Salam Alaikum, I’m Muhammad Habibur, a 48-year-old Egyptian dad, hairy as a fucking bear, with a gut that’s seen too many plates of koshari and a beard graying like the desert dust. I’ve got six kids, including my youngest, Hassan, an 18-year-old skinny little shit—tall, lanky, with a mop of black curls, dark eyes that dodge mine, and a cocky grin when he’s not glued to his phone or kicking a football with his mates. He’s got that lean, wiry frame typical of Egyptian boys, all limbs and no meat, with a faint mustache he thinks makes him a man. He’s obsessed with porn and dreams of studying engineering, but he’s still my pride, my fucking legacy, the one I imagine taking over when I’m gone. My five daughters, from three different wives, are a handful, but Hassan’s my favorite, my golden boy.
Back in my prime, I was the alpha cock of this dusty town. I had the hottest wives—curves that made men drool, asses that begged to be slapped, and tits that could make a saint sin. I was built like a goddamn ox, bench-pressing more than anyone at the local gym, my dick hard as steel, fucking my wives three times a day, pounding their wet pussies until they screamed my name. I was a legend, cock swinging like a sledgehammer. But time’s a bitch, and now I’m just a typical Egyptian dad—fat, sweaty, with a loud laugh, chain-smoking shisha at the café, slurping tea, and arguing over dominoes with my mates. My chest hair’s a fucking jungle, my belly hangs over my belt, and my once-mighty cock betrays me with erectile dysfunction (ED).
When ED hit, it fucking crushed me. My dick, once a raging beast, went limp as a wet rag. I was ashamed, my ego shredded. What the fuck happened to me? I spiraled into a dark pit, jerking off to memories of my glory days, but nothing worked. I finally spilled my guts to my buddy, Ahmed, who laughed and said, “Bro, you’ve got ED. Happens to old fucks like us.” I stopped fucking my wives, but my balls ached with the same horny fire. My cock might’ve been dead, but my mind was a porn reel on loop, craving pussy every second.
I dragged my ass to a fancy doctor in Cairo, some smug prick who prescribed blue pills that cost a fortune. I popped them like candy, but my dick stayed soft, mocking me. My horniness was a fucking inferno, burning me alive. I was crying, jerking my useless cock, begging for release. My wives—Fatima, Aisha, and my youngest, Laila—started dodging me. I saw the pity in their eyes, the way they whispered about my limp dick. I was still the alpha in name, strutting around, barking orders, but inside, I was a broken man, my balls blue as the Nile.
Desperate, I scoured the internet for fixes. One night, I landed on a porn site promising hard-ons through prostate massage. The video showed a guy fingering his hairy asshole, moaning like a cheap whore. As a conservative Muslim, I was fucking revolted—men don’t touch their holes, haram as fuck. I slammed my laptop shut, cursing the devil. But days later, Laila, my youngest wife, started begging for dick. I couldn’t let her leave me for some young stud. So, swallowing my pride, spat on my fingers, and shoved one into my virgin, hairy asshole. I screamed like a bitch, the pain sharp, but my cock twitched. Laila was in bed, waiting. I pushed deeper, hitting my prostate, and fuck, it was like lightning. Blood rushed to my dick, making it semi-hard, the first life I’d felt in months. I rubbed it, thinking I’d get rock-hard, but instead, I moaned like a slut, my body shaking. Then, holy shit, I came—ropes of thick cum sprayed everywhere, my flaccid dick pulsing as I screamed. I hadn’t nutted in months, and it felt like my soul left my body. Laila heard, turned, and saw me fingering my hole. Her face twisted in disgust, and she stormed out, leaving me panting, spit drooling from my mouth, my asshole gaping. I was humiliated but fucking satisfied.
Next morning at the falafel shop where I work, I couldn’t shake it. My hole throbbed, but I was alive. “Fuck Laila,” I thought. “I don’t need her pussy. I can make myself cum.” But shame gnawed at me. That night, drunk on cheap arak, I tried again, spitting on my fingers and ramming them into my ass. Nothing. No cum, no hard-on, just frustration. For days, I fingered my hole raw, chasing that high, but it wouldn’t come. Online, I found videos of guys cumming hands-free with dildos, their cocks spurting without touching. My dick twitched, but I couldn’t order a fucking dildo—imagine the neighbors finding out. I was stuck, horny as fuck, my balls ready to explode.
Then, one evening, I barged into Hassan’s room and caught him jerking his 8-inch, hairy, musky cock. His balls were tight, his hand a blur, porn blaring on his phone. We locked eyes, both mortified. I muttered, “Sorry,” and bolted. But that image burned into my brain—his thick, veiny dick, glistening with precum. It fucked me up. The pills kept me dizzy, my cock useless but my lust raging. I was horny 24/7, even during salat, praying with a throbbing need, fantasizing about release.
One night, I snapped. Drunk out of my mind, I was punching my limp dick, fingering my hole, screaming in frustration. Nothing worked. My balls were so full I could feel them pulsing. In a drunken haze, Hassan’s cock flashed in my mind. I was too far gone to care he was my son. Lust took over, haram be damned. I stumbled to his room, where he slept, his lean body sprawled under a thin sheet. Heart pounding, I pulled down his pants, his soft cock heavy in my hand. I jerked it, watching it grow to a thick, 8-inch monster, veins bulging, precum leaking. My asshole clenched, desperate. I grabbed olive oil from the dresser, slicked my hairy hole, and lowered myself onto his cock. It slid in, stretching me wide, and I screamed like a bitch, pain and pleasure exploding. One thrust, and I came hard, cum shooting across the room, splattering Hassan’s face. He woke, confused, but before he could react, I shoved mine boxers over his eyes, blinding him. I rode his cock, my hairy ass slamming down, moaning like a whore. My legs shook, but I couldn’t stop, my prostate screaming with every thrust. I came again, squirting hands-free, my cum drenching his chest.
Hassan, half-awake, growled, “Who’s this bitch on my dick?” I didn’t answer, just kept riding, my hole gripping his shaft. He grabbed my hips, thinking I was some slut, and fucked me harder, his cock pounding my prostate. I was lost, cumming again, my body trembling as waves of pleasure ripped through me. I cursed myself—why didn’t I buy a fucking dildo? Why did I use my son? But I was too far gone, my hole stretched, my balls emptying. Hassan thrust fiercely, grunting, and came like a fucking camel, his hot load flooding my insides, filling me until it leaked out. I screamed, cumming one last time, my flaccid dick spurting as his cock pulsed in me.
For a second, I froze. Hassan reached for the boxers on his face. Panicking, I threw his blanket over him, grabbed my boxers, and ran, his cum dripping from my gaping hole, leaving a trail on the floor. In my room, I collapsed, shaking, ashamed, but my balls finally empty. My mind screamed, “What the fuck did I do?” I’d used my son as a dildo, crossed every line. Yet, my body buzzed, satisfied for the first time in months. I dreaded facing Hassan. My hole sore, my heart heavy with guilt, but my cock twitched, already craving more.
