The house is empty, save for the man of the house. He retreats to his bedroom, his mind filled with thoughts of his son. He can't help it; the boy's lithe body and innocent face have awakened something dark within him. He begins to touch himself, his hand tracing the length of his shaft. He imagines it's his son's hand, his son's mouth. He moans, his grip tightening, his strokes faster. He's close, so close. With a final grunt, he comes, his seed spilling onto the bedsheets, a secret only he and the empty house know.