The morning after I fucked myself on my son Hassan’s 8-inch, hairy cock, I sat at the breakfast table, my hairy ass still sore, leaking his cum into my boxers. My gut churned with shame, my face burning as I avoided his eyes. The table was packed—my three wives, Fatima, Aisha, and Laila, their tits barely contained in their hijabs, and my five daughters, chattering about school and boys. Hassan, my lanky 18-year-old, slouched across from me, his dark curls messy, his lean frame hunched over a plate of ful medames. His musky scent hit me, and my limp dick twitched, betraying me. I was a fucking wreck, spooning beans into my mouth, praying no one noticed the cum stains on my galabeya or the way my hands shook.
Hassan chewed slowly, his brown eyes flicking to mine, a smirk playing on his lips. Did he know it was me? I’d blinded him with my boxers, but his cum had filled my hairy hole, and I’d left a trail of it to my room. My heart pounded. Laila, my youngest wife, glared at me, still pissed from catching me fingering my asshole last night. “Eat, Muhammad,” she snapped, her voice sharp as a knife. I mumbled, “Yeah, yeah,” and shoved bread in my face, my mind replaying how I rode Hassan’s thick cock, cumming like a bitch, my flaccid dick squirting ropes of jizz. I was hard under the table, my balls aching again, despite the sin I’d committed. As a conservative Muslim, I was supposed to be the alpha dad, not some cum-hungry slut. I wanted to die.
For days, I tried to suppress my raging horniness. My ED pills kept me dizzy, my cock useless but my lust screaming. I’d pray five times a day, begging Allah for forgiveness, but my mind was a filthy porn reel—Hassan’s veiny dick, his precum dripping, his cum flooding my insides. I’d jerk my limp cock in the bathroom, spitting on my fingers to ram my hairy hole, but no release came. I was a fucking mess, my balls so full I could feel them pulsing. Laila avoided me, sleeping in the guest room, her curvy ass taunting me. Fatima and Aisha whispered about my “problem,” their eyes mocking. I was still the head of this house, barking orders, but my confidence was bullshit. I needed to cum, needed that high again.
Desperate, I snuck onto a shady website on my mobile phone, even though I did know much about online shopping. I ordered two dildos—a 6-inch rubber cock and a thick 8-inch beast, hoping they’d match Hassan’s size. They arrived in a plain box, and I hid them under my mattress, heart racing like I’d smuggled drugs. That night, after the family slept, I locked my door, poured olive oil on the 6-inch dildo, and shoved it up my hairy ass. The stretch burned, but it wasn’t enough. I moaned, fucking myself, picturing Hassan’s cock, but my dick stayed soft, my balls tight with no release. I switched to the 8-inch, ramming it deep, hitting my prostate hard. My body shook, sweat dripping, but no cum. I screamed in frustration, my hole gaping, my cock limp. The dildos were nothing compared to Hassan’s real, throbbing dick, hot and pulsing, filling me with his load. I threw the dildos across the room, cursing. I needed the real thing, haram or not. Regretting that I should have tried dildos first before taking the real thing cause I was unable to pleasure myself with dildos know.
Days dragged on, my lust a fucking torture. I avoided Hassan, but every time I saw him—lounging in his tight briefs, his bulge obvious, or coming home sweaty from football, his musky scent driving me wild—my asshole clenched, craving his cock. I was losing my mind, jerking off uselessly, fingering my hole until it was raw, praying for relief. The pills made it worse, keeping me horny every second, my prayers filled with fantasies of Hassan’s dick stretching me.
One night at the dinner table, the whole family was there—my wives dishing out molokhia, my daughters giggling, the air thick with garlic and spice. Hassan sat across from me, his lean frame relaxed, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. He leaned back, picking at his food, and said, “You know, sometimes you get a taste of something wild, something you can’t forget. Whoever took that ride the other night, they should come back tonight. I’ll be blindfolded, keep it private, no questions.” His voice was low, casual, like he was tossing out some Bedouin proverb. My daughters nodded, thinking it was some deep idiom, and Fatima muttered, “Wise boy.” But my heart stopped. My cock twitched, leaking precum into my boxers. He was talking about me, the bitch who rode his cock, cumming like a whore. The way he said “ride,” the smirk on his lips—I knew he fucking knew he enjoyed.
Laila shot me a look, her eyes narrowing, but she didn’t catch the hint. No one did, except me. My hairy ass clenched, my hole throbbing at the thought of his dick again. I should’ve been terrified—Hassan knew I’d fucked myself on him, a sin that could ruin me, a conservative dad in a small Egyptian town. But my lust was stronger. He was offering another round, blindfolded, keeping it secret. My balls ached, my mind screaming, “Take it, you horny fuck.” I told myself it was safe—he’d be blindfolded, no one would know. I’d get that thick cock again, cum hands-free, and empty my balls. What could go wrong? I ignored the voice in my head warning me I was wrong, that Hassan’s smirk meant he was playing me. I was too desperate, my hole begging for his dick.
That night, I waited until the house was quiet. My wives were asleep, my daughters in their rooms. I downed a shot of arak to dull the shame, my hands shaking as I crept to Hassan’s room. My heart pounded, my limp cock leaking, my hairy hole already slick with oil I’d rubbed in. I was ready to ride him again, to feel his cock stretch me, to cum until I couldn’t move. I didn’t care about the sin, the haram, or the consequences. I needed to fuck.
I stood outside Hassan’s room, my hairy ass slick with olive oil, my limp cock leaking precum into my boxers, my heart pounding like a fucking drum. I’d downed a shot of arak to drown the shame, but my balls ached, screaming for my son’s 8-inch, veiny cock to stretch my hole again. As a conservative Muslim dad, I was drowning in haram, begging Allah for forgiveness in my mind. Ya Allah, forgive this filthy sinner, I prayed, but my lust was a raging beast, and I pushed open Hassan’s door.
The room reeked of teenage musk—sweat, cum, and cheap cologne, with socks and briefs scattered on the floor. Hassan was under his thin sheet, his lean, lanky body outlined, his dark curls peeking out. The air was thick, and my dick twitched, my hairy hole clenching. He sensed someone enter and ripped the sheet off his crotch, revealing his rock-hard, 8-inch cock, throbbing, veins bulging, precum glistening like a fucking jewel. I froze, mesmerized, my asshole begging to be impaled. I rushed toward him, desperate to mount that monster and cum like the bitch I’d become.
“Stop, you horny slut,” Hassan growled, his voice low and commanding. “Suck my cock, bitch!” I froze. Suck him? No fucking way. I was a straight dad, the alpha of this house, not some cock-sucking whore. I just needed his dick in my ass to cum, to empty my aching balls. My mind raced, but Hassan barked again, angrier, “Suck it, or I rip this sheet off my face and see who you are.” My heart stopped. He was blindfolded, but if he saw my bearded face, my graying hair, he’d know it was his own dad. My secret would be fucked, my life ruined in this small Egyptian town.
I panicked, my hairy ass trembling, but I had no choice. I dove forward, shoving his thick, musky cock into my mouth. The salty precum hit my tongue, and I gagged hard, his shaft stretching my throat. I couldn’t make a sound—any moan would give me away. My beard brushed his balls, and I prayed he wouldn’t feel it. “Deeper, you fucking whore,” he snarled, his voice dripping with lust. I tried, but I wasn’t a pro, my throat choking on his girth. “Do it, or I grab your face and fuck your mouth myself,” he threatened. My stomach dropped. If he touched my beard, my rugged jaw, he’d know it was me, his 48-year-old dad. I forced myself deeper, his cock hitting the back of my throat, gagging silently, tears streaming down my face. My lungs burned, but I endured, my lips stretched, my tongue swirling his shaft.
Then, something fucked-up happened. I started enjoying it. My straight-dad brain screamed, No, this is haram! but my body betrayed me. The taste of his precum, the heat of his cock, the way it pulsed in my mouth—it turned me on. My limp dick leaked, my hole throbbed, and I sucked harder, bobbing like a cheap porn star. Hassan groaned, grabbing the sheets, his lean body shaking. “Oh, ya Allah,” he moaned, and his cock erupted, flooding my mouth with thick, hot cum. I choked, his load pouring down my throat, spilling out, dripping into my beard. I couldn’t breathe, gagging as he kept cumming, spraying my face, my beard matted with his jizz. I pulled off, gasping silently, my face a mess, my throat raw. I was in agony, my hole still empty, my balls aching. He’d wasted his load, and I panicked, thinking I wouldn’t get fucked.
But then I saw it—his cock was still rock-hard, glistening with spit and cum. A grin split my face, my hairy ass twitching with need. I didn’t hesitate. I climbed onto his bed, straddling his hips, my oiled-up hole hovering over his dick. I lowered myself, and his thick cock slid into my tight, hairy asshole, stretching me wide. I screamed like a bitch, pain and pleasure exploding, my prostate singing as his shaft filled me. Hassan groaned, blindfolded, thinking I was some random slut. “Ride it, you filthy cunt,” he growled, grabbing my hips, not feeling my beard or face. I bounced, my hairy ass slamming down, his cock pounding my prostate with every thrust. My flaccid dick flopped, but I didn’t care—I was cumming hands-free, ropes of jizz shooting from my limp cock, splattering his lean chest, his abs glistening with my cum.
Hassan took control, his hands gripping my hips, thrusting up like a fucking animal. “Take it, you cock-hungry bitch,” he snarled, his dick ramming my hole, brutal and relentless. My body shook, my hairy thighs trembling, my hole stretched to its limit. I moaned silently, biting my lip to keep quiet, my beard sticky with his cum. He fucked me harder, his balls slapping my ass, his cock hitting my prostate like a hammer. I came again, my cum squirting across his body, pooling in his navel. Hassan grunted, his thrusts savage, and with a roar, he bred my ass, his hot load flooding my insides, filling me until it leaked out, dripping down my thighs. I felt his cum deep in me, my hole pulsing, my body shaking as I came one last time, hands-free, my jizz mixing with his on his sweaty skin.
I collapsed, panting, my hole gaping, his cum oozing out. Hassan, still blindfolded, caught his breath and said, “Come back tomorrow, slut. I’ve got a surprise for you.” His voice was low, teasing, and my heart raced. A surprise? My cock twitched, my mind already craving his dick again. I grabbed my boxers, slipped off his bed, and crept out, his cum leaking down my legs, leaving a trail to my room. I locked my door, shaking, my beard crusted with his jizz, my ass sore but satisfied. I was ashamed, a conservative Muslim dad who’d just sucked and fucked his son, but my balls were empty, my lust sated—for now.
The next morning, I avoided Hassan’s eyes at breakfast, my hole throbbing under my galabeya. Laila glared, still pissed about my ass-fingering stunt. My daughters chattered, oblivious, and Fatima and Aisha served tea, unaware of the sin I’d committed. Hassan smirked, eating his ful, his musky scent hitting me, making my limp dick leak. I was fucked-up, praying for forgiveness, but already planning to ride his cock again, blindfolded, secret, haram as hell.
