I’m Steve Berg, a 45-year-old straight, conservative, redneck dad from Texas. I’m all cowboy—muscled from years of busting my ass on the farm, with a thick, scruffy beard and a take-no-shit vibe. My life’s my family: my drop-dead gorgeous wife, Samantha, the hottest piece in town, and my boy Dan, my pride and joy. At 18, Dan’s a fucking stud—captain of his high school baseball team, shredded with six-pack abs that make every chick in school wet. He’s got my rugged cowboy edge and Samantha’s pretty-boy charm, a cocky mix that screams trouble. We had it good, just a tight family on our farm, until the day I got stuck doing the damn laundry and everything went to hell.
Samantha was gone, helping her pregnant sister for what was supposed to be a quick trip but dragged on ‘cause of complications. That left me with chores I never touch, like washing Dan’s sweaty-ass clothes. He strutted in after a big baseball win, all cocky, his uniform plastered to his ripped body. “Need my dirty shit, Dad?” he grinned, peeling off his jersey. His pecs were slick with sweat, nipples hard in the cold air. Pants dropped next, showing off those thick, meaty thighs, until he was down to his jockstrap, stuffed full with a bulge that’d make any man jealous.
“Don’t worry, son, I ain’t lookin’,” I muttered, turning away. But Dan, that little fucker, tossed his jockstrap right at me. It smacked my bearded face, warm and damp, and the smell hit like a kick to the balls—raw, sweaty, packed with his young, musky stink. My head spun, my cock jumping to life in my jeans. I stood there like a dumbass, sniffing it for a solid minute, my brain drowning in his scent. Dan’s eyes went wide. “Sorry, Dad,” he said, but there was a sly glint in his look, like he knew something.
I ripped it off, forcing a laugh. “Watch it, boy, or I’ll tan your hide!” I growled, playing the tough dad to hide the shame burning me up. But my dick was throbbing, leaking precum through my boxers, soaking the denim. What the fuck? I’m straight, married to a fucking goddess, and now I’m hard as a rock over my son’s ball sweat? I felt like puking, but I grabbed the laundry and bolted to the basement.
Down there, that jockstrap mocked me, lying in the pile. My hands shook, but I snatched it up, shoving it to my nose. The musk was thicker now—salty, ripe, all Dan. My cock pulsed, harder than it’s been since my twenties, precum dripping like a faucet. I didn’t even touch myself; that filthy smell made me blow a massive load, cum blasting into my boxers as my eyes rolled back. I slumped against the washer, panting, the jockstrap glued to my face. What kind of sick fuck was I?
Dan hollered for dinner, snapping me out of it. I cleaned up quick, but at the table, his sweaty stink lingered, hitting me like a drug. My dick sprang up again, tenting my pants under the table. He asked for more steak, and I couldn’t stand without him seeing my hard-on. “Pass your plate, son,” I mumbled, squirming. That night, I tried jacking off to Samantha, but Dan’s musk wormed into my head, twisting my fantasies into something dirty and wrong.
Next weekend, Samantha’s trip got extended—her sister’s health was shaky, keeping her away longer. My farm buddies noticed me acting off while we chugged beers by the fire. “You need to get laid, Steve,” one chuckled. If they fucking knew. Back home, Dan came in from practice, dripping sweat, his body looking like a goddamn porn star. “Don’t throw that jock at me,” I snapped, but the little shit grinned and chucked it anyway. It hit my face, the musk so strong it made my knees weak—fresh, potent, dizzying.
My cock went rock-hard instantly, aching in my jeans. I slapped my face, trying to shake it off. “Damn it, Dan!” In the laundry room, he handed me more clothes, including briefs crusted with dried cum. Those white, flaky patches made my mouth water like a dog. My body betrayed me; I shoved them to my nose, huffing the musky, jizzy smell. I came hard in my boxers, no touching needed, cum pouring out as I gasped. Then I heard footsteps running—someone watching?
It got worse. At work, I was a fucking wreck, like a junkie jonesing for a hit. I craved Dan’s scent, that nasty rush. I raced home, sneaking into his room to raid his hamper. Found a brief, soaked with sweat and a fat cum crust. I sniffed like a fiend, the smell driving me wild. Dan walked in, catching me with his briefs on my face. I froze, thinking I was fucked, but he just said, “You okay, Dad?” I muttered something about checking stains, stuffed the briefs in my pocket, and ran to my room. There, I lost it—sniffing turned to licking, tasting his salty cum crust. My ass twitched, leaking something wet as I shot another load all over my bed. Dan’s smirks all week, those sly looks over breakfast, screamed he knew something.
Laundry day rolled around again. Without me asking, Dan handed me his clothes, his eyes boring into mine. At the bottom: briefs dripping with fresh cum, still warm and gooey. Fresh? My mind spun—did he jack off knowing I’d find it? I shoved them in my mouth, sucking the creamy load, the taste exploding on my tongue. I came instantly, cum splattering the floor. Footsteps ran from the basement door again. Was Dan onto me, or was it just a fluke?
Next day, shit hit the fan. Dan handed me a dirty brief, and I looked at him, confused. “I ain’t doing laundry today, Dan.” He smirked, all cocky. “Open it, Dad.” I did, and it was filled with his fresh, sticky cum. My jaw dropped; Dan just grinned wider. “What’s this?” I stammered. He laughed. “Don’t act like you don’t know, Dad. You’ve been sniffing my briefs, eating my cum for days. I’ve seen it all.”
My heart stopped. My own son, calling me out on this sick shit? I tried to play it off. “W-what, Dan? You got the wrong idea, son!” But he stepped closer, grabbing the briefs and shoving them into my mouth. “Eat it, Dad.” The taste hit, and my body betrayed me again—cum shot out of my throbbing cock, soaking my boxers instantly. Dan’s eyes widened, shocked. “What the fuck, Dad? You’re the big alpha dad I looked up to?”
I roared back, trying to reclaim control. “Hell yeah, you little fucker, I’m still your straight dad!” But Dan’s grin turned dark, dirty. “Damn, I like you as my alpha dad pig. Come sniff the real source.” He grabbed his bulging crotch, and the air got thick, both of us alpha males squaring off, tension crackling like a storm. I snapped, “Don’t order me around, boy—I’m still your dad!” But he grabbed my head, shoving my face into his musky bush. “You can be the dad, but I’m the daddy now.”
His scent hit like a drug, pure addiction flooding my veins. I was high, lost in his sweaty, manly stink. “Don’t you wanna taste the cum you love so much?” he taunted. I growled, “Don’t teach me, son,” but my hands were already yanking down his shorts. His cock sprang free—fat as a beer can, eight inches, thick and veiny. I tried to stay dominant, but he grabbed my head, forcing that monster into my mouth. I choked, gagging on his girth, his precum coating my throat. We fought for control, two alphas clashing, but soon Dan was shaking, gripping my beard tight. “Fuck you, Dad, you’re better than any chick I’ve had!” he groaned, unloading a flood of hot cum down my throat.
I swallowed, licking his jizz off my beard, my own cock shooting hands-free, cum spraying my jeans. Dan laughed, smug. “Give it up, Dad. Your body’s screaming you ain’t no alpha anymore, squirting like a bitch.” I snapped, “Don’t talk to your dad like that, boy!” but my voice shook. Then the phone rang—Samantha, saying she was coming home. Panic hit, but Dan just smirked, his cock still half-hard, promising more trouble.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
