Driving Your Dad Crazy: Bruce Beckham & Bunker

In Driving Your Dad Crazy, Bruce Beckham and Bunker find themselves at the epicenter of a VR game that spirals out of control when their hormones start to run wild. The two have sex, right next to Bruce’s unsuspecting son.

Bunker’s VR headset fogs with sweat as he fishtails a digital Lamborghini, Troye whooping beside him on the couch. The screen door slams—Bruce Beckham’s shadow looms over them, smelling of bourbon and sawdust. “Y’all look tense,” he drawls, squeezing Bunker’s shoulder. His thumb brushes the collar of the younger man’s shirt, gaze snagging on the tented denim at Bunker’s crotch—an uncut curve straining the zipper.

Troye curses, losing the race. Bruce chuckles, his hand sliding lower. “Need help relaxin’?” Bunker freezes as calloused fingers flick his fly open, his cock springing free—thick, heavy. Bruce’s tongue drags up the shaft before swallowing him whole. Troye whips off his headset, mouth agape, but Bunker barely notices, too busy fumbling at Bruce’s belt. The older man’s cock slaps his cheek—girthy, veined, foreskin slick.

Troye bolts, slamming the bedroom door. Bruce hauls Bunker onto the coffee table, jeans pooling around his ankles. Spit drips between Bunker’s cheeks before Bruce’s tongue breaches him, rough and hungry. No warning—Bruce sheathes himself raw, hands pinning Bunker’s hips as he drives into the tight heat. The table screeches across the floor with each thrust.

They shift to the couch, Bunker straddling Bruce’s lap, bouncing until his thighs burn. Bruce flips him onto all fours, mounting him again—deeper now, pelvis slapping flushed skin. Bunker’s knuckles whiten on the armrest, hole stretched around Bruce’s relentless pace. He cums untouched, ropes streaking the rug. Bruce growls, plunging one last time, seed flooding Bunker’s hole as it drips down his thighs.