My name is William, and at 46 years old, I've dedicated my life to the principles of our faith as a devout Mormon. Every morning, our family gathers in the living room of our modest home in Utah, kneeling together to offer prayers of gratitude and seek guidance from Heavenly Father. My wife, Sarah, leads us in scripture study from the Book of Mormon, her voice steady as she reads passages about eternal families and the sacred bonds that tie us to the gospel. Our daughter, Emily, now 18, recites verses with the innocence of youth, while our son Patrick, 21, has always been the pride of our household. He's blond, with piercing blue eyes that seem to reflect the purity of his missionary service in the streets of Texas, where he spent two years proselytizing and bringing souls to Christ. We end each evening the same way—prayers for protection against the temptations of the world, reminders that our bodies are temples, not to be defiled by sin.
Patrick met Christina at church three years ago, during a youth fireside. She was 20 then, with dark hair and a smile that lit up the ward. They courted under the watchful eyes of the bishop, holding hands during sacrament meetings but never crossing the line into fornication, or so I believed. In our religion, premarital sex is a grave sin, one that could bar them from the celestial kingdom. Patrick was the catch—tall, athletic from seminary runs and service projects, looking every bit like the ideal priesthood holder. Girls whispered about him during relief society activities, but he chose Christina, and I was thrilled. Their engagement came after months of temple recommend interviews, ensuring their worthiness. The wedding was set for the Provo temple, a sealing that would bind them for time and all eternity.
But a few weeks ago, everything shattered. I overheard a conversation at a ward potluck—two elders gossiping about Christina sneaking off with Brother Harlan, a married deacon's assistant, behind the cultural hall. My blood boiled. How could she betray not just Patrick, but the covenants we'd all sworn? I confronted her privately after that, but she denied it with teary eyes, claiming it was a misunderstanding. I didn't buy it. That night, during family home evening, I pulled Patrick aside in the kitchen while Sarah prepared lesson materials on tithing.
'Son,' I said, my voice low, 'we need to talk about Christina.'
He looked up from folding chairs, his blue eyes narrowing. 'Dad, not this again. You've been on about her for days.'
'I heard things, Patrick. From reliable brothers in the ward. She was with Harlan. It's adultery in the making. You can't marry someone who's impure. Think of your eternal progression!' I gripped his shoulder, feeling the strength in his young frame from all those mission workouts.
He shrugged me off, his face flushing. 'You're lying to sabotage us. Christina's devoted—she comes to every temple session with me. This is Satan's work, Dad, trying to tear us apart.'
We argued through dinner, scriptures forgotten as voices rose. Sarah tried to mediate, quoting Proverbs about bearing false witness, but even she defended Christina, saying I was overreacting. 'William, let the Spirit guide them,' she urged, but I saw the doubt in her eyes. Patrick stormed out, slamming the door, and our home felt tainted, like the veil between heaven and earth had thinned with discord.
The fights escalated. One evening after mutual, Patrick and I nearly came to blows in the garage. He accused me of jealousy, of wanting to control his life like the prophet controls the church. 'You're ruining everything!' he shouted, shoving me against the workbench. I pushed back, my heart pounding with righteous anger. 'I'm saving you from damnation!' But he wouldn't listen. Our ward members noticed the tension—Bishop Reynolds pulled me aside during priesthood meeting, counseling forgiveness and prayer. I fasted for three days, seeking revelation, but all I felt was a burning resolve to stop the wedding.
The day arrived, crisp and sunny, the kind Heavenly Father blesses for sacred ordinances. Our family dressed in white for the temple ceremony, but Patrick slipped away early to the reception hall at the stake center. The wedding cake had just been delivered—a towering masterpiece of vanilla sponge, buttercream frosting, and fresh berries, symbolizing the sweetness of eternal companionship. I knew this was my final chance. While Sarah and Emily prepared at home, I drove over, my suit crisp, tie knotted tight like the covenants we uphold.
I found him in the empty hall, adjusting the cake's placement on the lace-draped table. Sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a holy glow on the scene. 'Patrick,' I called, stepping inside and closing the door behind me.
He whirled around, his face hardening. 'Dad? What are you doing here? The ceremony's in an hour!'
'I couldn't let you go through with it. Christina's a liar, son. She's sinned against the law of chastity. I have witnesses—'
'Enough!' He advanced, hands balled into fists. 'You've poisoned everyone against her. Get out!' He shoved my chest, hard enough to make me stumble.
Rage surged through me, fueled by months of frustration. 'No, you listen!' I shoved him back, my palms connecting with his shoulders. He tripped over a chair leg, arms flailing, and crashed right into the cake table. The whole thing toppled with a sickening thud, frosting exploding everywhere. Patrick landed in the mess, his white shirt and pants smeared with white cream and smashed berries, chunks of sponge clinging to his blond hair like forbidden manna.
'You bastard!' he roared, scrambling up, cake dripping from his face. His blue eyes blazed with fury. He lunged at me, slapping my cheek with a sticky hand. The sting shocked me, a red mark blooming on my skin.
'How dare you!' I slapped him back, harder, the sound echoing in the hall. 'This is for your soul!'
We grappled like Cain and Abel, fists flying in a blur of suits and sin. He punched my shoulder, I elbowed his ribs. 'You're destroying my life!' he yelled, tearing at my jacket. In the chaos, my hand caught his shirt collar—riiiip—the fabric split open, exposing his smooth, missionary-toned chest, dusted with light blond hair. He was beautiful, like a young elder in the field, but twisted now in wrath.
'Ruin it? I'm saving it!' I countered, grabbing his arm. He bit my forearm, teeth sinking in, then kicked my shin. Pain shot up my leg, but I tackled him to the floor, pinning him amid the cake debris. We rolled, grunting and cursing—words I'd confess later in the bishop's office. 'Get off me, you hypocrite!' he snarled, kneeing my thigh.
I held him down, our bodies pressed close, breaths ragged. As he struggled, his hips bucked against mine, and through the thin fabric of our suit pants, I felt it—his cock, hardening, rubbing against my own stirring length. My God, what was this? Incestuous fire igniting in the house of the Lord? It had been months since Sarah and I had shared intimacy; our bed was a place of prayer now, not passion, after her health issues and my endless church callings. But here, with my son, the friction sparked something unholy.
'Patrick... stop,' I gasped out, my voice cracking like thunder in a forbidden storm, but damn my traitorous body—it bucked forward on its own, hips rolling into his with a deliberate grind that sent electric jolts straight to my swelling groin. The shock hit me like a bolt from the celestial realm: this was my own flesh and blood, the boy I'd baptized with my own hands, and here I was, hardening against him in the desecrated hall. His low, needy moans bubbled up, raw and animalistic, blending with the obscene squelch of thick frosting squishing between our thrusting crotches, the creamy mess soaking through our suit pants like some perverse baptismal font overflowing with sin.
'Dad... what the hell is this... oh fuck, no,' he whimpered, his crystal-blue eyes flaring wide with a storm of confusion and raw, unbridled lust, pupils dilating as if he'd just glimpsed the adversary's true face. The horror etched on his perfect features mirrored my own inner turmoil—how could we, pious Mormons sworn to chastity, be teetering on this abyss? Yet his body betrayed him too, his virgin cock—untouched by any hand but his own in guilty solitude during mission nights—now rigid and pulsing, tenting his trousers obscenely against mine. We were both rock-hard, shafts throbbing in sync, the sticky sweetness of the cake turning our grinding into a slippery, filthy slide, berries popping and smearing red streaks across the fabric like blood from a sacrificial rite.
I knew I should halt this madness, drop to my knees right there and beg Heavenly Father for the strength to resist, invoke the power of the priesthood to cast out this demonic urge. But the temptation crashed over me like the floods of Noah, the devil's whisper slithering into my ear, promising ecstasy in place of eternal damnation. Overwhelmed, I lunged forward, crashing my lips onto his in a brutal, devouring kiss, my mouth claiming his with the ferocity of a man starved for forbidden communion. His taste exploded on my tongue—rich vanilla cream laced with tart berry juices, mingled with the salty tang of his shock-sweat, all of it sinful nectar from the tree we were never meant to touch. Our tongues battled wildly, sloppy and invasive, twisting and sucking with desperate hunger, saliva dripping down our chins as our hands clawed everywhere: mine gripping his frosting-smeared shoulders, his fumbling at my back, pulling me closer into this unholy embrace.
'This is so fucking wrong, son—incest, abomination before God,' I murmured hoarsely against his plush lips, the words tasting like ash even as my tongue darted out to lick his cheek, lapping greedily at the globs of buttercream like a ravenous beast at the remnants of the Last Supper, the sugary filth coating my mouth and igniting a deeper depravity.
'Yeah... it is... but holy shit, Dad, don't you dare stop now,' he breathed back, his voice a shattered plea, shock rippling through him as he retaliated, his hot tongue dragging along my jawline, tracing the stubble and sweat with wet, eager strokes, the mix of salty perspiration and cloying mess turning our faces into a slick, edible battlefield. We plunged into deeper kisses, mouths gaping wide like gates to perdition, devouring each other with gnashing teeth and probing tongues amid the wreckage of the toppled cake, chunks of sponge crumbling under our writhing forms, the air thick with the scent of baked sin and rising arousal.
My trembling hands, slick with cake residue, clawed at his belt buckle, yanking it open with a metallic clink that echoed like judgment day. I shoved his pants down just enough to free his massive, virgin cock—thick as my wrist, veined ridges bulging under taut skin, the head flushed purple and weeping pre-cum that blended seamlessly with the creamy frosting I'd smeared across it. He was enormous, a throbbing monument to untouched purity, like the forbidden fruit dangling from Eden's branch, pulsing with the pent-up load of three years of celibate missions and chaste courtships. The shock of seeing my son's prick in all its glory nearly undid me—how had it grown so potent, so ready to burst? I wrapped my fist around it, the food-play twisting into pure kink as I slathered more frosting along his length, the cool sweetness contrasting his scorching heat, pumping him with slow, deliberate twists that made his hips jerk wildly. 'Son, your body's meant to be a sacred temple, pure for your eternal bride... but forgive me, Heavenly Father, I crave this filth—I need to defile you.'
He arched his back off the cake-smeared floor, a guttural moan ripping from his throat, his virgin body convulsing as if the mere touch could shatter him. 'Dad, oh God... fuck, pump it harder—it's too much, I feel like I'm gonna explode and die right here,' he begged, the words laced with terror and ecstasy, his untouched nerves firing like a first-time convert struck by the Spirit, every stroke threatening to overwhelm his innocence to the point of lethal bliss. His hands, equally frenzied, tore at my own zipper, hauling out my rigid older cock—girthy from years of suppressed urges, veins knotted like ropes of guilt, leaking steadily now. We pressed together, shafts sliding in the greasy buttercream slick, berries mashing into pulpy bursts that lubed our frantic frottage, the wet smacks and squelches filling the hall like profane hymns.
The raw fury of our brawl morphed into insatiable, bestial craving, every punch's echo now a thrust's rhythm. I flipped him roughly onto his belly in the deepening puddle of cake gore, the mess soaking into his ruined shirt as I wrenched his pants lower, exposing that flawless ass—round and muscled from endless mission treks across dusty Texas plains, cheeks clenching tight in a mix of fear and filthy anticipation, his virgin hole winking pink and untouched amid the blond fuzz. But the darker kinks clawed at my soul first, demanding indulgence. His temple-polished black oxfords, once gleaming symbols of priesthood duty, now oozed frosting from every seam. I knelt and untied one with sticky fingers, peeling the leather away slowly, revealing the sheer black nylons hugging his damp feet—thin, translucent fabric molded to his arches and toes, sweat-darkened and reeking of confined heat.
The aroma slammed into me: rich leather undercut by sugary cake and the sharp, musky tang of his pent-up arousal, a holy trinity of taboo. 'Your feet... so goddamn pure, like the soles that walked to the temple,' I muttered, voice thick with lust, lifting the socked foot to my face. I buried my nose in the damp nylon, inhaling deeply—the nylon's synthetic bite mixing with foot sweat and vanilla, making my cock leak anew. Then I dragged my tongue flat along the sole, savoring the gritty blend of sheer fabric, salty perspiration, and sweet residue, the taste filthy and addictive. Patrick writhed beneath me, a soft, involuntary fart slipping out in the building tension—a wet, rumbling burst of earthy gas that wafted up, pungent and intimate, making my balls tighten and my prick twitch violently harder. 'Dad... fuck, that's so nasty, what are you doing to me?' he gasped, shock widening his eyes again, but his body betrayed him, ass pushing back greedily against my thigh, grinding for more.
'It's all ours now, boy—no judgment, just raw need. Embrace the dirt,' I growled, sucking his big toe through the sheer sock, the nylon barrier turning it into a teasing veil as I nursed hungrily, fabric growing sodden with my spit while my other hand pried his cheeks apart, exposing that virgin pucker. Another fart bubbled out, hotter and thicker, the warm gust carrying a scat-laced edge—primal, unwashed essence like the earth's hidden filth before creation's polish. I shoved my face in, nose pressed to the source, inhaling the taboo reek deeply, the musky bitterness fueling my descent.
He bucked and moaned louder, voice breaking, 'Lick me clean, Dad... everywhere, make it hurt so good.' The plea shocked us both—his virgin mind reeling at the words—but I dove in, tongue spearing between his cheeks to rim that tight, untouched ring, circling the puckered flesh while cake smeared across my face in gooey streaks. His body quaked violently, and then it happened: a small, messy push, warm scat emerging in a soft, dirty smear—scat play erupting unrestrained as I lapped at the heat, tongue swirling through the bitter, earthy release, the kink amplifying every sensation into overwhelming depravity, his innocence shattering in filthy waves.
'God almighty, Patrick, you're mine to ruin now,' I snarled, rising to kneel behind him, my cock—glistening with frosting remnants—nudged against his sloppy entrance. No proper lube, just the makeshift slick of cream, spit, and our mingled messes—greasy and sufficient for this profane union. I pressed in slow, the head breaching his virgin tightness, his walls clamping like a vice of eternal damnation, every inch a battle against his shocked resistance.
'Ahhh! Dad... it burns—fuck me raw!' he screamed, face mashed into the cake puddle, his tongue darting out to slurp frosting from the filthy floorboards like a man possessed, even as tears of shock and ecstasy streaked his cheeks. I hammered deeper, our bodies colliding with wet, meaty slaps, suits shredded and soaked, the reception hall reeking of cum-scented cake, sweat, and the acrid bite of our sins.
I bent to kiss his neck, sucking bruises into the skin while my tongue lapped sweat and cream from his nape, one hand fisting his throbbing cock—milking it with rough tugs that had him sobbing about dying from the building orgasm, his virgin overload making him thrash as if the pleasure could end him. His toes curled hard in my mouth through the drenched sock, nylon tearing slightly under my teeth, and as I pounded relentlessly, another fart ripped around my invading shaft—vibrating through us both, scat flecks adding to the messy, scorching slide, turning the fuck into a hotter, dirtier inferno.
We rutted like animals, dialogues dissolving into grunts. 'Harder, Dad... fill me with your seed.' 'Take it, son... like the prodigal returning.' Climax built, religious guilt twisting with pleasure—visions of the celestial kingdom flashing as I came, pumping hot cum deep inside him.
He followed, spurting onto the cake below, moaning my name. We collapsed, panting, covered in the evidence of our transgression.
The clock struck— we were late for the temple. 'We... we can't tell anyone,' I whispered, helping him up, both of us a wreck.
'Never,' he agreed, eyes soft now, a new bond forged in secrecy. We cleaned as best we could, but the scent lingered. As we rushed out, I wondered if Heavenly Father could forgive this.
We screeched into the church parking lot ten minutes late, the tires kicking up gravel like we'd just fled a crime scene, my heart pounding from the morning's chaos back home—the cake incident still fresh, frosting stains hidden under fresh suits but the memory of Patrick's tight ass clenching around my cock burning in my mind. Our entire family turned as one when we burst through the heavy oak doors, glares slicing through us like judgment from the celestial court. My wife, Sarah, sat ramrod straight in the front pew, her lips pursed in that familiar Mormon disapproval, while Patrick's sister whispered furiously, her eyes darting between us. Even the bishop shot me a look that screamed 'priesthood holder, what example is this?' But I didn't give a damn; the pull toward my son was a firestorm now, raging unchecked after our filthy romp in the kitchen.
The organ swelled into the bridal march, and Christina glided down the aisle like some virginal vision in white lace, her veil hiding eyes that had once locked with mine in that motel room betrayal. Patrick stood at the altar, tall and blond, his blue eyes flickering with the same hesitation I'd seen when I'd buried my face in his scat-smeared cheeks hours ago. The priest—Elder Thompson, stern and silver-haired—cleared his throat and began the vows, his voice booming through the vaulted hall packed with relatives, ward members, and nosy neighbors.
'Christina Marie Hargrove, do you take Patrick William Hargrove to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, in purity and fidelity as ordained by Heavenly Father?' The old man intoned, his gaze pious.
'I do,' Christina breathed, her voice steady, clutching a bouquet of lilies like a shield, oblivious to the storm brewing in Patrick's rigid stance.
The church held its collective breath as the priest turned to my son. 'Patrick William Hargrove, do you take Christina Marie Hargrove to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, forsaking all others, in chastity and eternal covenant?'
Patrick froze, his Adam's apple bobbing, sweat beading on his forehead under the stained-glass light. The hesitation stretched like a taut wire, the whole congregation leaning forward. I could see the war in him—the virgin purity we'd shattered that morning clashing with the vows he'd been groomed for since his baptism. His eyes flicked to me in the third row, a silent plea, and something snapped inside him. 'No,' he said, the word dropping like a bomb, clear and final. 'I... I can't. I won't.'
Gasps rippled through the pews like a wave crashing on Zion's shores. Christina's face crumpled, her bouquet trembling as she grabbed his arm. 'Patrick, what are you doing? We've planned this—our temple sealing, our future! Think of the family, the mission you served—don't throw it away!'
She tugged at him, voice rising in desperation, tears streaking her makeup, but Patrick shook her off, his body language screaming the truth: his desires had shifted irrevocably toward the man who'd claimed his virginity in a puddle of cake and cum. The shock hung thick, elders murmuring prayers, women fanning themselves, but I was done watching from the shadows. The devil's whisper—or was it the pull of true love?—urged me up, my chair scraping loud as I strode to the altar, ignoring the stares boring into my back.
'William, sit down! This is madness!' Sarah hissed from her seat, but her words were drowned in the rising chaos.
I didn't care about repercussions, about excommunication or scandal ripping through the stake. Hell, I didn't even love Sarah anymore—that fleeting affair with Patrick's ex had been a weak distraction from the deeper hunger gnawing at me for years. Reaching Patrick, I cupped his face—still flushed from nerves—and crushed my mouth to his right there, under the crucifix gaze of guests and the priest's horrified eyes. My tongue plunged deep, full and invasive, tasting the mint of his pre-ceremony breath mixed with the faint echo of morning's frosting. I kissed him like I owned him, sloppy and possessive, our lips smacking wetly as his initial shock melted into a muffled groan, his hands clutching my suit jacket.
The church erupted. Shouts of 'Blasphemy!' and 'Sodom and Gomorrah!' filled the air, fists pounding pews. My wife—poor Sarah—swayed and collapsed in a dead faint, tumbling into the lap of the woman beside her like she'd been struck by lightning, her body limp amid the 'apples' of outrage rolling through the crowd. Relatives surged forward, but I broke the kiss just long enough to grab Patrick's hand, our fingers interlocking slick with sweat. 'Come on, son—we're done here,' I growled, and we bolted, weaving through the aisle as chairs toppled and curses flew.
We burst into the sunlight, lungs burning, the church bells tolling like a funeral dirge behind us. Patrick panted beside me, his erection already tenting his slacks from the public claim—I could smell his arousal cutting through the floral chaos. 'Dad... the honeymoon. It's booked with Christina—flights, the resort in Hawaii. What about that?'
'Screw it,' I snapped, dragging him to my car in the lot, the engine roaring to life as we peeled out, tires smoking. 'We're taking it. Our way.' The drive to the airport blurred in a haze of adrenaline, my hand on his thigh the whole time, squeezing the firm muscle that had clenched around me earlier. By the time our flight boarded—us snagging seats with fake nonchalance, ignoring the buzzing phones with furious texts—we were airborne, the Wasatch Mountains shrinking below like the life we were leaving.
But restraint shattered the second we hit the airport long-term parking after landing in Honolulu. I'd rented a sleek black SUV, and no sooner had I killed the engine in a shadowed corner of the lot than I yanked Patrick across the console, our mouths crashing together in a frenzy of tongues and teeth. 'Fuck the hotel—need you now,' I grunted, shoving his seat back and climbing over, my cock already straining against my zipper.
'Dad... here? People could see,' he gasped, but his hands were already fumbling my belt, blue eyes wild with that virgin's shock-lust mix, his body remembering the morning's defilement.
'Let 'em watch our sin,' I snarled, freeing his thick shaft—still veined and potent, pre-cum beading like morning dew. I spat in my palm and jerked him rough, thumb circling the slit while I ground my own dick against his thigh through fabric. He bucked, moaning loud enough to fog the windows, and I dove lower, yanking his pants to his ankles to expose those sheer black socks clinging to his feet from the flight's confinement—sweaty and musky, just begging.
I grabbed one foot, lifting it to my face in the cramped space, inhaling the ripe nylon scent laced with plane air and arousal. 'Your feet drove me mad all flight—smell like pure filth now.' My tongue lashed the sole through the thin barrier, tasting salt and synthetic, sucking toes one by one as he writhed, his free hand pumping my exposed cock. A fart slipped out from the tension, hot and bassy against the seat, the earthy puff making my balls ache. 'Dad... that's embarrassing—'
'It's hot, boy. Push more.' Emboldened, he did—a wetter burst, scat-tinged warmth wafting up, and I groaned, shoving his legs wider to bury my face in his ass crack, rimming the puckered hole with broad licks while cake memories fueled the kink. His body tensed, a small dirty release smearing my chin—bitter and primal—and I lapped it clean, tongue probing deep as he sobbed in ecstasy.
No time for teasing; I flipped him half onto his side, ass up, and slammed my cock into his spit-slick hole, the car rocking with each brutal thrust. 'Take it, son—your virgin ass is mine forever now.' He cried out, face pressed to the window, fogging it as he jerked himself, our slaps echoing wetly. I pounded relentlessly, one hand fisting his hair, the other milking his cock until he exploded—cum splattering the dash in thick ropes, his body convulsing like he might pass out from the overload. I followed, flooding his guts with hot seed, pulling out to paint his cheeks with the last spurts, the mess dripping onto the seats.
We barely cleaned up before checking into the beachfront resort under aliases, the honeymoon suite a paradise of king bed, ocean view, and no prying eyes. For two weeks, we unleashed every perverse, incestuous urge, the tropical heat amplifying our depravity. Mornings started with me waking him by sucking his morning wood, deepthroating until he farted in my face from the building pressure, the gas warm and scatty as I rimmed him awake, tongue scooping any overnight mess. We'd fuck on the balcony, his ass grinding back while I licked sweat from his neck, toes in my mouth through fresh socks we'd bought for the kink—nylon tearing under my bites as he came, screaming 'Dad!' into the waves.
Afternoons blurred into food play on the beach—smearing pineapple chunks and coconut cream over his body, licking it off while he begged for more, his cock sliding through fruity slicks until we frothed together, berries bursting like his loads. Evenings turned darker: I'd tie him spread-eagle with our ties, teasing his hole with fingers until he pushed out deliberate, messy releases—scat piling on the sheets as I devoured it, then fucked him through the filth, our bodies sliding in the primal muck. 'You're my dirty secret, Patrick—Heavenly Father can judge us later,' I'd growl, pounding until he blacked out from orgasms that left him trembling, whispering how one more might kill his virgin-sensitized nerves.
One night, under the stars, we role-played the ultimate taboo: me as the stern bishop, him the wayward missionary, spanking his ass red before burying my face in it, inhaling farts and lapping scat like communion wine. He rode me reverse, ass clenching as he jerked off, cum arcing onto the floor while I filled him again, our moans drowning the surf.
By week's end, we'd cut all ties—phones smashed, emails ignored, a single letter to the family declaring our love and exile. Sarah’s devastated sobs echoed in my mind from voicemails we'd deleted, the stake's excommunication papers probably en route, but we didn't give a damn. We vanished into a new life on the islands, anonymous and free, our incestuous bond the only covenant that mattered—fucking daily in hidden coves, exploring every kink without restraint, Patrick's virginity lost but his hunger endless, my cock forever home in his willing, filthy depths.
