The roar of the crowd was a drug, and I was fucking high on it. The final whistle blew, sealing our victory, and I ripped my helmet off, sweat plastering my dark hair to my forehead. The sea of screaming faces in the bleachers was a blur, except for one. Lena. My girl. She was on her feet, her cheerleading skirt bouncing, her smile so bright it could have powered the stadium lights. She blew me a kiss, and I caught it, pressing it to my chest right over the number on my jersey. Fuck, yeah. This was my life. Perfect.
The locker room was a haze of steam, cheap body spray, and loud, dumbass banter. Slaps on the back, chants of my name—"Diogo! Diogo!"—it all washed over me, a familiar and comfortable noise. I was the king of this concrete castle. I shrugged off my pads, the adrenaline still buzzing in my veins, a live wire looking for a place to ground itself.
My phone buzzed on the bench. A text from Mom. So proud of you, my champion! I watched the stream! Love you! A warmth spread through my chest, something genuine amidst all the performative bullshit. I was a mama’s boy, as they say, boys are always more attached to their mothers. They are their little princes.
Then another buzz. Not a text. A call. The screen flashed DAD.
The buzz in my veins turned into a different kind of current. A dark, angry one. The noise of the locker room faded into a dull hum. I just stared at the screen until it went to voiceless. He could wait. He could fucking wait forever for all I cared.
The image flashed in my mind, unwanted and sharp. Yesterday. The raised voice behind their bedroom door. The sound of something shattering. Me, throwing the door open to see my mom pressed against the wall, my dad’s finger an inch from her face, his expression twisted into something I didn’t recognize. Too aggressive, she’d said later, her voice trembling as she packed her suitcase and went to her sister. That was a polite word for it. The pure, undiluted hate I felt for him in that moment was a new thing, a beast born full-grown and ravenous.
“Yo, Diogo! Hell of a game!” Mikey, our linebacker, grinned, snapping me back to the present. “Party at Justin’s later. You in?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, my voice tighter than I meant it to be. I forced a grin. “Gotta go see Lena first.”
He gave me a knowing, lewd smirk. “Yeah, I bet you do. Don’t wear her out before the party, man."
I shoved my street clothes into my bag, my movements suddenly jerky. The high from the game was gone, completely evaporated, replaced by the thick, heavy sludge of my home life. I needed an outlet. I needed to hit something. Or someone.
I found Lena waiting for me by my car, leaning against the passenger door. The setting sun turned her blonde hair into a golden halo. She was fucking perfection, from her long legs to the swell of her tits under her tight top. She was my prize, the proof that my life was still on top.
“Hey, superstar,” she purred as I walked up.
I didn’t say a word. I just dropped my bag, wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, and kissed her. Hard. It wasn’t a sweet kiss. It was possessive. Needy. A claiming. I poured all my frustration, my anger, my fucking confusion into it. She melted against me for a second, a little gasp escaping her lips before she kissed me back just as fiercely.
When I finally pulled away, we were both breathing heavily. Her lipstick was smudged, her eyes wide and a little dazed.
“Whoa,” she breathed, a playful smile touching her lips. “What was that for?”
“Just missed you,” I muttered, resting my forehead against hers, my eyes closed. I could still smell the grass of the field on me, mingling with her sweet perfume.
She ran her hands up my chest, her fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle. “Well, I missed you too. Your dad here?” she asked casually, trying to peer around me toward the parking lot.
The question was like a bucket of ice water. I stiffened, pulling back. “No.”
“Oh. I just thought since your mom’s…”
“He’s not here,” I snapped, the words coming out harsher than I intended. I saw her flinch, just a little, and instantly felt like an asshole. Fuck. I dragged a hand through my hair. “Sorry. Yes he is here… I just… I don’t want to talk about him.”
She studied my face, her head tilted. She knew things were bad, but she didn’t know the details. Nobody did. That was family shit. Private shit. Humiliating shit.
“Okay,” she said softly, her voice dripping with fake sympathy that made my skin crawl. She pressed her body against mine, a deliberate, calculated move. I could feel every curve through our clothes. “We don’t have to talk at all.”
She slid her hand down my stomach, her fingers brushing against the top of my jeans, right where the tension was coiling tightest. Teasing. My breath hitched. My cock stirred, responding to her touch despite the storm in my head. This was what I needed. To forget. To lose myself in her. To fuck everything else away.
But the image of my mom’s terrified face flickered behind my eyes again. The sound of my dad’s shouting echoed in my ears. The two feelings—raging anger and raw want—crashed together inside me, a confusing, turbulent mess.
I grabbed her wrist, stopping her hand from going any further. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Not here,” I said, my voice a low, rough grumble.
The air in my truck was thick with the smell of her perfume and my own furious confusion. Lena’s hand was on my thigh, her nails pressing just hard enough to leave little half-moon marks, but my mind was a million miles away, back in that kitchen listening to my mother’s muffled sobs.
“I can’t, Lena. Not tonight,” I said, my voice tight. I stared straight ahead at the road, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Her hand instantly retreated, folding into a tight, angry little ball in her lap. “What do you mean you can’t? You’re always up for it. We just won. I was going to give you the real victory celebration baby.”
“It’s not about that.” I couldn’t even look at her. The image of my dad’s smug face, the sound of his voice on the phone—it was all crowding out any other thought. The anger was a live wire, sparking under my skin.
“Then what is it about, babe? You’ve been off all night. Is it your dad again?” she asked, her tone shifting from petulant to probing. She loved drama, but only when it was about other people.
“I have to go see him.”
She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “See him? Are you insane? You told me what he did to your mom. You told me you never wanted to speak to him again.”
“I have to,” I repeated, the words grinding out of me. “I have to look him in the eye. I have to make him understand what he’s done.”
“Understand? Men like him don’t understand, Diogo. They just take.” She crossed her arms, turning to stare out her window, the streetlights flashing across her pouting profile. “This is stupid. And you’re ruining our night.”
I didn’t answer. I just made the turn onto my street, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. The house was dark except for the flickering blue glow of the living room TV. He was home.
I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The silence was heavier than the engine noise had been.
“So that’s it?” Lena whispered, her voice small now. “You’re just going to go in there and… what? Get in a fight?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, my hand already on the door handle.
“Don’t go.” Her voice cracked just a little, and for a second, I saw the vulnerable girl beneath the popular cheerleader persona. She reached for me, her fingers brushing my jaw, trying to turn my face to hers. “Stay with me. Let me make you forget about him. Please, babe.”
Her lips found mine, soft and insistent. She tasted like cherry gloss and desperation. She kissed me like she was trying to win a war, her tongue sliding against mine, one hand tangling in my hair, the other roaming down my chest, over the hard planes of my abs, heading lower—
I tore my mouth away, gasping. “I can’t.”
The rejection flashed in her eyes, hardening them into blue ice. “Fine. Go get your ass kicked, then.”
I didn’t watch her leave. I just got out and slammed the truck door, the sound echoing in the quiet suburban night. I walked into the house without knocking.
He was slumped in his recliner, a beer in his hand, watching some old game. He didn’t even look at me. “You’re home late.”
The casualness of it, the utter lack of remorse, was the final spark. “We need to talk.”
“About what? Your game? Saw the score. You overthrew Johnson twice in the third quarter. Sloppy.”
My hands clenched into fists at my sides. “We’re not talking about the game. We’re talking about Mom. We’re talking about you putting your hands on her.”
Finally, he turned. His eyes, the same dark, intense ones I saw in the mirror every morning, were cold and dismissive. “That’s between me and your mother. It’s none of your business.”
“You made it my business when you made her cry! When you made her leave!” My voice was rising, filling the stagnant room.
He set his beer down with a deliberate thud and stood up. He was still a big man, solid, though the muscle was softening into fat. “You watch your tone with me, boy. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you’re a bastard. I know you hurt her.”
He took a step forward, entering my space. The air crackled with a violence I knew all too well. “You think you’re a big man now? A football star? You’re still a little mama’s boy, crying because his parents are fighting.”
The words were a physical blow. I shoved him. Hard. “Don’t you fucking call me that!”
He stumbled back into his recliner, shock then pure rage contorting his features. He was on me in a second, his hands grabbing the collar of my letterman jacket. “You want to fight me, you little shit? You wanna be a man?”
We crashed into the coffee table, sending beer bottles and remote controls scattering. It was a ugly, clumsy brawl of slapping palms and grunted curses, more wrestling than boxing. We were a tangle of hatred and shared DNA, rolling on the floor.
“You selfish son of a bitch!” I growled, trying to pin his arms.
“You think you’re better than me?” he spat back, his breath hot and beery in my face. “You’re just like me! All that anger… you got it from me!”
He was stronger than I remembered. He got an arm free and his hand shot up, not to hit me, but to grab a handful of my shirt and pec muscle through it, his fingers digging in painfully. I cried out, and in that split second of shock, he dipped his head.
His teeth sank into the hard muscle of my pectoral, right through the fabric.
I yelled, a strangled sound of pain and utter disbelief. He didn’t let go, his bite a sharp, shocking pressure that was more intimate than any punch. I could feel the heat of his mouth, the hard clench of his jaw. He ground his teeth against me, and a bolt of white-hot, confusing sensation—pain, it’s just pain—shot straight down to my groin.
We scrambled apart, both breathing ragged, both staring at each other like wounded animals. I clutched my chest where a dull ache was already spreading. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm.
And then I felt it.
A thick, traitorous heat was pooling in my stomach. A familiar tightening in my jeans. A hard, insistent throbbing that had no business being there. Not now. Not with him.
My eyes snapped to his. The anger was still there, a fire in his gaze, but beneath it… something else flickered. A recognition. A dark, knowing look that made my skin crawl and my blood burn.
No.
No, it’s not possible.
First, I hate him.
And second…
I am not a fag !!
The thought wouldn’t leave me. It festered, a hot coal in the pit of my stomach, burning through every time having sex with Lena, every play on the field. I am not a fag. I am not a fag. The mantra was useless. All I could see was the raw, savage look in my father’s eyes when he’d bitten me, the shocking, white-hot pain that had twisted into something else entirely in the secret, fucked-up parts of my brain.
I was the typical homophobic quarterback who had all the girls running after him but I can't deny that the fight I had with my dad was very hot and sexy. Oh my god I began to express desire for my own dad.
Unable to resist it anymore, I decided to realize this depraved fantasy by provoking him.
I found him in the living room, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, the TV blaring some shitty game show. The air was thick with his presence, a mixture of cheap cologne and aggression.
“You’re a fucking coward,” I spat, my voice low and tight.
He didn’t even look at me. “Go to your room, Diogo !”
“What, you gonna make me? Like you made Mom leave?” I stepped closer, my fists clenched. “You’re nothing. You’re a weak, pathetic piece of shit who can only hit women.”
That got him. He stood up, his frame towering, mirroring my own. “You watch your fucking mouth, boy.”
“Or what?” I shoved his chest. “You’ll bite me again?”
His eyes darkened, and a slow, terrifying grin spread across his face. He knew. Fuck, he knew exactly what he’d done to me. “You liked that, didn’t you? My little mama’s boy liked getting a taste of real pain.”
“Fuck you,” I growled, but it was weak, and my body was already thrumming with a sick anticipation.
He moved fast, grabbing the collar of my shirt and slamming me against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but the pressure of his body against mine sent a jolt straight to my fucking cock.
“You came down here for a reason,” he grunted, his whiskey-laced breath hot on my face. “You want another lesson?”
I struggled, a pathetic show of resistance, grinding my hips against his thigh. His free hand came up and roughly squeezed my pec through my shirt, his thumb finding my nipple and pinching hard. A gasp tore from my throat, part pain, part pure, unadulterated lust.
“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice a rough command. “That’s it.”
Our fight became a desperate, clumsy dance. We tore at each other’s clothes, buttons flying, fabric ripping. His hands were everywhere, groping my muscles, slapping my ass, claiming my body.
"Yeahhh ! What a sexy ass you have my baby boy" he growled.
"Owww yesss daddy slap my ass harder please" I yelled unable to control myself
I did the same, my own hands roving over the coarse hair on his chest, the solid strength of his shoulders. He sank his teeth into the fleshy part of my pectoral, right over the nipple, and I cried out, my head falling back as a wave of blinding pleasure-pain seized me. I reciprocated, biting down on his own thick tit, tasting salt and sweat and man, and he moaned, a deep, ragged sound that vibrated through my entire fucking soul.
"Ooooo son come on mhhhh lick daddy’s tits . Yeahhh like that mohhh" he moaned.
"Mhhh daddy your tits are so huge mmpfff" he didn't let me continue what I was saying as he was forcing my head on his chest.
We were naked on the floor, a tangle of limbs and heaving chests. His cock, thick and heavy, rubbing against mine. I've never been so turned on in my life. Not even with my girlfriend. He grabbed my face, his grip brutal, and crushed his mouth to mine
It wasn’t like kissing Lena. This was all teeth and tongue and possession. It was sloppy, wet, and so fucking intimate it felt like my brain was short-circuiting. I am kissing my own father. I am kissing my own dad. The thought should have revolted me. Instead, my cock leaked pre-cum onto my stomach. I kissed him back with a fury, sucking on his tongue, letting him dominate my mouth completely.
“On your back,” he ordered, breaking the kiss, a string of saliva connecting our lips.
I obeyed without thought. He positioned himself above me, his cock hovering over my face, and I understood. I opened my mouth, and he fed his dick into it, not slowly, but in one brutal, claiming thrust that made me gag instantly. Tears sprung to my eyes as he fucked my throat, his hips pistoning, his hands holding my head in place.
“That’s it, you fucking cocksucker,” he grunted, his voice thick with lust. “Choke on your old man’s dick. Gag on it.”
I could barely breathe, each thrust hitting the back of my throat, triggering a deep, suffocating reflex. The humiliation was a fire in my veins. I was his. His slave. His toy. I looked up at him, his face a mask of primal dominance, and the submission felt better than any victory on the football field ever had.
He pulled out, gasping, and moved down my body. “My turn.”
He took my aching cock into his mouth, and the heat was unimaginable. His technique was rough, all suction and no finesse, and it was the greatest fucking thing I’d ever felt. He deep-throated me with an ease that shocked me, his nose buried in my pubes, and I bucked my hips, fucking his face just as roughly as he’d fucked mine.
"Mmmmm daaaaad yeahhh mmmm you suck better than Lena ! Oh my god YEAH" I shouted as loud as I could so that all the neighbors could hear about our sexy incestuous moment between father and son.
We shifted into a feverish 69, our bodies scissored together. The scent of our sweat and musk was overwhelming. I worshiped his cock with my mouth as he devoured mine, the room filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of our mutual sucking and moanings. I was lost in a world of sensation, of taste and smell and the incredible feeling of his thick dick sliding over my tongue.
I don't know what happened to me. I moved again, sliding down further. I grabbed his foot, my callused fingers digging into his arch, and brought his big toe to my mouth. I sucked it in, my tongue swirling around the tip, licking between each toe with a filthy, dedicated reverence. A broken moan escaped us. It was the most depraved, most erotic thing I had ever experienced. I was worshipping his feet while he lay there, our cocks dripping, completely under our control.
“Hummm what a naughty son that I have. Having an incestuous foot fetish for his own dad mhhhhh,” he murmured sensually bitting his lips while I was literally eating his foot. before moving back up my body. He’d been edging me the entire time, and I was a trembling mess, desperate to come.
He positioned himself over me again, his cock leaking precum . “Turn around.”
I did. He started to fuck me roughly, his strokes fast and urgent. “You’re gonna take my load, Mhhh let’s make a baby together son . You’re gonna hold it in your ass and then I’m gonna lick your asshole and you’re gonna kiss it back to me. You understand? You’re gonna share your father’s cum. The one I ejaculated in your mother’s pussy 20 years ago to bring you into the world"
"OHHHH PLEASE DADDY FUCK ME HARDER. I WILL BE YOUR DADDY’S BOY" I screamed.
"Mhhhhmmm you want your daddy to fuck you hun, What would think your buddies of the football team if they learned that the straight captain womanizer was getting fucked by his own father ?" He said teasing me
After an hour of intense fucking. We both cum screaming like animals. "YEAAAAHHH MY BABY BOY DADDY’S GONNA CUM ! HE’S GONNA GET YOU PREGNANT" "OHHH DAAAAADDD OH MY GOOOD I’VE NEVER FELT SO GOOOD OH DAAAAAD".
I was trying to come to my senses because of this orgasm when I suddenly felt something wet in my ass. It was my dad tongue- fucking and licking my asshole to collect all of his cum.
"Owwww daddyyy yesss lick my asshole mhhhhh" i was passing out.
“Now,” he panted, his eyes burning into mine. “Come here and kiss me.”
I surged up, capturing his mouth with mine, and pushed my tongue past his lips, sharing his own cum with him in a deep, filthy, cum-sharing kiss. It was the most taboo, most connected I had ever felt to another human being. As our tongues tangled in the warm, shared slickness of his spend, a second orgasm ripped through me, splashing against both of our stomachs in helpless, pulsing spurts.
My phone rang. It was mom. I didn’t answer. I was in heaven my dad now.
I collapsed against him, spent, broken, and utterly, completely his. He held my face, his thumb stroking my cheek.
“Good boy,” he whispered. “Daddy’s boy."
