I never imagined my life would unravel like this. At 18, I ruled Lincoln High as the star quarterback, the guy every girl dreamed about and every guy wanted to be. With my chiseled jaw, broad shoulders from endless drills, and that easy grin that melted panties, I was the epitome of straight-laced hetero perfection. Ava, my girlfriend for the past eight months, was the cherry on top—a stunning brunette cheerleader with curves that begged to be grabbed, full lips that wrapped around my cock like they were made for it, and eyes that sparkled when she whispered dirty promises in my ear. We shared a typical suburban home with Mom and Dad; she pulled night shifts at the hospital, her scrubs always smelling of antiseptic, while Dad, at 42, embodied raw masculinity. A construction foreman with a body forged from heavy lifting—thick arms veined like ropes, a barrel chest dusted in dark hair, and a salt-and-pepper beard that framed his stern mouth—he was the king of the grill and the remote, bellowing at football games with a voice that shook the walls. Beers with the boys, slaps on the back for my touchdowns, and endless stories of chasing tail in his younger days. Straight through and through, he'd wink at me and say, 'Keep pounding those cheerleaders, son. Real men know what they want.' Everything felt solid, unbreakable.
But beneath the surface, I harbored a secret vice that kept me up at night. When the house fell silent and Ava's flirty texts faded, I'd barricade myself in my room, laptop glowing in the dark. Erotic tales, but only the ones about women devouring each other—soft breasts pressing together, fingers plunging into slick folds, moans echoing as clits rubbed in frantic rhythm. It was my fuel, stroking my thick cock to visions of tangled limbs and gushing orgasms, always picturing myself as the lucky bastard in the middle. I'd edge myself for hours, building until my balls ached, then explode in shuddering release, wiping away the evidence with a satisfied sigh. Innocent escapism, I reasoned, a way to celebrate my obsession with pussy.
That illusion shattered on a stormy Thursday after practice, my body sore from sprints and tackles. Curled up in bed, I navigated to my go-to site, fingers itching for a fresh lesbian yarn about sorority sisters exploring forbidden touches. But as the page buffered, a sidebar suggestion snagged my eye: 'Forbidden Bond: Son Submits to Dad's Command.' Tags screamed 'gay incest father son,' with a teaser image of shadowed figures, one kneeling. I laughed it off—me, the pussy-hound supreme, reading that? Ridiculous. Yet my cursor hovered. Just a peek, to mock the pervs who got off on it.
One click, and I was hooked. The narrative dripped with detail: the son peeking through the bathroom door at his father's soapy body, eyes locked on the heavy cock swinging between powerful thighs. Then the confrontation—dad's rough hand yanking the boy inside, forcing him to his knees, that massive shaft slapping against his cheek before sliding past lips into a throat stretched wide. Gags, slurps, the son's tears mixing with precum as he bobbed hungrily. My pulse raced, cheeks flushing hot. This was wrong, twisted. But as the dad bent his boy over the sink, spitting on his hole before thrusting in deep, hips snapping with brutal force, a unwelcome heat pooled in my groin. My dick stiffened, tenting my shorts. No, fuck no. I was straight—Ava's tight cunt was proof. I closed the tab, heart hammering, and switched to a safe video of two blondes sixty-nining, tongues delving into shaved pussies. But the images lingered, the son's submission echoing in my mind as I came, weaker than usual.
School the next day blurred by in a haze. Ava cornered me in the janitor's closet between classes, her skirt hiked up, panties shoved aside. 'Need you now, Romeo,' she purred, guiding my hand to her dripping slit. I fingered her roughly, thumb circling her swollen clit until she bucked against my palm, juices coating my fingers. She dropped low, unzipping me to swallow my length, cheeks hollowing as she sucked with sloppy enthusiasm, her tongue tracing every ridge. I fucked her face, hands tangled in her hair, but midway, my thoughts derailed—to Dad's mouth, those firm lips parting around a beer bottle, imagining them stretched around me instead. I pulled out, spun her against the wall, and slammed into her from behind, her walls clenching like a vice. 'Harder, baby!' she cried. But I pictured Dad's broader frame, his deeper grunts. When I unloaded inside her, flooding her pussy with thick jets, a whisper of 'Dad' escaped before I bit it back. She giggled, oblivious, but guilt gnawed at me like acid.
That night, the dam broke. 'Just research,' I lied to myself, diving into the site's gay incest archive. Story after story assaulted me—sons rimming their dads' sweaty asses, dads pinning sons down to rut like animals, cum swapping in filthy kisses. My hand moved on autopilot, gripping my shaft, pumping as I read about a father feeding his boy his load straight from the source, the son licking every drop from hairy balls. Heat built unbearably; I came explosively, semen arcing onto my keyboard, body convulsing. Disgust followed, but so did obsession. At breakfast, I stole glances at Dad—his mouth chewing toast, lips glistening with butter, tongue darting out to lick crumbs. And his feet, propped on a chair, sockless after his morning run, toes long and thick, soles slightly calloused from work boots. Why did that stir me? Why did I ache to trace them with my fingers, my mouth?
The fixation deepened. During family movie night, Dad lounged in his recliner, feet extended toward me on the ottoman. I pretended to stretch, eyes tracing the veins snaking up his arches, the way his big toe flexed idly. Imagining kneeling there, sucking each one clean, inhaling the earthy musk—my cock throbbed painfully. Later, alone, I replayed it while jerking off, but it wasn't enough. Mom's laundry day came; while she folded in the kitchen, I slipped into the hamper in the bathroom. Dad's briefs, gray cotton stained faintly at the crotch, beckoned. I snatched them, retreating to my room. The fabric was soft, carrying his scent—sweat, soap, a hint of precum. Pressing it to my nose, I inhaled deeply, cock leaking as I wrapped the underwear around my length. Stroking furiously, I envisioned Dad discovering me, his feet pinning my shoulders down as he face-fucked me. Orgasm hit like a freight train, soaking his briefs in my cum. I rinsed them hastily, heart pounding with shame, and returned them before anyone noticed.
It poisoned everything. Practice suffered; I'd fumble passes, mind wandering to Dad's mouth forming commands on the sidelines. With Ava, intimacy turned mechanical—her blowjobs felt hollow when I craved the scratch of beard on my thighs. Fucking her in the back of my car, her legs wrapped around me as I drove deep, I closed my eyes and saw Dad's feet braced against the dashboard, toes curling as I pounded him. 'You're so distant lately,' she complained after, but I brushed it off. Nights blurred into torment: reading more stories, fixating on scenes of sons worshipping dads' feet, licking between toes before getting ass-fucked. I'd cum whispering Dad's name, then sob quietly into my pillow, hating the rot spreading through my perfect life. The alpha male, reduced to this? It had to stop—or embrace it.
Embracing won. Seduction, slow and deliberate. Mom's weekend shift loomed—a double at the ER, leaving Dad and me alone. Friday evening, after skipping team film study with a fake stomachache, I found him in the den, feet up on the coffee table, watching a preseason game. Shirtless in cargo shorts, his chest rose and fell with each breath, beard shadowing his jaw. 'Hey, kid, grab a seat. This quarterback's got arm like yours.' I settled on the couch armrest, closer than normal, our calves brushing. Tension crackled; I could smell his aftershave, see the faint stubble on his toes.
Commercial break. Heart slamming, I ventured, 'Dad, ever feel... confused? About stuff you shouldn't?' He muted the TV, feet shifting, soles flexing toward me. 'Like what, Romeo? Spill it.' I hesitated, tracing his arch with my eyes. 'Online stuff. Stories that get under your skin.' He chuckled, mouth curving. 'Porn? Hell, everyone's got kinks. But keep it straight—pussy's where it's at.' Emboldened, I slid to the floor, 'helping' adjust the remote cord, positioning myself near his feet. 'What if it's not? What if it's... family?' His brow furrowed, but he didn't pull away. 'The fuck? You messing with me?'
I reached out, fingers grazing his ankle, feeling the warmth, the slight hair. 'No, Dad. It's you. Your mouth when you talk, the way it moves. And your feet... God, I've been staring.' He tensed, toes curling defensively, but his voice dropped. 'Son, that's not right. You're my boy, straight as me.' Yet his shorts tented slightly, betraying curiosity. I massaged his calf slowly, inching up. 'I tried fighting it. Read those stories, stole your underwear to... smell you. Fucked Ava thinking of you.' Tears welled then, hot and unbidden—the weight of it crashing down. 'It hurts, Dad. Ruining everything I am.'
He stared, conflict etching his face, then softened. 'Hey, easy.' His hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing a tear. I leaned into it, sobbing quietly. 'I'm sorry... I love you, but not like a son should.' More tears spilled. Dad hesitated, then pulled me up beside him, arm around my shoulders. 'Shh, Romeo. Whatever this is, we'll figure it.' His comfort cracked something; I nuzzled his neck, inhaling his scent. Another sob escaped, tears streaking my face.
That's when it shifted. His eyes darkened, noticing my cock straining against my jeans, the way my body trembled not just from sorrow. 'You're... hard from this?' he murmured, voice husky. Curiosity won; he leaned in, tongue darting out to lick a tear from my cheek—slow, deliberate, tasting the salt with a low hum. 'Salty, like sweat after a game.' The perversion hit me like lightning; my breath hitched, arousal surging. He saw it, grinned wickedly, and licked another trail, from jaw to temple, lips hovering. 'Turns you on, huh? My boy crying for Daddy.'
I nodded, whimpering. He captured my mouth then—not gentle, but filthy, piggy. His tongue plunged deep, swirling with mine in a wet, sloppy dance, sucking my lower lip until it bruised. Saliva mixed with tears, dripping down our chins as he devoured me, beard scraping raw. He bit my tongue lightly, pulling back to spit into my open mouth—degrading, hot—before sealing again, our kiss a mess of slurps and moans, faces slick. 'Taste yourself on me,' he growled, nipping my earlobe.
The kiss broke us. He guided my hand to his foot, pressing my palm to the sole. 'You like these? Show me.' I dropped low, lifting his foot, kissing the instep reverently, tongue lapping the ball, savoring the faint tang of skin. He groaned, toes splaying. 'Suck 'em, son.' I took his big toe into my mouth, nursing like a cock, swirling around the pad while my hand stroked his calf. He watched, freeing his cock—eight inches of girthy meat, foreskin peeling back to reveal a glistening head. 'Keep going.' I moved to the next toe, then the arch, licking broad strokes up the sole, my own dick leaking.
Emboldened, I crawled up, kissing his mouth again—dirtier now, my foot-flavored tongue tangling with his. He stripped me roughly, hands roaming my ass, then pushed me back. 'My turn.' He lifted my foot, surprisingly, sucking my toes with equal fervor—wet pops echoing as he deepthroated two, eyes locked on mine. 'You taste good everywhere.' The sensation shot straight to my cock; I jerked myself, but he slapped my hand away. 'Not yet.' He positioned us side by side, feet intertwined, toes rubbing shafts as we kissed sloppily, grinding.
Upstairs to his bedroom, clothes shed. He laid me on the bed, feet at my face. 'Worship.' I buried my nose in his soles, inhaling deeply while tonguing between toes, cleaning every crease. He stroked himself above, precum dripping onto my chest. 'Good boy... now the other.' I switched, sucking heels, biting lightly, his moans fueling me. Satisfied, he lubed his fingers, circling my hole. 'Relax.' One digit breached, then two, scissoring as I rimmed his foot again.
He flipped me onto my stomach, cock nudging my entrance. 'Gonna claim you slow.' He pushed in, inch by burning inch, pausing to let me adjust, his feet sliding up my calves. Bottomed out, he rocked gently, building rhythm—deep, sensual thrusts hitting my prostate. 'So tight... fuck, son.' I pushed back, grabbing his foot to suck toes mid-fuck, the dual sensations overwhelming.
He pulled out, rolling me over. 'Want you in me too.' Lubed, he straddled, sinking down onto my cock with a guttural moan, his hole gripping like velvet. He rode slow at first, feet planted on my thighs for leverage, toes digging in. I grabbed one, licking the sole as he bounced, our eyes locked in filthy intimacy. Pace quickened; sweat slicked us, bed thumping.
'Kiss me,' he demanded. Our mouths met in a piggish frenzy—tongues wrestling, spit exchanged, him sucking my lip bloody. He came first, ass clenching, cum spraying my abs. The vise pushed me over; I flooded his guts, roaring. We collapsed, feet tangled, kissing lazily now, tears dry but the bond sealed.
'What now?' he whispered, thumb tracing my mouth. 'More,' I replied, sucking his toe playfully. The straight world faded; this perversion was ours.
