Hi everyone this is prince with another sexual experience i hope you enjoy it . Please comment me to give motivation to write more...
Disclaimer : story contains taboo, straight seduction,forced sex so soft hearted person stay away...
In the bustling heart of Mumbai, in a quaint yet lively neighborhood, lived a man named Raj Patel. Raj was a sturdy, middle-aged man with a heart as vast as the Arabian Sea. His eyes, crinkling at the edges, were a map of his life's journey—full of joy,, and the quiet resilience that came with raising a family in the throbbing metropolis. He was a simple man with simple dreams—a good life for his wife and his only son, Rohan.
Raj, with a robust physique that weighed in at 85 kg, was a picture of raw masculinity. His desi uncle-like features were accentuated by a thick moustache that curled upwards, framing a set of full, inviting lips that often broke into a warm smile. His body, a testament to his years of manual labor, was adorned with a soft, yet noticeable layer of hair that traced the contours of his muscular chest and arms, tapering into a happy trail that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. His big, dark eyes held a gentle warmth that could melt the stoniest of hearts. His chest, a canvas of furry hair, was home to two prominent, puckered nipples that stood proudly amidst the thicket, hinting at the strength and virility that lay beneath. His deep belly button, a silent witness to the countless meals he had enjoyed with his loved ones, was like a gateway to his soul—a soul filled with love and the occasional pint of beer.
In stark contrast to his burly father, Rohan Patel was a slim young man, standing at a modest 5'10" with a body that was as soft and delicate as a freshly picked lotus flower. He had inherited his mother's fair skin and fine features, which only served to make his emerald green eyes stand out even more. His cheekbones, high and sharp, lent an ethereal quality to his face, and his full, pink lips looked perpetually kissable. Rohan's physique was the antithesis of his father's; he was as lithe as a dancer, with a lean torso and long, slender limbs that seemed to defy the very essence of gravity. His smooth chest was a landscape of gentle curves and shallow valleys, untouched by the coarse embrace of body hair, and his nipples, small and sensitive, were like two shy blossoms waiting to be discovered. His stomach was flat and taut, a canvas yearning for the tender caress of a lover's touch.
One particularly warm afternoon, Rohan found himself drawn to the sight of his coach, Mr. Sharma, who had removed his shirt after a long day of training. The coach's body was a sculpture of sweat and toil, each muscle defined as if chiseled by the hands of a master artist. The sun kissed his bare chest, casting a golden glow over his dark skin. Rohan couldn't help but stare, his eyes tracing the path of the coach's chest hair as it narrowed down to a tantalizing "V" that pointed towards his waist. He felt a strange stirring in his loins, a sensation that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
On his way home from school, Rohan's gaze often lingered on his neighbor, Uncle Ramesh, who was known for his penchant for gardening shirtless. The man's torso was a tapestry of tanned flesh, each bulging muscle telling a story of his dedication to his plants and the sun. The way Uncle Ramesh's chest hair glistened with beads of sweat made Rohan's heart race, and he found himself imagining what it would be like to run his fingers through the thick, coarse mane. It was an odd fascination, one that he kept hidden behind the veil of innocence that still clung to him.
As the days passed, Rohan discovered that his attraction wasn't limited to Mr. Sharma or Uncle Ramesh. He found himself staring at the shirtless priest at the local temple, whose body was a testament to a life of discipline and devotion. The priest's chest, a landscape of scars and tattoos, was a canvas of spiritual fortitude that spoke to the burgeoning desires within Rohan's own soul. The way the priest's malas danced against his bare chest as he performed the aarti was mesmerizing, and Rohan felt a strange kinship with the man whose eyes seemed to hold the secrets of the universe.
In the quiet solitude of his room, Rohan would often find his gaze drifting to his uncle's Instagram handle, where the man posted pictures of his sculpted physique with hashtags that spoke of strength and vitality. His uncle, a successful fitness model, was the epitome of what society deemed "manly," yet Rohan couldn't shake the feelings that arose when he saw those pictures. The way his uncle's biceps flexed as he held a weight, the sweat glistening on his chiseled abs, and the proud jut of his pelvis—these were images that stirred something within him, something that made him feel alive and yet, utterly alone.
One fateful evening, after a particularly confusing day of grappling with his emotions, Rohan stumbled upon a magazine hidden beneath his father's bed. The glossy pages contained images of men entwined in passionate embraces, their bodies as beautiful and varied as the flowers in Uncle Ramesh's garden. With trembling hands, he leafed through the magazine, each page revealing a new aspect of his burgeoning sexuality. And there, in the centerfold, was a man with an erection so thick and so long that it made Rohan's heart skip a beat. The man's cock was 8 inches thick—just like Rohan had discovered his own was when he measured it in the privacy of his bathroom.
The revelation hit Rohan like a bolt of lightning—he was gay, and his attraction to men was as natural and unavoidable as the monsoon rains that drenched Mumbai every year. His body was telling him something that his mind had been too afraid to acknowledge—his heart yearned for the touch of another man, for the warmth of a male embrace that would make him feel whole.
One sweltering summer afternoon, as the sun blazed down on their little patch of paradise, Raj decided to cut the grass in the garden. Sweat glistened on his broad back as he worked tirelessly, pushing the mower back and forth with the rhythmic grace of a seasoned farmer. Rohan, who was studying under the shade of their mighty mango tree, couldn't help but be distracted by the sight of his father's muscles flexing with every movement. He watched as beads of sweat rolled down his dad's spine, tracing the path of his hairy back, and his heart skipped a beat. Without realizing it, Rohan's eyes had drifted down to the waistband of his father's shorts, where the fabric was stretched tight against the curve of his firm ass.
Feeling the oppressive heat of the day, Raj finally decided to shed his shirt, revealing his hairy, sweaty torso to the world. His chest, a landscape of furry masculinity, heaved with every breath he took, and the sweat made his body glisten like a Greek god. Rohan's eyes were drawn to the sight like a moth to a flame, his own body responding in ways that made him feel both excited and confused. His gaze lingered on the thick, dark hair that covered his father's chest, tapering down to a trail that led into the shadow of his waistband. He felt something stir in his loins, a feeling that was both thrilling and terrifying.
Rohan's mind raced with thoughts as he stared at his father's body. He had never seen Raj in such a state of undress before, and the sight of his muscles, slick with sweat, was doing strange things to his own body. He tried to focus on his studies, but his eyes kept darting back to the man who had unknowingly become the object of his desire. The way the sweat beads clung to the hair on his chest, the way his abs rippled as he moved—it was all too much for Rohan to ignore. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt his dick begin to harden in his pants.
The confusion washed over Rohan like the waves of the Mumbai shoreline during high tide. He had never felt this way about his dad before, but there was no denying the attraction that was bubbling to the surface. He bit his lip, trying to understand what was happening to him. Was it just the heat playing tricks on him? Or was there something more to his sudden fascination with the male form? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it wasn't just his father's body that was causing his arousal—it was the very essence of masculinity that Raj embodied.
As the minutes ticked by, the heat grew unbearable, and the whir of the lawnmower grew distant. Rohan's gaze remained glued to his father's body, and he noticed the way the fabric of his shorts clung to his firm, round buttocks. His mind was racing, conjuring images that he had never allowed himself to think of before. He watched, almost in a trance, as Raj bent down to inspect the lawnmower, his shorts riding up and exposing his hairy ass crack. The sight of his dad's tight, black asshole was like a trigger, and suddenly, all the pent-up emotions and desires that Rohan had been struggling to suppress came flooding out.
The world around Rohan grew hazy as he stared, entranced, at the exposed skin and the tantalizing crevice between his father's cheeks. His breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving with every breath he took. He couldn't believe what was happening to him—his own father had become an object of his sexual fantasies. But there was no denying the fire that was burning in his loins, a fire that grew hotter with every second that he stared. He felt his dick strain against the fabric of his trousers, begging for release.
Now unaware of his son's gaze Raj bent down even lower to tinker with the lawnmower. The fabric of his shorts stretched taut, exposing even more of his plump, hairy ass. Rohan's eyes were glued to the sight, his mind racing with thoughts that he had never dared to entertain. His hand, acting of its own accord, snaked into his pants and began to stroke the length of his hardening cock. The feeling was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body with every touch. He watched as a bead of sweat trickled down his father's spine, following the curve of his ass and disappearing into the dark jungle of his crack.
The sound of the lawnmower stuttering to a halt jolted Rohan out of his daze. His hand was moving faster now, his strokes growing more erratic as his father's exposed asshole filled his vision. He couldn't believe it—he was jerking off while his dad was just a few meters away, oblivious to his son's desperate need for release. The guilt and excitement mingled in a heady cocktail that only served to intensify the sensations. He could feel his orgasm building, the pressure in his balls growing unbearable.
Raj grunted as he bent down even further, his ass crack parting slightly to reveal the puckered star of his anus. It was a sight that sent Rohan spiraling over the edge. With a final, high-pitched moan that seemed to echo through the stillness of the afternoon, Rohan climaxed. His warm cum spurted into the fabric of his underwear, leaving a sticky stain that was a testament to his unbridled passion. His eyes never left his father's exposed flesh, his mind reeling with the realization that he had just come while watching his dad.
Feeling the need to clean up and compose himself, Rohan slipped away from the tree, his legs wobbly with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He tiptoed into the house, hoping to avoid any awkward encounters, and made his way to the bathroom. The cool tiles of the floor felt heavenly against his fevered skin, and he took a deep breath before stepping into the shower. The water washed over him like a cleansing rain, washing away the sweat and guilt that clung to him like the Mumbai smog. He let the water cascade down his body, his eyes closing as he took in the sensation of the droplets caressing his skin.
Under the stream, his hands moved almost of their own accord, tracing the path that his eyes had taken only moments ago. He cupped his own ass cheeks, feeling the softness of his skin, the stark contrast to the roughness he had just been fantasizing about. His fingers found their way to his still-hard cock, and he began to stroke himself gently, the water acting as a lubricant. The memory of his father's body washed over him, and he couldn't help but let out a soft whimper. And get out of the shower after cleaning up.
Days turned into weeks, and Rohan's lust for his father grew stronger with every passing moment. He found himself sneaking glances at Raj whenever he could, his eyes lingering on the man's broad shoulders and thick arms. Every time his dad would pass by him in the hallway, Rohan would inhale deeply, trying to catch a whiff of his musky scent. He found himself drawn to the laundry basket, where his father's dirty underwear lay in a pile. The scent of his dad's sweat was intoxicating, and he would often sneak into the basket when no one was looking, burying his face in the fabric and inhaling deeply. The feel of the damp, sticky material against his skin sent a thrill down his spine, and he knew that he was crossing a line that he might never be able to uncross.
One morning, as Raj was getting ready for work, Rohan took the opportunity to tiptoe into the bathroom. The sound of the shower running filled the room with the sweet sound of cascading water, and Rohan could see the steam billowing out from the slightly open door. His heart raced as he pushed the door open just a crack, revealing a sliver of his father's naked body. Through the foggy glass, he could make out the outline of his dad's muscular back, the water glistening on his skin. He watched, his eyes wide with desire, as the water trickled down his dad's body, tracing the path of his spine before disappearing into the dense forest of his buttocks. He knew he should leave, that what he was doing was wrong, but his body was screaming for more.
Day by day, Rohan's lust grew stronger. He found himself sneaking into the bathroom whenever his father took a shower, his eyes greedily devouring every inch of the man's flesh. He would wait until the moment was just right, then slip in unnoticed, his heart hammering in his chest. He would stand there, his own cock throbbing in his pants, and watch his father wash his hairy chest, the water running down in rivulets to his navel. He longed to reach out and touch, to run his fingers through the coarse hair and feel the warmth of his dad's skin against his own. The smell of the soap mingled with the scent of his dad's body, creating an intoxicating bouquet that made Rohan's head spin.
Months passed, and the festival season arrived. It was during this time that Roshan's mom went to her father's home, leaving only Raj and Rohan in the house. With no one to watch over them, the restrictions that had once held them back dissipated like the morning mist. Raj took full advantage of this newfound freedom, throwing caution to the wind and embracing the Mumbai nightlife with reckless abandon. He would come home late, often drunk and disheveled, reeking of whiskey and the scent of other people's cigarettes. Rohan, meanwhile, remained in the house, his lust for his father simmering just below the surface.
Raj's newfound love for partying with his colleagues Sourav and Sam was a daily affair. Every evening, they would leave the house, their laughter echoing down the narrow lanes as they disappeared into the night. Rohan was left to his own devices, feeling an ache of disappointment that grew with every passing minute. He longed for the days when he could steal glances at his dad, when he could watch him move around the house, shirtless and oblivious to the desires he stirred in his son. But now, his father's body was a distant memory, only to be recalled through the foggy lens of his imagination.
Each night, Rohan would lie in bed, listening for the sound of the door opening. He would wait with bated breath, his heart skipping a beat every time he heard a noise that might signal his dad's return. But the hours stretched on, and the sounds of the party outside grew fainter, until all that remained was the gentle hum of the Mumbai night. His thoughts grew darker, his resentment towards Sourav and Sam festering like a sore. They were the ones taking his dad away from him, the ones denying him the chance to be close to the man he craved.
One such evening, Rohan received an invitation to a birthday party for his friend, Akash. It was a beacon of light in the gloomy sea of his solitude. The prospect of escaping the confines of his house and the oppressive weight of his desires was too tempting to resist. He accepted the invitation eagerly, hoping that the party would provide a much-needed distraction from his tumultuous emotions.
The day of the party dawned bright and clear, and Rohan found himself dressed in his best clothes. He had picked out a pair of tight-fitting jeans that hugged his slender legs and a shirt that clung to his chest in all the right places. He applied a touch of cologne, the scent reminiscent of the freshly showered men he so often found himself lusting after. With a final glance in the mirror, he took a deep breath and stepped out into the world, leaving the suffocating atmosphere of his home behind.
The party was everything Rohan had hoped for—loud music, flashing lights, and a throng of people that allowed him to lose himself in the anonymity of the crowd. He danced with abandon. His heart raced with every beat of the music, and he felt alive in a way he hadn't in months. As the night progressed, he found himself drawn to the balcony, where the cool breeze offered a respite from the oppressive heat inside.
As the party reached its crescendo, Rohan decided it was time to leave. He stepped outside, his ears still ringing from the bass, and hailed a taxi. The journey home was a blur of neon lights and the distant sound of festivities. He leaned back against the seat, feeling the tension in his body slowly begin to melt away. The party had been a welcome distraction, but he knew that the moment he stepped into the house, reality would come crashing back down on him.
But as he approached his street, a sight that made his heart sink greeted him. His dad, Raj, was being held upright by his two colleagues, Sourav and Sam. They stumbled out of a nearby bar, the neon light glinting off their laughter-filled eyes. Raj was in a state that was far from the stoic figure that Rohan was used to. He was a mess—his clothes were rumpled, his tie askew, and his face flushed from what could only be an excess of alcohol. Sourav and Sam, both of them equally intoxicated, had their arms around him, supporting him as they all but carried him down the street.
Rohan ducked into the shadows of an alley, his heart hammering in his chest. He had never seen his dad like this before, and the sight of him in such a compromised state filled him with a mix of worry and anger. Why was he out so late, getting drunk with these men? .
As the trio approached a car parked a few houses down, Rohan noticed that Sourav and Sam had a bit too much of a firm grip on his father. Something felt off, and his instincts screamed at him to intervene. Without a second thought, he rushed
