My Dad is a Tough Guy I

My Dad Is a Tough Guy
Chapter 1: The Nerd

My name is Carlos, and I'm what some would call a nerd. Twenty years old and a virgin, trapped in my attic, surrounded by comics and action figures. If my socks could talk, they wouldn't have words to describe the amount of cum I've spilled trying to feel pleasure, to appease this anxiety that burns inside me.

My brothers and my father don't know, and I doubt they ever will. The chaos I would unleash by revealing my sexual orientation would be uncontrollable. My father, Ricardo, is a retired military man who still wears his uniform like a second skin, an armor against a world he no longer understands. His gaze is a minefield.

One night, everything changed.

I sneaked down to the kitchen, drawn by the emptiness of dawn. The house was silent, but it wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the silence that precedes a storm. I pressed myself against the wall, becoming a shadow.

"My love, leave Carlos alone. He's harmless," pleaded the sweet, tired voice of my mother, Mónica.

"No, Mónica, no!" roared my father's voice, loaded with contempt. "He's useless! Useless. He spends his days locked up, watching that crap. He's not a man."

"Ricardo, listen to me. You don't have to be so harsh. Maybe... maybe he just needs to go through some stages."

"Stages he should have already gone through," he cut in, his voice a whip. "Enough. Tomorrow I'm taking him. I'll shape him, even if I have to break him to do it."

Cold sweat soaked my back. My hands trembled. A mix of nerves and helplessness paralyzed me. I went up to my room and curled up on the bed, balled up, wondering what kind of madness my father might commit. A military boarding school? A work farm?

The night was an insomniac torment. Every creak of the house was an omen. Every shadow on the wall was a threat.

At dawn, a silence filled the house. I went down to the kitchen, determined to face my destiny with a courage I didn't feel. My legs were jelly. My stomach was a knot.

"Carlos," my father's voice resonated like a dry gunshot. "We need to talk."

"Okay, Dad," I murmured, sinking into a dining room chair.

"You'd better wait for me in my office," he ordered, without looking up from his newspaper, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

In his office, the air smelled of old leather, tobacco, and dust. The cluttered shelves were full of manuals and decorations. My eyes landed on the framed photos. A young Ricardo, shirtless on a beach, his sculpted physique rivaling those on Max Steele posters. The sun bronzed his skin. His pecs, defined. His chest hair descended until it disappeared into the waistband of his swimsuit.

A wave of heat rose up my neck. I looked down quickly, as if the photo could see me.

He entered and sat down heavily in front of me. His gaze scrutinized me, from my shoes to my messy hair.

"Damn, boy,"...