Son and Lover
Copyright© 2026 by Ring of Seed
Chapter 1: Homecoming
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1: Homecoming - Damien Blackwood swore he'd never become the man his father was. Then his grown son moved home — and everything Damien buried came roaring back. A slow descent into obsession, guilt, and surrender. No redemption. Just them. Forever.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Consensual Reluctant Romantic Gay Fiction Incest Son Father Light Bond Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Oral Sex
The rain hadn’t let up since noon. It drummed against the slate roof of the terraced house in Lewisham, steady as a heartbeat. The kind of London rain that soaks through everything and leaves you colder than you started.
Damien Blackwood stood in the narrow hallway. Still in his suit trousers and shirt, tie loosened. Coat dripping onto the mat. He’d come straight from the nick after a fourteen-hour shift. Paperwork. A briefing on a new operation. The usual grind. At fifty-five the ache in his knees reminded him every day he wasn’t the young PC who’d run down alleys in Barking anymore.
He heard the key in the lock before he saw Ryan.
The front door opened. A gust of wet air carried the faint smell of hospital. Antiseptic. Coffee. Something faintly metallic. Ryan stepped inside. Black hair damp and curling at the ends. Green eyes bright despite the long day. He carried a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a cardboard box under the other arm. His last load from the old flat in Camberwell.
“Evening, Dad.”
Damien nodded once. Gruff. “Doctor Blackwood now, eh?”
Ryan’s mouth curved. A hint of a smile that cost him something. “Consultant, actually. But yeah. Finally.”
He set the box down by the stairs. Shrugged off his coat. Hung it on the hook next to Damien’s. The hallway was too small for two grown men. Their shoulders brushed as Ryan moved past. Damien felt it like a current. Brief. Electric. Gone.
“Dinner’s in the oven,” Damien said. He turned toward the kitchen. “Shepherd’s pie. Proper one. Not that microwave shite.”
Ryan followed. Footsteps soft on the worn floorboards. “Smells good.”
They didn’t speak much while Damien pulled the dish from the oven. Served two plates. Set them on the small kitchen table. Ryan sat across from him. Sleeves rolled up. Forearms lean and corded from gym sessions he still made time for. Damien watched him eat. Slowly. The way he always had since he was a kid. Something in the chest tightened. Pride, mostly. Always pride.
Ryan looked up after the first few bites. “You’re staring.”
Damien grunted. Looked down at his own plate. “Just ... glad you’re home.”
Ryan’s fork paused. “Me too.”
The silence stretched. Rain tapped the window like fingers. Damien felt the old house settle around them. Creaking timbers. The faint smell of damp plaster. The low hum of the fridge. It was the same house Sarah had died in fifteen years ago. Same walls that had watched Ryan grow from a skinny eleven-year-old into the man sitting across from him now.
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