My name is Bradley, and at 55 years old, I've built a steady life as a bank manager in our quiet suburban home in California. Every day, I crunch numbers and manage accounts, but nothing prepared me for the storm brewing inside me when it came to my own flesh and blood. My wife Jennifer, a devoted homemaker with her soft curves and warm smiles, has been my rock for decades. Our daughter Lindsay, 20 and sharp as a tack, is buried in her college studies, always chasing that next big grade. And then there's Ryan, my 22-year-old son, the golden boy who turned my world upside down without even trying.
Ryan was built like a god among men—tall, broad-shouldered, with rippling muscles honed from years of swimming, track, and gym sessions that left him looking like a living sculpture. His brown hair cropped short, those deep brown eyes that could melt steel, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He was every inch the all-American dream: patriotic, charismatic, and virile in a way that made my chest tighten whenever I watched him move. We knew he had a shot at the Mister USA qualifiers for our region, so the family rallied. Jennifer fussed over his outfits, Lindsay snapped photos for his portfolio, and I... well, I couldn't stop staring at how his swim trunks hugged those powerful thighs and the bulge that strained against the fabric during our backyard shoots.
The only snag was Sarah, his girlfriend of two years. She was fiery, with long blonde hair and a possessive streak that flared up at the thought of Ryan parading in front of crowds of adoring fans. 'You better not let those pageant sluts get too close,' she'd snap, her green eyes flashing. Ryan, ever the charmer, would pull her into his arms, whispering promises, but the tension simmered. He was head over heels for her, that much was clear from the way he'd light up around her, but the competition demanded a single man’s image, and Sarah hated playing second fiddle.
The qualifier night arrived like a thunderclap. We all piled into the auditorium—me in my crisp button-down, Jennifer in a elegant dress that accentuated her full breasts, Lindsay bouncing with excitement, and Sarah clinging to Ryan's arm like a lifeline. The interviews kicked off, Ryan striding onstage in a tailored suit that outlined every contour of his athletic frame. He spoke with confidence about his dreams, his community service, his unyielding drive. Then came the swimsuit parade, and that's when it hit me like a freight train. Ryan peeled off his robe, revealing bronzed skin glistening under the lights, his chest heaving with each breath, abs carved like marble leading down to those low-slung trunks that barely contained the thick outline of his cock. The crowd roared, but I felt a heat pooling in my gut, my own dick twitching traitorously in my pants. What the hell was wrong with me? He's my son and I was not gay, for Christ's sake.
The results flashed on the screen: Ryan, Mister USA California. We erupted in cheers, hugging him tight backstage as confetti rained down. Jennifer kissed his cheek, Lindsay squealed, and even Sarah forced a smile, though her lips trembled. The celebration stretched into the night—dinner at our favorite steakhouse, toasts to his future, laughter echoing off the walls. But Sarah's jealousy festered. By the time we got home, she and Ryan were whispering harshly in his room, her voice rising in accusations about groupies and temptations. Ryan's face fell, his broad shoulders slumping as he tried to soothe her, but the arguments became a nightly ritual, chipping away at his joy.
Months blurred by in a haze of training and prep for the national finals. I threw myself into work, but Ryan's image haunted me—those photos from the shoot taped to the fridge, his body flexing in my mind during quiet moments. Even in bed with Jennifer, as I thrust into her welcoming warmth, her moans filling the room, I'd catch myself imagining Ryan's strong hands on me instead, his hips grinding against mine. I'd finish too quickly, guilt gnawing at my insides like acid. I was a pervert, a sick old man lusting after his own boy. But the desire only grew, a forbidden fire licking at my veins.
The national finals loomed, and we made the trip as a family unit, Sarah included despite the strain. The venue buzzed with energy—flashing lights, thumping music, a sea of sculpted bodies vying for glory. Interviews again, Ryan owning the stage with his easy grin and magnetic presence. The swimsuit segment was torture; I shifted in my seat, sweat beading on my forehead as he prowled the runway, muscles oiled and shining, his ass clenching with each step, the front of his trunks tenting slightly from the adrenaline. Jennifer squeezed my hand, oblivious, while Sarah gripped the armrest, her knuckles white.
Break, then the crowning. The announcer's voice boomed: 'Mister USA... Ryan Thompson!' The arena exploded. We rushed backstage, enveloping him in embraces. Jennifer wept tears of pride, Lindsay whooped, and I held him longest, feeling the heat of his bare chest against my shirt, inhaling his musky scent mixed with cologne. Sarah congratulated him stiffly, but her eyes darted to the other contestants, paranoia etched on her face. That night, the fights escalated; she accused him of flirting, of enjoying the attention too much. Ryan's happiness soured, his love for her a anchor dragging him down.
Time fast-forwarded to the pinnacle: Mister World in Las Vegas, the global stage where legends were made. Jennifer came down with a nasty flu, bedridden and coughing, so she stayed home with Lindsay, who had finals looming. It was just me and Sarah flying out, the tension between us thick as we checked into the hotel. Ryan arrived, more stunning than ever—tanned from training, his body a masterpiece of power and grace. The competition unfolded over days: preliminaries, talent shows where he dazzled with a swim routine that showcased his endurance, interviews probing his soul. Sarah shadowed him, snapping at any woman who lingered too long, her jealousy a venomous cloud.
The finals night was electric. Ryan marched out in his suit, then stripped to swimsuit—god, that body, veins bulging on his biceps, pecs flexing, the V of his hips drawing every eye to the impressive swell in his briefs. I sat frozen, my cock hardening painfully as memories of those backyard photos flooded back. The results built suspense, the host milking the crowd, until: 'Mister World... Ryan Thompson!' Pandemonium. He beamed, crown gleaming on his head, sash draped over his torso. Backstage hugs from dignitaries, flashes popping, but then Sarah cornered him in his dressing room. I lingered outside, hearing her shrill voice: 'You're loving this, aren't you? All those eyes on you, all those bitches wanting a piece!' Ryan's pleas fell on deaf ears; she stormed out, slamming the door, tears streaming down her face as she brushed past me toward the exit.
I pushed into the room, heart pounding. Ryan stood there, still in his tight white briefs, the fabric clinging to his semi-hard cock from the high of victory. His eyes were red-rimmed, tears tracing paths down his chiseled cheeks. 'Dad... she left. Just like that.' His voice cracked, and he collapsed onto the couch , head bowing. Without thinking, I sat next to him, pulling him into a hug. His face pressed against my thigh, inches from my crotch, and a jolt of electricity shot through me. The scent of his sweat, the warmth of his skin—it was intoxicating. My dick stirred, thickening in my slacks as I gazed down at his vulnerable form.
'Don't cry, son,' I growled low, my fingers twisting roughly into his sweat-matted brown hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose that vulnerable throat. A fat, glistening tear bulged in the corner of his eye, then broke free, rolling down his flushed, stubbled cheek in a slow, salty rivulet that splashed onto my thigh, soaking through the fabric like a filthy promise. My cock surged in my pants, the twisted hunger gnawing at my gut like a rabid dog. I couldn't resist—I lunged forward, my hot tongue snaking out to slurp up that warm, briny drop from his skin, lapping it greedily like a pig rooting in mud. Fuck, it tasted divine—pure essence of his shattered heart, mingled with the pungent, musky reek of his post-win sweat, intimate and depraved, sliding down my throat like forbidden nectar. Ryan's breath hitched violently, his broad chest stuttering, those deep brown eyes flaring wide with raw shock and betrayal. He jerked back instinctively, trying to twist away from my invading mouth, his hands shoving weakly at my shoulders. 'Dad, no—stop, what the hell—' he stammered, voice cracking with panic, but I wasn't having it. The power surged through me, dark and intoxicating; this was my boy, my prize, and I'd claim him whether he wanted it or not.
I couldn't stop—wouldn't stop. My tongue roamed his face like a beast marking its territory, lapping hungrily at the glistening trails snaking down his cheeks, probing into the creases around his eyes where fresh tears pooled. I traced the sharp edge of his jaw with wet, lingering swipes, dipping low to suckle at the hollow of his throat, drawing out more sobs that turned into needy whimpers. Our breaths tangled, hot and ragged, syncing into a frantic rhythm that made my balls ache with need. Ryan let out a guttural moan, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight to my core, and it spurred me on like a drug. I licked harder, fiercer, my saliva flooding his skin in thick, drooling waves—coating his cheeks until they shone slick and sloppy, smearing over his fluttering eyelids until he was a mess of my spit and his tears. His face was drenched, a perverse canvas of our shared depravity, and he shuddered violently, his strong hands clamping down on my arms, nails digging in as if to anchor himself against the incestuous storm we were unleashing. God, the thrill of it—tasting my own son's salty grief, turning his pain into this piggish feast—had my cock leaking steadily, a dark wet spot blooming on my pants.
I clamped one hand on the back of his neck, fingers digging into his flesh like iron vices, forcing his face back to mine. 'Shh, just let Daddy taste you,' I murmured, my voice a husky snarl, and before he could protest again, I crushed my lips to his in a brutal, non-consensual kiss. My tongue battered past his clenched teeth, thrusting deep into his mouth with savage insistence, swirling and probing every corner, coating his tongue with my thick saliva. He struggled at first, muffled whimpers vibrating against me as he tried to pull back, his body tensing in resistance, but I held him pinned, devouring him like a starving beast. Saliva flooded between us, sloppy and excessive, dribbling from the corners of his mouth as I tongue-fucked his throat, tasting his fear-salted tears mixing with the minty residue of his breath. Slowly, against his will, something shifted—his pushes weakened, his body going slack, and then, like a dam crumbling under pressure, he broke. A low, defeated moan rumbled from his chest, and he surrendered, his tongue tentatively meeting mine in a hesitant tangle that quickly turned ravenous. The forbidden fire ignited in him, that incestuous desire he'd buried deep now erupting, pulling him under into our shared perversion.
Emboldened by his fall, I ramped up the assault, my tongue ravaging his face in broad, drooling sweeps—lapping at the fresh tears streaming from his eyes like a parched animal at a stream, slurping them up with wet, smacking sounds that echoed in the room. I traced his jawline with filthy, lingering drags, sucking hard enough to leave red marks, then dove into the dip of his throat, tonguing the pulse point where sweat pooled, drawing out more sobs that morphed into needy, guttural groans. Our breaths crashed together, hot and erratic, syncing into a pounding rhythm that made my balls throb with aching need. Ryan's resistance melted completely now, his hands clutching at my shirt instead of pushing, and he let out a piggish grunt that shot straight to my core. I licked with feral intensity, my mouth flooding his skin in rivers of spit—drenching his cheeks until they gleamed like oiled leather, smearing over his plump lips until they swelled and parted for more, bathing his eyelids in slick warmth until tears and saliva blended into a perverse glaze. His face was a sopping mess, reeking of our mingled fluids, and he quivered like a bitch in heat, nails raking my arms as the taboo ecstasy consumed him. Christ, the rush of forcing my own son into this salty, tear-soaked feast, watching him crumble into lust—my cock wept precum, staining my crotch dark and sticky.
Ryan bolted upright then, his eyes hooded with that newly awakened, incestuous blaze, and he attacked me back with equal savagery. His tongue—rough, demanding, flavored with our shared spit—rammed into my mouth in a whirlwind of wet frenzy, grinding against my stubble, lapping up the sweat from my pores like a depraved slut. He plunged deep, fucking my mouth with urgent, sloppy thrusts, our tongues coiling in obscene, saliva-drenched knots, strings of drool snapping between us with every gasping pull apart. We devoured each other in a sloppy, saliva-soaked mess, tongues wrestling and sliding in wet, obscene tangles, strings of spit stretching between our lips every time we gasped for air. To hell with incest, to hell with the world—this was our twisted incestuous bliss, raw, wet, and unyielding.
I lurched to my feet, fumbling wildly with my belt, yanking my pants and boxers down to unleash my throbbing cock—thick as a wrist, veins bulging like ropes, the fat head slick with a steady ooze of precum that strung out in lewd threads. Ryan tore off his briefs with a desperate snarl, his enormous dick—nine veiny inches of uncut, rigid perfection—slapping free, balls sagging heavy and swollen, already glistening with his arousal. We smashed together, bodies slick with sweat, and rutted our cocks in a frantic grind, the hot, velvety slide of his shaft against mine igniting fireworks up my spine. Precum squished between us in messy, slippery globs, making every buck of our hips wetter, piggier, as we humped like feral hogs, hips slamming, balls smacking with lewd thwacks.
'Fuck, Dad,' he rasped into my neck, teeth clamping down to bite and suck, leaving welts that burned deliciously. 'Been so fucking pent-up—Sarah's denied me for months, my nuts are ready to explode.' His confession fueled the fire, the perverse image of his blue-balled frustration making my hole twitch hungrily. I whirled us around, slamming against the vanity and bending over, ass cheeks parting to bare my hairy, puckered hole, winking and begging like a whore's. 'Shove it in, boy. Fill your father's shithole with that champion seed. Let's drown in family cum.'
He grabbed the lube from his bag—pageant prep for every filthy urge—and slathered his cock in a thick, dripping layer, excess running down his sack in glossy trails. The blunt head nudged my rim, scorching hot, and I pushed back greedily, craving the violation. He forced in inch by torturous inch, his massive girth ripping me open, the searing stretch blooming into sinful fullness as he buried himself balls-deep, grinding to churn my guts. His sack slapped mine with a wet smack, heavy and full. 'Goddamn, Dad, your ass is clamping down like a desperate cum-dump—milking me already.' He withdrew to the tip, teasing the void, then plowed back in with a squelching thud, the room reverberating with the filthy orchestra of pounding meat, lube farting out around his relentless shaft.
I clawed at the table, eyes glued to the mirror—his sculpted Adonis form claiming me, pecs heaving, abs contracting with each vicious drive, sweat sheeting down his perfect skin to mingle with the slick mess leaking from my stuffed hole. 'Ruin me deeper, son. Turn your old man's ass into your personal fuck-sleeve.' He escalated to brutal, porn-star frenzy, hips a blur of power, cock hammering my prostate with every plunge, wrenching animalistic grunts from my depths as ecstasy twisted viciously in my bowels. My dick dangled free, slapping my belly, spurting ropes of precum that splattered the floor in puddles, our sweat-slicked bodies grinding in a sensual, slippery frenzy.
On pure instinct, I hiked my right leg up, sole pressing into his heaving chest for leverage, toes flexing against his sweat-dampened muscle. Ryan's gaze locked on it, igniting with unbridled, perverse craving. Mid-thrust, he seized my ankle, hauling my foot to his slobbering mouth without mercy. His tongue whipped out, bathing the arch in lavish, drooling laps, mapping every ridge and curve with sensual devotion. He engulfed my big toe, sucking it like a tiny prick, tongue swirling in hot, wet circles, then devoured the next, nibbling and slurping with greedy smacks. Teeth raked my heel roughly, sparks shooting up my leg, while torrents of his spit poured down my sole, soaking my skin and dripping in warm rivulets to the floor. 'Mmmph, shit, your grimy feet are like aphrodisiac meat, Dad—salty, sweaty perfection for my cum-slut tongue,' he mumbled thickly around the mouthful, vibrations humming through me as his cock ravaged my ass, turning it into a frothy, gaping chasm. The dual torment—his mouth worshipping my foot with piggish sensuality, his dick demolishing my depths—catapulted me toward shattering release.
I came first, ropes of cum splattering the mirror, my hole clenching around him. Ryan growled, thrusting erratic now, then buried deep, flooding me with hot spurts, his body shuddering as he unloaded. We collapsed together, panting, his cock still twitching inside me, cum leaking out around the base.
In the afterglow, as we cleaned up with stolen glances and soft touches, the weight of what we'd done settled in—not regret, but a dark promise. Ryan was the king of the world, and in that moment, he'd claimed his father too. Sarah's loss was our gain, the start of something filthy and unbreakable. Back home, the secrecy would bind us tighter, stolen moments in the garage, under the guise of 'father-son talks,' where I'd drop to my knees for his cock, or he'd bend me over the kitchen counter while Jennifer napped. The lust that began with a swimsuit parade had evolved into raw, insatiable need, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.
