My name is Leo, and I've always known I was different. At 20, I'm openly gay, effeminate in every way that makes me feel alive—my voice soft and lilting, my movements graceful like a dancer's, my wardrobe full of pastel shirts and slim jeans that hug my slender hips. My parents never batted an eye when I came out to them at 13. They were the epitome of open-mindedness, supporting me through every whim. Back when I was little, my room looked like a princess’s dream: shelves lined with Barbie dolls in glittering gowns, Bratz girls with their fierce makeup and tiny outfits, even a dream house where I’d stage elaborate weddings. In the corner stood my Hello Kitty CD player, endlessly playing Yours Truly by Ariana Grande, my favorite singer back then and still my favorite today. I remember Christmas when I was eight—the whole family gathered around the tree, and Mom handed me a massive box. Inside was Barbie's camper, pink and shiny with fold-out awnings and little kitchenette seats. My uncles exchanged glances, eyebrows raised, but Dad just grinned and ruffled my hair. 'Looks like fun, kiddo. Go wild with it.' That moment sealed it for me: I was lucky, loved unconditionally in a world that often wasn't kind to boys like me.
Being an adult hit me like a storm at 18, and that's when the forbidden thoughts crept in. My desires shifted from innocent crushes on boys at school to something darker, more intimate—my own father. Peter, 48 now, but still a towering figure of masculinity. Mom always bragged about his youth: how he was the star striker on the local football team, girls throwing themselves at him after every match. He had that rugged charm—broad shoulders from years of training, a thick chest dusted with dark hair, arms like tree trunks that could lift me effortlessly when I was small. His face was weathered but handsome, with a strong jaw shadowed by stubble, piercing blue eyes, and a deep voice that rumbled like thunder. Even unemployed, he carried himself with virile confidence, striding around the house in nothing but boxers and a tank top, his thick thighs flexing, his bulge prominent. I'd catch glimpses of him in the shower through the cracked bathroom door—his cock heavy and uncut, swinging as he soaped up, balls low and hairy. It made my own dick twitch, a shameful heat pooling in my gut. Incest? Wrong on every level. But the taboo only made it burn hotter.
It started with the laundry. Our washing machine was in the basement, a communal basket overflowing with the family's scents. I'd sneak down there after dinner, heart pounding, digging through the pile like a thief. Then I'd find his—My Dad’s worn boxers, the cotton stretched and faded from years of wear. I'd pull out a pair, the fabric still warm if I'd timed it right, and press it to my face. The smell hit me first: musky crotch sweat, a faint salty tang from his piss at the waistband, the earthy residue of his cum from solo sessions. I'd inhale deeply, my cock hardening in my jeans as I imagined him pulling them on that morning, his thick shaft nestling into the pouch. Sometimes they'd be crusty in the front, dried semen flaking off if I rubbed too hard. I'd lick the stain, tasting the bitterness, my tongue tracing the outline where his cockhead had leaked. Upstairs in my room, I'd strip naked, wrap his boxers around my dick, and stroke furiously—picturing him bending me over, his rough hands on my ass, fucking me raw. I'd cum in seconds, spurting into the fabric, adding my load to his. Guilt followed, but so did the thrill. I hoarded a few pairs in my drawer, sniffing them at night like a drug.
Life shifted a few months ago when Dad lost his job at the factory—layoffs, they said, but really, his gambling had caught up. He'd always bet on football matches, a 'harmless hobby' that escalated into an addiction. Poker nights at the bar turned into online slots, draining our savings. Mom, a nurse pulling double shifts, became the sole breadwinner, her face lined with exhaustion and anger. 'Peter, how could you?' she'd yell, slamming doors. Dad would mumble apologies, but his eyes were glassy, desperate. I worked part-time at a boutique women's clothing store downtown—folding silk blouses, helping customers into dresses, earning just enough for my own treats. But even that wasn't safe. One night, I came home early from a shift, slipping into my room to count my tips—$50 in crumpled bills hidden in my sock drawer. The door creaked; there he was, Dad, rifling through my things, his back to me, broad and tense.
'Dad?' My voice cracked. He froze, then turned, face flushing red. 'Leo, I... I needed it. Just a loan.' His hands trembled as he pocketed a twenty. Rage boiled up—I'd lectured him before, begged him to stop, watched Mom cry over bills. 'You're stealing from your own son now? Get out!' He slunk away, mumbling shame, but it happened again a week later. That's when the plan formed, twisted and bold. Dad was so deep in debt, chasing losses at the track or casino apps, he'd do anything for cash. And I had desires he'd fulfill, whether he wanted to or not. Blackmail: my money for his gambling, in exchange for sex. Me, his effeminate little boy, turned into his plaything. The thought made me hard just plotting it.
Mom was at work the next afternoon, her car pulling out with a wave. Dad lounged in the living room, beer in hand, staring at his phone—probably checking odds. I sauntered in, wearing my tightest shorts and a crop top that showed my smooth midriff, heart racing. 'Dad, we need to talk.' He looked up, wary. I sat close on the couch, our thighs brushing. 'About the money? Leo, I said I'd pay you back.' I shook my head, leaning in, my hand on his knee. 'No. I know you're desperate. The gambling... it's bad. But I can help. I have savings from work.' His eyes lit up, greedy. 'Really? You'd do that for me?' I smiled, seductive, tracing circles on his leg. 'Yes. But not for free. I want something in return.' He frowned. 'What?' I met his gaze, voice husky. 'You. Sex with me. When Mom's away. Fuck me like you mean it, and I'll give you $100 every time. Enough for your bets.'
Shock slammed his face—jaw dropping, beer spilling. 'What the fuck, Leo? That's sick! I'm your father and I’m not gay!' He stood, pacing, but I followed, pressing against his back, my slim body molding to his solid one. 'Think about it, Dad. You need the money. Imagine the wins—the horses, the games. And me... I've wanted you forever. Your body, your cock. Let me be your little whore.' I whispered it hot against his ear, hand sliding to his crotch, feeling him stir despite the protest. He shoved me away, but weakly. 'This is incest. Wrong.' I persisted, sensual, dropping to my knees in front of him. 'Please, Daddy. Just once. Taste me.' I nuzzled his zipper, lips brushing the bulge. He groaned, conflicted, but didn't stop me. That's when it broke.
He grabbed my hair, yanking me up, eyes dark with lust and shame. 'You little slut. Fine. But you keep your mouth shut.' Our first kiss was feral—his mouth crashing onto mine, stubble scraping my soft skin, tongue invading roughly. I'd dreamed of this: his lips on mine, full and demanding, tasting of beer and tobacco. In my fantasies, it was tender at first, building to passion, but reality was raw. He sucked my lower lip, biting, then plunged deep, our tongues wrestling as saliva dripped. I moaned into him, hands clutching his shirt, grinding my erection against his thigh. The kiss lasted minutes, wet and incestuous, his hands roaming my ass, squeezing like he owned me.
We stripped frantic—his shirt off, revealing that hairy chest, nipples hard peaks. I licked them, sucking one into my mouth, teeth grazing while he growled. 'Fuck, Leo, you're such a fag.' But his cock strained, and he shoved down his jeans, boxers tenting massively. I dreamed of his feet too—in sleep, I'd imagine kneeling, worshipping them after a long day, his football player's soles callused and strong. Now, I guided him to the couch, pushing him down. 'Let me,' I purred, kneeling between his legs. His socks were on—thick white athletic ones, slightly damp from lounging. I peeled one off slowly, revealing his foot: size 12, arched high, toes thick and hairy, a faint sweat scent rising. In my dreams, licking them was heaven; reality was better. I pressed my nose to the sole, inhaling—musky, cheesy from the day's confinement, a hint of leather from old cleats. My tongue darted out, flat against the ball, lapping the salt. He watched, breathing heavy. 'Shit, kid... that's nasty.' But he flexed his toes, letting me suck the big one into my mouth, swirling around the pad, tasting the grime between them. I nibbled the heel, tracing veins up the instep, my cock leaking pre-cum onto the carpet. His other foot I massaged, then licked the sock through the fabric, wetting it before yanking it off to devour the twin—sucking toes like mini cocks, gagging myself on them.
Dad's resistance crumbled. He pulled me up, flipping me onto the couch, ass up. 'You want to be my whore? Prove it.' He spat on his hand, rubbing his cock—thick, 8 inches, veined and leaking. No lube, just raw spit on my hole. I begged, 'Fuck me, Daddy. Hard.' He thrust in, one brutal push, stretching my tight ass around his girth. Pain bloomed, then pleasure as he bottomed out, balls slapping my cheeks. We fucked like animals—his hips slamming, cock pistoning deep, hitting my prostate with every drive. I cried out, 'Yes, Daddy! Deeper!' He gripped my hips, bruising, pounding relentlessly. Sweat slicked us; his hairy belly rubbed my back, armpits dripping as he grunted. I twisted to kiss him again, our mouths fusing mid-thrust, tongues sloppy, sharing the foot sweat flavor from my breath.
He flipped me onto my back, legs over his shoulders, re-entering with a squelch. Face to face, incest eyes locked—his dominant, mine submissive whore. 'Take it, boy. My little cumdump.' He railed me, cock dragging my walls, balls smacking my ass. I jerked my dick, but he slapped my hand away. 'No. You cum from Daddy's dick.' The pace built, perverse and crazy—him leaning to lick my neck, biting my collarbone, then shoving fingers in my mouth for me to suck. I dreamed of this ownership; now it was real, his body claiming mine. He pulled out suddenly, shoving his cock in my face. 'Suck it clean.' I did, tasting my ass on him, deepthroating until I gagged, tears streaming. Then back in, fucking harder, the couch creaking.
We shifted positions endlessly—me riding him, ass bouncing on his lap, his hands tweaking my nipples; doggy on the floor, him yanking my hair; against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist as he bounced me like a ragdoll. Each thrust was incestuous fire—'Who's your Daddy?' he'd growl, and I'd whimper, 'You are! Fuck your son's hole!' Sweat poured; his armpits brushed my nose, and I licked them mid-fuck, sucking the hairy folds, salty and pungent. His feet—I pulled one to my mouth even as he thrust, licking toes while impaled. Orgasms built; he came first, roaring, flooding my ass with hot cum, pulsing ropes deep inside. I followed, untouched, spurting across my belly, body convulsing.
But we weren't done. He carried me to his bedroom—Mom's away, the king bed ours. Round two: he ate my cum-filled ass, tongue scooping his load, then kissed me, feeding it back—incestuous snowball, our flavors mixing. I sucked his softening cock back to life, balls in my mouth, rimming his hairy hole with my tongue. He face-fucked me, cock down my throat, until tears flowed. Then missionary again, slow at first, building to frenzy—kissing constantly, deep and wet, his stubble rawing my chin. 'Love you, Daddy,' I gasped, and he muttered, 'My whore. Always.' We fucked through the afternoon—perverse, crazy, positions blurring: 69 with foot worship, me licking his soles while he sucked my dick; him bending me over the dresser, watching us in the mirror; even in the shower later, soapy cocks sliding, him pressing me against tiles for a standing fuck.
By evening, exhausted, cum leaking from me, we lay tangled. I'd given him the $100 already, tucked in his wallet. 'More next time?' he asked, hand on my ass. I nodded, his little whore forever. Dreams realized, desires unleashed—in this forbidden dance, we were bound, fucking like mad whenever Mom left, the house echoing our moans. Incest's grip tightened, and I craved every thrust.
Life after that first twisted encounter with my dad became a whirlwind of secrecy and insatiable hunger. But now, I had a boyfriend: Romeo, 25, the epitome of masculine raw power. We met at my job in the women's clothing store; he came in looking for a gift for his sister, all broad shoulders straining his shirt, thick arms inked with tattoos, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and dark hair cropped short. Bisexual, he told me later, with a deep voice that sent shivers down my spine. Our first date was electric—he pinned me against his truck after dinner, kissing me hard, his stubble scraping my lips as his big hands groped my ass through my jeans. We fucked that night in his apartment, his thick cock—9 inches, veined and uncut—plowing my hole until I screamed, his sweat dripping onto my chest. He was dominant, calling me his 'pretty little slut,' and I loved it, riding him reverse cowgirl while he slapped my cheeks red.
But I kept my secret from him: the blackmail, the incest with Dad. Him and I had fallen into a routine—whenever Mom worked late, we'd fuck like rabbits. I'd slip him $100 bills from my tips, and he'd ravage me on the kitchen counter, his hairy body slamming into mine, cock stretching me wide as I begged, 'Harder, Daddy!' We'd lick each other's sweat, his armpits musky and wet under my tongue, my mouth drooling saliva down his shaft before deepthroating him. Toys started creeping in; I bought a vibrating plug online, shoving it up my ass while he watched, the buzz making me leak pre-cum as he jerked his dick. Then he'd yank it out and replace it with his meat, pounding until cum squelched out around his base. It was humid, sticky sex—our bodies slick, breaths hot and ragged, drool mixing with sweat on our skin. I was his little whore, and the taboo fueled every thrust.
Romeo suspected something after a few weeks. I'd come home disheveled, ass sore, excuses about 'long shifts' not landing. One evening, Mom was at her night shift, Dad pacing the living room, eyes on his phone for gambling apps. I texted him to wait; Romeo was dropping me off. But as we pulled up, Romeo insisted on walking me in. 'Wanna meet the folks,' he said, his massive hand on my thigh. Panic hit, but I nodded. Inside, Dad froze on the couch, beer in hand, his tank top clinging to his sweaty chest from the humid summer air. 'Dad, this is Romeo,' I stammered, heart hammering. Romeo shook his hand firmly, sizing him up—My Dad’s 48-year-old bulk still impressive, thighs thick in shorts, bulge visible.
We chatted awkwardly, Romeo's presence filling the room with his cologne and confidence. I excused myself to the kitchen for drinks, but Dad followed, whispering urgently, 'We can't tonight.' I pressed against him, hand on his crotch. 'Just a quick suck, Daddy. Romeo won't know.' He groaned, but before he could respond, Romeo appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. We'd been careless—my hand squeezing Dad’s hardening cock through the fabric, our faces inches apart. Time stopped. Romeo's jaw clenched, but instead of anger, his gaze darkened with lust. 'What the fuck is this?' he growled, stepping closer. Dad pulled away, stammering, 'Nothing, son—' but Romeo cut him off, grabbing my arm. 'Leo? Your dad? Spill it.'
Tears pricked my eyes, but Romeo's grip was firm, not cruel. I confessed everything—the gambling, the blackmail, the sex. Dad's face burned red, mumbling denials, but Romeo laughed low, surprising us. 'Incest, huh? Hot as hell. And you're bi, Peter? Or straight but desperate?' Dad blinked, caught. 'I... it's wrong, but the kid's insistent.' Romeo's eyes raked over us both, his shorts tenting. 'Wrong? Nah. Perverse, yeah. But I'm in. If Leo's game.' He turned to me, thumb brushing my lip. 'You want your boyfriend joining? Watching your dad fuck you? Or me fucking him?' Heat flooded me; the idea was filthy, drool-worthy. I nodded, whispering, 'Yes. Both.' Dad's shock melted into reluctant arousal, his cock twitching visibly.
That night sealed it. Mom still gone, we moved to the bedroom—Dad's and Mom's, the king bed a playground for our taboo threesome. Romeo took charge, stripping first: his muscular chest bare, abs rippling, then shoving down his shorts to reveal his thick dick, already half-hard, balls heavy and shaved smooth. 'On your knees, both of you,' he commanded, voice gravelly. Dad hesitated, but I dropped eagerly, pulling him down with me. We knelt side by side on the carpet, faces level with Romeo's crotch. He gripped his shaft, slapping it against my cheek—wet smacks, pre-cum smearing my skin—then Dad’s stubbled jaw. 'Suck it together, sluts.' I leaned in first, lips parting to take the head, tongue swirling the salty slit, drool bubbling as I bobbed. Dad watched, then joined, his thicker lips meeting mine around the girth. Our mouths slid wetly, tongues tangling over Romeo's cock, saliva dripping down the shaft in strings. Humid heat built; sweat beaded on Romeo's thighs from the room's stuffiness, mixing with our spit pooling on the floor.
Romeo groaned, hands in our hair—yanking Dad's head to lick his balls, the wrinkled sac drawing into Dad's mouth with wet sucks, while I deepthroated, gagging as the cock hit my throat. Drool poured from my lips, coating Dad's chin as he switched to the shaft, his tongue rougher, lapping veins. 'Good boys. Family bonding.' We traded, mouths sloppy, kissing around the tip—incestuous, my lips brushing Dad's in a drool-filled peck before sucking together again. Romeo pulled out, strings of saliva connecting us, and shoved Dad onto the bed. 'Your turn to eat ass, old man.' Dad spread Romeo's cheeks—firm, muscled globes—diving in tongue-first, rimming the puckered hole with wet laps, slurping sounds filling the air. I watched, jerking my own cock, then joined, licking Romeo's taint while Dad probed deeper, his beard matted with sweat and spit.
Humidity thickened; windows shut, our bodies generated steam—sweat trickling down Romeo's back, pooling in his crack for Dad to slurp up. I grabbed the lube and toys from my bag—a thick dildo, vibrating cock ring, anal beads. 'Use these,' I purred, handing the dildo to Romeo. He grinned, slicking it up, then pushed Dad face-down, ass up. 'Relax, Daddy. Time to stretch.' Dad grunted as Romeo worked the head in—8 inches of silicone, ridged for grip—twisting slowly, the wet schlick echoing. Dad’s hole clenched, then yielded, swallowing inch by inch until his cheeks pressed the base. Romeo fucked him with it, hand pumping steadily, while I straddled Dad’s back, feeding him my cock. Dad sucked hungrily, cheeks hollowing, drool leaking from the corners as he bobbed, his moans vibrating my shaft from the dildo thrusts.
Sweat poured; Dad’s hairy back slick under me, my balls slapping his chin wetly. Romeo leaned over, kissing me deeply—his tongue dominating, drool swapping flavors of cock and ass—while he rammed the toy harder, making Dad buck. 'Feel that, whore? Your son's boyfriend owning you.' We switched: I took the dildo, pounding Dad's ass while Romeo face-fucked him, cock pistoning Dad’s throat, gags and slurps humid and loud. Saliva bubbled from Dad's lips, dripping onto the sheets, mixing with pre-cum. I pulled out the toy, replacing it with my dick—sliding into Dad's loosened hole, the heat gripping me like a vice. 'Fuck, Daddy, so wet inside.' Thrusts built, my hips slapping his ass, sweat flying.
Romeo watched, stroking, then joined by shoving beads up my ass—string of 10, each thicker, popping in with wet pops, the pull tugging my walls. He yanked them out mid-thrust, making me yelp, then lubed the cock ring, sliding it onto his dick before entering me doggy-style beside Dad. Now side by side, Romeo fucked me raw—his girth splitting me, the ring buzzing low against my prostate—while I railed Dad. Our bodies synced, humid slaps overlapping, drool from Romeo's kisses trailing down my neck. He bit my shoulder, growling, 'Your dad's hole milking you? Bet it's tighter than mine.' Dad reached back, fingering himself around my cock, adding slickness.
We flipped positions endlessly, the air thick with musk and moisture. Dad on his back, legs wide; Romeo straddling his face, ass grinding down for a rimjob—Dad’s tongue delving deep, slurping sweat and lube—while I rode Dad's cock, ass bouncing, the veined length dragging my insides. Drool from Romeo's mouth hit my chest as he leaned to suck my nipples, teeth nipping hard. Then toys again: I strapped on a harness with a double-ended dildo—one end in me, the other in Dad—fucking him while filled myself, vibrations from the ring on Romeo's cock as he plowed my mouth. Humid chaos: sweat rivers down our torsos, saliva strings from blowjobs, cum pre-leaking everywhere.
Dad came first—roaring around Romeo's balls in his mouth, his cock erupting untouched, ropes splattering his hairy belly. The sight pushed me over; I clenched around the dildo, spurting onto Dad's chest, mixing our loads in a sticky puddle. Romeo pulled out, jerking furiously—'Open wide, sluts'—and unloaded, thick jets across our faces, drooling down chins as we licked it up, kissing to share the bitter cream. We ended with a hot three-way kiss full of tongues, spit and cum. When we separated from each other, our mouths were connected by long streams of saliva. Exhausted, we collapsed, bodies tangled, skin sticky and humid. Romeo wiped sweat from his brow, grinning at me. 'That was insane, Leo. But we can make it better. Turn your dad into our sex slave. Tie him up, use him whenever—money, bets, whatever. He craves it now.' Dad panted, eyes glazed, nodding weakly. 'Yeah... whatever you want.' I kissed Romeo, tasting cum, whispering, 'He's ours. Our family whore.' The night blurred into more—slow fucks with toys buzzing, drooling rimjobs, humid embraces sealing our perverse pact. Dad's addiction shifted; now hooked on us, he'd beg for sessions, wallet filling as we drained him in every way. Threesomes became ritual, toys escalating—plugs left in during the day, whips for light play—our bond incestuous and endlessly hot.
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