The basement gym lights were turned low, just the warm amber glow from the wall sconces catching the sheen of sweat already rolling down Dave’s carved torso. At forty-two, my dad was still a walking wet dream—6’3” of thick, sun-bronzed muscle, blond hair clipped short on the sides but longer on top, the same shade as mine. His pecs looked carved from oak, dusted with that perfect amount of golden hair that arrowed down over cobblestone abs and disappeared into the deep V framing his hips. Right now those powerful hips were naked, legs planted wide in a fighter’s stance, thick quads flexing as he fought to stay still.
His cock—Jesus, that cock—hung heavy and half-hard between his thighs, already pushing nine inches soft and thickening fast. Eleven when he was fully raging, veined like a roadmap, the fat head flushed dark pink even before I touched him. Dave’s wrists were crossed behind his back, just like we’d agreed. No hands. No thrusting. Only what I allowed.
I knelt on the rubber mat in front of him, still wearing my compression shorts from practice, the outline of my own boner obscene against the black fabric. My blond curls stuck to my forehead with sweat—mine and his. I looked up the length of his body, past the heaving chest, past the clenched jaw, straight into those stormy blue eyes that were already glassy with need.
“Ready to suffer for me, Dad?” My voice came out lower than I expected, rough with want.
Dave swallowed hard. The cords in his thick neck stood out. “Been ready since you turned eighteen, Kyle. Do your worst, boy.”
I wrapped my right hand around the base of him. My fingers didn’t meet—never did. The heat pouring off his shaft was insane, velvet steel pulsing against my palm. I gave one slow, deliberate upward stroke, letting my thumb drag along the thick underside vein. A fat bead of precum immediately welled at the slit and started the long slide down.
“Fuck…” Dave hissed through his teeth, hips jerking once before he locked them again. “That’s it. Slow like that. Make it hurt so good.”
I slicked my palm with the clear ribbon of precum he was already leaking, then added a generous squirt of lube from the bottle beside me. The wet glide was instant—obscene, slippery sounds echoing off the mirrored wall behind him. I worked just the bottom two-thirds at first, long luxurious pulls that made his heavy balls swing forward with each downstroke. They were drawn up tight already, skin shiny, full and promising.
“Look at these,” I murmured, cupping them gently with my free hand. The weight was ridiculous—hot, velvety, packed. “Bet they’re aching already, huh? All that cum you’ve been saving up since last week.”
Dave groaned, deep and guttural. “Been saving it for you, son. Every fucking load. Been edging myself in the shower thinking about your hands… your mouth…”
I rewarded him with a tighter grip and a quicker rhythm. His abs snapped into sharp relief, eight perfect bricks flexing and releasing. Sweat trickled from his sternum, ran through the treasure trail, dripped onto my wrist. The smell of him hit me harder—clean male sweat, that faint cedarwood body wash he always wore, and now the sharp, heady musk of aroused cock.
I sped up, both hands now, one stacked over the other, twisting in opposite directions like I was wringing him out. Dave’s thighs started to tremble. His breathing turned ragged.
“Kyle—fuck—right there—don’t stop—”
I stopped.
Completely.
My fingers clamped hard around the root, cutting off the building surge. His cock jerked violently in my grip, the head swelling darker, a fresh gush of precum spilling over my knuckles. Dave’s whole body shuddered, a low, broken whine escaping his throat—the sound of a grown man being denied.
“Not yet,” I whispered, leaning in so my breath ghosted over the slick, throbbing head. “You don’t get to bust until I say. Beg me properly, Dad.”
His chest heaved. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto my shoulder. “Please, Kyle… fuck, please… my dick’s throbbing so hard it hurts… need to cum… been edged for days… please stroke it again, son… I’ll do anything…”
I smiled against the velvet crown, gave it one teasing kitten lick—just enough to taste the salt and feel him jolt—then pulled back. “Anything?”
“Anything,” he panted.
I went back to work.
Long, torturously slow strokes that made every vein stand out. Then feather-light fingertips dancing around the corona until his hips bucked helplessly. Then fast, tight pumps that had him growling and swearing. Over and over. Each time he got close—when his balls pulled up, when his abs locked, when that deep voice cracked into desperate little whimpers—I stopped. Pinched. Squeezed. Let him hang on the razor’s edge while I watched his gorgeous, powerful body shake.
After the sixth edge his legs were visibly trembling. Sweat poured off him now, pooling on the mat. His cock looked obscene—angry red, veins like cables, head glossy and swollen, slit weeping steadily.
“Kyle…” His voice was wrecked. “I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna lose it—please—”
I stood up slowly, pressing my body against his. My hard-on slotted right against his dripping shaft, the thin fabric of my shorts the only barrier. I rocked once, grinding our lengths together, feeling the wet heat soak through.
“You want to cum, Dad?”
“Yes—God yes—”
“Then say it. Say who owns this load.”
His forehead dropped to mine. Voice barely a whisper. “You do, Kyle. This load belongs to you. Always has. Please… let your dad cum for you.”
I dropped back to my knees, wrapped both hands around him again, and finally gave him what he’d been begging for.
Fast. Hard. Relentless.
My fists flew, slick sounds filling the room, his balls slapping against my wrists. Dave roared—deep, primal—head thrown back, every muscle in his body popping as the first thick rope erupted. It hit my chest like a slap, hot and heavy. Then another, and another, painting my pecs, my throat, dripping down my abs. The smell of him—raw, salty, masculine—flooded my senses. His cock kept pulsing, jerking, unloading what felt like a week’s worth of pent-up cum while his whole frame convulsed.
When it finally slowed to weak dribbles, Dave sagged forward. I caught him, arms around his waist, his sweaty forehead pressed to my shoulder as we both panted.
I kissed the side of his neck, tasting salt. “Good boy, Dad.”
The basement still smelled like sex—sweat, cum, lube, and that thick, unmistakable scent of father and son pushed past every boundary. Dave hadn’t bothered to clean up yet. His broad chest was still flushed, golden hair matted to his pecs, cock hanging heavy and spent between his thighs, glistening with the remnants of his massive load. But his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—were already sharpening again, predatory now. Hungry.
I was still on my knees, chest and abs painted with his cum, the warm streaks cooling against my skin. My own dick throbbed painfully inside my compression shorts, seven thick inches straining so hard the waistband was soaked through with my precum. I’d been leaking the whole time I edged him, every whimper and plea from my dad making me leak more.
Dave reached down, fisted a handful of my blond curls, and yanked my head back so I had to look up at him.
“Your turn, baby boy,” he growled, voice still rough from all the begging he’d done. “You think you can torture your own father for an hour and walk away hard? Nah. Daddy’s gonna make you cry for it.”
He hauled me to my feet like I weighed nothing, spun me around, and shoved me face-first against the mirrored wall. My palms slapped flat against the cool glass. I could see us both reflected—his towering, sweat-slicked bulk looming behind me, my leaner jock frame trembling in front of him. My shorts were yanked down in one brutal tug, pooling at my ankles. My cock sprang free, seven inches of flushed, veiny meat slapping up against my abs, the head already shiny and angry-red.
“Fuck, look at this pretty dick,” Dave rumbled, pressing in close so his semi-hard monster nestled hot and heavy in the cleft of my ass. “Seven inches of prime teenage cock… all hard and dripping because you got off on making your dad beg. That’s so fucking wrong, Kyle. So goddamn filthy.”
His big hands roamed my body—callused palms dragging over my smooth chest, pinching my nipples until I hissed, then sliding down to grip my hips hard enough to bruise. One hand wrapped around my shaft, giving it a single slow, torturous stroke from root to tip. I bucked forward instinctively.
“Uh-uh.” He squeezed the base hard, cutting me off. “You don’t get to fuck my fist. Not yet. You’re gonna stand here and take what Daddy gives you.”
He kicked my feet wider apart. I felt the blunt heat of his thumb pressing against my hole—smooth, hairless, already twitching under the pressure. He circled it slowly, teasing the tight ring without pushing in.
“Goddamn, son… look at this little pussy,” he murmured, voice dropping into that dark, filthy register that always made my knees weak. “So pink and smooth. Never been fucked by anyone but me. Daddy’s tight little cunt, isn’t it? Bet it’s clenching right now, begging for fingers… or cock… or both.”
I whimpered, forehead pressed to the mirror. “Dad—please—”
“Please what?” He leaned in, lips brushing my ear, hot breath making me shiver. “Please finger your boy-pussy? Please edge this slutty little hole while I milk your cock dry without letting you cum? Say it. Tell Daddy how wrong it is that you want your own father’s fingers stretching your pussy open.”
“It’s… it’s so fucking wrong,” I gasped, hips rocking back despite myself. “You’re my dad… shouldn’t want this… shouldn’t need you to play with my hole like it’s yours—”
“But it is mine,” he snarled, and pushed one thick finger inside me in one smooth, relentless slide.
I cried out, back arching. He was huge—even one finger felt like too much, stretching me wide, the burn so good it made my toes curl. He curled it immediately, finding that spot that made stars explode behind my eyes.
“There it is,” he purred. “Daddy’s favorite button. Gonna rub it till you’re leaking like a faucet, baby. Gonna edge this pretty cock and this greedy little pussy at the same time. You’re gonna beg just like I did… gonna cry for your own father to let you shoot.”
He started a brutal rhythm—slow, deep pumps into my hole with one finger, then two, scissoring me open while his other hand worked my cock in maddeningly light strokes. Just enough pressure to keep me hard and dripping, nowhere near enough to get me off. Precum poured from my slit in steady strings, dripping onto the mat between my feet.
“Look at yourself,” he ordered, grabbing my chin and forcing me to meet my own eyes in the mirror. My face was wrecked—cheeks flushed, lips parted, blond curls plastered to my forehead. Behind me, Dave looked like a god—muscles flexed, jaw clenched, eyes burning. “Look at my boy getting finger-fucked by his dad. Look how your pussy sucks my fingers in. So hungry for it. So wrong.”
“Dad—fuck—please faster—”
“No.” He twisted his fingers, grinding against my prostate until my legs shook. My cock jerked hard in his loose grip, a fresh gush of precum spilling over his knuckles. “You don’t get fast. You get edged. You get denied. Just like you did to me.”
He pulled his fingers out suddenly. I whined at the emptiness—then moaned brokenly when he replaced them with the blunt head of his cock, not pushing in, just rubbing the fat crown against my slick, fluttering hole.
“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s Daddy’s big dick teasing your pussy. Could slide right in… fill you up… breed you like the little slut you are. But I’m not gonna. Not till you’re shaking and crying and promising you’ll never edge me again without paying for it.”
He stroked my cock faster now—tight, slick pulls that had me thrusting helplessly into his fist—while he kept nudging my hole with his tip, smearing precum and lube everywhere. Every time I got close—when my balls drew up, when my abs locked, when the pleasure coiled so tight I could barely breathe—he stopped everything. Hand off my dick. Cock pulled back. Nothing but cruel, teasing pressure against my rim.
After the fourth denial I was sobbing—quiet, desperate little sounds I couldn’t hold back. My thighs trembled. My hole clenched around nothing. My cock was so hard it hurt, dark red and throbbing, precum dripping in a steady stream.
“Please, Dad… please… I can’t—I need to cum—my pussy hurts—my dick’s gonna explode—”
“Say it,” he demanded, voice like gravel. “Say who this pussy belongs to. Say who decides when my boy cums.”
“You,” I choked out. “You, Dad—my pussy’s yours—my cock’s yours—please let me cum—please fuck your son’s hole and let me shoot—”
He slammed three fingers back inside me without warning, nailing my prostate on the first thrust. His other hand flew on my cock—fast, hard, merciless.
“Cum for Daddy,” he snarled against my ear. “Shoot all over the mirror, baby. Show me how wrong it feels to blow your load while your father’s three fingers deep in your pussy.”
I shattered.
My whole body locked up. A broken cry tore out of me as the first jet erupted, thick and white, splattering the glass in front of my face. Rope after rope—more than I thought I had in me—painting the mirror while Dave kept fucking me with his fingers, milking every last drop. My hole spasmed around him, clenching so hard he groaned like he could feel it on his own cock.
When it finally ended I sagged forward, forehead pressed to the cum-streaked mirror, legs shaking. Dave eased his fingers out slowly, then wrapped both massive arms around me from behind, holding me up.
“Good boy,” he murmured, kissing the sweaty curve of my neck. “Such a good little slut for Daddy.”
I laughed weakly, still panting. “You’re… you’re fucking evil.”
He chuckled, low and dark, his softening cock still nestled against my ass. “And you love it. Next time… maybe I won’t stop at fingers.”
My spent dick twitched at the thought.
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