The basement gym smelled like last night—dried cum, lingering sweat, cedar body wash, and the sharp bite of fresh lube I’d already warmed in my palm. I’d dragged the heavy oak captain’s chair out again, same one with the thick arms and iron-reinforced legs that could take 250 pounds of thrashing muscle without complaint. The overhead lights were dimmed even lower tonight, just a single warm spotlight angled down from the ceiling, turning Dave’s naked body into something carved from gold and shadow.
He stood in the center of the rubber mats, legs spread, hands already clasped behind his back like he knew the drill. At forty-two he was still obscene—6’3” of thick blond fur and carved muscle, shoulders wide enough to block doorways, chest rising and falling with shallow, anticipatory breaths. That monster cock—eleven thick, veiny inches—hung heavy between his quads, already thickening, the fat head flushed dark and glossy under the light. A single clear thread of precum stretched from the slit to the floor like a spider’s line.
I circled him slowly, barefoot, wearing nothing but black boxer-briefs that did nothing to hide how hard I already was. Seven inches straining the cotton, a wet spot blooming at the tip.
“Hands stay back, Dad,” I said, voice low. “You remember the rules.”
Dave’s throat worked. “Yeah, Kyle. I remember.” His voice was rougher tonight, edged with something darker—need mixed with the faint tremor of knowing how far we were about to go.
I picked up the wide leather cuffs I’d bought online last week—soft-lined, heavy-duty D-rings—and buckled them around his thick wrists. Then I threaded a short length of black rope through the rings and cinched it tight to the chair’s rear crossbar, forcing his arms back and his massive chest out. His pecs flexed involuntarily, nipples tightening into hard points in the cool air. I added ankle cuffs next, spreading his legs wide and securing them to the chair legs so he couldn’t close them, couldn’t thrust up, couldn’t do anything but sit there and take it.
The chair creaked ominously as I pushed him down into it. Two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of prime stud muscle settled hard, wood groaning. His cock slapped up against his abs with a wet smack, already leaking steadily now, a shiny trail running through the deep grooves of his eight-pack.
I stepped between his spread thighs, letting my bulge brush the underside of his shaft. He hissed.
“Gonna edge you longer tonight, Dad,” I murmured, leaning in so my lips grazed his ear. “Gonna ride that big cock until you’re crying. Gonna make you beg your own son to let you breed his hole. And you’re gonna stay hard the whole time—every throbbing inch locked inside me—while I decide how much you get to feel.”
“Fuck, Kyle…” His voice cracked. “This is—shit, this is so wrong. Tying your dad up… using him like this…”
I smiled against his neck, tasting salt. “Yeah. It is. And you’re already dripping like a faucet because of it.”
I dropped to my knees first, just to tease. Wrapped both hands around his base—fingers still not meeting—and gave one long, slow upward stroke, milking a thick rope of precum that spilled over my knuckles. I smeared it across his shaft, then leaned in and dragged my tongue along the underside from balls to tip, slow and deliberate. Dave’s whole body jerked against the ropes, chair scraping an inch across the mat.
“Goddamn—Kyle—fuck—your mouth…”
“Not tonight,” I said, pulling back. “Tonight this cock is only going one place.”
I stood, shucked my briefs, and straddled him. My smooth, rounded ass hovered just above his groin. I reached back, spread my cheeks with both hands—already slick from the lube I’d worked in earlier—and lined his dripping head up with my hole. I’d prepped for hours—three fingers, then four, then the thick plug I kept hidden in my gym bag. I was open, hungry, aching.
I sank down in one ruthless, continuous slide.
The stretch was brutal—burning, perfect, overwhelming. Inch after thick inch split me open until my ass met his groin with a wet slap and his heavy balls pressed tight against my taint. I bottomed out with a broken moan, feeling every pulsing vein, every ridge, the fat corona lodged deep against that spot that made my vision white out.
Dave’s head slammed back against the chair. A guttural, animal sound ripped from his throat. “Kyle—fuck—no—Jesus Christ—you’re so fucking tight—my boy—my son’s pussy—oh God, I’m inside you—balls-deep in my own kid—”
I clenched hard around him, feeling his cock jump and swell even thicker inside me. “Feel that, Dad? That’s your son’s hole owning your cock. Squeezing you. Milking you. Been dreaming about riding you like this since I first saw you shirtless in the garage.”
I started slow—agonizingly slow. Rising until just the head stretched my rim wide, then dropping back down hard, taking every inch in one punishing stroke. The wet, filthy sound of my ass slapping his thighs echoed off the mirrors. His precum and my lube made everything glide obscene and slippery.
Dave was already shaking. Sweat poured down his temples, matting his blond hair. His abs locked into sharp ridges, thighs straining uselessly against the cuffs. “Kyle—fuck—slow down—we can’t—this is so fucking wrong—shouldn’t be buried in my boy’s tight little pussy—shouldn’t be throbbing like this—oh shit, you’re gripping me so hard—”
“Say it louder,” I growled, picking up speed. I bounced now—hard, deliberate drops that made his balls slap up against me with every thrust. My own cock bounced between us, seven inches leaking steadily onto his abs, smearing precum through his treasure trail. “Tell me how sick it is while your son rides you. Tell me how wrong it feels to be tied up and used by your eighteen-year-old boy.”
“So wrong,” he choked out, voice cracking. “So fucking wrong—shouldn’t be balls-deep in my son—shouldn’t love how hot and wet your pussy feels wrapped around my cock—shouldn’t be leaking like a teenager—fuck, Kyle, you’re gonna make me cum—please—ride me harder—use Daddy’s dick—”
I slammed down and ground in filthy circles, feeling his cockhead batter my prostate over and over. My own dick throbbed untouched, dripping a steady stream onto his stomach. I leaned forward, lips brushing his, tasting the desperation on his breath.
“Not yet,” I whispered. “You don’t cum until I’ve edged you at least ten times. Until you’re sobbing. Until you’re promising me anything.”
I rode him mercilessly.
Fast bounces that made the chair rock dangerously. Slow, torturous grinds where I clenched on every upstroke and relaxed on the down, keeping him right on the brink. Feather-light rises where I hovered with just the head inside, letting my rim flutter around the corona until he whimpered. Then brutal drops that buried him to the hilt and made him roar.
Each time he got close—when his balls drew up tight, when his abs locked like steel, when that deep voice turned high and broken—I stopped. Lifted off completely. Let his cock slap wetly against his abs, angry-red and throbbing, veins like cables, slit weeping helplessly.
The first five edges had him cursing. The next three had him begging. By the tenth he was wrecked—sweat-soaked, shaking, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, voice a raw, pleading rasp.
“Kyle—please—fuck—I can’t—I’m dying—my balls hurt—my cock’s gonna burst—please let me cum in you—please breed your dad’s load into your tight little pussy—please, son—I’ll do anything—anything you want—just let me fill you—”
I leaned in, forehead pressed to his, our breaths mingling. “You want to cum inside your boy, Dad?”
“Yes—fuck yes—please—”
“Then say it one more time. Say who owns this cock. Say who decides when Daddy breeds his son.”
“You do,” he sobbed. “You own it, Kyle. You own Daddy’s cock. You own this load. Please—let your dad cum inside his boy’s pussy—please—”
I slammed down one last time—hard—and started riding him like I meant to break him.
Fast. Deep. Relentless.
My ass slapped his thighs in a brutal rhythm. His cock pistoned in and out, dragging my walls, hitting that spot on every stroke. My own dick bounced untouched, leaking everywhere. The chair scraped across the mat with every thrust.
Dave roared—deep, primal—whole body locking up against the ropes. The first jet erupted inside me, hot and thick, flooding deep. Rope after rope—more than last night—painting my insides while he convulsed, wrists straining, thighs quaking, voice breaking on my name over and over.
I kept riding through it, milking every last pulse, clenching until he was whimpering from overstimulation.
When he finally sagged—spent, shaking, tears streaking his cheeks—I slowed, then stopped, still seated deep, feeling the last weak twitches inside me.
I cupped his face, thumbs brushing away the tears. Kissed him slow—soft—tasting salt and surrender.
“Good boy, Dad,” I whispered against his lips. “Such a good fucking boy for your son.”
He laughed weakly, hoarse. “You’re gonna kill me one of these nights, Kyle.”
I clenched around him one last time, making him hiss. “Maybe. But not tonight.”
I stayed seated on him a long minute longer, both of us panting, his cum slowly leaking out around his softening cock, dripping down his balls.
Then I leaned back, smirking. “Round two starts in ten. You’re not going anywhere.”
His eyes widened. Then darkened with fresh hunger.
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