Dad Son Incest Homecoming 🔥

Homecoming Inferno 🔥

The airport buzzed like a hive of frantic bees, but all I could focus on was the deep timbre of Dad’s voice slicing through the chaos. “Pete! Over here!” It hit me like a gut punch, that familiar rumble that always stirred something primal in my core. Twenty-one days in Italy had been a grind—endless meetings, stale hotel beds, and a gnawing ache for home that twisted deeper than just missing family dinners. I slung the suit bag higher on my shoulder, the fabric whispering against my skin, slightly rumpled from the flight but screaming luxury. Dad’s eyes lit up as he spotted me, his broad frame cutting through the crowd like a ship through fog.

We collided in a hug that crushed the air from my lungs, his arms wrapping around me with that unyielding strength honed from years of manual labor. The scent of him—clean soap mixed with a hint of engine oil from his garage tinkering—flooded my nostrils, grounding me instantly. “Missed you, kid,” he murmured into my hair, his breath hot against my scalp. I buried my face in his neck, inhaling deeply, the faint salt of his skin tasting like salvation on my tongue as I pressed a quick kiss there.

“More than you know, Dad,” I whispered back, my voice muffled against his collar. His hand clenched on my back, fingers digging in just enough to send sparks down my spine. We pulled apart reluctantly, but his eyes—those stormy grays—held mine, simmering with unspoken heat. Public mode, sure, but I saw the flicker, the toll of absence etching faint lines around them.

“Let’s blow this joint,” I said, grabbing his hand, squeezing until our palms sweated together. He nodded, hefting my bags like they weighed nothing, and we navigated the parking lot in silence, my arm slung over his shoulder, thumb brushing the nape of his neck. The car ride home was torture. My hand wandered to the small of his back, fingers tracing the cleft of his ass through his jeans, feeling the heat radiate. “Pull over,” I urged, voice husky, my cock already straining.

“Almost home, Pete. Patience.” But his squirm betrayed him, hips shifting as my middle finger probed deeper. I leaned in, licking the shell of his ear, the salty tang exploding on my taste buds. “Do we have to wait?” I cooed, nipping the lobe. He groaned, face twisting, the car swerving slightly.

“Italy dry up the beefy bottoms?” he teased, but his voice cracked. “Saved it all for you, Dad. No one’s worth my load like you.” Half-truth, all horniness. He glanced over, and I captured his lips in a stolen kiss—wet, urgent, the flavor of coffee lingering on his tongue. Dangerous, yeah, but the risk only fueled the fire.

“Peter,” he warned, pulling back, but then his hand found my crotch, cupping my bulge with expert pressure. “Just keeping the engine warm.” His fingers kneaded my balls, sending shivers racing up my thighs, the leather seat creaking under me. “Fuck, Dad,” I hissed, biting my knuckle as he palmed my shaft. The world blurred past—trees, cars, all meaningless—while his touch built that coiling tension in my gut.

“Drive faster,” I begged, and he did, pedal slamming, the engine’s roar matching my pulse. By the time we hit the driveway, I was feral.

The door barely clicked shut before I pinned him against it, our bulges grinding in frantic rhythm. My tongue invaded his mouth, sucking greedily, tasting the mint from his gum mixed with raw desire. He moaned, deep and guttural, vibrations humming through my chest as his hands fumbled my belt. I clawed at his ass, fabric straining under my grip, the heat of him searing my palms.

“Gym time, Dad? These cheeks are firmer,” I growled, sucking his neck, teeth grazing to leave a blooming mark. The skin there was warm, salty, his pulse thundering under my lips.

“Surprise for my boy,” he panted, head lolling back, exposing more throat. I squeezed harder, pre-cum soaking my briefs, the slickness chafing deliciously.

“Bedroom. Now.” He leaped, legs locking around my waist, his thick cock frotting against my abs, the friction like velvet fire. At 50, Nate Hawkins was a masterpiece—muscles etched from blue-collar grit, salt-and-pepper hair dusting his chest, arms like tree trunks. Carrying him felt like conquest, his weight pressing me, scent enveloping—musk, sweat, home.

I laid him on the bed gently, but my eyes devoured him: pecs heaving, torso begging for abuse, that furry expanse inviting bites. “How do you want me, Pete?” His doe eyes pleaded, breath ragged.

“Head off the edge. Need to blow quick.” He complied, skull dangling, quads framing his face as I straddled. “Take it off.” His fingers worked my boxers, cock springing free to slap his cheek—wet smack echoing. He laughed, pure joy, lips peppering kisses along the shaft, tongue flicking the vein, tasting my travel-worn sweat.

“Missed this, Son,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “Your own boy’s fat pole?” I teased, tugging his lazy dick, watching it twitch.

“Made it myself. My flesh dildo.” He engulfed me, throat relaxing like velvet vice. “Fuck, Dad! Practicing?” Spit bubbled, gargling around me. He pulled off, drool stringing. “Surprise.” I thrust deep, balls sealing his nose in my musk, grinding until he tapped. We repeated—dive, retreat, his face a mess of saliva and pre—until ecstasy crested.

“Take it, Dad! Swallow your grandkids!” I roared, unloading ropes down his gullet, his swallows milking me. Some spilled, painting his beard white. I collapsed beside him, pulling him into a sloppy kiss, trading cum and spit, the bitter-salt tang shared between us.

“Missed you,” he sighed, nuzzling. “Should’ve joined. Fucked Europe silly.” His wistful chuckle hid insecurities I hated. My cock stirred, slimy and ready. He noticed, grinning. “Another round, tiger?” Fingers toyed with me, squeezing like a favorite toy.

“Fuck you now.” I flipped him, legs up, hole winking pink amid fuzz. I rimmed him, tongue delving, tasting earthy musk, his moans guiding—low, needy. “Push out.” He did, lips blooming; I frenched his ass, nose buried in sweat-damp crack.

“Need inside.” Cock nudged, sliding home in one slick push. He howled, body arching. “Missed son’s cock?” “Yes… so big…” I hammered, slow then brutal, balls slapping, room filling with wet smacks, his gasps, my grunts. Prostate punches made him clench, milking toward oblivion.

We peaked together—me flooding his guts, him seizing, yelling “Fuck!” as his untouched cock spurted. Locked in baby-making pose, souls entangled, we collapsed, leaking messily, his beefy form against mine. “Best hole,” I murmured, kissing his forehead. He burrowed into my pecs, house warm again.

Birthday Awakening 💋

Darkness cloaked the room, sliver of hall light painting Dad’s face in soft glow. His gaze on me was tender, watchful. I pulled him close, lips brushing his—soft, lingering, tasting sleep and faint cum residue. “How long awake?”

“Not long. Thought of waking you with mouth.” His chuckle rumbled against my chest.

“Your birthday, not mine.” I kissed deeper, hand roaming his back, feeling ridges of muscle under warm skin.

“Proves I still got it.” At 50, his voice held that mix of pride and doubt. “Happy birthday, baby.” Another kiss, then pause. “28th, right?”

“Yes. Half-century mark.” Wistful again. I hated it. “New suit’ll change that tune.”

“The airport one?” Eyebrows furrowed. “Pete, you shouldn’t—”

“Treating my husband.” Nine years unofficial, but real as steel. He relaxed, grinning, head on my chest. “Too good to me.”

“Indulging myself. You put out anytime.” He kissed my nipple, tongue circling, sending zings to my groin. “Fun in Italy?” Playful, hand on my cock.

“Tell you before straying.” Truth. “Love spreading seed with you someday…”

“Pete…” Sigh. Quiet fell, then he shifted. “Suit storage? Bag was wrecked.”

“Sorry! Promise next time.” He grunted, forgiving. “Second gift—no wrinkles.” I fished the Viagra pack. His eyes widened. “Drugs? Pete!”

“Viagra! Italian magic.” He inspected, skeptical. “For you, Dad. Breed me.”

Shock rippled across his face, then hunger. Our dynamic—me topping—set for years, but his eyes darkened. “You sure? Been ages since I… topped.”

“Want everything with you. Feel you claim me.” Heart pounded, vulnerability mixing with lust. He swallowed, nodding, popping a pill. We waited, bodies entwining, his cock hardening against my thigh—thick, veined, pulsing with renewed vigor.

“Feel it,” he murmured, guiding my hand. Skin hot, velvet over steel, pre beading salty on my fingers. I stroked, slow, savoring the weight, his groans filling the air like smoke.

“On your back, Son.” Voice commanding, a shift that thrilled. I complied, legs spreading, hole exposed. He loomed, pill-fueled erection bobbing, scent of arousal thick—musky, potent. Fingers probed me first, slick with lube, stretching, the burn sweet.

“Relax for Dad.” Two fingers, scissoring, hitting spots that made me gasp, vision blurring. Taste of anticipation dry in my mouth. He added a third, curling, prostate massage drawing whimpers. “Good boy.”

Then head pressed, insistent. Inch by inch, he sank in—fullness overwhelming, stretch bordering pain-pleasure. “Fuck, Dad… so thick.” Walls gripped him, every ridge felt. He bottomed out, balls against me, groan animalistic.

“Tight… like virgin.” He held, letting me adjust, sweat dripping onto my chest, salty rivulets I licked greedily. Then motion—slow rocks, building to thrusts, bed creaking in protest. Sounds: skin slapping, my moans high, his grunts low; air heavy with sex-stink, lube squelch.

“Breed you, Pete. Fill my boy.” Words spurred him, pace frantic, prostate hammered relentlessly. Pleasure coiled, white-hot, touch electric—his hands pinning wrists, chest hair tickling, cock dragging fire inside.

I shattered first, untouched, cum splattering us both, bitter scent rising. He followed, roaring, flooding me—warm jets painting depths. We clung, breaths syncing, his weight comforting blanket.

“Proud of you,” he whispered, kissing tears from my eyes. Reversal sealed deeper bond, birthday gift mutual.

Dive into the Reversal Rush

Reversal Rush

Morning light filtered through curtains, golden haze on tangled sheets. Dad stirred, cock still semi-hard inside me from night’s frenzy, Viagra lingering. I clenched experimentally, drawing a hiss. “Greedy boy,” he chuckled, nipping my shoulder, teeth sharp, skin tingling.

“Your fault. Pill worked wonders.” Rolled off, but hand stayed on my hip, thumb circling bone. Breakfast scents wafted—coffee brewing auto, bacon from yesterday’s prep? No, imagination. Hunger gnawed, but not for food.

“Suit try-on first?” I suggested, slipping from bed, ass slick, cum trickling down thigh—sticky, cooling. He watched, eyes devouring. “Tease.”

Bathroom mirror reflected us: me lean from travel workouts, him solid, 50 looking 40 in dawn glow. Shower beckoned, steam rising as water hit tiles, patter soothing. Joined him, soap suds foaming under hands—his on my chest, mine on his back, lathering fur to silk.

“Missed washing you,” he said, fingers dipping lower, cleaning yet teasing hole. Intrusion gentle, soapy glide reigniting sparks. I returned, soaping his cock, stroking to full mast, veins pulsing under palm.

“Again?” Breath hitched. “Kitchen. Birthday breakfast with benefits.” Dried quick, towels whispering, then kitchen—cool tiles under feet, air crisp with citrus cleaner masking last night’s musk.

He bent over counter, ass presented, cheeks parting to reveal puffy hole. “Your turn.” I lubed, entered slow, savoring clench. Coffee perked, aroma sharp, mingling with our grunts. Thrusts synced with drip, counter edge biting hips.

“Harder, Son. Wreck Dad.” Complied, pounding, balls swinging, slap echoing off cabinets. He stroked himself, pre dripping to floor—puddle gleaming. Taste of sweat on my lip as I bit his neck.

Climax hit like wave—me deep, him spurting across granite, mess to clean later. Pulled out, cum oozing, finger-plugged to keep. “Pancakes?” Laugh bubbled, absurd normalcy.

We ate, naked, syrup sticky on fingers, licked clean mutually—sweet, mingled with salt. Conversation flowed: trip tales, his garage projects, undercurrent electric. “Viagra stash?” he asked, popping another half.

“All yours. Marathon day.” Grin wicked. Afternoon loomed—poolside? No, bedroom beckoned again.

Back to bed, 69 position, mouths devouring. His cock filled throat, musky, throbbing; mine in his, expert suction. Tastes: pre-salt, skin-earth; sounds: slurps, moans; touch: heat, wet slides; sight: balls dangling; smell: arousal thick.

Swallowed loads simultaneously, gulping, overflowing chins. Rolled, him topping once more—missionary, eyes locked, intimacy raw. “Love you, Pete.” Thrusts deep, emotional edge sharpening pleasure.

“Love you, Dad. Breed me forever.” Another flood, bodies quaking. Nap followed, limbs entwined, world fading.

Poolside Tease

Awake to sun high, heat pressing windows. “Pool?” Dad suggested, voice lazy. Backyard oasis—chlorine tang hitting as door opened, water lapping invitingly.

Swimsuits? Nah. Dove naked, cool shock enveloping, bubbles tickling skin. He joined, splash drenching, body colliding underwater—silky glide, hands exploring.

Surface broke, lips meeting, water beading on lashes. Floated to edge, him lifting me, legs wrapping. Cock nudged entrance underwater, entering with ripple. “Fuck here?” Gasped, chlorine sharp in nose.

“Birthday perks.” Waves from thrusts, sloshing rhythmic. Sun warmed backs, contrast to cool depths. Prostate grazed, pleasure building amid splashes.

Came with yell echoing yard, his load mixing with pool—diluted, but felt. Laughed, floating spent, fingers tracing tattoos on his arm.

Ignite the Marathon Flames

Marathon Flames

Evening crept, shadows lengthening, but energy surged—Viagra cocktail keeping us primed. Dinner? Skipped for snacks, bodies too wired. Living room couch became altar, Dad on knees, ass up, begging.

“Rim me first.” Tongue delved, flavors intensified—day’s remnants, tangy. He pushed back, hole flexing on my mouth, moans vibrating air. Fingers joined, prostate milking pre from him, dripping to carpet—dark stain later.

Entered doggy, deep angle hitting new spots. TV droned forgotten show, laugh track mocking our symphony: flesh smacks, bed creak from earlier echoing in mind. Sweat slicked us, sliding easier, scent heady—man, sex, home.

“Pound Dad’s guts!” He demanded, fisting couch cushion. Did, brutal, balls aching from slaps. Pulled hair gentle, arching him, kisses on spine—salty drops.

Switched: him railing me bent over armrest, TV glow flickering on skin. Fullness immense, every vein felt, grunts syncing with dialogue. “Take Dad’s cock, boy.” Pride swelled with stretch.

Orgasms chained—mine on cushions, his inside, leaking down legs. Paused for water, cool glass sweating like us, gulps desperate. “More?” Eyes wild.

“Kitchen table.” Laid out, legs wide, him devouring hole—tongue expert, suction pulling moans. Then fuck, table rocking, dishes rattling. Taste of air: faint spice from pantry.

Night deepened, positions blurred: reverse cowgirl on floor, carpet burn on knees; standing against wall, toes curling on wood; spooning slow, intimate whispers. Dialogues crude: “Your hole’s mine,” “Fill me, Dad—make grandbabies.”

Senses overwhelmed—sight of his heaving chest, hair matted; sound of endless moans; smell of cum-soaked sheets carried; taste of kisses, bitter-sweet; touch everywhere, electric.

Count lost—five? Ten loads? Bodies quivered, but pushed. Final round: mutual jack-off, facing, eyes locked, cum arcing to chests, licked shared.

Collapsed, exhausted bliss, his head on my thigh, breathing steady.

Whispers in the Dark

Midnight hush, only crickets outside. “Best birthday,” he murmured, finger tracing my spent cock. “You?”

“Giving you everything.” Kissed palm, tasting us. Talk turned deep—fears of age, my devotion. “You’re timeless, Dad. This—” squeezed his ass—”proves it.”

Laughter soft, leading to lazy 69, no rush, savoring. Slept entwined, dreams erotic echoes.

Afterglow Eternal

Afterglow Eternal

Dawn’s first blush painted room pink, bodies sore but sated. Woke to Dad’s mouth on me—gentle suck, morning wood welcomed. “Greedy,” I teased, hand in his hair, guiding.

“Birthday hangover.” Swallowed deep, throat working, eyes up—mischief gleaming. I reciprocated, 69 again, tastes fresh: sleep-musk, faint chlorine. Moans muffled, vibrations humming.

Came soft, loads smaller, but intimate—swallowed clean, kisses trading essence. Breakfast proper: eggs sizzling, aroma rich, eaten naked at table, feet tangling.

“Suit now?” Post-meal, he dressed—tailored lines hugging muscles, fabric whispering. Mirror pose: “Damn, Pete. Feel 40.”

“Told you.” Hugged from back, cock nestling crack. “One more?” Whispered. He bent, pants down, quickie—standing, mirror view erotic: faces contorted, thrusts visible.

Finished inside, pants up, cum warm. Day unfolded normal—errands, but touches lingered: hand on thigh driving, grocery store brushes. Home, unpacked Italy gifts: wine, cheese—tasted shared, leading to couch make-out, slow grind.

Afternoon nap, woke horny. “Viagra left?” Half-pill, then him topping poolside again—water churning, sun baking skin. Evening BBQ: grill smoke acrid, meat charring, eaten off bodies—juices dripping, licked hungrily.

Night fell, final fuck: missionary, slow, eyes soul-deep. “Forever, Dad.” “Always, Son.” Climax whispered, loads mingling, bodies one.

Slept, house quiet, bond unbreakable. Birthday etched eternal, love trashy, raw, ours.

Word count hovered around tales untold, but this chapter closed the book on 50’s fire—embers for tomorrow.