Aquarius

I turned 22 a couple of weeks ago, on February 4th, right in the heart of Aquarius season. Living just with my dad, Marcus, in our sprawling suburban house felt like the perfect setup for someone like me. Mom bailed years ago because Dad couldn't keep it in his pants—too many affairs, too much wandering. She was a Cancer, all moody and clingy, which clashed hard with Dad's emotionally distant vibe. He's 52, born January 24th, another Aquarius like me. We get each other on that level; we're both wired for independence, craving space to breathe without anyone suffocating us. Astrology's my thing—I devour those horoscopes, and Aquarius always rings true: innovative, unconventional, detached from the mushy stuff. It makes me proud, knowing we're cut from the same cosmic cloth.

My ex, that Scorpio chick, was the opposite. Intense, jealous, always demanding to know where I was. She suffocated me until I snapped and dumped her. No more possessive bullshit; I need freedom, room to explore without strings. That's Aquarius life—unique paths, no labels holding us back.

Work's a drag, some dead-end office gig crunching numbers, but it pays the bills. One evening, I dragged myself home earlier than usual, keys jingling as I slipped through the front door. The house was quiet, but not empty. Moans drifted from the living room—low, guttural, mixed with skin slapping skin. Curiosity pulled me closer. I peeked around the corner, heart pounding.

There was Dad, bent over the couch, pants around his ankles. A burly guy, maybe in his forties, gripped Dad's hips, thrusting hard into his ass. Dad's cock dangled heavy between his legs, swinging with each pound, pre-cum dripping onto the carpet. The man grunted, slapping Dad's ass cheeks red, while Dad pushed back, taking every inch like he owned it. Sweat glistened on their bodies; Dad's graying hair stuck to his forehead, his muscular frame—still toned from years of gym sessions—flexing under the assault.

I froze, cock twitching in my jeans. I'd never seen Dad like this. He fucked women, sure, but guys? It hit me like a revelation: so fucking free, no boundaries. The man pulled out, flipped Dad around, and shoved his thick cock down Dad's throat. Dad sucked greedily, lips stretching wide, saliva trailing down his chin as he bobbed his head. The guy face-fucked him rough, balls smacking Dad's jaw, until he groaned and unloaded, cum spurting across Dad's tongue. Dad swallowed most, the rest dribbling out as he jerked himself off, shooting ropes onto the floor.

I backed away, dick rock-hard, hand slipping into my pants to stroke myself quietly in the hallway. That night, I came twice thinking about it—Dad's openness, his body moving without shame. Days blurred into a haze of fantasies. At work, I'd zone out, picturing Dad's ass clenching around a cock, his mouth full. I'd always stuck to girls, but labels? Fuck that. Seeing Dad so liberated ignited something. Why not explore with him? He's open-minded, another Aquarius—no judgments, just pure freedom. If anyone would get it, he'd be the one.

A week later, I couldn't hold back. We were in the kitchen, him nursing a beer, me pretending to scroll my phone. 'Dad,' I said, voice steady despite the nerves, 'I saw you the other day. With that guy.' He didn't flinch, just raised an eyebrow, smirking. 'Yeah? And?' I leaned in. 'Turned me on. Made me think... maybe we could try something. You and me.' His eyes lit up, no hesitation. 'Hell, Tom. Sounds like a new adventure. Let's do it.' Excitement surged through me—bingo, just as I hoped.

We didn't waste time. That night, after dinner, we ended up in his bedroom, the air thick with anticipation. Dad pulled me close, his hands rough on my shoulders. Our lips met—slow at first, testing. His mouth tasted like mint and beer, tongue sliding against mine in a deep, sensual dance. I gripped his shirt, pulling him tighter, our kisses growing hungry. Tongues tangled, wet and insistent; he nipped my lower lip, drawing a groan from me. My cock hardened against his thigh, and I felt his bulge pressing back.

Clothes came off fast—shirts tossed, pants kicked away. We stood naked, sizing each other up. Dad's body was solid, chest hair graying, cock thick and veined, already leaking. Mine's slimmer, but long, curving up eagerly. He pushed me onto the bed, climbing over. 'Let's start simple,' he murmured, but his voice held that Aquarius spark—ready for more.

He kissed down my neck, sucking marks into my skin, then took my nipple between his teeth, biting just hard enough to sting. I arched, hands in his hair. His mouth trailed lower, licking my abs, until he reached my cock. He swallowed me whole, throat relaxing around my length, sucking with steady pulls. I thrust up, fucking his face, balls tightening as saliva coated me. 'Fuck, Dad,' I gasped. He hummed around me, vibrations shooting pleasure up my spine.

I flipped us, wanting my turn. Dad's cock throbbed in my hand—hot, heavy. I licked the head, tasting salty pre-cum, then took him deep, gagging slightly but pushing through. He guided my head, hips bucking gently. We sixty-nined next, mouths devouring each other—me slurping his shaft while he tongued my balls, then rimmed my ass, tongue probing wet and firm. I shuddered, spreading my cheeks for more.

Classic turned to fucking. I lubed up—grabbed the bottle from his nightstand—and positioned behind him. Dad on all fours, ass up. I pressed in slow, his hole tight, gripping my cock like a vice. Inch by inch, I sank deep, groaning at the heat. He pushed back, taking me fully. I started thrusting—steady at first, then harder, balls slapping his. 'Pound me, son,' he growled. I did, gripping his hips, watching my dick disappear into him. Sweat dripped; the room filled with our grunts.

But after a few minutes, it felt... routine. Too vanilla for us Aquarians. We needed weird, original twists to keep the freedom alive. I pulled out, cock slick. 'This is boring,' I said, panting. Dad laughed, rolling over. 'Agreed. Let's get creative.' His eyes gleamed with that inventive spark.

We rummaged through the house for props—nothing planned, just whatever sparked ideas. First up: the kitchen. We ended up on the counter, surrounded by fruits from the bowl. Dad grabbed a banana, peeling it slow. 'Watch this.' He slid it along my cock, the cool fruit contrasting my heat, then bit into it right there, juice dripping onto my shaft. I shivered, thrusting into his hand as he smeared it messy. 'Your turn,' he said. I took a cucumber—thick, ridged—from the fridge, lubing it with spit. I teased his hole with the tip, pushing just the end in while stroking his cock. He moaned, clenching around the veggie, begging for more. I fucked him shallow with it, twisting, while sucking his balls. The weirdness amped everything—raw, unconventional.

Emboldened, we moved to the bathroom. Aquarius is the water bearer, right? Water play it was. Dad cranked the shower, steam filling the space. But we skipped soap; instead, he filled a rubber glove from the sink—makeshift enema. 'Hold still,' he ordered. I bent over, and he slid it in, squirting warm water into my ass. The fullness built, pressure mounting until I couldn't hold it. He plugged me with his fingers, then his cock, fucking me full while the water sloshed inside. I leaked around him, the sensation bizarre and intense, waves of pleasure mixing with the urge to release. When I did, spraying out as he thrust, it was filthy ecstasy—water and lube mixing on the tiles.

Dad wanted payback. He lay in the tub, legs spread. I grabbed the detachable showerhead, setting it to pulse. Aimed at his cock, the jets massaged his shaft, making it twitch. Then lower, blasting his hole. He jerked himself, water pounding relentlessly. I joined, pissing on his chest—hot stream marking him—while he came, cum mixing with the flow down the drain. No shame, just pure, weird release.

Back in the bedroom, fetishes escalated. Dad eyed my sneakers by the door. 'Feet,' he said. But not basic—we twisted it. He made me wear them while he sucked my toes through the socks, the fabric dampening. Then, he lubed my foot, sliding his cock between the sole and arch, fucking my footwear like a pocket pussy. The rubbery grip, mixed with my toes curling, had him grunting. I reciprocated, tying his wrists with an old belt, then trampling his cock lightly—stepping on it, grinding the head under my heel. He writhed, pre-cum smearing, until I knelt and sucked him clean, the taste earthy.

Weirdest yet: the garage. Dad's toolbox called to us. He picked a smooth wrench handle—cold metal. 'Lube it up.' I did, then watched as he inserted it into himself, twisting slow, the tool stretching him wide. I jerked watching, then took over, fucking him with it while rimming around the edges. He gasped, the hardness unyielding. For me, he chose a soft-bristled paintbrush, teasing my nipples till they ached, then dragging it down to tickle my balls, the bristles igniting nerves I didn't know existed. He dipped it in lube, swirling inside my ass, the fine hairs stimulating every ridge.

Original kink hit peak with astrology flair—our shared sign. We printed zodiac charts from my laptop, taping them to the walls. Dad role-played as the Water Bearer, pouring actual water from a pitcher over my body while I knelt. It cascaded down, soaking my cock; he fucked me missionary, water pooling beneath us, splashing with each thrust. I embodied the eccentric inventor, using a modified phone charger—vibrating cord wrapped around his shaft, buzzing low. He howled as I plugged it in (safely, low voltage), the hum sending shocks through him while I rode his face, his tongue delving deep.

Nights blurred into a frenzy of experiments. One session, we used ice cubes from the freezer—trailing them over cocks, melting into asses for a chilling fuck. Another, feathers from an old pillow, tickling until we begged, then slamming together raw. We even tried vacuum seal bags—sucking air out around our dicks, the pressure sucking tight, edging us for hours.

Classic sex? Forgotten. These weird rituals freed us—no emotions, just bodies colliding in innovative chaos. Dad's ass took everything I threw—veggies, tools, water—clenching and milking my cock when we finally penetrated. I'd cum deep inside him, pulling out to watch it drip, then he'd flip me and fill my hole, his load warm and sticky. We'd collapse, laughing at the mess, planning the next oddity.

Sex with men, especially Dad, hit different—no drama, no clinginess. Just Aquarius freedom: exploring limits, no attachments. We'd clean up, grab beers, and chat stars—independent souls, bonded by kink, not hearts. It was perfect, raw, unending.

Those first months after we dove into our twisted experiments flew by in a blur of sweat-soaked sheets and endless innovation. Dad and I fucked whenever the mood struck—mornings before work, afternoons when I'd skip out early, nights that stretched into dawn. We'd test boundaries in the living room, him bending me over the coffee table while I gripped the remote, TV flickering ignored. Or in the backyard under the stars, Aquarius energy fueling us as I'd ride his cock reverse cowgirl style, ass cheeks spreading wide to take him deep, grunting with each bounce until his load filled me up, warm and overflowing down my thighs. No routines, just raw, label-free release. His hole clenched around my thrusts like it was made for me, milking every drop when I'd pound him doggy on the kitchen floor, tiles cold against our knees. We kept it physical, no sappy talks—just bodies slamming, cocks spurting, asses gaping from the weird toys we'd improvise.

One shitty Tuesday, I trudged home from that soul-sucking office job, tie loosened, mind racing with escape fantasies. Dad lounged on the couch in boxers, scrolling his phone, his bulge outlined casually. 'Fuck this grind,' I muttered, collapsing beside him. 'We hate our jobs. What if we boss ourselves? Like, OnlyFans. Us, together—real, no filters.' His face lit up, that Aquarius gleam in his eyes. 'Brilliant, Tom. Let's own it.' No hesitation; we were hooked on the idea of turning our freedom into cash.

We set up the account that night, simple setup: phone on a tripod, dim lights for mood. Started soft to build tease—videos of us in underwear, eyes locked across the room. I'd strip slow, running hands over my chest, pinching nipples hard while Dad mirrored, stroking his thickening cock through fabric without crossing the gap. 'Look at what you do to me,' he'd growl, voice low and commanding, as pre-cum soaked his briefs. Subscribers trickled in, comments begging for more: 'Touch him already!' We held back, seduction in the denial, my shaft throbbing untouched as I flexed for the camera, Dad's gaze devouring me.

First real heat dropped a week later: mutual masturbation. Bedroom setup, naked on the bed, legs spread wide. Camera captured everything—me gripping my long cock, stroking base to tip with firm pulls, balls drawing up tight. Dad beside me, hand wrapped around his veined length, pumping slow at first, thumb circling the slit to smear pre-cum. We synced rhythms, grunts filling the air, eyes flicking between each other's fists. 'Stroke faster, son,' he'd urge, and I'd obey, jerking harder, veins bulging on my shaft. He edged close, pausing to slap his cock against my thigh—first contact, electric. I returned it, my dick smacking his abs, leaving a wet trail. Climax hit simultaneous: I shot first, ropes arcing onto my stomach, thick and white; Dad followed, cum splattering his chest, some hitting my arm. We panted, smearing it together off-camera, but the vid ended on our spent cocks twitching. Views exploded—first payouts rolled in. Success tasted like victory.

We ramped up, feeding the hunger. The one-hour kiss vid? Epic. Living room, face-to-face on the rug, lips crashing from the start. Tongues battled deep, wet sucks echoing as I nipped his lower lip, drawing it in to suckle. Saliva trailed between mouths during breaths, chins glistening. Midway, hands roamed—me cupping his ass cheeks, squeezing firm while he gripped my neck, pulling harder. By minute forty, cocks ground together, leaking steadily, but we stuck to the tease: pure mouth-on-mouth marathon, ending with swollen lips and heaving chests. Fans raved; tips poured.

Foot fetish next—our weird staple. We filmed in the den, socks off, soles up to the lens. Dad's feet, callused from years of manual labor, toes flexing as I knelt, tongue lapping his arch slow, tasting salt and skin. I sucked each toe, popping them in and out like mini cocks, while he jerked himself lazily. My turn: he buried his face in my soles, licking heel to ball, teeth grazing insteps. Then mutual—feet intertwined, toes probing each other's mouths as we stroked off. I came on his foot, cum pooling between toes; he licked it clean before shooting on mine, the warmth sticky under my arches. That vid went viral in niche circles; money flowed like never before.

Sub money hit critical—enough to quit. I handed in notice first, grinning at my boss's shock. Dad followed suit from his warehouse gig. Freedom at last: no clocks, just us dictating days around shoots. Media caught wind—articles popped: 'Incestuous Father-Son Duo Dominates OnlyFans.' We devoured them over breakfast, laughing. 'Fame suits us,' Dad said, high-fiving. Demand skyrocketed—custom requests, collabs begging. We were stars in our own right, Aquarians thriving on the unconventional spotlight.

Then the producer hit our DMs: gay BDSM porn site, big budget. 'Hesitant?' he asked in the call. We exchanged glances—me on the couch, Dad pacing naked, his thick cock swinging heavy between his thighs. 'Only if we script it,' I said firmly. 'Full control on every thrust, every slap.' Deal sealed. Excitement buzzed; this was our Aquarius rebellion cranked up, turning private kinks into pro-level spectacle.

First shoot: their studio reeked of leather and lube, walls padded black, chains rattling from hooks like promises of restraint. We dove in—a three-way with a ripped twink, early twenties, all eager sub energy, his smooth body toned from gym obsessions, cock already half-hard in anticipation. Scenario ours: Dad as dom top, me switch, twink bound tight. Lights hot on our skin, camera rolling as Dad grabbed the kid by the throat, shoving him toward the St. Andrew's cross. 'On your back, boy,' Dad growled, voice deep and commanding. The twink—let's call him Alex—moaned soft, 'Yes, sir,' wrists and ankles locked into cold metal cuffs, spread-eagle, his pink hole exposed and twitching.

Dad snatched the leather paddle, testing it with a whoosh through air. First crack landed square on Alex's ass cheek—smack!—skin blooming red instantly. 'Ahh! Fuck!' Alex yelped, body jerking against chains. Dad didn't pause, alternating cheeks, paddle whistling down: crack! crack! Welts rose like angry stripes, ass jiggling with each impact. 'Take it for Daddy,' Dad barked, swinging harder, the sound echoing sharp. I watched, my cock stiffening, pre-cum beading at the tip as Alex whimpered, 'More, Daddy... please...'

I stepped in to prep, kneeling between his spread legs, lube bottle squirting cold over his hole. One finger circled the pucker, then plunged in knuckle-deep. 'Tight little slut,' I muttered, adding a second, scissoring wide to stretch him open. Lube dripped down his crack, pooling on the cross. Alex bucked, moaning loud, 'Oh god, yes... finger-fuck me deeper!' I twisted three fingers now, curling to graze his prostate—his cock jumped, leaking steady. Dad hovered, paddle discarded, his massive erection throbbing as he watched me work the twink's ass loose.

Dad positioned first, lining up his fat cockhead against the slick entrance. 'Beg for it, baby,' he demanded, teasing the rim. Alex thrashed, chains clinking, 'Please, Daddy! Fuck my hole—ram it in!' Dad thrust forward, balls-deep in one brutal shove—slap of skin on skin. Grunts mixed with whimpers as Dad pounded relentless, hips snapping, cock pistoning in and out, pulling pink rim with each withdraw. 'So fucking tight... milk Daddy's dick,' Dad groaned, sweat beading on his chest. I moved to Alex's head, gripping my shaft and shoving it down his throat. 'Suck it, boy—gag on my cock.' He did, lips stretching wide, throat convulsing as I face-fucked him deep, saliva bubbling from his mouth, dripping down his chin. Gluck-gluck-gluck—wet slurps filled the air, his tongue swirling desperate around my length.

We switched seamless: Dad yanked out of Alex's ass with a wet pop, leaving it gaping and quivering. I pulled from his mouth, strings of spit connecting us. 'Rim my son, slut,' Dad ordered, pushing Alex's face toward me as the chains allowed slack. On my knees now, ass presented, Alex dove in—tongue lapping flat over my hole, probing inside with hungry licks. 'Mmm, tastes so good, sir,' he mumbled between swirls, nose buried in my crack. Meanwhile, Dad lubed his hand generous, fingers slick as he pressed against my entrance. 'Ready for Daddy's fist, baby?' he asked, voice husky. I nodded, pushing back—two fingers breached easy, then three, twisting to open me up.

The stretch built: four fingers, thumb folded, knuckles pressing insistent. 'Breathe, Tom—take it all,' Dad coached, inching forward. Burn flared sweet as the widest part crowned my ring—then pop, hand swallowed wrist-deep. I howled, 'Fuuuck, Daddy! Yes—twist it!' He did, arm rotating slow inside, fingers splaying to rub walls, knuckles bumping prostate hard. My cock leaked untouched, dripping ropes onto the floor, body shaking from the fullness. Alex's tongue flicked faster on my balls now, moaning vibrations up my ass. Dad pumped gentle at first, then deeper, forearm flexing—squish-squish of lube and flesh. 'Look at that greedy hole swallow me,' Dad praised, free hand slapping my cheek lightly.

Climax crashed: Dad withdrew his fist slow, my ass clenching void, hole winking open. Alex begged, 'Cum on me, Daddies!' Dad stroked his cock furious over the twink's chest; I jerked mine, aiming back. Twink shot first—thick spurts arcing onto his own abs, body convulsing in chains. I followed, unloading hot jets across his back, painting red welts white. Dad pulled out from nowhere—wait, no, he'd been edging—and painted my chest, cum splattering warm over my nipples. 'Good boys,' he panted, all three of us heaving, cocks twitching spent. Raw power, no holds barred—fans would eat it up.

Orgies followed—wild sets ramping the intensity, bodies blurring in sweat and seed. One epic: warehouse theme, us central in a cavernous space stacked with crates, dim floods casting shadows like a underground lair. Five guys total: us, the beefy bear with a hairy gut and tree-trunk thighs, a lean otter with a pierced cock, a muscled jock, and a tattooed punk. Scenario? Total free-for-all, but we orchestrated the chaos—me calling shots like a twisted conductor. 'Line up, asses out,' I commanded at start, bending the bear over a crate. Dad plowed in immediate, cock slamming home—thud-thud hips colliding, bear grunting deep, 'Fuck yeah, Daddy—wreck my hole!'

Bodies piled quick: I dropped to knees, sucking two at once—the otter and jock, lips stretched obscene around both shafts, tongues lapping veins side-by-side. 'Suck those cocks, baby—deep throat 'em,' Dad urged from behind the bear, his thrusts shaking the crate. Saliva coated my chin, gagging as they face-fucked in tandem, balls slapping my face. Nearby, Dad's free hand fisted the punk's ass—greasy arm plunging elbow-deep, punk howling, 'Oh shit, Daddy! Fist me harder—ruin it!' The bear clenched around Dad's pounding dick, ass cheeks rippling, pre-cum flinging from his own stroking.

We shifted to daisy chain: asses linked in a circle on the gritty floor. I thrust into the otter's tight heat, feeling the jock behind me bury deep—chain reaction rippling as Dad fucked the bear, who railed the punk, closing the loop. Moans built frenzy: 'Ungh, yes—pound that ass!' from the jock, my hips snapping forward. 'Take Daddy's cock, all of you sluts,' Dad bellowed, sweat flying. Cocks slid slick, holes gripping, the rhythm syncing to a pounding beat—slap-slap-slap. Cum erupted chain-style: punk first, filling the bear; bear unloaded into Dad, who growled, 'Fuck, hot load!' and shot into me—warm flood creaming my insides. I pulled out to blast the otter's back, jock following with a facial on me, ropes hitting my cheek. Loads swapped mouth-to-mouth after—tasting mixed seed, tongues swirling filthy kisses. Exhausting, exhilarating; payouts dwarfed OnlyFans, our fame spiking.

But my fave? The fisting scene, intimate duo back on our turf for that personal edge, no extras diluting the father-son heat. Studio crew minimal, just camera rolling in our bedroom, sheets fresh but soon ruined. Dad lubed his arm to the elbow, glistening under lights, veins popping on his forearm. I positioned on all fours on the bed, ass up high, cheeks spread by my own hands. 'Gonna open you wide, baby,' Dad said, kneeling behind, first finger tracing my rim teasing.

He started slow—two fingers sliding in smooth, twisting to coat my walls. 'Mmm, feels good, Daddy,' I moaned, rocking back. Third finger joined, curling precise to nail my prostate—zap of pleasure making my cock throb, tip dripping clear onto sheets. 'That's it, push out for me,' he murmured, adding the fourth, thumb tucked tight. Stretch intensified, ring burning as knuckles pressed—'Ahh! Yes, Daddy—breach me!' I begged, bearing down. Pop—hand engulfed, wrist buried, his palm cupping inside. 'Holy fuck, so deep,' I gasped, body quivering.

Dad twisted slow, fingers flexing to massage every inch, pumping like a piston—arm withdrawing halfway then slamming back, schlurp of lube echoing. Prostate milked relentless, pre-cum puddling thick below, my shaft untouched and aching. 'Ride Daddy's fist, Tom—fuck yourself on it,' he commanded, free hand gripping my hip. I did, bucking wild, ass clenching around his forearm, moans ripping out: 'Oh god, Daddy! Harder—make me cum!' He ramped speed, twisting vicious, until I shattered—hands-free explosion, cum jetting forward in arcs, splattering the headboard.

He pulled out deliberate, hole gaping wide, air cool on the void. Then the twist: foot play extreme. Dad sat back against pillows, foot oiled slick, toes flexing inviting. 'Straddle me reverse, baby—take Daddy's foot in that wrecked ass.' I obeyed, facing away, lowering onto his big toe first—probing the sensitive rim, then two toes spreading me further. 'Unngh, so full already,' I groaned, sinking deeper, heel breaching next. Ass engulfed it all, foot sliding calf-deep, toes curling inside to fuck my walls, flexing against raw nerves. Odd pressure overwhelmed—intense, bizarre bliss as I bucked, grinding down. 'Take it all, you filthy boy,' Dad urged, twisting his ankle to stir. I jerked my spent cock frantic, building again, shooting weaker spurts as his foot twisted deep, toes scraping prostate. He withdrew slow, hole wrecked and throbbing, pink and pulsing.

My turn faint but eager—I lubed quick, fisting him shallow at first, three fingers then full hand, his ass yielding easy from practice. 'Fist your boy, Daddy—cum for me,' I whispered, pumping steady. He stroked his cock, grunting, 'Yes, baby—deeper!' Climax hit him hard, load erupting onto his abs in thick ropes, body arching.

Trashier vids pushed limits—watersports first, outdoor set mimicking a grimy alley, concrete cold underfoot, fake trash bins for grit. Dad pinned me to the graffiti wall, rough brick biting my back, cock out and ready. 'Open wide, baby—Daddy's gonna mark you,' he snarled, unleashing a hot stream over my chest, piss cascading warm down my torso, soaking pubes. I stroked through it, hand slippery, the acrid warmth hitting my shaft like liquid fire. 'Fuck, yes—piss on me, Daddy!' I moaned, tilting head as he aimed higher—salty jet hitting my mouth, gulps swallowed eager, overflowing down chin.

Swapped roles: I spun him, pressing his shoulders down. 'Your turn, old man—drink up.' My bladder released, hosing his face—urine streaming over eyes, lips parted to catch it, gulping loud. 'Mmm, tastes like sin, son,' he rasped, sucking my cock clean mid-stream, tongue lapping piss from the slit. He bent forward, ass out— I filled it direct, stream flooding his hole as I thrust in, cock plugging the flow. Liquid sloshed inside with each pump, squelch-squelch, piss leaking around my base. 'Fuck my piss-filled ass, baby!' he begged, clenching to milk me till I came, mixing seed with the mess.

Scat edged darker—private set, warnings signed thick, our playroom prepped with tarps and wipes, air thick with anticipation. We'd dieted clean for firmness, bodies primed. Lights low, camera intimate as I squatted over Dad's chest, knees spread wide on the mat. 'Push it out for Daddy, baby—feed me your shit,' he urged, eyes locked hungry, cock hard against his belly. I bore down, grunting—firm log emerging slow, warm and heavy, coiling onto his skin with a soft plop. The scent hit earthy, his hand scooping immediate to smear over his shaft, stroking messy, brown streaks lubing his grip. 'Oh fuck, so hot—jerk that filthy cock,' I moaned, leaning to rim his hole clean, tongue delving deep into the clean pucker, tasting musk.

Reverse hit harder: Dad straddled my thighs, ass hovering. 'Open up, son—take Daddy's load.' He pushed, thick turd sliding out controlled, landing warm across my thighs, weight pressing as it broke. 'Unngh, yes—shit on me, Daddy!' I growled, grinding up, cocks frotting through the filth, the slick mess easing our slide, shafts gliding hot and dirty. He smeared more, hand pumping us together—'Cum in the shit, baby—mix it all.' Friction built frantic, moans raw: 'Fuuuck, gonna blow!' Mutual release exploded—my cum spurting white through the brown, his joining in ropes, bodies slick and unashamed, heaving in the aftermath. Taboo pinnacle, our bond sealed in the extreme—no judgments, just pure, freeing filth.

Life peaked: richer than dreams, schedules ours alone. House upgraded—pool for water kinks, playroom stocked. Freer, independent—Aquarius utopia. Then my ex messaged, that Scorpio cling still. 'Watching your vids, fingering myself to you and your dad. Threesome? Please?' I snorted, showing Dad. 'Dream on,' I typed back, blocking her. No women, ever again. Men crushed it—cocks harder, fucks deeper, no drama. Labels? Meh, but yeah, gay now. Dad too—we'd whisper it post-shoot, cocks spent, confirming the shift. Our bond? Pure kink, no strings, just endless exploration.