I couldn't stop pacing in my bedroom, the nerves for prom twisting my stomach into knots. At 18, I'd hit the gym hard to build this body—lean muscles from soccer, broad chest, and abs that made girls at school swoon. But tonight was about Taylor, my girlfriend, and I wanted to impress her on the dance floor, show my friends I could be smooth. What if I messed up the steps and looked like an idiot?
The door swung open, and Dad stepped in, his solid frame taking up space as always. At 44, he kept in shape from construction work and hikes—tall, with that mix of gray in his dark hair, a chiseled face, and eyes like mine, sharp and blue. The divorce from Mom was still fresh, but he'd been holding it together. He lounged in just his boxers, the gray fabric clinging to his thighs, and I realized I was in mine too, having stripped down to avoid sweating through my tux before the big night.
'Whoa, Damian, you look ready to kill it,' he said, eyeing me up and down. 'But you're wound tight. What's eating you?'
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling exposed in nothing but the thin cotton hugging my hips. 'Prom, Dad. I want to dance with Taylor without screwing it up. Be the gentleman, you know?'
He nodded, a smirk playing on his lips. 'I get it. Back in my day, I tore up the floor—ballroom, a bit of swing. Want me to show you some moves? Build that confidence.'
I hesitated, glancing down at our near-naked states. My cock twitched slightly under his gaze, and heat flooded my cheeks. 'Uh, we're both just in boxers. Kinda weird, don't you think?'
Dad shrugged, stepping closer. 'It's just us guys. Loosen up—dancing's about the rhythm, not the clothes. Come on, living room.'
We moved to the open space, my phone hooked to the speakers. The cool air raised goosebumps on my skin, my muscles flexing uncomfortably as I felt his eyes on my bare torso. I queued up 'Thinking Out Loud' by Ed Sheeran, the gentle guitar strumming through the room to make it feel real for Taylor.
Dad positioned himself in front of me, his hand on my waist, mine awkwardly on his shoulder. Our bare skin brushed, warm and startling. 'Start slow—lead her like this,' he instructed, guiding me into a sway. His grip was steady, pulling me through basic steps, our bodies inches apart. I tried to focus on the music, but being this exposed made my pulse race, our boxers the only barrier as thighs grazed.
Our eyes met, holding longer than they should, and something shifted. 'You're a natural, son,' he murmured, voice rough. 'That body of yours—toned, strong. Taylor's gonna melt.'
I swallowed hard, my face burning hotter than a furnace from the raw compliment and the electric intimacy buzzing between us. Our bare chests had brushed too many times during that sway, skin slick with a light sheen of sweat already, and I could feel the heat radiating off his body like a goddamn furnace. 'Thanks... you're not bad yourself,' I muttered, my voice cracking a bit, eyes darting away because staring into those intense blue eyes—mirrors of my own—felt way too fucking personal.
The gentle melody of 'Thinking Out Loud' faded out, and I lunged for my phone on the coffee table, desperate to kill the vibe before it got weirder. But the playlist betrayed me, blasting into Justin Timberlake's 'SexyBack' without mercy, the heavy bass thumping through the room like a heartbeat on steroids, seductive and insistent.
'Crap, wrong track—I'll switch it,' I stammered, mortified as hell, my cock stirring traitorously from all the earlier contact. It thickened in my boxers, pushing against the thin gray fabric, tenting it obscenely right there in front of him. I could see the outline of my shaft, the head flaring slightly, and a drop of pre-cum already beading at the tip, darkening the cotton.
Dad's strong hand shot out, stopping mine mid-reach, his rough palm lingering on my wrist, thumb stroking the inside in a way that sent sparks straight to my groin. 'Nah, keep it on, Damian. Feel the energy. Dance like you mean it.' His voice dropped an octave, gravelly and commanding, and he yanked me back against him, our hips snapping into alignment with a jolt. This wasn't some innocent father-son lesson anymore—it was pure filth. His body rolled into mine with deliberate slowness, hips circling in deep, hypnotic grinds that mashed his thickening bulge right against my thigh, the heat of his hardening cock seeping through both layers of fabric like a branding iron.
My breath hitched sharp and ragged, shock slamming into me like a truck. I'm straight, for fuck's sake—girls like Taylor are my world, not this twisted heat building with my own dad. But his palms slid down to my lower back, fingers splaying wide before digging deep into the firm globes of my ass cheeks, kneading them through the boxers like he owned them. He squeezed hard, pulling me closer, and I felt his nails scrape lightly, sending shivers racing up my spine.
'Dad... this feels so fucking off,' I whispered, voice barely audible over the pounding bass, but my hips had a mind of their own, bucking forward to chase the friction. Our breathing turned labored, chests heaving fast and syncopated, sweat trickling down our torsos now—mine beading between my pecs and pooling in the ridges of my abs, his dripping from his broad shoulders onto my skin. His cock had ballooned to full mast, a thick, rigid pole rubbing insistently against my thigh, the veiny length dragging up and down with each roll. Mine throbbed in brutal response, the electric friction making my balls tighten, pre-cum oozing steadily to soak my boxers front, the wet spot spreading and making every slide slicker, nastier. I was stunned speechless—this was my dad, half-naked and grinding on me like we were two horny strangers in a back-alley club—but the molten heat flooding my groin pinned me in place, my straight brain screaming denial while my body screamed for more, rationalizing it as 'just practice' to ease the guilt gnawing at my edges.
The track's beat throbbed to a close, and before I could catch my breath, 'Sexy and I Know It' by LMFAO exploded from the speakers, the goofy, cocky lyrics cutting through the tension like a bad joke. I snorted despite the chaos in my head, a nervous laugh bubbling up to shatter the spell. 'This song's ridiculous as fuck,' I said, trying to play it cool, but my voice wobbled, my erection still raging, tip weeping more pre-cum that trickled down my shaft inside the fabric.
Dad's face didn't crack, his expression locked in pure predatory hunger, eyes devouring me like I was prey. He spun suddenly, pressing his broad back flush to my front, and arched his spine with a low groan, shoving his firm, muscled ass directly over my cock. The pressure was straight-up obscene—his cheeks clenching and releasing rhythmically, the deep cleft grinding up and down my full length through our soaked boxers, teasing the sensitive underside of my shaft with every filthy slide. I could feel the heat of his hole through it all, the fabric barrier doing nothing to hide how he rolled his hips to hump back against me harder.
'Ride the vibe, son,' he growled, voice thick and dripping with raw, animal need, his breath coming in hot pants that fogged the air between us.
I gasped loud, hands clamping onto his hips on pure instinct, fingers bruising the sweat-slick skin as I thrust shallowly, my cock nestling deeper into that ass crack. More pre-cum gushed from my slit, drenching the front of my boxers until they clung transparently to my throbbing dick, the wet fabric slapping softly with each pump. He twisted around in a blur, our cocks slamming together—hard, veiny shafts colliding with a wet smack, grinding frantically side to side and up and down. The fabric stretched taut over our engorged lengths, slick with mutual pre-cum that smeared between us, turning the friction into a slippery, obscene glide that built tension like a coiling spring. Faster we went, hips snapping, the room filling with the lewd sounds of soaked cotton rasping and our heavy, synced grunts.
A deep, guttural moan ripped from my throat, vibrating through my chest, and Dad echoed it with a feral rumble, his grip on my waist turning bruising as he humped against me like a man possessed, his balls slapping lightly against mine through the barriers.
'God, Damian... so fucking hard for me, leaking all over Daddy's cock,' he panted, his forehead slick with sweat as it pressed to mine, noses bumping, breaths mingling hot and musky.
The chorus blasted, and Dad lunged forward, bending his knees slightly to line us up perfect before crashing his mouth onto mine in a fierce, devouring kiss. His tongue plunged in deep and wet, demanding entry, tasting of bitter coffee and the salty tang of pure, unfiltered desire. I froze solid, shock exploding in my brain—I'm straight, this can't be happening, not with him—but the lust overrode it all in a tidal wave. My lips parted wide, sucking his thick tongue greedily, swirling mine around it in sloppy, desperate circles. Our stubble scraped rough and raw, chins grinding as we devoured each other like starving beasts, saliva dripping from the corners of our mouths, mixing with sweat to trail down our necks. He sucked on my lower lip hard, nipping it, then dove back in, fucking my mouth with his tongue in brutal thrusts that mirrored what our cocks were doing below.
We broke apart gasping, strings of spit connecting our swollen lips, my mind reeling from the betrayal of my own straight identity crumbling under the onslaught. The clock on the wall mocked me—prom time. I staggered back, cock still twitching and leaking, boxers a ruined mess of pre-cum stains. Dad pulled me in one last time, lips brushing my ear. 'Go get her, Prince Charming. Show that girl what you've got.' His voice was husky, promising more.
I dressed in a haze, tux feeling alien over my flushed, sweat-damp skin, the memory of his ass grinding on me, our cocks sliding slick and hot, burning in my brain. At prom, Taylor looked stunning, her dress hugging her curves, but as we danced to 'Thinking Out Loud,' it was Dad's body I felt—his rough hands on my ass, his tongue invading my mouth. I led her smoothly, hiding the secret fire, my straight facade intact for the world.
Crowned king and queen, she kissed me sweet and innocent, the crowd cheering. But in my head, it was Dad's filthy grind, his praise echoing. We drove home separately, the night dissolving into normalcy—me crashing on the couch, him in his room. By morning, we were back to it: Dad grilling breakfast, me heading to soccer practice, chatting about the game like nothing happened. Straight lives, straight routines, the incestuous blaze buried deep, waiting for the next spark.
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