitlessly gooning out on his dick with tears of frustration in his eyes made Rob moan low in his throat, squeeze his hard-on while he shifted in his seat.
In front of the urinals, George glanced at Simon when he heard a familiar frustrated whine. He'd been so wrapped up in his jerk-off frenzy he'd been completely blind to his son tugging on his engorged boyprick. Precum flowed freely from his pisshole, lubricating his desperate pumping fist so each thrust came with a wet sloppy sound. His cock was bigger than George might have guessed – he hadn't seen his little boy's penis in over a decade, since he left bathing and dressing to his wife. In other circumstances, he would have been proud to see that his son had grown such a fine piece of fuckmeat. He'd reached his adult length at around the same age, an impressive, thick eight inches, and he'd spent his mid-teens onwards stuffing the guts of every girl he got his hands on. In other circumstances, he'd ask Simon how many young pussies he'd split already.
In these circumstances, he was struck dumb by how perfectly suckable his own son's cock looked. He wanted to feel it fucking his fist, he wanted to swirl his tongue around the fat ruby head, he wanted it to stretch out his virgin asshole. Simon glanced at his father and said, in a lust-clogged voice:
'Dad, it hurts –'
'I know, buddy,' George replied, just as labored. 'I…'
The sentence never ended, because the hypnotic squelch of Simon's masturbation mesmerized his dad completely, and acting purely on feverish hunger, George wrapped his strong fingers around his kid's hot, drooling dong, and started slipping his grip over the ridge of his dickhead over and over again.
The effect was immediate and explosive.
Simon’s knees buckled, his mouth dropping open with a gasped, ‘holy shit .’ George practically held him up by the cock he was stroking, amazed at the effect he was having, even as a quiet but persistent voice in his head screamed for him to stop. He was masturbating his own son, but he’d only just started, he could still turn this around, apologize –
And then, Simon blindly, automatically reached for his father’s throbbing dick to return the handjob, and any possibility of redemption was lost.
Whereas jerking on his own cock felt no different from rubbing the skin on his forearm, his teenage boy’s clumsy fingers felt sweeter than the primest cunt, even better than the suspiciously young slavic sluts he’d been gifted the night he secretly passed the Banks Method to the Russians. The pressure of his son’s grip moving up and down his powerful erection made his eyes roll back until he only saw white, and when soft lips met his own, he almost passed out.
The mutual jerking-off naturally made father and son turn towards each other, practically chest to chest, and on instinct, their mouths had gravitated together. Still in the throes of the most intense pleasure either had known – Simon with his few months of plowing his first ever girlfriend, and George with almost forty years of reaming hundreds of the most gorgeous women and girls around the world – their mouths and tongues worked against each other with wet passion. George dominated his less experienced son by exploring his mouth with the overwhelming muscle of his tongue, but Simon flipped the script by biting his father’s bottom lip, shocking him into a vulnerable moan. The slick bellies of their pricks met, and they frotted with abandon while roaming the other’s body with desperate hands.
Rob slowly fisted his trembling erection, eyes riveted to the screen. Then, he spotted it, the thing that made the first spray of prefuck burst from his cockhead. There were tears in George’s eyes.
The primal urge to breed controlled both the Banks’s actions, but the sound wave didn’t suppress their morality in any way. Rob wanted George to feel true guilt for once in his life, and he’d made peace with the kid’s psyche being a sacrifice in the equation. Even though they couldn’t stop making out and rubbing cocks in incestuous madness, the paternal, heterosexual, decent parts of George’s brain were begging him to stop, and this agony mixed with his uncontrollable lust was driving him crazy.
‘Sorry,’ he sobbed, between feverish kisses with his only child, feeling their mingled slippery precum coating their joined stomachs – because, somewhere in this sexual haze, they’d started taking each other’s clothes off to revel in the feeling of skin against skin, ‘I’m sorry, Simon. Can’t stop. I’m sorry.’
If Simon was hearing his words, he didn’t show it. Maybe his youth meant his body was driven more by the fuck hormones pulsing through his veins and up his dick, and the ethical concerns weren’t as strong. Maybe he’d wanted to be raped by his dad all along. Regardless, all he did in response, as if on autopilot, was to tear himself away from the taboo embrace to bend over the long table of sinks and shrug his pants off enough to display his winking asshole.
The more they kissed, the more his hole pulsed and itched for attention, in a way he'd never experienced before. It flexed and released constantly under his startled father's gaze, even as he pulled one tight cheek to invitingly flash the pink flesh of his boycunt.
'My butt feels so empty, dad. I'm going crazy. Help me!...'
Though part of George's psyche continued to plead with him to stop and tears were rolling down his cheeks, the sight of Simon's dribbling cock, tight nuts brimming with sperm, cute taint and hypnotic asshole made his mouth water. He stumbled closer, breathing hard, firmly gripped his son's buns near the wrinkles of his rosebud and stretched it open with fascination, revealing the sensitive insides just past the rim of his hole.
Simon shivered with pleasure as his father's breaths misted his asshole and his fingertips massaged the silky puckered skin. George could've played with his pussy for hours without getting bored, but the surprisingly mature musk he emanated this close up was making him lick his lips. He'd never eaten ass before: his wife was far too traditional to dream of asking for something like that and he was too selfish a lover to consider what the whores he fucked might enjoy. Right now, however, he felt the irrepressible urge to tongue his little boy's asshole, and that's just what he did.
While George took in the flavor of his son’s sweet butt, lubing it with his spit, Simon’s hole reflexively clenched around his invasive tongue even as clear pre flowed freely from his downward-pointing cock, hanging in long strands before breaking off the pool on the floor. He’d never been touched back there, let alone eaten out. It felt better than a blowjob – maybe because of his hypersexual state – oddly vulnerable in a way he never was around his manly cynical father. The tenderness of this thorough tongue-bath only made the experience that much hotter, and Simon’s virgin cunt relaxed like an experienced gay slut’s. Ready for entry.
George was completely enmeshed in eating his son’s cunt, to the point he wasn’t thinking about his own dripping prick at all, until Simon spoke in a strangled voice: ‘I need you to fuck me, dad, it feels so good but the– the emptiness ’s getting worse–’
George, who’d been sucking his boy’s asshole, withdrew his lips with a sloppy pop and immediately tested him by slipping two fingers knuckle-deep inside. Simon yelped, which turned into unrestrained moans with every thrust. He’d been tight and hot around George’s tongue, but fingering him like this gave his dad a much better idea of what it’d feel like to have his prick hugged all over by this magnificent fuckpocket, and his already painful erection twitched with desire. He was really going to do it. Really going to stuff his kid with the tool that made him.
‘Oh, God,’ George sobbed, pulling his hands away from Simon’s ass to grab the base of his prodigious dick. ‘I don’t know why I can’t stop. I shouldn’t, buddy, I… I’m your father. I’m a man. But I’m losing my fucking mind.’
He quickly positioned the fat head of his meat against his son’s hungry hole. Rob’s little spy robot moved to capture the scene from multiple angles. The lecture continued in the auditorium just a few doors down the hall, while the great George Banks was buck-ass naked in the bathroom about to penetrate his own son, where anyone could walk in and catch them in this perverse act. Rob let out a deeply satisfied breath as he watched his former friend’s huge prick part Simon’s cheeks and sink inside with no resistance.
‘Jesus,’ George whined when he’d sunk fully inside. It was better than his first time, better than the most experienced partner he’d ever been with, better than his wife. It was like being blown and jacked off and like being embraced by the choicest pussy all at the same time, and the disgust he felt at his own actions only seemed to make this sweeter. He put his hands on Simon’s shoulders and started fucking him, loudly slamming his hips against his ass with each thrust. He was fucking his only son . With a tearful laugh, he continued: ‘You’re the best piece of ass I’ve had, Si. How’m I meant to keep out of your hole after this? If I could spend the rest of my life plowing you, I would.’
Simon couldn’t speak, couldn’t do more than gasp and moan at the intense filling and stretching of his own father’s fuckpole pumping in and out of his virgin butt. It was animalistic, driven by insatiable urges on both their parts, and George’s voice only heightened the pleasure of every brutal hump, every punch against his hyperactive prostate and wildly sensitive walls. His conscious mind didn’t allow any words to form, but for the first time, tears sprang to his eyes, too. His brain knew how wrong this was, and how wrong it was to derive such insane pleasure from being treated like a fleshlight by his dad, but he also knew that this was the most physical affection his father had ever shown him, and in the midst of this taboo frenzy, he felt loved .
It was that realization, however subconscious, that finally let the orgasm he'd been building up to wash over him like a flash flood. Cum surged out of his dickhead onto the floor tiles, and with it, so did his strength, because his grip on the sink slipped and he fell to his hands and knees with a grunt, still helplessly jizzing.
George kept his cock firmly planted in his son's ass. He squatted, raised Simon's hips for better access, and continued to rail him with single-minded purpose: to breed his little boy. Si's taint and hole spasmed as he came, massaging his father's unyielding cock, and it didn't take long for the inevitable to happen.
George practically roared when he drove his hips home and drained the awesome contents of his fat nuts eight inches into his kid's guts. Almost as soon as the final rope left his dick, the crazed fucklust evaporated, replaced with stomach-churning dread, and he jumped off Simon's ravaged ass. The teenager remained on the conference hall bathroom floor, writhing in ecstasy, cum leaking from his gaping asshole and still somehow spurting weak white sprays from his half-hard prick.
'Dad,' Simon moaned, 'I love you.'
The words and the post-coital endorphins coursing through George's veins did nothing to mitigate the all-encompassing horror at what he'd done. He covered his mouth with his hand, gazing at his spunk-filled son, and cried.
Hidden in the supply closet, Rob only needed a few tugs to drench his hands with his own sperm. On the screen, he watched George coax Simon onto his feet, groaning at the globs of cum that trickled out his loose asshole down his legs, and instruct him to wash up in the sinks while he collected their scattered clothes. He was scheduled to talk later on in the conference, and he'd have to do it with the knowledge that he'd just sodomized his child. He wouldn't cancel the panel. His pride wouldn't allow it.
Rob hummed to himself. He had the whole thing on tape. It'd be fun to leak the footage during the conference and watch the news spread through the crowd, so they could turn on their colleague in real time. He might even get to see George carried off in handcuffs.
But he'd waited over a decade for his revenge. He wanted to have fun, and he was just getting started.